I Can't Hear You Now

People tell me it's time for a new phone plan, but I admit there's something I enjoy about the song and dance of staying within my minutes each month. Currently, I am screening all calls. If I answer, it means that either a) you are worth the $.45 a minute that I have to pay now that I've gone over (but please get right to the point) or b) you have Verizon and it's free to talk to you. If you leave a voicemail, I will check it after nine p.m. or I might use someone else's phone to hear it. Just depends. In a desperate moment, I may even write bdoc in Montana to see if she will call my voicemail and relay the message to me via email. She is usually willing, good sport. To others, this game is altogether annoying. To me, it's an interesting challenge. Call me what you will, but if you want me to hear it, please do it over the weekend. Unlimited minutes.

I Can Never Come Home Again

My return from the holiday travels has been difficult so far.

First of all, my family is not here. That's a bummer. A real bummer. If you knew my family, you'd agree that it's a bummer. B.U.M.M.E.R. Bummer. I heart them. I really do.

Secondly, I have grown lazy. Five pounds gained over the holiday weekend and now, I'm a sloth. Just want to sleep and eat. Having had lots of practice this past week, I'm quite good at it. Incidentally, I also had a lot of practice at shuffleboard and am NOT good at that. WTF?

Finally, the to do list is large and difficult to tackle due to aforementioned lethargy. I'll decide to get my ass in gear eventually, but not before acquiring significant guilt over having wasted the morning.

Hmm. On so many levels, things haven't really changed.

Ramblings of an Impatient Sister

From bdoc:

I know all you Slapdash Doc fans may not be satiated with this entry. But at least you'll have something. I got nothin. I've been told by my friend Fast Eddy, "If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem." I tried to tell him that sounds like the Bushstoppo's propaganda about being a terrorist if you're against the war. Or something like that.

I digress.

I'm writing because jdoc is too busy. She's too busy shopping, sleeping in late, playing Tetris, eating, fighting with Cdoc, teasing Ellie, eating, teasing Cdoc, and shopping; not necessarily in that order. So, you see, I'm being part of the solution and I'm writing an entry for her.

I've given up cookies, cake, ice cream, candy. "Why?" you ask. Well, because I've been issued a sugar challenge. It will cost me $50 if I eat any of the above before friend Shalon does so. She might tell you that it was my idea. But I didn't think she'd take me up on it. And I certainly DID NOT include ice cream in that challenge. Anyone that knows me, knows that I would NOT have been so crazy as to cut ice cream out of my diet. I mean - it's made of beans, VANILLA BEANS. Good for me. And how else will I get my calcium?

Again, I digress.

So, this past weekend, while at Chico Hot Springs in Montana with my family, all bets went down the tubes. I ate sugar. Cookies. Candy. Cake. Orange Flambe (jdoc has a picture to prove that they light it on fire and it burns for a good 2 minutes). Mint Mud Pie. Homemade. Caramel. It was delicious ... but full of sugar that I haven't eaten in 3 months!!!

I have a hangover. From sugar. I am back on the wagon and hoping Shalon never reads this post. If she does, I'll claim the Christmas Exemption on line 24 of the contract.

And today, I'm thankful for the Holiday Weekend - for the love of family and for reminding me why I should never eat sugar again.

White Whale

The tile work in the bathroom took a week. I showered at the gym. Julie stayed with her brother.

Over a week and a grand later, it looks great.

The problem, I discovered this morning, is that it leaks worse than it did before. Before the tile work, there was a mist of water gently gliding down. Now, there's a typhoon of water pounding on the basement floor. Julie and I could shower at the same time. One of us upstairs. One down.

I am leaving for Christmas today and I'm really gonna try to not think about this glitch until I return. There's nothing I can do until next week. Nothing I can do. Nothing I can do. Nothing I can do. It's working already.

Holiday Spirit

We have a group of kids who like to stay after school with their teachers. Every. Single. Day.

This is nice. In theory.

Most of the time, though, it means I'm not getting any work done. And couldn't they have used class time better so they wouldn't have to stay after? I think yes.

So today, I didn't even feel bad when I told four of them to GET OUT and GET OUT NOW. Exactly those words.

Tomorrow, I'm locking the door immediately. They'll pound and pound. But I won't answer.

Done. Over. Caput. Finished.

And I passed.

All of that hard work came down to 55 minutes of conversation. It wasn't a breeze, though. One of the professors was altogether skeptical about the work of a scholar cited over and over in my paper. I didn't realize it until then, but I wanted this to be kind of hard. I wanted to actually defend something. His tough questions made me do just that, and I liked that he read my paper with the same critical eye that he reads other academics. And I handled it. Even enjoyed it.

Someday, I'll go back to that kind of work. But now. I want to rest. Long and hard.

Credo

I live by the Socratic philosophy that I know that I do not know very much. For this reason, the prospect of defending my thesis tomorrow is downright terrifying. They'll expect me to know some shit and pleading the Socratic won't get me very far, to be sure. The only thing I can say I've learned for certain is a bit about myself. Perhaps that's what this whole process has really been about. Know thyself, the Oracle at Delphi once said. Why is that such an arduous task?

Back in the Saddle

The computer is back and, due to some good advice, I seem to have fixed the wireless problem as well. How's that for good luck?

Whatever it is, I hope it sticks around until Monday, because all I can think about is that darned defense. Coffee today with a good friend who has been through the process set my mind a rollin'. I appreciate that she asked some tough questions so I could check into reality and begin to mentally prepare myself. I've had winter break and time with family on my mind, and sadly, those topics will not be on the defense agenda. Instead, I have to brush up on evocation and critical response over the weekend.

But, that's okay. Sometimes, being an obsessor is a good thing, and until the defense of the BAP is over, I'm gonna plan on doing just that.

Paper No Mas

No. The laptop is not done yet, but I am stealing some time at the university library to write a quick post to share that THE BIG-ASS PAPER IS DONE.

Turned out to be not-so-big-ass after all. NSBAP. But the advisor approved it and on to the committee it went. Now, I just have to pass the defense and I'm on my way to freedom.

I had a taste of the freedom today and it involved balancing the checkbook, paying bills, sweeping and mopping the floors, and running errands.

And oh. What a lovely day it has been.

Bad News for the Blog (or How a Jump Drive Saved My Life)

My horoscope tells me that with Jupiter in my house of . . . um . . . something, I will have unprecedented good luck. But when the laptop died today, just as I was rounding the final bend of the Big-Ass Paper, that luck seemed as distant as Jupiter itself. Remaining calm, I remembered that I am meticulous about backing up the paper onto my jump drive. And what good luck! It was all there.

Sure, I have to take my f-ing laptop back to the computer place, pay loads of cash to get it fixed, wait weeks for it to return, and NOT blog in the meantime (unless stealing use of someone else's computer like I am now), but thank you Jupiter! The paper is still in tact and almost done.

