I probably support gay marriage more than most people – certainly more than most people in North Carolina – but I have to say, I’m kind of over the “marriage as a human right” argument. Marriage is something we made up in our heads. I mean, think about it, initially marriage was just a transfer of property (daughter, dowry) between two families, usually to gain stature in the community. These days, it seems, it’s little more than a calculated risk made at a certain time in one’s life to fill expected roles and have a really awesome party. It’s not even a real thing, much less a human right. Like, I wouldn’t say that voting is a human right either. Voting is something we cooked up so we could elect a democratic government. It’s totally fake, like Columbus day. This is not to say that it doesn’t have importance or value, but, in my mind, it is not a human right.

Now, I spent a good deal of my parents’ money on my own wedding, and I produce wedding videos as a part-time job, and I was once married myself. I totally love weddings, and a happy union is life’s greatest blessing. That’s something that should be within everyone’s reach. The happy part is real. But the marriage part is completely made up.

Sorry to break it to everyone.

But I did, I really wanted it.

That stayed with me through graduation, through my first job, through my marriage. More than ten years of the tumult that is life, just waiting for the day I’d hold my own baby in my arms. And then, of course, everything changed. You might think it was the going crazy, or the going broke that did me in. Or, surely, the divorce? The divorce must have been the nail in the coffin.

Nope.

It wasn’t the Bin, it wasn’t the cash, and it wasn’t the men or my own poor decisions - It was that goddamn Jake that finally made me realize I might not want to have children. That goddamn Jake and his liver disorder (or whatever it was) that nearly killed him last summer. I mean, I’m usually able to accurately describe most feelings with words, but I have no language for how awful it was to sit by and watch him suffer. This poor sweet creature, just so sick and so sad. It literally hurt my heart. It broke me. And I thought: what if this was my child? What if this was my own child I had to hand over to others, what if it was MY kid that was being poked with needles and force-fed pills, knowing that he hated every second, not knowing if he’d even make it to the other side? I don’t think I could bear it. I truly don’t think I could.

Watching someone you love suffer is the worst pain of all. We want our children to be happy, but life, intrinsically, is the most painful wish you could grant. As the Buddha teaches us: life is suffering. I find that to be the noblest truth.

But, I mean, he HADN’T. Not since we got him snipped. So B! and I were pretty surprised to find him on the other side of the window the other morning in the middle of a torrential downpour. Somehow he’d slipped out while B! was taking the garbage downstairs, and he’d been out all night in the most horrible weather. You’d have thought that would teach him a lesson, but tonight, just after I typed that last sentence, he escaped again and burrowed underneath the back porch.

In the meantime, he’s taken to defecating in the bathtub. So there’s that.

This is like a superhero movie where everything turns dark all of a sudden. Like Spiderman 3, but with whiskers and fur. And let me be the first to tell you, if the pissing comes back, I’m ready to get all Sandman on his shit.

First of all, we walk in, and it’s like, ninety-five degrees and humid. Almost uncomfortably loud. Although the place was half-empty, every available table was covered with dirty dishes, and a single bench provided the only available seating which means we would have had to sit, all four of us, in a row, backs to the wall. Meanwhile, there were three kids behind the counter snapping gum and texting.

Luckily, SEAT seats opened up while I (inexplicably) ordered a hot coffee. “I’ll make you a fresh pot,” said one of the counter kids, just as our clients arrived. I was a bit flustered, having been almost late and kind of sweating in the tropical climate, so, after clearing the trash to a nearby table, I tried to act normal and got right down to business. About twenty minutes later, some other young lad strolls out of the back and decides it’s time to (finally) bus the tables.

“Excuse me – ” says my bride, flagging him down, “She ordered a coffee awhile ago – is that coming?”

“Oh um, I don’t know,” replies the kid, who i now recognize as the one who took my order. An uncomfortable pause ensues, as though he thinks, perhaps, that *I* know where my coffee has gone to. “Did you order it from me? I probably just forgot.”

