While you're waiting for the room mothers to show up with cupcakes.

Aw, come on. It's the last Friday before Christmas. You know nothing productive is going to happen today.

So, while you're updating your facebook status or doing some last minute internet shopping, I recommend the online radio station Pandora.

Instead of grouping songs into genres, like other online stations, Pandora uses the Genome Music Project to find new music based on the music you already like.

Just type in the name of an artist or song, and Pandora "creates a radio station featuring that music and more like it."

image, Ian Hopkins.

Dimwit dim lit, dammit.

Yesterday, I purchased 1000 twinkly Christmas lights to place upon the boughs of my pre-lit Christmas tree. This was necessary because of the 800 or so lights that came from the factory already hanging upon the tree, roughly 750 refused to twinkle. This represents an additional 60% failure rate over last year's frustrating Christmas tree installation. The wire branches and polyvinyl chloride faux pine needles may very well last into the next century; the twinkly lights didn't make it to the five-year mark.

Say what you will about the quality control at that particular Christmas tree factory, somebody there knows how to wrap a string of lights around a fake tree branch. For the majority of the afternoon and well into Wednesday evening, I cut the old lights out of my pre-lit Christmas tree with a pair of garden shears.

This is the first time in my history that it's taken me more than three days to erect a Christmas tree. Given all the time and energy I've expended to avoid having to purchase another (functioning) tree, I could have grown a bonsai from seed, cultivated it to fit into the palm of my hand, and then groomed it into the shape of a Christmas stocking. That is, assuming I could borrow the neighbors' garden shears. Mine are shot to hell.

Image, Shorpy Photo Archive

The phrase that strikes fear into the hearts of my friends.

I'm moving again.

It's been not quite two years since my last relocation, and the kind souls who helped me the last time still haven't fully recovered. Until they see this, they won't even know that I'm packing.

But packing I must be, since I've already signed the lease.

If you could find Tawana to ask her, she would tell you that I'm just never satisfied, and there's a certain truth in that. We moved around a lot when I was a kid, and as an adult, I get tired of the same four walls after a while. And even though I've compiled a long laundry list of things I don't like about my current digs, this move has nothing to do with the floor plan or its proximity to the train tracks.

This time, I'm moving to a smaller apartment to match my smaller salary. It's the smart thing to do, so it doesn't hurt matters that I was pretty much ready for a change, anyway.

And since I'm off work until mid January with no students to torment, I'm going to need something to keep me from trolling the internets all day. I can't nap the entire time.

How was your day?

I've put off virtually everything until now--the laundry, the housework, the Christmas shopping. I haven't even put up a tree yet. I had been telling myself that I would roll up my sleeves and get busy bright and early with the sun on Monday morning.

But the sun did not appear, sleet rained down all day long, and I spent the majority of the day listening to NPR, reading all the internets, losing more games than I won of Spider Solitaire, and eating every potato chip in the house.

Well, the cat ate a few.

This is so unlike me. The potato chip thing--okay, that sounds like me--but the rest? Usually I'm the one voted most likely to give herself a heart attack in the course of an average day.

I don't mind telling you, the whole thing has me worried. What does it mean when one gives herself completely over to "I don't want to?" Who takes care of things? How long is this going to last? Should I see a professional? I can tell you right now: I don't have enough pairs of pajamas to live this kind of life.

I think that this might be the result of the company I've been keeping. 16 weeks of hanging out around college freshmen, and suddenly, I'm acting like one. Really, what else can explain it?

Tonight, I'm thinking of drinking PBR until I'm blind, having some Ramen Noodles, playing Rock Band until 2 or 3, and then falling asleep on the couch--in the pajamas I wore the day before.

In the morning, I'm going to call my mom to see if she'll help me with my laundry. With any luck, she'll let me come home and lay around on her couch.

Just another (justifiable) reason to buy another pair.

When it comes to social interaction, we have our own way of doing things down here in the South. We smile and make eye contact on the street, say "please" and "thank you" to perfect strangers, and may even go so far as to pretend that we don't notice how rude and inconsiderate the other guy is behaving.

We may not agree with you--we may not even like you very much--but we'll be on our very best behavior. It's all based on not making the other person in the least bit uncomfortable--even if we happen to think the other person is a dick.

This mode of behavior works for us. And it's so deeply ingrained, that I doubt most could change, even if we wanted to.

But then yesterday I read a news story describing how an Iraqi journalist took umbrage at something our always well-spoken president said during a news conference in Baghdad. Apparently, the guy chunked a shoe* at the head of the sitting President of the United States. When that shoe missed the mark, he immediately followed with the other one.

