Crafts, Inspiration

Not Safe for Pinterest

Like the proverbial magpie drawn to shiny objects, my eyes first fell on the shimmering  cigarillo wrappers of Swisher Sweets during my daily dog-walking duties. Despite my neighborhood’s reputation as a historic haven for Warby Parker and Lululemon enthusiasts, someone was keeping it real. A stoner version of Hansel and Gretel left me a trail of these flat-as-a-bookmark packages on the hike and bike trail, discarded curbside, and even floating in a drainage ditch after a heavy rain, gleaming like a Faberge egg. I soon turned pro forager, easily identifying the trademark Swisher Sweets label from a distance with fragrant promises of Boozy Mango and Twisted Berry. However, I discovered the area had a competing brand in the form of a fluffy owl perched on a lit cigarillo, the White Owl.  Other economy-sized varieties followed, featuring names like City Life, the Four Kings, and Show, depicting a lady spiraling on a stripper pole.

As my collection grew, my mind turned to thoughts of crafting.  With Christmas around the corner, I envisioned a purely synthetic masterpiece, accented by ornaments fashioned from the wrappers. Hung from tiny gold safety pins, the upcycled ornaments would adorn a winter white, artificial tree topped with a Little Tree, the air freshener often seen hanging from dashboard mirrors in an effort to disguise the smell of what’s really in all those cigarillos. Keeping with the evergreen theme, I chose a simple tree pattern for my ornament-making and set to work, carefully cutting out the trees from the wrappers. Wrappers that still bore their fruity, funky vapors, leading me to take frequent breaks for fresh air. But nothing prepared me for the deodorizing punch of the Little Trees. As I opened the packages containing Cotton Candy and Black Forest aromas, the whole house was overtaken by the manufactured mashup of sweet and scary. After a quick photo shoot, the Little Trees, which had been acquired as a giveaway at a Lucha Libre match, were put in exile on the back patio.

I’ve never mastered Pinterest pinning or any of the picture perfect projects staring me down from my computer screen. But now, I had a contribution to make to the crafting community. A search of Swisher Sweets yielded modge-podged tabletops, an origami creation, and two Christmas wreaths. Underneath the photo of one wreath, hung on a front door, the cigarillo artisan added, “Life goals not gonna lie. Let’s make my family uneasy.” Welcome to the field of Stoner DIY. I think the Easter Bunny might need a new basket……






Houston, Inspiration

So this is Christmas…



Resting Bitch Face 1988

You know you’ve hit rock bottom at Christmas when you’re sitting in traffic envisioning yourself in a full body cast in a private room at the hospital and that sounds like a spa day. All of the sudden, visions of a private room, a remote control, and morphine on demand dances in your head.

You know you’ve hit rock bottom at Christmas when you find yourself in the parking lot of a Tuesday Morning contemplating the name of a Smiths cover band called Tuesday Mourning while wondering why you waited this long to buy the perfect gift for your parents. The two people responsible for putting you on this planet and you plan on rewarding them with a picture frame and a scented candle.

But then your spirits are lifted. You overhear the couple standing in line behind you, armchair quarterbacking the holiday family function they just left. “Why didn’t you say anything”? “I was waiting for you to say something.” As you patiently wait with your shopping basket filled with last-minute offerings layered with guilt, you console yourself with the scene from Female Trouble where Dawn Davenport takes down the Christmas tree because Santa opted for a pair of sensible shoes in lieu of the cha cha heels she requested.

And all was right with the world.