So, I am afraid that even with all this extra, non-paper-writing time on my hands, I won't be able to keep you updated on the ins and outs of my life. Course, with the paper finished, what will I write about anyway?

So Close. . .

Some of you know that it is my goal to finish the Big-Ass Paper this weekend. I hesitate to write this into the blog for two reasons: 1) You may wonder why I am posting an entry when I should be working on the paper. Rest-assured, this break is much needed and much earned. And 2) If I don't finish the paper this weekend, which is always a distinct possibility, you will be disappointmented in me. Rest-assured again, if it doesn't happen, I will carry enough disappointment for everyone.

In the end, since several of my previous posts already divulge that I am an obsessor and procrastinator, it doesn't really matter what I say here. And, if I do actually finish the BAP this weekend, the subsequent accolades will be worth the risk. I am sure.

All In a Day's Work

There is nothing, perhaps, more satisfying than hearing statements like these upon finishing a book with students:

"That was goooooood."

"Where can I find more books like this?'

"That's the end? It doesn't even tell us the whole truth."

That last one was my favorite because it was exactly the point. Almost as if I had planted it. Exactly. The. Point.

I demonstrated, too, how the final paragraph of the book, where it says -- "I want to know who I am. I want to know the road to panic that I took. I want to look at myself a thousand times to look for one true image."-- gives me goosebumps. I pulled up my sleeve and showed them the evidence.

Then, I gave thinking homework: "What would one true image of you look like? Just one and only one. What is the one . . . true . . . image of you?" I said it slowly for dramatic effect and then sent them on their way to contemplate truth and identity.

Typical 7th grade stuff.

Because I Feel Like Whining

I've had a headache for five days in a row now. Here are the usual suspects:

a) stress
b) 7th graders
c) sinus problems
d) knots in back and resulting tension
e) lack of sleep

Solution: Pop some pills and keep at it. Have I any other choice?

All For A Friend in Need of Company

If you look closely, you can see the bump and burgeoning bruise on KC's temple.

She walked into the door on her way out of the house to meet me for paper grading and thesis writing.

Even though her head was throbbing and I was out of ibuprofen, she stuck it out and we both got some good work done.

Giving Thanks

I had several glasses of wine with my Thanksgiving dinner yesterday. I don't know if it was that I was so relaxed for once, among friends who are like family, or the fact that the guy I'm dating was there to meet the friends and stumbled through an explanation of how we know one another. . . we're. . . um. . .er. . .dating. It was better than I had done; I called us friends.

But when Jodi and I waited in line for a movie later, it was clear that the wine was still with me.

"EXCUSE ME! SOMEONE DROPPED A GLOVE," I shouted to a line of twenty people in front of us as we awaited our turn to purchase tickets.

"Yeah," Jodi whispered like a parent trying to quiet a child, "that's mine. Thanks."

"Oh." I whispered back. Then, "NEVER MIND!" I announced to the crowd because, I felt, they needed to know that the glove had been saved.

Luckily, the Milk Duds soaked up the rest of the alcohol and Jodi could enjoy Joaquin and Reese in silence. I never told her, though, that while she watched previews and I went out to get a treat, I chided the teenage sales people just short of asking for the manager because they didn't have Junior Mints. They duly noted my dissatisfaction and rolled their eyes, I'm sure.

I admit that when I imbibe a little alcohol I let myself say and do things that I wouldn't normally say or do. And because this happens so rarely, I am thankful for two things this year: wine and a friend who puts up with me when I drink it.

Don't Wanna Be A Diva

It seems that I sparked some interest in the DivaCup with an earlier entry. Let me begin by saying that I don't know much about it. Don't use it. Never have. Probably never will.

But like you, I am curious about this ancient, and yet so very new, method of, shall we say, monthly collection. The whole idea was introduced to me while sitting around drinking wine with some gal pals in the spirit of a good Sex and the City episode. We decided to learn more about this fascinating tool by making use of the wireless internet access of which I have grown so fond.

We had many, many questions about this device. How does one clean it? How often does one change it? How much can it hold? What does one do in a public bathroom? Does it leak? And so on and so on. To our surprise, the questions on the website were phrased almost exactly as our own and the answers were, well, sufficient.

Until we reached this one: What happens if the DivaCup gets stuck? Yes. Stuck.

Here was the response, straight up and to the point:

It is highly unlikely that The DivaCup™ will get stuck since the vagina is only around 4 or 5 inches long. If your DivaCup™ rides up and becomes harder to reach, simply push down (or bear down) on your stomach muscles (similar to having a bowel movement) and reach inside the vagina and pull on the stem until you can reach the base of the cup and squeeze it. Make sure that you are relaxed while doing this so that your vaginal muscles do not become tense. Once you have squeezed the base to release the air, pull the cup out on a sideways angle to allow more air to enter the vagina and it will come out no problem. If you still cannot reach The DivaCup squat on the floor and this will automatically lower the cup because this position pushes everything down lower.

The important thing to remember is not to panic, as this will make the vaginal muscles very tense and it will be harder to remove. If it feels too slippery to get a hold of the stem, wait a bit, relax, and try again by bearing down on the muscles, which will push it down to be able to pinch the base and remove. By following the instructions: making the cup rotate 360 degrees to make sure it has opened up and made the seal, and by wearing it low in the canal(not pushing it up high like a tampon), the cup should be very easy to remove. If it does ride up too high to reach, please call our toll free customer service line as our experienced staff can help.

I'm sorry, but I'm just not okay with that possibility. Plus, I am sure to panic and the image of my squatting self in the bathroom with laptop in one hand and phone in the other, makes me swear off the whole thing. Forgive me, landfills, but I won't be making the switch.

The "Good Lord You Have Giant Forearms!" Entry

It takes me longer than most people to leave my house. I can't really explain why, except that I find things that I think I need to do. Like today. For about three whole minutes I stared at my forearms in the full-length mirror wondering if they had always been quite so veiny. This was prompted, I am sure, by pal Josh's comment when he, his wife, and new baby were visiting last weekend.

"Good lord," he exclaimed. "Are you rock climbing now? Your forearms were never that big in college."

It'd be cool to be a rock climber. But I am not. I like to lift a weight or two now and then, but nothing that should make me look like Popeye.

So, all week I've been contemplating the forearms. Trying to detect any unusual sensations. Comparing them with the upper arm. Making sure everything is proportionate. Mostly, they seem normal to me.

But then, today, I noticed the veins. In just the right light, they seem extra blue and pop-out-ish. I certainly don't need something else to obsess over when I should be getting myself out of the house and into the world. But that won't stop me. I will think about the veins all week until some other perceived deformity takes their place in my mind.

I am open to suggestions.

This Happens Every Now And Then

I am obsessing. About the blog.

Nothing is good enough this week.

Not the DivaCup™ entry. Not the "Good Lord, you have giant forearms!" entry. Not the "Has anyone ever told you that you tend to over-analyze?" entry.