Neither shoe hit home; as it turns out, our president is fairly quick at dodging footwear. So quick, in fact, that I suspect these were not the only shoes he has had occasion to duck. Actually, this looks to me like exactly the kind of thing that might come of being married to a man like George Bush. Certainly, I could find it in my heart to forgive Laura Bush the occasional urge to lob a kitten heel at the noggin of her (surely) frequently infuriating husband.

Which all has me thinking that--Southern charm aside--I could really get behind this particular method of demonstrating my dissatisfaction--at that snooty grocery checker at Kroger or that girl on her cell phone during the movie--even that kid who keeps dragging into my 8 o'clock class at twenty minutes after the hour.

"Dude. I wouldn't mess with her. She wears like an 8 and a half."

Video of United States President demonstrating dodge-ball skills here.

*Showing the soles of one's shoes is considered extremely insulting in Arab culture.

photo, Anna Trinchera

Fine. Make merry if you must.

Announcing the 1st Annual Mundane Jane Christmas Video Countdown.

Every day, from now until Christmas, I'll select a special holiday video, and post it for you in the sidebar.

And there you thought I didn't know how to celebrate Christmas.

Edit: Don't look for them now. I removed the videos after the season concluded--all 18 of them. They were a bit hit. Watch for them again next year.

Whew.

I have 93 final portfolios and 24 research papers to evaluate, comment upon, and assign grades to. Then, using a complicated formula I do not really understand, I have to calculate final semester course grades for each student, and post those grades so that they--in turn--can log onto their computers and see whether or not I have ruined their lives.

I have a lot to do.

Or at least I will have, any minute now.

This should be old hat to me by now. By my calculation, I've graded almost 400 essays this semester. But I've done so--more or less--at my leisure:

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Keep your shirts on. I'll grade 'em--when I get good and ready."

These grades, though, have to be posted in less than a week. I don't know what happens if they aren't posted by the deadline. No one I know or heard tell of has ever missed it.

I hadn't realized I was so uptight about this, until I thrashed about in fitful sleep all night--grading papers in my dreams. I'm all tired and grumpy today because essays I haven't even seen yet were gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

It's like having someone say, "I'm going to poke you with this lit cigarette a couple times. In just a minute."

Let's get on with it already.

Image, #5 of Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven by Gustave Doré (1832-1883).

Somebody get my mom a corndog.

Actually, she would probably be a lot happier with a zucchini on a stick. Nevertheless, it is her birthday, and a corndog is required.

This picture was taken back in her halcyon days, before my brother and I were around to torment her. When I call to wish her happy birthday today, I plan to find out what, exactly, she's hiding beneath that tarp.

Probably, it's filled with shoes.

The hell with Dr. Feelgood; I'd be happy with Dr. Feelsgood enough.

That's a pretty titilating title, wouldn't you say--for a woman who's too sick to blog?

Can I get a red bow on that recession, please?

A couple days ago, my local news channel signed off for the evening by running through a short list of things one might do to save a little money this Christmas. Their closer? Wrap Christmas gifts in newspaper--just plain old unadorned, smeary, black-and-white newspaper.

This idea might be just a little too Walton's Mountain for my taste. Nothing says hard times quite like a holiday gift wrapped in pages torn from the Sears Roebuck catalog.

Even though I worked for quite a while with people who really could make a silk purse out of a Kroger sack, you don't have to be an artist to apply a little ingenuity to your presentation.

Tsutsumi (folded paper wrapping) at PingMag
Furoshiki (cloth gift wrapping) Techniques
Plastic bag bows at ReadyMade
Gift Packaging Roundup from Jess at How About Orange
Paper Flower CD Case from Curbly

Pictured: Peace, Love and Happy gift wrap alternative from Print*Pattern*Paper.

I don't know where I'm supposed to be or what I should be doing. Thank goodness, someone does.

Last week, another professor and I switched classes for a few moments so we could proctor one another's end-of-term evaluations. I don't know if you remember, but in college, the students get an opportunity (before grades are posted) to evaluate instructor performance. We don't administer our own evaluations, and nobody sees anything until next semester. Which sort of takes all the fun out of it, if you ask me.

I've only just realized that while he was sitting at my desk and waiting for my students to finish their civic duty, he took a moment to add some items to my teaching calendar. On this week's agenda:

Tuesday, December 8, 9am: Leg Waxing.
Friday, December 5, 8:30am: Re-evaluate life choice.

I haven't read ahead any further than this. I don't want to spoil the surprise.