“Right,” I say. What I think is: “Oh, OK, kid who works in the high-rent district of Back Bay but can’t be bothered to do his job. That’s cool. I mean, not like I paid for it or anything – not like I even WANT it. I’d rather have a Diet Coke, or even a cold glass of ice water. Have you noticed how warm it is in here?” I’m starting to seriously worry about my deodorant.

A beat. “I guess I’ll bring it over then. Hold on.” And he disappears.

“Um, that was weird,” I tell our clients, who are as mystified as I. And we continue talking about their wedding.

Five minutes later dude comes back over with this HOT HOT HOT cup of coffee. “My coworker must have forgotten it,” he says, totally blame-shifting but who am I to say, and pretty much walks away without another word. I mean, the coffee must have been sitting on top of the cappuccino machine, or in front of a heating vent or something. The saucer was SUPER warm.

I look down at my atomic coffee, which, though I smile and compliment, tastes like rustic battery acid and cigarettes.

Ten minutes later, they started blasting hardcore rap. We collectively decided it was time to leave. Another successful mission, by EcA Productions.

PS: For those of you who are interested, “If we all did our jobs this well, we’d still be beating our dinner with clubs (part I)” can be found here

Rather peeved, I asked him, “So does this mean I’m single on Facebook?”

He didn’t think it was very funny. He may even have found it slightly creepy. I, however, think it’s hilarious. Single on Facebook! What a concept! I’d go ahead and change my relationship status, but that would probably be kind of alarming… to those of us who are on Facebook, anyway.

Nevertheless, I made my reservation for 6am, and called Lone Star Cab as backup for a pickup at 7.

Me being me, I slept through my alarm. I woke at 7:30 to my phone ringing, with the taxi driver from Lone Star on the other end of the line. This is 7:30am, mind you, which is neither 6 nor 7. “Where are you?” he asked me, in a thickly accented voice. “I can’t find you on the GPS.”

“Um, maybe try a map,” I suggested, not unhelpfully. “I think it’s off Airport Boulevard, but I can’t be sure. I don’t live here.”

“OK, OK, OK,” he interrupted. “I be there soon.”

I got up, brushed my teeth, and set about packing. Half an hour later, as I was finishing off the last of the Diet Coke and smoking the day’s first cigarette, he called back.

“OK, so you are coming off I-35 from downtown, and which way do you turn off the exit?”

I mean, was I  UNCLEAR earlier about the ‘not living here’ thing? “I really don’t know,” I said, “I’ve never been to Austin before in my life. I think you turn right.”

“Right?” His tone was almost accusatory. “You sure it’s not left?”

“What? NO, I’m not sure! I DON’T LIVE HERE. But I think it’s right.” I stubbed out my Camel Light and huffed inside the house.

“OKOKOK, I call you back.”

I hadn’t yet had time to put the empty 2-liter in the trashcan when my phone rang again. But, instead of the cranky cabbie, it was a pleasant audio recording informing me that my cab was approaching. Yellow Cab Austin! My chariot had arrived – and only two and a half hours late!

Lone Star called back one more time, but I didn’t bother answering. It was my last cab ride in Austin. I wanted to enjoy every second.

“We’re very busy,” said the dispatcher. “And we don’t guarantee our arrival time.”

“That’s bullshit,” I replied. “I want to speak to your manager.”

“We don’t guarantee our arrival time,” said the manager. “Plus, it’s foggy outside.”

“My cab yesterday NEVER came! I mean, I just really want to know, is a cab coming, or not?”

“Wait 20 more minutes,” she advised. “Call us back then.”

I think not. I woke up my friend, who woke up her husband, who, kindly, drove me downtown.

Two hours later, I still hadn’t received a call from the cab company, which led me to believe there were still no available cabs. But lo! Across the street! During my cigarette-and-coffee break, I certainly did spy four empties waiting for a fare. And I got SO mad. Once more, I dialed the number for Yellow Cab Austin. After listening to three rounds of their hold message, I was in no mood to dally around with the dispatcher – I got put right to the top. And by “right to the top” I mean “to the owner’s voicemail”.