They've all been written and deleted.

I'll call this the "It's really important to me that you write every day" entry just to break the curse.

Wire Free and Loving It

Except that I'm beginning to wonder if one can be qualified as having OCD for clicking and clicking and clicking on blogs only to find that they have not been updated since the last time you clicked approximately forty seconds earlier. Or, is this just what it's like having internet access all day, every day with no plug in requirement?

It's a bad sign, I think, when I go to Google and then run through the alphabet in my head to land on a topic that I haven't already Googled. Astrology. . . that one is bookmarked. Back pain. . . already practiced the stretches. Chronic gas . . . been there and nothing is working. Dinosaurs. . . because who doesn't want to learn more about them?

At this point, though, it seems more appropriate to search for people who never finished their thesis papers and still managed to live happy lives.

A Pluck Pluck Here. . . A Pluck Pluck There

I have long hated my eyebrows. They are thick and bushy and not very lady-like, I'm convinced.

I've been known to examine them in the rear-view mirror when driving long distances, and when best pal Jodi is along for those rides, she has to listen as I contemplate my plans to reshape them and subsequently better my life.

"They are fine," she says. Over and over.

But last weekend when I took the tweezers into my own hands and plucked out globs of eyebrow hair in an attempt to thin them out, her response was different.

"Is it just me or did I create a bald spot on each eyebrow when I plucked today?" I asked.

"Yeah," she chuckled heartily. "I can totally see them." And then, she was gone. Buckled over with laughter.

"It's not funny!" I shouted.

"Trust me," she could hardly get the words out. "It's hilarious."

I learned two things from her that day: 1) I'm going to shut up about the eyebrows, and 2) I'm going to get myself an eyebrow pencil.

There's No Fun In Fungi

For weeks, maybe months, I've been meaning to remove the dark spots from the outside of the Nalgene bottle that hydrates me daily. I figured I had gotten some marker on it and that it just needed a good scrubbing -- something I'd get to eventually. As I attempted once again to rub the spots with my finger tonight, I had an epiphany. It's not marker. It's mold. Growing on the inside. Many, many spots of it.

Promptly, I threw the whole thing away. And at almost the same instant I began to feel my throat close from the fungus that is surely growing there as well. Soon it will likely make its way into my lungs and stomach. I never thought it would all end this way, but if it has to, someone, please, nominate me for the Darwin award.

Dating in the 21st Century

Despite my many attempts, I cannot get the guy I'm dating to read the blog.

"It's private," he says.

"Um. No. It's public," I respond.

"Yeah, but it's like reading your diary," he continues.

"No. It's like reading my blog," I counter.

"I'd rather read writing of yours that's more crafted and polished," he states matter-of-factly.

I pause.

He doesn't realize this is grounds for a break up, but I remain calm and point out that he cannot know how crafted and polished the blog is if he isn't reading it. And in that moment, I decide it's best that he doesn't read the blog so that I might rally the blogging troops who will wonder with me, WTF?

Perhaps. . .

I will finally get the raking under control.

Today, I am 31.

I don't really have a feeling about that number. Doesn't feel like much of a turning point.

Deciding it would be a good idea to take on a new challenge for the new year anyway, I talked best GF, Jodi, into taking a swimming lesson with me. Together, we could swim away the winter woes and all would be swell.

We met at the pool yesterday in matching blue suits (not planned) and instructor Margaret had us plop into the shallow end. "What would you like to learn?" she asked. "Front crawl," I replied confidently. "We want to be able to swim laps."

It didn't take long for me to remember why I can't already do the front crawl: I panic underwater.

Coordinating the breathing and the strokes and the kicking and the keeping of a straight line -- how does anyone do this? Actually, I could have asked Jodi for the answer to this question because she was moving along like a torpedo while I coughed and spittled after every second stroke. And even though my panic made me forget them all the instant my face went under, Margaret kept giving pointers. "Breathe in and out slowly. Count your strokes. Keep your ear in the water," she said. But even louder, my body told me, "THIS IS NOT NATURAL."

After taking in my fifth gallon of water, I did it. I gave up. Just like that. I looked at Margaret and said calmly, "I can't swim. I can't do this." She knew I meant it and didn't ask me to try again. More importantly, she didn't say a real coachy thing like, "You can if you put your mind to it!" She had seen my sorry attempts, after all.

So, I didn't learn to swim yesterday. Perhaps it's a bad omen for my 31st year, but I prefer to look at it this way:

Every now and then, it feels really GOOD to give up. For once, under all the stress of teaching, writing a thesis, and owning a home, I could admit, with certainty, I can't. Someday, maybe, I'll try again, but for now, I don't have to, I don't want to learn one. more. thing. I can't.

And I know that I will still move forward as a 31-year-old woman -- I'll just be doing it on dry land.

I Think I Can

Meeting with advisor yesterday was a success. She thinks I'm doing okay on the Big-Ass Paper, but must keep plugging along. Writing is slow. Writing is hard. She confirmed these things for me.

The good news is that she thinks I can finish in December . . . the bad news is that she thinks I can finish in December.

So. Goodbye November. I won't have time to enjoy you, but I'll think fondly of you now and then.

Getting Old Is Gross

The Big 3-1 is just days away.

I'd like to glide into this new year of my life in a state of grace and tranquility, but the fact that I had to Google "really bad gas" first thing this morning makes me think it's going to be a turbulent and noisy transition.

The Big Adjustment

Lil sis spent big bucks on photography school this past summer. Understandably, papadoc turns to her when he has any photo-related question.

"Cass, what's wrong with my camera. Why is it all black in this corner?" he inquired after snapping a photo of his daughters.

"Let me see," the expert responded. "Ah. Yes."

We awaited the diagnosis.

"That's your thumb."

Now that she's moved to Connecticut to become a nanny, how will he get by?

The Monsters Come Out. . . After Lunch

In hindsight, it was naive of me to assume that I could reason two boys out of a fight in my classroom today. They had no interest in making the right choice once names had been called and egos bruised, but to their credit, there was no swinging until I moved out from between them to call for backup. Such gentleman.

The thing is, fights don't look the same in real life as they do in the movies. Red faces, tears, missed punches, rolling on the floor in an angry embrace. It's embarrassing, if you ask me.

Now, I have to reason them both into apologizing to the other frightened 7th graders in the room who, to their credit, stood in silence and egged no one on. We all compared the shakiness of our hands and the rate of our heartbeats when the boys, each of whom have at least six inches over me and facial hair, were finally removed from the room. Then my remaining students recapped the whole fight as if we hadn't all been right there to watch it go down ten seconds earlier. And I let them. The recap makes us all feel better, and even though I acted tough and pretended to have things under control, let me just say here, holy shit.

Normal Schmormal

I look for any excuse to feel that I am somehow on course when it comes to the Big-Ass Paper. Last night at a party for graduate students in my program, I drilled Ph.Ders about their thesis experiences.