But I do hope he's found me a date for New Year's Eve.

Over the river and through the woods.

I'm taking the week off to give thanks for a week off.

Previous Thanksgiving posts can be found here, here, and here.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving. This years' pie, I predict, will be delicious.

Role model.

I was conferencing with one of my students yesterday about an essay he was trying to write. I say, "trying," because he was utterly and completely stumped. He had a great intro and several serviceable paragraphs, but then he just ran out of steam. He was stuck--racking his brain, trying to figure out where to go from there.

"You have all these great ideas," I said. "I can see that they are struggling to get out at the same time. See--it's not that you don't have anything to say, it's that everything you have to say is trying to come through the same small portal and it's all dammed up."

"Yes!" he said. "That's it--that's exactly what it's like!"

"Don't worry," I assured him. "It's easy enough to fix. You just have to relax and let it come. Put it down and do something else for an hour or so. Stop thinking about it. Find something to do that requires absolutely no mental activity at all--"

"You aren't going to suggest I take a bath are you?" he asked.

Which is what I do when I'm blocked. I must have mentioned it--probably several times--in my classes.

"--Because I tried that, and it didn't work. What else you got?"

If you are one of those people with my phone number, I want you to call and talk me out of it.

I knew this was going to happen.

I'm not the most self-aware person in the world, but I did suspect that once I was spending some portion of every day on campus, I might feel the urge to find myself a good doctoral degree program.

That's assuming I can find one that will have me. After a little research, I see that I may not be able to get into a program because I lack the ability to understand a single language other than English.

I wonder if I can find a program that will accept my demonstrated mastery of LOLcat.

Who had the special?

I took time out yesterday to sit down in a restaurant for a late lunch. I had a table along the window, and sitting in the afternoon sun was just exactly what I needed after three long days of rainy fall weather. I had a plate of hot food, a cold drink, and the pleasure of my own company. It doesn't happen very often, but for the time being, I had everything my heart desired.

The people at the next table were not so lucky. She was unhappy about something, and although I wasn't close enough to overhear the actual conversation (nor would I want to), I was able to tell by the rise and fall of her voice that she held him somewhat responsible. For his part, he didn't say much.

I had one brief fleeting moment of wondering why one of them--either one--didn't just get up and leave. It would have been so easy to say, "You know, this is uncomfortable. I'm not happy and neither are you, and so--at least for now, I'm going to go and do something else."

But of course, they didn't. And I'm sorry to say that right at that very minute, not being one of those two poor unfortunate people turned into the very best part of my perfect, late afternoon lunch.

A book review. Because my audience demands it.

I got a lot of grief yesterday for not ponying up the title of the book I was so happy to have found. Sheesh. I was gonna, but I wanted to do it on my own timetable.

Well, this is it, so lay off, whydoncha?

I initially picked up Debra Ginsberg's The Grift because of the clever wordplay on the cover. As soon as I saw it, I was convinced that Ginsberg must have had the title first, before she had written a word. Better that way, I guess, than to have written the perfect book and then get all jammed up on the title.

From the book's intro:

grift - n. a group of methods used for obtaining money falsely through the use of swindles, frauds, etc.

gift - n. a special ability or capacity

Marina's been on the grift since childhood, conning others into believing she has the second sight. And it's true--she's pretty observant, and is able to pick up on all sorts of things the average observer lets fall unnoticed. It's not a bad way to make a living, I guess, provided you don't mind telling others only what they want to hear. But just about the time Marina has worked out all the kinks to her act, her real psychic abilities kick in, somebody gets killed, and the cops start thinking that all the cards point to Marina. Somebody's got to figure out who-done-it, and you don't have to be a mind-reader to figure out who that somebody is going to be.

I love books and movies about psychics. This may be because I come from a long line of women who think they can tell portents. My grandmother was convinced that her dreams sometimes came true, and even my mother tells of dreaming about her grandfather on the night he died. The apple, they say, doesn't fall far from the tree, and so it should come as no surprise that I can tell the future too. The problem is, I'm too dense to pick up on it until after all the smoke has cleared. It's hard to get credit for telling the future if all you have to offer is, "I knew that was going to happen."

But that's okay. I've got lots of stories to back me up. The thing is, I'm not telling them until I'm ready.

Get lost.

Yesterday I finished a really good book. This is sort of a big deal. First of all, I've become so much harder to please; it's hard to draw me in, and even harder to keep me interested. If I'm not completely hooked by page 45, I'm not going to bother plowing through to the end. I call this the 45-page rule.