Film, Inspiration, Women

A Letter to Wonder Woman

Wonder Woman cuffs and crown

Killer accessories

Dear Wonder Woman,

I hail from the Lynda Carter era. Although the crime fighting prowess of Charlie’s Angels was more my style, I was captivated by your cuffs and crown, not to mention your makeover moves. As a little girl, I couldn’t imagine a greater superpower than spinning myself into a whole new look. But big screen debuts of beloved characters, whether from tv or comic books, are often fraught with apprehension for fans. I resisted at first – unwilling to accept that your attire was now more gladiator than glam. But the sisterhood persisted with talk of your Margaret Sanger, suffragette-inspired roots and coverage of female-only screenings with attendees sporting Handmaid’s Tale womenswear.  I now wanted to be wowed and filled with wonder with a woman at the helm of the male-dominated, summer blockbuster multiplex scene. So imagine my disappointment when you were dispatched to save humankind from ……….. the Nazis. I thought Indiana Jones finished them off in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Earth to Diana: Papa’s got a brand new nerve gas and it looks like you still got the wrong guy.  Suggesting I wait for a sequel or for your pals at the Justice League to join forces just won’t do. Women in the United States scored the right to vote in 1920. 2016 marked the first time in our history when a woman became the first presidential nominee of a major political party. That’s almost 100 years later. And instead, we got a pussy grabber for President. We don’t have time for another flashback when your high-powered accessories could be put to better use right now.

I realize this is more of a demand letter than a fan letter. But I am hopeful when you shed the coiffed, curator disguise and trade in the stiletto-heeled boots for your sensible superhero footwear, your flight path will take you to the battle you deserve to fight.

Stay woke,

First Set Girl




A Note of Appreciation


Thanks for the blue eyes and Willie Nelson’s Blue Skies.

Thanks for making an early riser out of me so I never miss a sunrise or a flight.

Thanks for letting me listen to whatever I wanted on the radio without complaint or commentary. Even during awkward moments like Madonna’s Like a Virgin and my endurance-testing mixtapes featuring Malcolm McLaren’s six-minute Puccini reboot of Madame Butterfly. I thought you liked opera. You paid me back with Roger Whittaker, Glenn Miller, and Marty Robbins. Thank you for chaperoning me and my friends to see Cyndi Lauper’s 1984 show at the Summit and subsequently deciding I no longer needed adult supervision at concerts. Thank you for taking me to see the Rockets play at the Summit when they had The Dream.

Thanks for taking me and my brother to see films because they were good, regardless of rating: The Blues Brothers, The Great Santini, All That Jazz. Although Grizzly, a 1976 film about a bear on a murderous rampage explains why I have an aversion to camping.

Thanks for taking me and my brother to dim sum on Sundays and letting us order the chicken feet every single time just so we could play with them.

Thanks for buying the entire bag of caramel-pecan cluster turtles I was supposed sell for a school fundraiser but ate instead. In one sitting.

Thanks for still making sure I always have a full tank of gas. Please note, I no longer buy groceries, including beer, on my Chevron card.

Thanks for loving our bulldog, Carlyle, like a grand dog, and my husband like family. That is not necessarily in order of importance. But thanks for also being cool when Jason got arrested in front of you for selling Saints tickets to an undercover cop.

Thanks for acting as my personal weatherman, traffic reporter, and in the age of professional influencers, you are the only one who matters.

With gratitude. #IAmMyFathersDaughter




So Many Women, Only One Month

They gave us women the month of March. How generous granting us one of the seven months with 31 days. Right after February, designated as Black History Month, which also happens to be the shortest month of the year with only 28 days unless it’s a leap year with 29 days of commemoration. The lists, the distinctions, the remembrances are always “by no means exhaustive,” with shout-outs to the well-known and the unsung. My homage honors the women whose work whether in print, song, dance, or their very being formed my personal playbook from girlish to ladylike to bad ass.


Day 1. Gloria Steinem. Outrageous Acts and Everyday Rebellions. Paperback purchase made in college. Student for life.

Day 2. Eartha Kitt.  Rejuvenate! (It’s Never Too Late). Chanteuse. Catwoman. Civil Rights Activist. Eartha Kitt’s book features breathing and stretching exercises from the then spry 70-something, diet advice: try not to break bread with people full of negative energy, and her account of giving Lady Bird straight talk about the war in Vietnam which led to her being blacklisted. Kitt returned triumphant in 1978 as a guest in President Jimmy Carter’s White House. She died Christmas Day, 2008 at the age of 81.