"I thought I'd be done in the spring," one confided, "but didn't finish until Labor Day."

"I took five years to write mine," another chimed in. "Writing that thing and teaching at the same time is impossible."

Okay.

So, I'm on course.

It holds little comfort.

Now, instead, I'm trying to convince myself that I am the amazing, bionic thesis writer. I type pages in a single bound and destroy incoherence with my agile fingers.

And I wear a cape, of course. It is red.

Hope or Halloween?

Can it be things are getting better with the kiddos at work? Surely, I am jinxing it all to hell right now, but they've actually been, dare I say it. . . pleasant. Staying after school to make up work, thanking me at the end of class, raising hands instead of blurting out, keeping the pencil stationary instead of tapping incessantly, walking in the hallway -- all these things have happened this week. It's freaking me out and I'm knocking on wood.

Plugging Away

I've decided that I'm just plain slow when it comes to writing.

Despite knowing where I've been and where I'm going, I can't write more than a page for every two hours that I work on the big-ass paper for this process MUST include getting up every now and then to pee, eat, refill water glass, clip nails after biting them, stretch, stare at wall, and check e-mail (seriously, I've tried to cut each of these out and it's impossible). Before today, I told myself that I could get it together and write this mother quickly, but it's just not going to happen that way. Slow and steady is fine with me, except that the deadline now requires fast and slipshod.

This is disheartening.

Is there any way to get more hours out of the day? And is there anyone who knows what the metal pieces are for on this rooftop?

If only I could capture the memories in a diorama

I couldn't have asked for a better weekend with grad school pals, Lee and KC. Bloomington is a lovely city and Lee provided an informative tour of its campus, historic buildings, and post-football game traffic jams. Whenever a spare moment revealed itself, we checked blogs for new comments and felt affirmed by the company of other bloggers in action.

The talks about teaching and writing were the highlight of the journey as they made me remember why we do such ridiculously difficult work in the first place. It was hard to leave today, but we've decided to make this an annual trip (which, despite what Lee's sixth-graders tell her, does not mean every ten years).

The Road Trip

KC and I are going to visit Lee in Bloomington, IN this weekend. We haven't been together since June, and without them, I obsess over and avoid the things that stress me out instead of taking action. They'll set me straight again, I know, and with the stories they tell, I plan to laugh until the wine comes out of my nose.

At last, the road trip.
Long awaited, much needed.
Tomorrow it starts.

A little help from my friends...

Kyle and I have the same knowledge of electrical wires. One is yellow, one is green, one is blue, and together, they are heavy.

What are the wires for? Kyle is more likely to know than I am. Fortunately, his father is a handy man married to my good friend, Staci. He fixed things while we drank coffee and enjoyed a fall day that looked like this...



When it comes to home ownership, I'm learning that it's not what you can do, but who you know that counts.

I Want To Live a Simple Life

That's the line from a new favorite song that is on repeat in my head. It keeps me calm. It reminds me that I am working toward something.

A couple of weeks ago, I met a guy. Someone I like. Finally.

Last night, he told me that he's dating other women as well. Wanted to know how I felt about that.

When I said that I felt fine, I meant it. I did. But in the light of day, as that chorus circles through my head, I'm not so sure.

I want to live a simple life, and knowing my over-analyzing self as well as I do, this could become complicated.

It probably won't be made better by the fact that he has this blog address and may be reading my confession right now. I made the mistake once, though, of not writing about my dating life, and if I'm going to be more honest with myself about this, I figure being honest with everyone else too is a first step on the road to simplicity.

A Lesson In Sarcasm

"Tom is hitting me with his book!" Dean shouted across the library during our celebration of Teen Read Week.

I could die from tattling.

"Tom," I spoke in my best teacher voice and gave him my best teacher glare. "That is no way to celebrate books and reading. Please, use your hand."

Silence. Pause. Finally, laughter.

They'll get there. Just takes a little patience and training.

Caulk Job

Pre home-ownership, the word caulk was not part of my vocabulary. Now, I say it daily and it has become a measure of my general productivity.

"How was your weekend?" my colleagues ask.

"Good. I caulked the chimney and the shower," I respond.

Friday night at a public restaurant, I shouted the phrase SHODDY CAULK JOB in order to be heard over the hum of the other guests.

Oh. I was heard all right.

Strangers stared.

We burst into laughter.

I'd propose an alternative pronunciation for caulk (rhymes with Hulk), but I've grown rather fond of saying it in professional settings and public places where listeners might just take it out of context.

Caulk, caulk, caulk, caulk, caulk.

Makes me feel a little bit dirty.

"We can take 'em!"

I read this phrase in one of my theory books today: " a pathetic defense of tiny fiefdoms."

Those words made sense to me within the context of hegemony and discourse about which I had been reading, but I couldn't help but picture the Lilliputians defending their castles in a naive display of bravery against skilled giants who squash them upon arrival.

"Run away, stupid little people! What a pathetic defense of your tiny fiefdoms!"

Yeah. That's more fun.

Update

I looked forward all week to my rendezvous with the cable guy on Friday. Like all other things in my life lately, the news was not good.

Presently, there is no cable hook up to my house and the only nearby pole is up on the hill in my backyard. It's not impossible to make the connection to my house down below, but it does require digging and drilling and lord knows what else.

Since he hadn't anticipated the nuances of this job, the cable guy informed me that we had to reschedule our date. We're gonna try again for next Saturday.

In the meantime, without internet access, my blog updates will lack consistency, but not, I hope, flare.

A reason to post even though I'm dead tired and have nothing to say

Thanks, Mary.

Pity Party

It's no secret to anyone who's been around me or talked to me lately that I am stressed out.

Teaching is hard, my house is turning into a money pit, and all I can think about is how I can't find time to work on the Big-Ass Paper despite its looming deadline.

Just when I think I've got it under control, my kids stop acting like human beings with any rational thought whatsoever and I discover that the shower sprays a fine mist all over the basement through the tile.

People have been very kind to me in my frayed state. They say they are sorry about my stress. Please tell them if there's anything they can do. And it will all be okay. Big sis is so worried she dreams that I'm drowning.

Tonight, when the clogged sink in the kitchen put me over the edge and I called my dad to ask if I could give the house back, his reaction calmed me in a way that nothing else has in recent weeks. He laughed. "Welcome to home ownership," he chuckled. "Get yourself a snake."

Even though my I'm-your-little-girl-so-feel-sorry-for-me voice took over as I told him it wasn't funny, that I hated owning a house, and what the hell is a snake, I couldn't help but laugh either. Finally.

So for all who have put up with me of late, thank you. I see the light, if only for this moment, and I promise that I will work on getting over my self-pity. As soon as I find the time.

Universe, what have I ever done to you?

I have a coffee date tomorrow. So, naturally, my skin is dotted with blemishes that weren't there yesterday but will be there tomorrow.