It amazes me that more people haven't adopted some version of this rule, especially those who have to read a lot of things they would really rather not--you know, things like a freshman-level paper on sports doping, or step-by-step instructions for building a tissue-paper cover from old magazines and pipe cleaners.

Before I went back to school, I used to read everything. I read so many books, and I read them so quickly, that I sometimes found myself completely enjoying a book that I had, in fact, already read. This still happens to me sometimes, but it's not because I'm reading a lot. It's because I've grown holes in my brain and stuff falls out. The end result is the same, but the latter is an indication of encroaching senility--as opposed to the voraciousness of a hungry young mind.

It does occasionally still happen, though, that I come upon a book that passes the 45-page rule. I realize that the sun has gone down and I'm trying to make out the words in the dark, or I look up and say, "Oh! I didn't hear you come in." I almost always go right back to my book, mumbling something along the lines of "this is really, really good."

Only it's not. Because that's when I realize, I'm only about ten pages from the end. Who knows when I'll find another really good read. Or how long it will take me to forget the last one.

photo, Elliot Erwitt.

Name that kitteh.

I seldom post my own pics. Now you can see why--the blurry focus and bad lighting, evidence of questionable reading material on the shelves and post-Halloween gluttony on the table, unsightly TV guts in plain sight. Whatever.

The point is--I've given up. It's time to take the question to the masses. Somebody, please, come up with a G-rated name for this kitteh. My contributions (at least as long as she still has claws attached) have run toward the unprintable.

edit: The committee has settled on Tinky Winks. Unless, that is, I find out that this is actually slang for something I can't say in mixed company.

They didn't cover this in grad school.

Imagine it.

You are a Composition instructor and you have indicated that you are about to lead the class in a discussion of one of their assigned readings.

You wait while everyone rifles through their backpacks and bookbags.

Finally, the class is ready and all eyes are upon you.

Because this is one of those groups that's really easily engaged, most of the time all you have to say is "I thought we might discuss the essay about sports team names." Then you skillfully guide the conversation exactly where you want it to go.

But on this day, one of those students says, "Oh! Wait! I just read something about this! Lemme think! It was something having to do with naming teams after animals, or Indians, or something!"

He's racking his brain to remember where he saw this story. And it's almost as painful for you to watch as it must be for him to experience. You can see that it's right there--juuuuust beyond his reach. Everyone in the class can see it, in fact.

Imagine yourself in this scenario. And then tell me how long you would leave the poor kid on the line before you told him that he was trying to remember where he had read the story you'd asked him to read for this class.

image, kim in cajuncountry's photostream.

Yes, we did.

November 4, 2008

Today's the day.

Get up, get dressed, get out, and get in line.

And no matter how tired you feel, no matter how much your feet hurt, no matter how long the line--please, stay there until it's your turn.

Because you're a part of this. You're the most important part.

Pipe up, dammit. Be somebody.

Vote.

(I'm a) fool for you, Baby.

On Saturday I broke up with the Internet.

Oh, I didn't come right out and say as much. You know how it is. I said that I wanted a break; I needed some space.

I never committed to monogamy. Exclusivity was never part of the deal. No way. I still have other interests--television, movies, books, face-to-face conversation. It's a big wonderful world, and I'm still a young woman.

Don't get me wrong. I'm still as much in love as ever I was. But lately, the Internet has grown more demanding--dare I say, needy, even. In the beginning, a quick tete-a-tete was enough for both of us. It was quick, it was dirty, and it was good. Everybody went home happy. But the Internet has been demanding entire afternoons, lately. Sometimes, it's the wee small hours of the morning before I can tear myself away. Maintaining this relationship is interfering with other things. Important things.

Like my work. I have to work. And because I'm doing something new, I have to focus on bringing my best to the work. Which means, naturally, devoting more time and energy to the work. And that's part of the problem: The Internet and I work in the same place.

Anyone will tell you--when you combine work and romance, you should expect problems. Because somewhere down the line, the relationship is going to hit a snag. At its best, it's going to be awkward. At its worst--and I've seen this happen--the rejected suitor sabotages the work. Or sometimes, as happened to me on Sunday, you run into one another in the hall or the parking garage or while checking your gmail on iGoogle, and there's just no denying it: the spark is still there. You allow your desires to get in the way of your better judgment.

I know, I should have known better. That's what happens when you allow yourself to be swept off your feet.

Breaking up is easy. It's the staying away that's hard.

image, Cinematical.

In my heart of hearts, I always knew it.

It's been years since anyone has bothered to argue that napping is just another way to waste an afternoon. Even the hardest working among us have known that sometimes, a little nap is just the thing to wring that last best drop of creativity from a sagging cerebral cortex.

