Last week Warren and I went camping. Nothing fancy like Yosemite. Just a trip to Mustang Island State Park, where the whipping wind and brutal sun kept us in the car most of the time. This was not a bad thing, not at all. Because whenever I run away to the beach, I have one main goal: try to be still. Of all the goals I’ve set for myself over my lifetime, being still seems the most elusive. I was born, it seems, moving at 500 mph and this has forever been my normal. Only after being told countless times over the years that this is not actually normal have I come to sort of grasp the truth in that observation. Sit still I did. I read and I read and I read, perhaps my top three favorite activities. I knitted and I played Scrabble and while I didn’t avoid email altogether, I turned to my computer about 90% less often than usual. I noted, as I do the rare times I step away from the Internet, that the virtual world continued on without me. There was not a collapse. Nor did I suffer. In fact, I really enjoyed slowing down. This in turn fed the voices that have been growing steadily louder lately. What if I came home and tried to implement an overall Slow Down rule in my life? more ›

The Pendejo of the Year Award is hereby presented to Texas House Representative Leo Berman. Leo—not surprisingly an old, white Republican—is spending his time and our tax dollars working very hard right now to legislate racism. Among other things, he wants to: a) stop giving automatic citizenship to children born in Texas, b) force Mexican kids to cough up paperwork in order to attend public schools, and c) make English the official language of Texas. It’s unclear if he also wants to authorize cops to pull over any driver who looks like he/she might be texting or talking in Spanish, but my hunch is that he’d be okay with that, too. Allow me to translate for you: Berman hates and fears Mexicans and is hoping to appeal to other people in this state who also hate and fear Mexicans. The main reason he is taking this stance comes down to—of course—the bottom line of vote acquisition. Leo makes no secret about this. He went on the record saying, “Most Hispanics right now do vote Democrat; there's no question about it. So what vote are we going after? We're going after a vote that doesn't vote Republican anyway.” more ›

In 1997, National Geographic Traveler sent me to snowboarding camp. The gist of the assignment was this: world’s clumsiest woman attempts snow sport, spends 99% of her time ass-to-ice. But even though I didn’t exactly learn how to snowboard, I did learn more than a few things about the (mostly) dudes that have mastered the art. One of my favorites is this—just as I used to mark my life’s timeline by bad boyfriends/ex-husbands (as in, “Oh, that was the year my narcissistic ex-husband walked out on me), snowboarders often start their stories by recalling injuries (as in, “Oh that was the year I blew out my left knee and broke my back. Twice.”;). It’s been a long time since I had a bad boyfriend or ex-husband. And so I don’t much mark time anymore by who done me wrong when. But every March when SXSW rolls around, I find myself with another chronological reference system as I flash back over previous years and the memories come flooding back. This year was especially nostalgic as I spent most of SXSW Interactive at the center of the pulsing heart of the event—in the lobby of the Hilton—and wondered at how much things have changed both for the event and for me personally. more ›

In a rough virtual approximation of waking up to find a crowd of protestors on the front lawn, I checked my email the other morning and was puzzled to see an onslaught of commentary regarding a blog post I’d published the day before about my garden. For the most part, these were anonymous missives, sent via the comment section of my blog. A couple of notes were positive but most were not. One included a death threat. Yep, that’s right: I got a death threat for a blog post about gardening. While I have not (yet) been actually killed for my writing, let us retrace my steps here to try to understand why some pussy troll from who knows where took it upon itself to write: Now we know who you are and where you live. We know you support killing the helpless so no garden will save you now my pretty. But first let me say that, yes, I know that in publishing that troll’s words here (though I did not publish the comment at my blog) I play right into the hands of the troll. I’m okay with that, since it helps me illustrate a bigger point. more ›

Sometime between September 11, 2001 and the start of the Iraq War—which “celebrates” its 8th anniversary in three weeks—I suffered a personal tragedy. Some asshole broke into my beater, an ’88 Subaru wagon with about 200,000 miles on it, and stole the radio. Installing a new car radio would’ve cost me about twice the value of the car itself. On the other hand, not having a radio at all was a loss I could not put a price on. As a compromise, I trotted over to The Shack and, for less than $20, acquired a transistor. Now that I think about it, the theft probably occurred closer to 9/11, because I have this memory of myself, totally freaked out, trying to wrap my head around all sorts of things: tumbling buildings, thousands dead, and the goddamn motherfucking Bush administration’s insane proclamations and response informing us, among other things, that the way to combat terrorism was to go to the mall. more ›