Language Barrier

I wasn't sure if it would work out to seat Luis next to Francisco, but I gave it a shot. Luis doesn't connect well with other students and I figured it would help him to have a friend nearby, even if that friend is rather scattered most of the time. When it came time to finish the notes on literary terms that we had started the class before, I checked in with Luis. "Do you have your notes on story terms?" I asked.

"Huh?" he replied. Clueless.

"Your notes. From last class."

Nothing.

"The notes. In your notebook."

Nothing.

"Notes," I tried again.

Nothing.

Then, Francisco decided to help me out. "Las notas," he explained to Luis.

"Ohh. Las notas. Right here," Luis exclaimed and pulled them out.

Now Francisco translates all of my instructions into Spanish for Luis. Notes into notas. Page into pagina. These translations crack me up for obvious reasons, but they also help me realize that sometimes the speaker matters more than the words spoken.

Essential

I just drove eighteen minutes from my new house to arrive at a Dunn Bros. where I could use wireless access to read blogs and maybe write one of my own. Then, on my New York Times homepage, I read this, "President Bush today called on Americans to avoid non-essential driving as the average national prices climbed higher."

In the name of patriotism, it's time to contact my local cable internet carrier and get on with my life.

Ken Barlow, my favorite meteorologist, told me to go the basement during the storm; so I immediately grabbed my flashlight, battery radio, and cell phone. Then, I paused.

Should I take that article I'm still reading for the Big-Ass Paper? Or better yet, my laptop so that actual writing might happen? What about the novel I haven't finished for book club this weekend? Or the writing assignments I collected from my students today and my favorite grading pen?

The thought of any of these items alone with me in the basement was horrifying.

Instead, I braved the weather on the couch and watched TV for the first time in weeks. I deemed it necessary storm-tracking. And while the rainbow display of atmospheric activity on the Doppler radar isn't usually my first choice for viewing enjoyment, tonight, it was glorious.

In the beginning. . . the page.

It's official. I am writing a thesis. Not just talking about it anymore. I put pen to paper last night. . . well . . . fingers to keyboard.

It's much less intimidating this way. Sure, I have miles to go before I rest, but that first step feels pretty good. I've spent so much time being afraid that I had forgotten how satisfying it can be to compose. To create. To make something out of nothing.

It's crap, don't get me wrong. But it's my crap. I wrote it.

Angela and I used to keep paper-o-meters in college. We'd mark off pages on our white board like notches on the United Way thermometer. I don't plan to keep one for this baby, but if it matters to anyone else: one page down, seventy-ninish to go.

Control

I spent most of my teaching day yesterday trying to convince myself that I had everything under control. That I was an island of calm.

When I did get mad, the kids laughed at me. One boy laughed so hard he had to gain control of his own self in the hallway.

It is pretty funny when I get mad, all red in the face, all loud in the voice -- but there's certainly no control involved. And it's no way to start the year.

Even though I'm not having so much luck controlling them, nor do I want to be a soldier of the institution as Lee has me convinced we all are, I'm NOT giving up on controlling my own reactions to them. It's all I've got.

So when I finally had their attention and was reading to them from the novel Double Dutch, I wasn't feeling too badly about the "your mama" jokes they were collecting from the story. When they tell each other later that "Your mama is so dumb she gets tangled up in the cordless phone," I'm not gonna care.

Besides, that's pretty funny, and trust me, I have larger issues to worry about.

I teach them...they teach me...

When you Google the word FAILURE, the first hit you get is the biography of George W. from the official White House website.

Not kidding. Try it.

I learned this from a student today. He's totally getting an A+.

When You Know You Haven't Seen It All

One of Greg's students didn't return from lunch with the rest of his class today. This isn't surprising in middle school. Kids find ways to get out of class and usually turn up with a pass from somewhere after a while.

When he did return, Greg asked if everything was okay.

"No," the boy replied, blue nurse pass in hand. "I'm going home."

Greg didn't have to inquire too much. The boy looked sick in a way that told the whole story.

"Well," Greg started to say, arms opened to demonstrate his understanding, "let me help you get your stuff."

But before Greg could finish this statement, the boy moved into Greg's open arms and hugged him. In front of the entire class.

The other kids stared. Said nothing.

Greg, once he got over his own surprise, patted the boy on the back, told him to feel better, and sent him on his way.

Now, I've never met a 7th grade boy who would dream to interpret partly opened arms as a "hug me" gesture, but I've been smiling all day over the fact that this one did.

A Mortgage and So Much More

I'm not living in my new house yet, but I feel compelled to check on it every day to make sure that

a) the new paint is not peeling off the tiles in the bathroom,
b) the basement has not flooded,
c) the old stove is not leaking gas (pretty sure Jesus used a similar model), or
d) someone has not broken in to steal the four boxes of books, used paint cans, and toilet paper that maintain sole possession of the house.

Is it normal to worry so much about something nonhuman?

It Seemed Like a Good Idea At The Time

After a long day of painting in my new house, I was exhausted and punchy. Unfortunately for little sister Cassie, it has long been her role in my universe to be on the receiving end of all punchy gestures.

While waiting for that last coat of paint to dry, Cassie stood on the toilet while I stood below staring at her crotch. It seemed so logical at the time to do this...



Later, as we drove back to my apartment so she could change before going out for dinner (necessary, as you can see), this was our conversation.

"Cass, there's paint in my hair. Why didn't you tell me?" She had. Several times.

"Oh really. There's paint on my crotch. Why didn't you tell me?"

Touché.

Everyone should have a little sister.

Just this...

Something I've Always Wondered...

If you remove the part of the cheese that's moldy, is it okay to eat the remaining, without-mold part?

I put my hypothesis to the test with dinner tonight. Accidentally.

I'll let you know how it all comes out. Pun intended.

Paddling Upstream

I am always a little disgusted and torn by the magazine drive that my school hosts at the start of each year. Students sell magazines to win fabulous prizes and the school gets money for student activities -- money that doesn't otherwise exist for many of our students. What bugs me, though, is that the magazine company cleans up. Big time. They entice the kids to sell by giving away iPods, XBoxes, TVs, stereos, remote control helicopters, and much, much more. Meanwhile, they sit back and collect the dough. Some serious dough from what I can tell. Is this fundraising or child labor?

And then, as I'm sitting there listening to the spiel in the auditorium, all I can think about are the survivors of the hurricane who don't give a damn right now about iPods, XBoxes, TVs, stereos, remote control helicopters, and much, much more that their capitalist country tries to make them think matters most. Instead of having students sell crap no one needs so they can earn crap they don't need, why not fundraise for the hurricane victims? Why not teach our students that human lives matter more than things, and while we'd all like to have cool shit, we have more important work to do?

I am stepping off of my comfortable little soapbox now, but it is not lost on me that I am lucky enough to have dry ground below.

Testing My Tenure

As it is time to update my classroom poster collection, I Googled social justice posters and found this.