Most experts, however, have always recommended a snooze of a mere 15 minutes as optimum. I was never a proponent of this recommendation, and it's not just because I ain't got no self control.

It's because the long, languid nap feels good. And now I've discovered that the Boston Globe has got my back.

Yes, indeed-y. According to this graphic, those of us who do not get a healthy 8 hours of sleep each day are at particular risk of "toggling between normal and... a dangerous state of slowed responses and foggy inattention." Enter, the 90 minute nap!

What are you so dressed up for?

There's been a lot of intellectual activity at my house this week. Oh, the brainstorming! The research! The algebraic formulas!

Each day, the committee met to carefully consider each potential idea. Measurements were taken, calculations made, bite-sized Snickers consumed. After procuring fabric and bubble wrap, the assembly crew worked in the flickering glow of the Daily Show, the Colbert Report, and TiVoed episodes of Chuck. Finally, in the wee small hours of Friday morning, the ideal Halloween costume was fully realized.

It's serious business, this annual choice of alter-ego.

I'd forgotten how important it was to choose just the right costume. These days, a mustachioed set of glasses or bobble-y antennae headband is sufficient for my needs. (Before I headed to class today, I applied a fingerstache with a Sharpie and called it done.)

The young folk, though, have different needs.

According to Muffin Uptown, the ideal Halloween costume needs to be original, and it needs to be funny. And while Groucho Marx or Quail Man might meet those criteria, they fall short of the final, most important standard.

The best costume also has to be hot.

And I admit that when she said this, I suddenly remembered what it was like, dressing up for Halloween while I was in my twenties. I recalled the years I'd masqueraded as a playboy bunny, a punk rock chick, a magician's assistant. I thought about the false eyelashes and fishnet stockings I'd worn, and what it felt like to leave the house for that all-important party dressed as someone else, but not. I can--just barely--remember arriving at the door determined to show off my edgier, more dangerous side, and relishing the sidelong glances and imagined whispers as I made my way across the room and into the party.

Look at her. Who does she think she is?

image, Chicago Tribune Archive, October 1957.

Where in the heck have you been?

I've been sitting here, waiting and waiting and waiting for you. Okay, okay. Maybe not the whole time.

Not that it matters, now. But as long as we're both here--

Job security.

"Mom. Will you smell the cat?"

It's an odd request, I know--but I hear it a couple times each day of late. MU is convinced that the new kitteh smells like clean laundry. I think this just fanciful thinking on her part, but who am I to argue with true love?

On the other hand, sticking my face into the fur of a creature with four brand-new sets of factory installed, still-under-warranty steel claws smells like danger to me. Furthermore, I have seen this animal in action and have noted that she spends a great deal of each day extricating herself from either the furniture or the carpet, having accidentally Velcroed herself to any surface with which she comes into contact. Obviously, she has not yet made time to completely familiarize herself with the owner's manual.

"I'm sure she smells lovely," I say, "but I don't have time right now to savor the cat."

"No. I mean, will you smell her and see if she smells like poo? Will you check her feet for poo?"

image, Yale Collection of American Literature, Geinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library.

Some kind of wonderful.

I attended a reception for new faculty last night at the home of the Dean. It was lovely.

During a conversation with the Chair of the Art Department, I mentioned that my talented and lovely daughter, Muffin Uptown, was one of their recent graduates.

"Muffin Uptown is your daughter? Oh! She's a wonderful person! And she was a great student--she's so talented!"

I get this all the time.

Usually folks just say, "I love Muffin!" Because everybody does.

Every time this happens, I am transported back to all those parent-teacher conferences her dad and I attended. It's hard to know the proper response when someone praises your child to that degree. To disagree--even if it were due to some sort of false modesty--would just be wrong. But to agree seems to be somehow taking credit for how nicely she turned out.

Which is just silly. It's not like anyone ever looked at me and said, "She's so wonderful--since you're her mom, you must be wonderful, too!"

So I just throw in with the crowd and heap praises upon her, too. I figure I can blame how perfectly she turned out on her dad.

image, Shorpy Photo Archive.

Bears don't dig on dancing. Or so I've heard.

I'm just coming off a wonderful four-day weekend--termed "Fall Break" for those of us in the education biz. My students needed it, and so did I. Indeed, by the time I dismissed the last class on Wednesday, my to-list was filled with more things than I could have reasonably expected to complete by Christmas. I had put everything I really didn't want to do off until I could have four full days in which not to do it.