The Nomad Bar/Lounge is off of Cameron Road just north of the Muller Development purgatory; a bar wasteland. It doesn’t take a lot to seem adventurous in this strip mall neighborhood. If you’re the type of person who calls this part of town ‘the upper east side’ you’re going to love this bar. more ›

It was around 1977 when I discovered, courtesy of the book Our Bodies, Ourselves, that cucumbers had uses beyond the kitchen—that in fact they could come in mighty handy as an aid to self-pleasure. To this day I wonder what delightfully deviant librarian had the genius audacity to place that tome on the handful of shelves that comprised the itty-bitty library of the tiny blue-collar town in which I grew up. Whoever she was, I owe her my gratitude. I mean, talk about radical. At home, my reading materials were mostly limited to Readers Digest Condensed Books, a handful of Louisa May Alcott novels, a groovy edition of the New Testament written in 70s lingo, some ladies magazines and—when I was very lucky—hand-me-down copies of the Snappy Comebacks to Stupid Questions books put out by the MAD Magazine folks and gifted to me when the plumber across the street finished reading them. Our Bodies, Ourselves marked the start of a personal revolution, a book that opened my eyes not just to the potential of smooth, firm vegetables, but also books as mind expanders. more ›

Well, fuck. You know, I am so tired of having to do this, but once again I am going to trot out my abortion story, which I have told many times before but which—in light of Dan Patrick’s and Rick Perry’s latest bullshit—bears telling yet again. Years ago I proposed those of us who’ve had abortions all get bumper stickers that say, ASK ME ABOUT MY ABORTION. Of course, if we did, our tires would be slashed, windshields shattered, and “Second Amendment remedies” applied. But the idea was that maybe if all these jackasses trying to outlaw abortion would stop and really listen, they might gain enough insight and compassion to BACK THE FUCK OFF. Before I revisit my own abortion—which, for the record, continues to count as one of the smartest choices I ever made in my life, so please don’t try to add me to some false statistic report about post-abortion regret— let’s take a look at Lila Rose, shall we? My heart swells with pity for this 20-something woman-hating, blind sheep who identifies herself as a revolutionary when, in fact, she is merely a puppet for so many conservative bullies (many, many of them men) who scream about too much government control and, at the same time, keep trying to legislate the female reproductive system. more ›

Every night, in Austin and all across the country, young Americans decide that they're not going out tonight, they're not going out tomorrow and they're reevaluating the whole 'going out' thing. What makes them give up on going out and how can we avoid becoming those people? more ›

Four years ago this week, I spent a few days holding the hand of a dying friend. The cause was cancer and if you’ve not witnessed a cancer death, my wish for you is that you never will. And yet, bittersweet, I was at least grateful for the opportunity to bid my friend a proper farewell, kiss her fuzzy head, look one last time into her once sparkling eyes. That friend was Molly Ivins. She succumbed on January 31, 2007. I remember getting the call that she’d passed. I remember crying and then heading out to hear music at Café Mundi, and Southpaw covering Springsteen’s Promised Land, and crying some more. I remember being doubled over with grief at her overflowing memorial service, where a thousand of us gathered for her send off. My friend Sarah went with me, practically had to carry me out of the church. more ›

In the wake of the not-yet-week-old shootings in Arizona, more ink has been spilled now than blood, as journalists zoom in on, dissect, theorize and hyper-postulate about what caused a 22 year-old kid to take out six people and fell another fourteen, best known among them Representative Gabrielle Giffords. Many are saying that political vitriol is at least as culpable as the gunman himself. The yelling, smears, and finger pointing brought us to this point, they say. Because, you know, it’s all fun and games until somebody gets a brain put out. Most folks who live beyond the borders of Amish country in Pennsylvania have likely allowed fade the memory of October 2, 2006. That was the day Charles Carl Roberts IV holed up in a one-room schoolhouse and shot ten little girls— half of them died— before offing himself. I’ve been thinking about that event this past week, because it changed my life. It didn’t change my life on the grand scale that it changed that Amish community and permanently scarred the surviving victims. But I do remember one of my first thoughts upon hearing the news, a thought that was soon confirmed by the media. more ›