Day 3. Patti Smith. Just Kids. Punk rock’s fairy godmother, Patti Smith, shares a story of friendship, love, hard work, surviving on lettuce soup, and her mother’s saying “that what you do on New Year’s Day will foretell what you’ll be doing the rest of the year.” She spoke and sang at the University of Houston in April of 2010. Reading that book was the only moment I wished I had a daughter who I could share it with. 

Day 4. Sei Shōnagon. The Pillow Book. Witty and poetic observations of life in the Imperial Court recorded by a Japanese lady in waiting from approximately 1000 years ago. Her lists of Adorable Things (duck eggs, an urn containing the relics of some holy person) and Things That Give a Pathetic Expression (The voice of someone who blows his nose while he is speaking) make for excellent bedtime reading. 


Day 5. Billie Holiday. The Billie Holiday Songbook. Her entire catalog is an American songbook filled with stories of loving men who do you wrong (My Man) and commentary on our nation at its worst (Strange Fruit). She lifts you up with God Bless the Child and takes you down with her recording of Gloomy Sunday, also known as the Hungarian Suicide Song with lyrics heavy in grief. She died in 1959 at the age of 44. 

Day 6.  Sue Coe. X, (Raw One-Shot). These words accompany the illustration:

At the center of the web – a wriggling louse who lurks within the lily White House. 6 hounds greet you at the gate, eyes glinting, salivating hate. Tea is served at a quarter to 4. Well-manicured hoofs daintily pour. As for the starving outside the place, they also get nourishment-a dose of mace. That mace can sting. Let freedom ring.

I viewed Sue Coe’s giant paintings depicting the American horror story of the late 80’s as as sophomore in high school at the Contemporary Arts Museum in Houston.  It was the first art exhibit I attended that came with a parental advisory.  Sadly, her works portraying the brutality of misogyny and racism don’t appear the least bit dated. 


Day 7.  Anna DuTerroil, Diagnosis of Aesthetic Behavioral Responses Toward Art Among Students in Elementary Teacher Education Programs. My mother’s dissertation for her Ph.D. in Education. I was nine years old. The dedication page reads: To my children, Rene and Dana, who are an aesthetic experience, and to their father Gibson, for his undying love and devotion


Day 8. Susan C. Ross. The Rights of Women-the Basic ACLU Guide to a Woman’s Rights. At the time of publishing (1973), Ross was a partner in a firm specializing in feminist litigation. The special editor was none other than the Notorious RBG. The manual covers everything from reproductive rights to name change. 

Day 9. Donna Summer. Live and More. Her first live album recorded at the Universal Amphitheater in Los Angeles, 1978. I was eight years old skating circles around the dining room table while the 8-track played on our stereo. Her disco jams inspired me to later join a roller derby league. 

Day 10. Anaïs Nin. Delta of Venus. I picked up a copy at a used book store when I was in high school because the cover is everything. I carried it around like a badge of courage. There’s an inscription inside that reads: To Rosemary from Glenn, Best Wishes and Good Luck.  

Day 11. Misty Copeland. Life in Motion. An Unlikely Ballerina. Copeland is the first African-American principal dancer with the American Ballet Theatre. In 2015, she made a graceful and warm-hearted appearance in Houston before a crowd of children from the Boys and Girls Club while sitting beside Lauren Anderson, the first ever African-American woman to earn a principal role in a major ballet company (the Houston Ballet). 

Day 12. Simone Beck & Louisette Bertholle & Julia Child. The Art of French Cooking.  I read cookbooks like novels (the food tastes better that way) and this is a classic along with illustrations by Sidonie Coryn. Her drawing of a Charlotte Malakoff is frame-worthy (almond cream with fresh strawberries served cold). This book is my mom’s copy. Her favorite dish is boeuf bourguignon. 