And so I didn't. I spent the last four days trolling the internets, watching scary movies on DVD, tormenting the new cat, napping, and reading.

So, there's no clever, creative writing for you today. But there's a Tim Minchin video. Not everyone's taste, I'm sure, but I like him.

Which means, most likely, one or two of you will too. Adult language about halfway through.

As far as the eye can see.

100,000 people gathered together in Missouri today to see and hear Barack Obama.

Wow. On a clear day, you really can see forever.

Via the Wall Street Journal.

Why I'm not blogging today.

...or doing much of anything else, I'm afraid.

There's a new kitteh in the house, and she requires lots of tickling and tormenting.

I'm afraid there's just no time for anything else.

Whatever it takes.

I was so anxious and tense during last night's debate, I haven't yet fully recovered. I think I've got debate hangover.

This is going a long way toward making me feel better.

Cookie Monster gets his groove on at 1:21.

Turn up the sound.

Imagine.

Imagine a world without hunger.

There are 923 million undernourished people in the world today. Every six seconds, one child dies from hunger and related diseases. About 59 million primary school-aged children go to school hungry.

Yet if you saw Josette Sheeran, Executive Director of the World Food Programme on David Letterman, then you--like me--believe that a world without hungry children is possible.

93 cents of every dollar donated to World Food Programme goes directly to supplying food to the world's starving people; it costs only 25 cents a day to give a child a WFP school meal.

• WFP is the world's largest humanitarian agency
• In 2007, they provided 3.3 million tons of food for 86.1 million people
• This year WFP plans to feed around 90 million people in 80 countries
• At any moment WFP has 30 ships at sea, 70 aircraft in the sky and 5,000 trucks on the ground
• The agency relies entirely on voluntary contributions
• More than 90 percent of funding goes on food or delivery costs

Donate to WFP.

Photo courtesy Eddie Gerald and WFP; hunger facts courtesy WFP.

It finally happened.

Virtually no one is surprised. Muffin Uptown couldn't even muster up an apathetic "Oh, really?"

I am, after all, the same person who cracked open my dome in my sleep, injured myself after being startled by a thunderclap, suffered cat-induced brain damage, and burst all the blood vessels in my eye with one well-timed sneeze.

And so I feel no shame as I report that yesterday, I finally opened an artery with my sooper-dooper 5-bladed wonder. My shin looks like a botched suicide attempt and my bathroom, a crime scene.

Ironically, I wasn't even shaving with the damned thing at the time.

I dropped it on myself.

image, k-girl's Photostream.

Buzzkill.

Last Thursday, I visited my extremely adorable dentist. I had a tooth that was set on self-destruct, and he had a crown with my name on it.

This guy and I go back a long way--he's saved me from disaster innumerable times, and I, in return, put his two children through college. All in all, I would say ours has been a fairly successful relationship. Of course, it doesn't hurt matters much that he's a nice-looking guy--or at least, he used to be. Now he just looks like a fairly well-preserved old poop.

And like any old poop worth his salt, he really loves stirring things up. (Ta-da! All my mixed metaphors for the week right there in one sentence.) On this day, he waited until he numbed my gums, my jaw, and my tongue, stuffed my mouth with cotton, surgical steel instruments and fingers, pegged out the N2O, and then proceeded to talk up Sarah Palin.

He really, really likes her.

Obviously, I couldn't say a thing. What's more, I found that I didn't really want to. Making this discovery--aside from the new crown on my right rear molar--is the best thing that happened to me all week.

Now I know that if things go wrong for us in November, I won't have to join the great diaspora. All I have to do is get my hands on some nitrous oxide. Lots and lots of it.

image, Shorpy Photo Archive.

Going for the gold.

Material World Girl has, on occasion, implied that she believes me to be somewhat competitive--or at least she found me to be so when we both worked for the same company. Of course, competitiveness is not necessarily a bad thing in the corporate world. I really thought I had left that sort of thing behind me, though, when I turned in my fancy building keys and Survival of the Fittest Team Captain T-shirt.

I had a small moment of insight this past week, however, when the department secretary requested that each of the faculty complete textbook adoption sheets in anticipation of the Spring semester. Dutifully, I checked my projected enrollment, carefully copied down the ISBN numbers for the books I wanted my students to pay an arm and a leg for, and marched myself and my newly completed forms into the secretary's office.

You'll just have to take me at my word when I tell you that I had no idea what I was about to say until I actually heard myself say it.

"Am I the first?" I asked.

"The fourth," she said. I was further disappointed that she didn't even bother to glance up at me as she said it.