Love it.

Just wondering, since I'm not too keen on saying the pledge to our country's flag every Monday during the news show like I'm supposed to, will I get in trouble for having this up instead? Or for saying the words printed on it?

Only one way to find out.

"It knows what will be, and is willing to share this with you."

My new philosophy of decision has been going well. I had one minor setback and watched a romantic, but not-so-funny comedy on the WB tonight. Saturday night with nothing to do except study always turns out this way.

Even though I am committed to this new plan, I have to admit that I am drawn to my little sister's approach to the future.

"I had a discussion with the Magic 8 Ball," she told me on the phone this afternoon.

"Really? What did you talk about?"

"Marriage. For you and Becky It Is Certain. But for me," she continued,"Don't Count on It. "

"Ouch. You know, those things aren't scientific. Besides, you probably got the best answer. Ask it again if I'll be happily married. Actually. No. Don't." There are some things that I don't need to know right now. "Ooh. But do ask it what color to paint my bedroom."

Damned 8 Ball. Yes or no questions only. I can't live my life that way. Besides, the vibe I'm getting from the universe says that "green knoll" is the way to go.

The Decision

I found my first gray hair when I was twenty-six and have been pulling them out ever since. Yet when I consider plucking the most visible silver hair I've ever had, right in the front of my part, I just can't do it. What does that mean?

Best girlfriend Jodi pressed play on this mantra in my head: I am what I decide.

Every time I look in the mirror, I am faced with the decision. It only takes a moment to tug it out. Gone.

What I've realized, though, is that the moment of my decision would be gone too. And it is that moment that I have grown to appreciate more than youth or beauty.

So everyday, instead, I decide to decide.

What It's All About

I know that I've been poo-pooing going back to teaching after my sabbatical, but I think I've finally come around.

And all it took was this:

"Hi Sarah. I am your new advisory teacher for 7th grade. I just wanted to call to introduce myself and to see if you have any questions before school starts tomorrow."

"You're a girl?"

"Um. Yes. I'm a girl."

"Oh. I'm so happy. I like girls better."

"Well, Sarah. Then, I guess you are in luck."

Turns out that sometimes making a difference isn't so hard.

Who Has Time for Punctuation

I am sure that no one will feel sorry for me when I say this, but I much prefer being on sabbatical to working. Not only was I at school for eleven hours today, but I also got relatively little on my to-do list done in that time. When you are working, there are people who are the boss of you and tell you to go to meetings and fill out forms and then go to more meetings to create forms and everyone has to agree or not agree and then some are mad while others don't care and really you just want to go back to your classroom to finish putting the posters on the walls because how can anyone learn in such a bare place but you can't do that because even when you go there someone is knocking on your door which is actually good because you can't get any information from your email or your phone because something is seriously not right with them but if you ask to have them fixed people will tell you about more meetings and forms and disagreements.

On sabbatical, things m o v e m o r e s l o w l y.

Even sentences are shorter.

Why I Don't Cook

My rice is currently stuck in the pot because I used the wrong sized lid and can't get it off. I put the whole thing in the freezer thinking that the metal might condense or some other chemical/physical thing might occur that will make the lid removable. Even if that doesn't work, it's nice to have the evidence of my culinary stupidity hidden from plain view.

My Own Version of "A Thing to Fling"

Walking around the lake at the start of the summer, I told Jodi that I planned to have a summer fling. "You know, just something casual. Fun. No strings." Minutes later we bumped into destiny as a smart, kind, and rather handsome fella from our college alma mater ran by. "There's your fling," she stated.

She was right. How does she do that?

Now, with fall just around the corner, my summer fling has ended, just as all true-to-definition summer flings must. And it served just the purpose in my life that I thought it should.

Yet, while it's being over was rather expected and means, as well, that I can break the blog silence, I can't help but feel it's just one more thing marking the end of a different me. The one who took more risks and lost a little control. The one who took more time to enjoy herself and the people around her. The one who took life less seriously and the one of whom I had grown quite fond.

The Nemesis

Jodi and I sometimes talk about how it would be cool to have our very own enemies, and today, I think I found mine. Let's call her The Vicious Venter. Her poison, if you will, is bitching at length about things she cannot, or will not, attempt to fix, i.e. "The kids suck. The administrators suck. And thank god for all of you that I am here to tell it like it is for once."

While many of her kind come out during beginning of the year staff meetings, I am not sure I've ever been so weakened by the likes of such kryptonite. Even worse, she was taking other teachers down with her, two of them new to our building. Wanting to save the innocent from her sourpussiness, I, The Passive Aggressor, reached into my own bag of tricks and shot back with, "Perhaps the two new teachers have some questions for us. Despite what it seems, we do like to do more than vent at these meetings."

Ooooh. Her glare could have melted me. Little did she know that the optimism and hope that I had been storing up during my sabbatical was just the necessary antidote to her optical spears. Pow! Blam! Take that!

Later, in the hallway, I'm pretty sure I heard her talking about me to another teacher. Even though the middle schoolers don't arrive until next week, an aura of immaturity is already in the air.

Signing My Life Away

I took the final plunge into adulthood and made an offer on a house tonight. Somewhere in the pages upon pages of snooze-inducing language, I was struck by a line in the purchase agreement that read: "Time is of the essence." What is such an idiomatic phrase doing in a legal document? Can we assume that all readers know what that means? Luckily the contract explained: "Time is of the essence in this purchase agreement." Aahh. So much clearer. Personally, I think something less abstract would be better. What's wrong with "Both parties shall haul ass in this process" or "No dillydallying, assholes"?

Connecting the Dots

I don't know if it was the weather, lack of sleep, or stress, but I came back from the Pacific Northwest with some major zits. Seriously. It's gross and I know it, but I don't know how to make them go away. In fact, I'd prefer not to leave the house until my constellations have moved into another hemisphere, but I do have to start work tomorrow. Come to think of it, the thought of going back to work is probably what made me break out in the first place. When people ask how I feel about going back after a sabbatical, I tell them I'm excited, but it's a boldfaced lie. Sure, I like teaching for the interaction with the kids, but the thought of administrators, test scores, and grading papers (oh lord, grading papers!) is just, well, giving me zits. Perhaps all will be better after a good night of beauty rest, but the only thing I can really count on, or at least count, is the blemishes on my face (which is up to around thirteen).

Footnote

Seven hours after my last post I realized my error: Well-quaffed should be well-coiffed. I could have just gone in to edit the mistake, but Jodi pointed out that it's not as bad as the line in her recent post describing a close, albeit long-distance friend as "Molly, whose company I rarely enjoy." At least I didn't offend anyone. Except maybe the French.

Personal Growth

I decided a few months ago that I needed to learn to accept compliments. Instead of dismissing kind words from others, I simply began to say thank you. Now, I excel at such etiquette and take all compliments as my own.

Here are a couple of examples:

"What a beautiful sunset." My reply: "Thank you.