Day 13. Judy Blume.  Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret. Girlhood. 

Day 14. Sister Helen Prejean. The Death of Innocents-An Eyewitness Account of Wrongful Executions. Her follow-up to Dead Man Walking again weaves her personal stories against the backdrop of public policy in an unflinching examination of the death penalty. She is a member of the Sisters of St. Joseph of Medaille in Louisiana but spends much of her time on the road speaking out and seeking justice as she encouraged me to do in my copy. 

Day 15. Edith Piaf. Edith Piaf at Carnegie Hall. Her rendition of Lovers for a Day destroys me every time with the sound of the shattering glass at the end breaking your heart into a million pieces. 

Day 16. Toni Morrison. Song of Solomon. My high school English teacher, Mrs. Smith-Williams, assigned this book in my senior year of 1989. A bold move considering the African-American female author stood out in a predominantly older white male reading list.  No offense to Jane Austen (Pride & Prejudice was also required reading that year) but the life of Macon “Milkman” Dead III and all those names like Railroad Tommy, Spoonbread, Quack-Quack, Funny Papa, and Fuck-Up blew my teenage mind. 

Day 17. Diane Arbus. Diane Arbus. “Nothing is ever the same as they said it was. It’s what I’ve never seen before that I recognize.” I had never seen photographs like hers before when I was turned on to her work while studying photography in high school. 

Row6 Ruth-Loren

Day 18. Ruth Reichl. Garlic & Sapphires. The Secret Life of a Critic in Disguise. Fearless food critic, foodie, and the last editor-in-chief of Gourmet magazine. 

Day 19. Terry McMillan. Waiting to Exhale. Savannah, Bernadine, Robin and Gloria. 

Day 20. Marie Kondo The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. In our disposable, click and buy, fast fashion culture asking if an object sparks joy forces me to meditate on my possessions and their meaning in my life, as well a question new acquisitions. Plus, I really dig folding. A few of my favorite things that spark joy as pictured above: Nana’s pillbox, Chateau Marmont matchbook, feathers from Ronnie’s Sex Shop on Route 62, South Africa. 

Day 21. Sophia Loren. Recipes & Memories. The pasta chapter is my favorite. Winner of the 1961 Academy Award for Best Actress in Two Women making her the first to win an Oscar for her role in a foreign film. She didn’t attend because she didn’t think she was going to win. In 1991, she was there to receive her Honorary Award from the Academy. 


Day 22. Sandra Cisneros. Woman Hollering Creek. Born in Chicago, longtime resident of my birthplace, San Antonio, she now lives in Mexico. She is why the NEA is vital to our country. In the acknowledgements of her book, Cisneros gives a shout-out to the National Endowment for the Arts “for twice saving me in one lifetime.” 

Day 23. Betty Friedan. The Feminine Mystique. “For all the new women, and all the new men.” Friedan’s book was published in 1963. She died in 2006. Her thoughts on the current state of the American wife are sorely missed. 

Day 24. Sylvia Plath. The Bell Jar. “Show us how happy it makes you to write a poem.” Not so much. 


Day 25. Rubye DuTerroil, nee Gibson, my grandmother (father’s side). The Role of Women in 19th Century San Antonio. Her Masters Thesis from 1949.  Many women were in the hotel biz including the Menger Hotel, founded by W.A. Menger and taken over by his wife when he died in 1871. Rubye earned her B.A. & M.A. at St. Mary’s University. She taught at Ursuline Academy and Loma Park Elementary. Former Miss San Antonio. Master of side-eye, crossword puzzles, and washing my hair in the kitchen sink. To watch as she lit her unfiltered Pall Mall on the gas stove and slice me a wedge of peach cake was a life lesson in the multi-tasking women do every day. 