I was almost out of earshot when I heard her add, "But you're the only one to fill them out completely."

Thereby granting, once again, all the evidence I needed to confirm that I am--indeed--still the best.

I'm emailing evidence to Material World Girl right now.

image, Shorpy Photo Archive.

Give me your tired, your poor, your bare-legged.

One way to tell America is flirting with the idea of hard times?

We start inventing bizarre ways to reuse things most of us aren't even using anymore.

For instance: This past Sunday I found an article detailing all the things one might do to wring the last bit of life out of that old raggedy pair of pantyhose. It's worth noting, I believe, that this is the second article I've seen about this.

Apparently, I live under a rock. I had no idea we had a used pantyhose problem in this country. I can't decide what part of the article disturbed me the most: the idea of a household filled to the rafters with items that used to be pantyhose, or the fact that anybody, anywhere is still wearing them.

I know, I know. Everybody's trying to be green. But for heaven's sake--my grandmother used to do stuff like this. Sure enough, the first item on the list? Tie up plants that need to be staked. If a row of tomato plants tied up with old pantyhose doesn't say "Grandma" to you, then you must have one of those fancy-pants grandmas.

I just can't help thinking that if being green is what everybody's after, maybe we just shouldn't buy the damned things in the first place. Don't they have to process a bunch of petroleum and then melt it down with old tires to make a pair of pantyhose? That can't be good for the earth.

And I have to tell you--since I stopped wearing them, my earth is definitely better.


Next week: My tutorial for how to make a hat for your dog from an old brassiere.

Old Nylons, New Uses


image, Foxtongue's photostream. And no, I have no idea. I would be afraid to speculate.

What you might hear if not for the frogs in the waterfall at lakeside during a thunderstorm CD.

Thursday was a very good day. And because it was, I had occasion to wonder--what does the massage therapist think about while she's rubbing, kneading, and palpating her way through my $60.00 hour?

Hopefully, she's not thinking, "Okay. Focus. You know this. The distal scapula feticulitus controls the, ummm, the masculica-something."

Then again, it's probably not a good thing if she is so thoroughly on auto-pilot that she's putting together her grocery list, or the final aria of that opera she's composing for grad school.

And I really hope--no, I pray--that she's not thinking, "Jeez, doesn't this lady ever walk anywhere? Ever?"

But even that--as bad as it is--is preferable to "Oops! Is that supposed to bend that way?"

I started to ask her at one point, just what sorts of things did go through her mind as she worked. But after a while, I sort of got lost in my own thoughts.

First "Ohhh." Then "Ahhhh." And finally, "Zzzzz."


photo, Joan Crawford Massage, photographer unknown, via Tangerines in a Red Net Bag.

Because if you don't laugh, you'll cry.

At my house tonight, we are having Biden Burgers and Freedom Fries along with our debate. Our guest chef has even promised us a surprise Sarah Palin-inspired dessert. I hope it's some kind of chocolate mousse.

Because we all have productive activities scheduled for tomorrow, we probably won't be playing any drinking games--but we did print off our own Palin Bingo cards.

I'm feeling lucky.

Edit: And while waiting for the debate to start? The Obama Channel, of course (Dish Channel 73).

Self control. Not always a good thing.

Every year, I forget how awful my allergies are--that is, until the very tail end of summer. Even then, it usually takes ten to fifteen days of dragging around and feeling really, really bad before I remember, "Oh, yeah. I'm allergic to September."

It can be pretty miserable. Everything itches. Or drips. Or both.

For me, the eyes are the worst. But I've learned that if I touch them--no matter how much I want to--I'm done for. So I developed a work-around.

Whenever I feel the urge to rub, instead, I just scrunch my eyes up really, really tight. And you know what? It really doesn't do a thing in the world to alleviate the pain or the itching. But it does, somehow, help me feel a little less helpless.

Yesterday, after I had smooshed up for about the fourth time in an hour, I realized that I had no real idea how many times during the day I was exercising this maneuver. And that's when I had a terrible revelation.

It is entirely possible that I've conditioned myself into a facial tic.

--And not just your standard, run-of-the-mill, microsecond twitch, but a full-blown, face-distorting, wrinkle-inducing, Tourette's-quality spasm.

So, please. If you see me, and I'm scrunching and smooshing, tell me to stop. An intervention may be my only hope.

photo, Mariss. -dreamscometrue's photostream

Maybe she should check google maps.

I guess this is going to just keep coming up.