Voicemail? VOICEMAIL??!! You could have popped me with a pin, I was so puffed up. So I did the only think I could do – I threatened legal action. He called me right back, sure he did, and he was VERY apologetic. “This is entirely our fault,” he admitted, and went on to tell me how they’d had some kind of electrical surge in their system that totally fried their dispatch center.

I put on my best business voice. “Well sir, I appreciate your position and I certainly thank you for calling me back. But I would suggest to you that you simply be transparent with your customers, instead of promising them cabs that won’t ever arrive.”

I mean, I almost felt bad for the guy. One more post, and you’ll see what happens.

Only 85%? But SXSW (#) is supposed to be, like, Geek Mecca! Nirvana for the nerd set! Hipster heaven!

And it was all that – and more! It was awesome like a music festival, minus the sleeping outside and the mud, and it was inspiring like church (if you’re into that sort of thing). Late nights, early mornings, and a wealth of information it’ll take me weeks to sort through. But I can break that other 15% down for you in four simple words: The cabs there? SUCK.

The first day was fine, actually. Totally cool. I went online and ordered a cab for 8:45am, and, at about 9am one showed up. Perfect! That night, I booked a cab for 8:30, just to be safe, and drifted to sleep thinking how convenient the whole thing had been.

At 9:15 the following morning, I was not finding it so very convenient. My friend’s husband, roused from bed by his groggy wife for the purpose of driving me to the convention, was not finding it very convenient either.

I’d called the cab company at 8:45 to inquire as to the status of my cab, and was told, in a slow Texas drawl, that there were no cabs avaliable.

“But I booked online!” I said, my heart rate accelerating. “You HAVE to have a cab for me!” I’d been so nervous about this very thing – the cab just never coming, being late to my first session – and here it was, happening! The power of negative thinking? SHUT UP.

“Ma’am, I don’t know what you want me to do,” answered the dispatcher.

“What do I want you to do? What do I want you to DO?” Practically shrieking, for sure: “I WANT YOU TO GET ME A CAB IS WHAT I WANT YOU TO DO!”

“I am doing my best, ma’am, but there are no cabs available.”

And that’s about when my head exploded. By the time got to the 9:30 session “The State of Social Marketing“, there was a full house and a line out the door for seats. But, bonus, the session I wound up going to instead had mimosas. That didn’t really make up for it, though. I’d really been looking forward to the social marketing session.

TBC dudes -

And yet.

I met with a couple this past Saturday who is having an Irish-themed wedding on March 9, and I felt compelled to share my own tale of Gaelic matrimony. Of course, one can’t tell that story without the punchline: “and then we got divorced”. I should be horrified – THEY were probably horrified – but truly, it was the happiest day of my life. Certainly the best St. Patrick’s Day. So why shouldn’t I share? Why should I feel this pall over everything? It happened, it was awesome, and then, like most things, it was no longer. But the echoes, the ripples, have such a large pool.

The concept of losing weight, of course, got me thinking more about being eating disordered. I’d have thought it would be triggering, gaining all this weight, and then I thought that losing weight also might set me off-kilter. Thankfully, I’m not finding that to be the case. I don’t like the gym quite enough for it to become a negative behavior, and, since I’m burning off some calories working out, I don’t feel as compelled to use other bad habits to offset my long-standing love affair with food.

Not it was ever about food, really, it was about feelings – feelings I didn’t want to have. I ate to distract myself and the other was a release. I did it when I was angry sometimes, when I wasn’t sure what else to do, and then it just became a utilitarian function. A fact of life. A habit. This is what I feel like my shrinks don’t get: by the end, it was just something I did. It had no meaning! And maybe that’s why it has been (relatively) easy for me to give it up.

This is all very new to me, right, so let’s re-evaluate in a month or two, but I’m beginning to think that my little sister might have been on to something with this exercise thing. Her and a bajillion other people.