“You don’t know me, but I know you,” I said to the hitchhiker when he opened the door and hopped in my car. It was the middle of the day in the middle of the week bookended by Christmas and New Year’s Day. Not my favorite time of the year, but I’d made it past the dreaded 25th without falling into my usual dark hole, and the prospect of soon flipping the calendar to 2011 had me in a nearly cheerful mood. This borderline buoyancy was elevated by earlier occurrences that day, and would rise higher still later on. Because, like Dickens’ Scrooge, I unwittingly found myself being reminded of some important lessons about life in general, and Austin in particular, just when I needed them most. more ›

Last week, I was mentioning trying to change my shitty Christmas attitude. I’m happy to report that, like some holy miracle, though I haven’t gone overboard and starting liking all the nonsense, at least the December doldrums have remained at bay. Not only that, but I recalled two funny stories of Christmas past, both involving trees. And so, herewith, my gifts to you this season. O Tannenbaum Part I December 2000, was, as ever, a crappy time for me. But despite my Christmas allergy, when I got word that a couple of kids in the neighborhood were going to be going without a tree, my unstoppable urge to Take Action and Fix Things went into high gear. Never mind that I rarely got a tree for my own son, I couldn’t bear that his little friends would have to go without. more ›

I have been on this planet for more than a couple of decades now (actually, nearly five). For the vast majority of this time, I have loathed and despised Christmas. To the point that, were you to ask my closest friends to name five characteristics that most define me, Christmas Hater would likely land on most lists at least as often as Crazy Dog Lady. And so, as October rolled around and the stores trotted out all those fucking holiday decorations, and piped in all that loathsome fucking holiday music, I did an internal wince. Oh Fuck. Here it comes again. Fuck you December. Go Away. more ›

Last night, around 11 o’clock, I made a dark chocolate cake. Later today I’ll fill it with raspberry jam and pile is high with fresh whipped cream. Then tonight I’ll cover it in candles and light them. No, this is not a makeshift menorah (though I made one of those last night, too). It is the umpteeth dark chocolate cake I’ve made to celebrate the birth of my son, The Amazing Henry. I liked realizing that I started that cake quite close to the hour I went into such a horrendous 17-hour labor that the tale became almost instantly legendary. I also liked that, for reasons I can’t figure out, the cake fell. It is not typical for one of my cakes to droop in the center. I am actually quite good in the kitchen. But then, I do appreciate when life hands me a metaphor and even if a fallen cake is not on par with some MFA conjured wordsmithing, it’ll do for today. more ›

When I am not reading or writing—activities that must be done in silence unless you count the sounds of four dogs licking themselves— I usually have the radio tuned to KUT. There’s so much I love about that station. But lately, I realize there are times when I should really turn it off in the name of sanity preservation and depression avoidance. Because, as you might know, NPR news follows a certain downbeat rhythm: bad news about politics, bad news about war, bad news about developing countries, and, every hour of every day, bad news about money. more ›

Last week I invited my writing workshop students to write obituaries describing the lives they hope to have lived by the time they reach the finish line. Some balked, thinking this was too creepy and might even jinx them into dying sooner rather than later. I’ve decided to thumb my nose at this potential curse and write up my own fantasy obit. Here ya go: Spike Gillespie died on May 4, 2074 at her home in East Austin. She was 110 years young. Though the cause of death remains fuzzy, an autopsy suggests she succumbed to the one-two combo of a head injury and “over licking.” Her son, Henry, 83, told investigators that two days before her death Gillespie was driving him to band practice, as she had every week for the past 70 years, when, as she was so fond of doing, she accelerated while approaching a speed bump, at which point her trusty Buddha statuette, which she kept on her dashboard to remind her not to flip-off shitty drivers, flew forward and conked her in the head. more ›

There’s a new dude in my life. It’s all Warren’s fault for leaving me for a month to go on a road trip. I guess I got lonely. I don’t usually succumb to online ads. But there I was, one Saturday morning, clicking a link, reading Dante’s story. Even though he’s 49, overweight, blonde (not my preference) and has a mysterious history, still I thought, “I need to meet this guy.” I met him in person that same day, let him move in the day after that. Turns out he’s a heavy breather, slobbers a lot, and spends most of his time lying around. He’s not a particularly well-mannered eater. And it became clear our first night together that we won’t ever share a bed. Still, I’m letting him stay. more ›