"I love African art." My reply: "Thank you."

I recommend that everyone try this. You'd be surprised how many compliments go unthanked once you start taking credit for all the good things in the world. And it feels pretty gratifying to have others acknowledge all the work that you didn't know you had done.

Final Vacation

"We are beginning our descent into Seattle. Outside the left window you'll see Mt. Hood and Mt. Rainier. On the right you'll see the Cascade Mountains. We will be on the ground in 20 minutes."

So unfair. Gotta get me some mountains where I live.

BWCAW Photo Essay

On the water.


Campsite #1. A lovely day.


May not look like it, but here we are stuck and comtemplating how to get back to Campsite #1 through the motherf-ing wind.


Rocks rock.


We're supposed to go through that?


All-Around Super Camper and Canoer Award winners, Greg and Andrew.


The laughter. Oh, the laughter.


Smiling through the pain. How I hate the portage.


But it's always worth it.


Campsite #2. After the rain.


Ma Biscuit and Pinch-A-Loaf.


Sunset. Our last night.


Sunrise. Our last morning.

What Do You Mean There's No Wireless Here?

Back from the Boundary Waters and wiped clean out.

Off to float in my bed and dream about next year's trip.

The Visit

My sister is going to be here any minute now and here's what I predict for her weeklong visit:

1) She will wear my clothes. I will wear hers. She will try to leave with some garment from my wardrobe. I will search her bags before she leaves.

2) We will argue, only once, and it will be ugly. She will win, even if I'm right.

3) We will eat the weight of both us put together for just about every meal. I will blame her for making me eat so much. She will blame me. And then we'll have ice cream for dessert.

4) She will laugh at all of my jokes, even the really bad ones. I will laugh at all of hers, even the really gross ones.

5) I will injure myself in the Boundary Waters, most likely while falling into the lake, and in her big-sister tone, she will ask if I'm okay before she crumbles in fits of laughter.

6) She will swear. A lot. I will follow her lead. And everyone I know will wonder when I became such a potty-mouth.

7) We will lie awake talking late into the night. When we are too tired to remember what's so funny, we will giggle until we chortle and chortle until we snort. Again. And again. And again.

At The Movies

I watched Ebert and Roeper last night. They gave The Dukes of Hazzard two thumbs down. Waaaaayyyy down.

Um. Rog. Rich. Some of us didn't have to see the movie to come to the same conclusion. Which I'm sure they realize. Such movies are such a huge waste of their time that they have to be overly emphatic about what a disgrace they are to the craft of filmmaking. I'd do the same thing.

From the way they spoke about her acting talent, or serious lack there of, I think they wanted to give Jessica Simpson a different finger. Roeper couldn't say enough about how bad she was. Apparently, even her blinking was painful for him to watch.

When I hear stuff like that, it makes me kind of want to see the movie. But I think I'll wait until she co-stars with Keanu Reeves and Andi McDowell so I can really torture myself. Maybe I'll even start work on a script right now. Something dramatic. Everybody gets a soliloquy. And a death scene. . .

Getting Out

.
Thinking that we needed to get out and meet new people, Jodi and I headed to the Loring Park area for dinner. Hip. Trendy. Sure to find cool people like us.



Who were we kidding. . .

It's much more our style that the rest of the restaurant looked like this:



Still, Jodi's good company and we have plans for the next grand outing: dancing lessons.

The City

.


Did some searching online for a house today and am very excited about the possibilities. Nothing with this view, but that's why I have a camera.

Words to Live By (and a nice picture)

.


I received this advice from a friend yesterday...


a wise man, bob marley, once said,

life is to be lived, ba ba bum

let man live life, ba ba bum

sister pi-ahta

brother pi-ahta

yah, bust dem shout


Oddly, it was just what I needed.

bust dem shout , Isque, bust dem shout.

No Place Like Target

Why don't they carry these in my size?

The Big-Ass Paper

Gotta say, I'm loving FlyLady's fifteen on / fifteen off approach to thesis work. (Yes. This is my fifteen off.)

So far today I've written a tentative outline, developed some questions to guide my continued reading, and taken notes on the single most important text in my research. More than I've done all summer, really. Ugh.

Since I can't go back in time, I am determined to move forward with renewed, er, new enthusiasm from here on. Perhaps I was just bored with my topic for a while there, but now that I'm in the thick of it again, it's sort of fascinating.

I'm interested in helping students view themselves as more active agents in their own meaning making when they read. I want them to be able to articulate the origin of their responses, situated as they are in social, cultural, and historical influences. This articulation is especially crucial, I think, when students respond with resistance to texts, which they do most often to texts that disrupt traditional and dominant patterns, such as those that represent the world or life of an "other." And I think that using literary theory, the virtual donning of multiple lenses with which to view the world and text, will help them recognize and voice their ideological stances. And that's interesting and important, when you think about it.

Wow. This feels a bit like on time to me -- but no short cuts today. So with three off-time minutes left, it's to the bathroom, Robin.

Two posts in one day? No way.

Yeah. I know it's blurry. But it looks like I meant to do that and gives you an idea of how much Aimee Mann likes to RAWK OUT!

She put on an excellent show at the zoo this week. The songs from her new album tell the story of the cross-country adventures of a Vietnam vet and his young lover. It's called a "concept album." Didn't know there was a name for such a thing, but if I ever write an album, I'm going that route.

And I gotta say, it makes me so happy to witness a good drunk stumbling around the stands or to hear an obnoxious fan wailing like an injured Frankenstein at the end of each song. Just not a complete concert without them.

The Best Medicine

Admittedly, I'm a little apprehensive about my return to teaching this fall. I'm afraid that I've forgotten how to teach twelve-year-olds and that I won't find the work as intellectually stimulating as graduate school.

Thank goodness for Kaj. He's the eight-year-old that I tutor in handwriting. Even though the workbook is BORING, he does the lessons and only calls them stupid every now and again.

Most importantly, he reminds me to laugh -- something I haven't done nearly enough this year. And when I heard him tell these jokes today,

What did the fish say when he hit a wall? Dam.

What do you call a bear that stinks? Winnie the peeeww.

How is a teacher different from a train? A teacher says, "Spit out your gum!" and a train says, "chew, chew."

I laughed pretty hard. And remembered why I love what I do.

And so it goes...

I just sat down at my local Dunn Bros. to invest some serious time into my thesis work. Had to drive today because I'm dogsitting Sam in the burbs. He's a sweet, old English springer spaniel who follows me around everywhere I go even though his arthritis causes him great pain to do so. I always tell him I'll be right back and he need not follow me out of the room, but I guess he doesn't believe me or something. It's tough to watch.

Anyway, I decided that in order to get some serious work done I would need to begin my outline and take some notes. This would require my laptop, which I don't usually allow because, let's face it, I'll end up on the internet instead of writing or reading. But with my new FlyLady plan to work fifteen minutes on and fifteen off, this couldn't distract me for long.