Day 26. Round 46: Black Women Artists for Black Lives Matter. Performance and installation at Project Row Houses in Houston’s Third Ward, March 2017. “I am my sister’s keeper.” 

  Row 8 Nancy-Grace

Day 27. All the Nancy Drews. Mildred Wirt Benson was the ghostwriter for books 1-7, 11-25, and 30. Her last one was The Clue of the Velvet Mask. My favorites were The Clue in the Jewel Box and The Clue in the Diary with Nancy channeling a Grace Kelly vibe straight outta Hitchcock. I carried a Nancy Drew lunchbox and hid my eyeglasses in it because I didn’t like how they looked. Somehow, my vision didn’t suffer or stop me from reading. 

Day 28. Margaret Atwood. The Handmaid’s Tale. I no longer own a copy but I still have my college paper comparing the book and the 1990 movie starring Natasha Richardson who tragically died in 2009. Stay woke ladies. PS: I got an A.

Day 29. Sophie Tucker. My Dream (Her Latest & Greatest Spicy Saucy Songs).  Vaudeville OG. Entertainer who called herself a “perfect 48” – singing in English and Yiddish with a whole lotta swagger. Last of the Red Hot Mamas. 

Day 30. Grace Coddington. Grace – A Memoir. Fantastical fashion visionary aka creative director of American Vogue. 


Day 31.  Rose Pantusa. The Everyday Diary. 1932. San Antonio, TX. My grandmother’s year of ironing, occasional factory work, mass, and cute boys. Nana forever. 


Chasing Tail


Living the life aquatic in the San Marcos River, outfitted in a Sirenalia tail and top. Photography by Flashpool Productions.

“Is that glitter in your hair?”

“No, it’s hair tinsel. I got it at mermaid camp.”

“Mermaid camp? You must have children.”

Nope. Just me and my “what do I want to be when I grow up” girlhood dreams that have followed me well into adulthood.

Do your dreams grow up? My dreams stay put – always on the alert to the potential for fulfillment.

File_000Like the morning of July 10th, 2016, I spotted a flyer offering a Sirenalia Mermaid Retreat in San Marcos, Texas, the former site of Aquarena Springs and the legendary Aquamaids of yesteryear. The image of a mermaid stood out among the standard issue coffee shop bulletin board selection hawking yoga classes and composting workshops. I was ready to sign up before the last sip of my latte despite the absence of details or qualifications I might need to attend. Justifying the desire to become a mermaid was not necessary in my mind. Justifying the expense as an advance on my birthday was my only concern.

My childhood career goals leaned heavily towards accessory-laden professions where wardrobe was part of the job description. Early role models included the lady perched on the red velvet swing at the Old San Francisco Steak House, who propelled herself towards the ceiling to ding the bell with a dainty tap of her toe. I sat mesmerized by her feather boa and fishnet stockings with a ruffly garter encircling one leg. The ragtime tunes of the piano player accompanied her as she swung higher and higher while diners feasted on surf and turf below. I marched up after every meal to take my place of honor on the swing for a ceremonial push and certificate declaring that I too was “a swinger at the Old San Francisco Steak House.”

Later, the Radio City Rockettes’ kick line would inspire visions of a life spent synchronized in sequins. A few years ago, a flight on Singapore Airlines enticed me with the sarong kebaya and slippers ensemble worn by the effortlessly elegant cabin crew.

As for mermaids, I didn’t come of age with Disney’s red-headed Ariel. I was firmly planted on Team Darryl Hannah thanks to the 1984 film, Splash. On land and sans tail, Mermaid Madison awkwardly maneuvered Manhattan, manhandling lobster dinners and shattering tv sets with her high-pitched native tongue. But her clandestine tail-on transformation in the bathtub attested to the sheer luxury and exuberance of being comfortable in your own skin.