I have here, in the past, mulled the notion that the definition of insanity hinges on repeating particularly stupid actions in hopes of achieving different results that never come. Now I’m bringing it up again, which—yes, yes, I know-- since I’m repeating myself, might itself qualify me as certifiable. But there are other clues that I might be totally nuts. Witness, for example, that yet again I recently attempted to find a legal parking spot at UT. As if my forays into this futile endeavor two weeks ago weren’t maddening enough. My latest attempt scored me a parking ticket when my meter ran out before I returned to my car. My fault? Oh yes. But am I still going to bitch about it? Do you know me? more ›

It's been so long since my last story that I believe you deserve an explanation. I have a confession to make: I am not a Klingon. Go ahead. Take some time to let that sink in if you need to. I'll wait. Okay? So, I'm not basing this conclusion on my smooth (if not bulbous) forehead, or my lack of desire to kill Tribbles, or the fact that Klingons (and Tribbles) don't actually exist. No. I'm basing it on the fact that I, Wendy Mitchell, sole author of this column, attended a party for the release of a new Star Trek MMORPG (Massively-Multi Online Role-Playing Game) in February of 2010, almost eight months ago, and I'm just now getting around to writing about it. Now let me explain. more ›

Last night I was engaging in that futile activity known as trying to find parking near campus. Driving south on Guad, I spotted a parked car with its taillights on and thought maybe, miraculously, this was my chance. I eased over to the right and pulled up beside the car, only to be told by the driver he wasn’t going anywhere. Thus I had to reenter traffic. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there are now bike lanes on the southbound side of Guadalupe. Bike lanes are great and/but in this case, the lane is sandwiched between the driving lane and the parking lane. That means that when I’d eased over, I was officially in the bike lane. While I realize that’s a drag for cyclists, there is no other option unless/until I can get my hands on a car that will hover above the bike lane. more ›

I returned from several weeks of travel semi-determined to lay pretty low for a while when I got back. In particular, spending a week off the coast of Maine almost entirely disconnected from the world inspired a desire to SLOW DOWN upon my return. I knew, even before landing in Austin, the folly of this goal. Besides having to do the Find Work Hustle, I faced a bigger challenge to a slower pace. And that is the fact that this city is packed-- more than packed, bursting-- with opportunities to expand mind, body, and spirit on a daily basis. On an hourly basis. So when I got word that Blue Lapis Light, Sally Jacques' aerial dance company, was fixing to stage another performance, I shoved aside my hermit aspirations and rushed over to see the opening night of ONE. Hopefully by now all of you have seen at least one performance by the group. In case not, let me attempt to clue you in to what these stunning pieces are like. Fortunately, Warren is lending an assist-- he attended with me as my official photographer and I'm delighted to be able to share some of his pictures with you here. more ›

Exactly one-half of my lifetime ago, I was 23, drunk most nights and, par for a course I’d been on since my single digit days, in the deep throes of lamenting love lost. In the fall of 1987, the man in question was Tony. We’d dated for what in retrospect seems like about fifteen minutes, but at the time felt like so much more. I knew, from our first date, that he was moving far away in a matter of weeks. And I know now that I saw a challenge in that, an opportunity to prove to myself and to him that I was worth hanging onto, even at a distance. Of course he saw it differently. And so when he headed off to a job in West Virginia it was with little regret regarding our time together ended, a chance at great things and a new life. I remained in Knoxville, licking my wounds, lamenting my loss, and using the FedEx account of the company I worked for to send him elaborately orchestrated packages of gifts, clinging to futile hope, a specialty I’d honed years before. more ›

Remember the first time you got hit with an existential crisis? And I don’t mean that time you were splitting your skull at the end of your marijuana-and-breakfast-burrito fueled freshman year, trying to decide between the bland Plan II and majoring in Paleoanthropological Cultural Studies. Because that wasn’t a crisis. That was just a braveless soul-hole being a pretentious asshole by arguing with themselves over how few job prospects their super-smug future would hold. more ›

I defriended someone this week. The experience was odd, and caused me more contemplation than I anticipated when I logged on to do the deed. Though I had only the dogs for audience, I performed the act with some flourish, my finger melodramatically hovering over the keyboard as I decided whether or not to really hit the button that would effectively obliterate this particular person from my virtual life (and, hopefully, my real life, too). The argument I entertained before going through with this regarded potential fallout. On the one hand, I understood that this person, a rampant narcissist, likely wouldn’t even notice my choice to exile It. (I shall use “It” here, because I don’t even want to hint at the person’s identity, not even gender.) On the other hand, if It did notice— well, we happen to have a number of mutual friends. So if It did discover my action, would It then raise a stink among the overlap in our Venn diagram of comrades? And if so, would that cause more aggravation than keeping the “friendship” and thus subjecting myself to seeing It’s updates on a regular basis? more ›