Here's the problem I've just now discovered: The only thing I actually brought with me is the laptop. No books. No articles. No handwritten notes that I've taken so far. Only the laptop.

I guess I'll be starting with fifteen minutes off.

When I finish writing this blog, the next fifteen won't count because I'll be driving back to the burbs and driving is not committed work time.

Then, finally, the next fifteen will be serious on time, with Sam at my feet.

And after that it'll be time to stop because I need to walk Sam and feed us both dinner before my plans tonight.

Sigh.

There must be a support group for this process.

Vince and Owen

... make a brilliant pair. Wedding Crashers, despite its cheesy and predictable ending, was one of my favorite movies of the summer (actually, it's only one of two that I've seen, but that shouldn't count because it's really funny). And if you like the Vince Vaughn ramble, this is a must see. How does he do that?

I found the film especially hilarious sitting next to KC (that's her in the movie theater bathroom stall with its own sink -- which just makes the rest of us wait longer to pee after drinking very large beverages). She laughs hysterically at every kick in the crotch and borderline inappropriate joke even though she's one of the smartest and most sophisticated people I know. Maybe in my old age I've started to overlook the beauty of such raunchy art forms, but not KC. Her appreciation runs deep.

I Heart Montana

That place calls to me when I'm not there.

And it doesn't help when my sister sends pictures like this one.



Oh, man. That nearly breaks my heart.

But having missed this...



most definitely does.



P.S. I promised to mention that these two usually make quite an attractive pair (but between you and me, I plan to think of them like this anyway).

Doing My Part

I never know what to say when I get asked a question like this: "Would you like to help stop mercury contamination today?"

Hmm.

I know if I say, "Yes. I would. What can I do?" it will take 5-10 minutes of my time and $15-$30 of my money. Not that this isn't a good cause or that my time is more important than cleaning up our environment, but what the college student standing outside my co-op doesn't understand is that I have given a fair percentage of my income to every other volunteer with a worthy cause who stops me to ask if I'd like to help fix our broken, broken world. Who says no to that?

So instead of turning the canvasser down after learning the severity of the mercury problem and doubling my guilt, I say, "No thanks. Not today." As if she just asked on my pro-choice day instead of my cleaner environment day of the week. That doesn't really get me off the hook for not supporting a good cause, but it sure beats answering plain out, "No. I would not like to help stop mercury contamination." Because I would. But for today, the trash I picked up on the way home from the store will just have to be enough.

The Day After

It’s 4:30 in the afternoon and I am sitting in my pjs completing my usual morning coffee and internet routine. The signal that I steal from someone else’s wireless is never as strong at this time of day, but if I wave my laptop around the room a bit, it usually picks it up. This only mildly alters my AM ritual, which is good, because I can’t start the day without it.

I didn’t plan to have a late night that would require me to take a nap in the afternoon hours, but when it’s summer and you don’t have to work on your thesis the next day if you really don’t want to, why stop the fun simply because the sun is coming up?

The answer to that question is probably so that you don’t feel like ass, sitting around grossing yourself out with the sweaters on your teeth at an hour when most people are driving home from a day’s work. But the mind is funny a machine and if I don’t look at any clocks or pay attention to where the light is coming into the apartment, it feels like I have the whole day ahead of me.

Tough Crowd

I wasn't prepared for the blog critics.

Recently, someone suggested that my overuse of pictures is somehow cheating or slacking off.

Maybe. I like to think of it as a shift in style.

Within the same twenty-four hour period someone else suggested that I proof my entries more carefully for spelling and grammatical errors.

Ouch. That one hurt.

As much as I want to please my readers, here's what I have to say:

Tough.

a) I like the pictures, and 2) I am heman.

It's All Over

Finished the latest Harry Potter book last night and now I’m D-pressed. This post-reading melancholy happens every time, but this one is particularly difficult due to much shock and grief experienced in the last chapters. Here’s how I tend to deal with my post-HP-traumatic-stress:

a) Cry. I don’t mean to, but dammit, I’m a weeper.
b) Call everyone I know and leave a message telling them to hurry up with the book already and call me back.
c) Talk to Moviegirl who, thank god, finishes the books before I do. What is 30 peak minutes on the cell phone compared with the agony of not dissecting the book or predicting the next one with another HP enthusiast?
d) Divulge, with permission, the secrets of the book to best girlfriend, jm, who is not an HP reader, but is there for me when I need her and knows to react with the appropriate degree of flabbergastedness (which is not a word, I know).

In the end, it’s probably for the best that the whole experience is over. I don’t know if this happens to anyone else, but reading HP books disrupts my sleep.

More than once this week I awoke in the middle of the night and was startled by the light coming from my charging cell phone. Each time I determined that the light was Lord Voldemort waiting to kill me. Shaking that off and reminding myself that I was still dreaming, I determined instead that it wasn’t the Dark Lord, but my own Patronus emerging from the phone/wand – because that makes more sense.

After I shake that off, I trudge to the bathroom and return to my bed only to lie awake for the next ten minutes contemplating the shape of my Patronus. I’d like it to be something elegant like a unicorn or phoenix, but figure it’s probably something clumsier like a monkey. How could anyone sleep before solving this problem?

As much as those dreams make it seem like a good thing to be done reading, I can’t help but feel that I’ve lost something or someone. And I hate that.

Ellie

I was prepared to write about her as the Holy Terror that my parents recently decided to raise, but when she looks at you like this...



it's easy to forget the jumping, chasing, shedding, sniffing, and shouting that have marked my weekend at home.

Instead, I'll remember that Ellie and I both like to watch the rain fall outside the screen door and that she always brings the tennis ball back to me, even when I don't want it any more.

My Republican Father

My sister, Cassie, doesn't drive the most reliable car. Some of the problems stem from the minor improvements that my dad has attempted to make over time. Now the power windows work backwards and the radio doesn't work at all, but those are small compared to the oil leak that might have it broken down on the side of the highway.

My parents worried so much about her driving it out to Montana for the summer that they made her take their own, dependable vehicle instead. This didn't seem like such a huge sacrifice for them to make until I saw my father driving her car today. He's a republican, you see. The only one in the family. I thought that our efforts to bring him to our side weren't working, but he is driving this car to work every day.







The guys at work give him a lot of shit for it too. Either the winds are shifting or he really loves his daughter.

Linden Hills Live

Went to neighborhood gathering with M-Ko and Will-Ko last night.



Will-Ko was sleeping...



Despite the old rockers and their loud music.



Eventually, he awoke and practiced his smiles with me. This isn't his best work, but there's a hint one lingering there.



M-Ko and I ate an entire bag of kettle corn. Not unusual.



Then we sampled some cookies that strangers had left on the bench next to us. Unusual.



M-Ko advised that I NOT post all of my pictures from the evening on the blog. Seems I had gone a bit overboard. And the universe agreed.