And the mermaid’s tail is what caught my eye when I spied that flyer on the bulletin board. Pastel layers of scales scalloping down to the fishtail, bursting with color like an “It Bag” for my bottom half.  The mermaid tail possessed the finishing touch superpower of a well-placed accessory. I had appendage envy.

However, my mermaid cred was limited to long, blonde hair and the ability to “hold a mirror and brush hair,” skills that my pre-retreat studies revealed were essential to mermaiding. I adopted a “fake it until you make it” attitude in anticipation of the four-day mermaid immersion program which included an underwater photo shoot, entry to the Mermaid Society Ball, and a seat on a float in the Mermaid Parade. Confident that mermaids were a welcoming bunch, I shelved my fears of uncertainty and focused on packing mermaid-appropriate attire which included strands of tiny conch shells, plumeria hair clips, waterproof mascara, swimsuits, pajamas sewn by my mother-in-law with the advice to “Be a mermaid in a sea of fish,” printed on them, and a plastic lobster as my mascot.

My rookie status was apparent upon meeting pro mermaids with their very own custom-made tails, seashell-embellished bikini tops and palettes of eye shadows, bronzers and blushes.  The mermaid makeover crew quickly moved into action, my hair tinseled with sparkly strands and my arm expertly embossed with an intricate henna design. Their talents humbled me and the generosity of spirit and glitter reassured me that despite my lack of experience, I now at least looked the part.


Tools of the Trade – hair tinsel, Sirenalia tails and tops, and henna

The Sirenalia glam squad of do-gooders cares deeply about the mermaid’s natural habitat, the water. The location for our underwater photo shoot was the San Marcos River where we would later pick up litter left behind by picnickers and careless convoys of tubing revelers in the less pristine parts of the riverbed. Although I knew how to swim, I spent most of my adult life landlocked or on a chaise lounge where the ocean served as a backdrop to sunbathing. That a lifeguard would be present alternatively comforted and terrified me as I was convinced that my star turn as an enchanting sea creature would end with me swept away by the river current, desperately grabbing for the banks as my underwater rescue ended up with a million views on YouTube as a #MermaidFail.

Relief set in when I saw that our stretch of the river ran through the campus of Texas State University with carefree students paddle boarding to class. The pros took to the water with ease, bobbing their colorful tails to the delight of bystanders, rapidly filling their Instagram feed with photos of mermaids taking over the campus. Cautiously, I first tried out the monofin, my dolphin kick more akin to a bucking bronco. I felt like Houdini trying to break out of a pair of hard rubber shackles. Cursing myself for spending more time studying books than developing my core muscles, I channeled costume designer Edith Head: “You can have anything you want in life if you dress for it.” It was time to let go of the training wheels and suit up.

Mermaid Elona lent me her tail tinted with the hues of a perfect sunset. Hair and makeup mastermind, Rose, acted as my midwife, guiding me through the laborious process of shimmying and scooting my lower half inside the 30-pound, 100% platinum-cured DragonSilicone tail. In the river, I still struggled to glide with the natural grace of the mermaids surrounding me but I swooned with pride to be in their presence and swim alongside them.


Sun’s Up – Tails Out!

For the retreat’s grand finale, we would ride as live mermaids in the San Marcos Mermaid Parade, celebrating the community’s dedication to river conservation and all things mermaid. Parading was my comfort zone. Years living in New Orleans had schooled me in the roles of spectator and float rider. But no amount of bead throwing and catching had prepared me for the unhinged glee of little girls glimpsing a flatbed of mermaids. Their faces registered amazement, ambition and recognition. Mermaids are real.


The Mermaid Parade with the pros, Mermaid Rayla and Mermaid Essie (left to right)

As I brush my hair, as all good mermaids do, I carefully protect the two remaining strands of hair tinsel. These shimmery locks are a touchstone – a symbol of achievement, a reminder of the goodness of people who help you pursue your dreams, and an inspiration to others.

Don’t give up. Suit up. #MermaidsAreReal