Wednesday morning, after sixteen hours of flying, three hours of layovers, and another couple of hours in security, customs, and passport control lines, I arrived back in Austin after two weeks in Israel. My son picked me up and we ran errands for a while, including a stop so he could sign his very first lease. And then, annihilated by jet lag, I headed home to sleep. Which is when I noticed my back door had been kicked in, my house intruded upon. And then the cops came. As one who cannot resist making connections, it didn’t take me long to relate my trip to the Middle East, my son’s foray into first time tenant-hood, and the violation of my personal space by a stranger who, had I had the misfortune of coming upon him, could well have beat the shit out of me or killed me. more ›

In the beginning was the Word, yo. And, lo, all these years the Word has served me well. A couple of nights ago, as the clock was pushing toward midnight, I wrapped up a day of feverish editing and revisions. I’d been reaching for this very specific moment for over two years, and now the moment was upon me. I added a bit more here, subtracted some there, caught a couple of typos that had previously escaped me and then it was time. The analogy is tired but remains true: completing a massive project and then revealing it to others is kind of like giving birth. This time felt a little different—the nine preceding books I’ve written made this latest slightly less painful to push out. In the end, it was more like seeing a kid off to kindergarten, and the note I sent to the agent over-explaining a few points in my manuscript was akin to pulling the teacher aside and telling her more details than she needed about my baby’s needs and quirks. more ›

Is it too soon for another love letter to Austin? I hope not because I swear I could write odes of adoration to this city every single day. Actually, that’s what I do for my day job, but those are more like flirty little notes highlighting cool people and places here. In my travels to collect fodder for my writing, I come across lots of stuff that doesn’t fit into my work blog. Nor does much of this flotsam and jetsam merit full-on commentary elsewhere— rather, it just speaks for itself in happy little bursts. Today I’d like to pay homage to all these little flourishes that help to keep Austin genuinely weird, in defiance of that unwritten rule that says the minute you label something it stops being that thing. (To spell it out, I’m as tired as everyone else of the slogan about keeping it weird, but I’m thrilled that Austin-- despite the pricey lofts, chi-chi boutiques, and influx of Californians-- has remained utterly kooky.) more ›

Recently, KUT has hosted a series of meetings-- Cactus Conversations-- inviting a couple of dozen folks into a conference room to discuss the future of the Cactus Café, which KUT is taking over. I think I got an invitation courtesy of my loud mouth. Ironic, then, that at the first meeting I attended (I’ve now been to two) I was told by KUT’s spokesperson not to write about the meetings. While I didn’t sign an NDA, I did agree to remove my journalist’s hat for the sessions. Toward that end, I’m won’t give a blow-by-blow of what I’ve heard so far. (Though I did give a few quotes in a Chron article that ran last week.) I do want to share some impressions, though. Overall, I get the sense that nearly all in the room—and I include myself here—hold a notion that we each know exactly how the “new” Cactus should be run. Some think that to foster great change would be disastrous. Others rally in the opposite direction. While no one has yelled, you can still feel a lot of tension. For me, the tension begins at the beginning—sitting in a institutionally lighted conference room in a meeting moderated by a guy in a suit with one of those deep, authoritative radio voices. All this to discuss the fate of a red, velvety, dimly lit venue best loved for bringing us voices of a different sort: clever, thoughtful, sweet, and inspiring— voices not always sans authority, but certainly as far from a corporate sensibility as you can get. more ›

On the topic of engagement, Warren and I have nearly opposite opinions. He is completely opposed to the idea. I, on the other hand, while not exactly a lobbyist for the cause, can’t seem to resist the idea that engagement is the way to go. Things sometimes get touchy when he sees that engagement fire in my eyes. And he knows, if he tries to get me to see things his way… well, let’s just say he has come to accept that trying to stop me usually just pours accelerant on the flames. The engagement of which I speak isn't the sort that culminates in a big white dress, tuxedo, and multi-tiered cake. But there is an exchange of passionate words and, at least on my part, some vows at the end. Those vows usually go something like this, “I have got to stop doing that. But goddammit all these fuckers keep pissing me off.” more ›