I don't want to go to the trouble of looking back to count, but I have a sinking feeling that this is about the third post in a little over a week about how I ain't got no boo. And I'd feel a lot worse about it if this were one of those entries where I was making everything up. But I don't see how the blog-reading world can hold it against me that every single person I run into seems intent on reminding me that I don't have someone on which to get my freak.

Case in point: I ran into an old acquaintance over the weekend--someone I hadn't seen or heard tell of in well over three years--and she immediately asked me if I was seeing anyone.

This happens to me all the time, and it almost always puts me in a snit.

What about all that other fantastic stuff I've got going on? What about the great new job, or my fabulous new-old hair color? Really--a lot has happened in my life in three years' time. Enough of this, and I might get the impression that something is missing from my life--that I'm just going through the motions of living out what is actually an empty and unfulfilled existence.

Before I had time to get all self-righteous on her, though, she told me that she herself was recently single. As we spoke it became apparent to me that she seemed to think I--with my many years' experience doing the belly-crawl through the dating trenches--might have some sort of insight as to where all the men were.

And I do. They are at home, watching TV with their wives.

Set your TiVo.

Except for my friend Karen F. (who's a flautist, and everybody knows you can't trust a flute player's musical taste), all women of a certain age love James Taylor.

And he loves us, too. He told me so himself.

JT has a new album out today, and he's scheduled to be on the Colbert Report tonight.

Check it out. He said that if there was time, he'd sing one just for me.

I was going to cut him some slack, but then I thought better of it.

My baby brother's birthday has rolled around again, and although he's no haiku fan, and I'm fairly sure he eschews the lowly birthday corndog, I don't think he minds having embarrassing pics posted on the interweb. This one gets the prime real estate because it hasn't seen the light of day since it was pasted in the album. See how young and freckled-y he is?

Don't let that adorable Jody Davis look fool you. This is the face of a kid up to no good, and was the expression I often saw through the window of the house he had just locked me out of.

If you look closely, you can see that he is treating my dog in a similarly coldhearted way--dressing it in lumberjack clothing without its consent.

I'm happy to report that he is much nicer now that he's all old and wrinkled. So if you run into him, be sure to wish him a happy birthday.

Other Butch photos here. (He has a fanbase.)

Helpful tips.

Not long ago, a stranger came up to me as I was loitering in the paintbrush aisle of my neighborhood home improvement store. I was shopping for one of those really expensive paintbrushes that cost so much they should last a lifetime. And I'm convinced that they do last a really long time--or that they would--if only I would take care of them the way the manufacturer intended. But because I don't, and because I move and misplace them, I have to go back periodically and buy more lifetime-guaranteed brushes.

And so I was standing there, contemplating whether one three-inch brush would be sufficient, or whether I needed to also buy a smaller brush, when a slightly older man approached me and asked me if I knew anything about painting.

"I've done my fair share," I said.

And then he asked for my experienced opinion as regards the best way to paint a popcorn ceiling. I was, of course, happy to oblige. I'm nothing if not free with my opinion.

And as he was thanking me for my helpfulness, he made a throwaway remark about really needing to get this particular chore taken care of, because his wife was going to stay after him until he did.

"You know," he said, "it seems like I nothing I ever do makes her happy."

And something in his voice on that last syllable of happy stopped me. I had been standing there, nodding--smiling and nodding like one does when someone else is remarking on one of life's tiny little truisms.

"That's all a man wants, really. Just to be able to make his woman happy. None of the rest of it matters. Not really."

And that was how we left it--he, wandering off in search of ceiling paint and me, still standing in the paintbrush aisle, wishing someone had thought to tell me sooner.

I don't know how much more I can take. Well, maybe just a little more.

I don't know how it happened.

Good fortune looked around one day last month and decided--right out of the blue--that I was going to be her new best friend.

First, there was the great new job--out by noon every day, an office less than 5 miles away from home, spending all day in the land o' liberals.

But this last thing? This last, best thing absolutely takes my breath away.

They put a Starbucks in the lobby of the university library.

This pic is of the new Starbucks at the Sinclair Community College Library. Trust me, it looks just like ours.

Aw, Crap. I missed National Punctuation Day.

Just think of the mileage I could have gotten out of this one.

courtesy, BB-Blog.

Late. Way late.

My readers are, for whatever reason, probably not all that familiar with the work of David Foster Wallace.

And I wasn't either. More's the pity. After reading today (thanks to John Baker's Blog) an unpublished speech by the late writer on the Guardian Webpage, I'm beginning to wish I had been. Here's the link.

Yeah, I know. But I can't read EVERYTHING. Okay, I can. But not today.

Bag lady.

Are you one of those people who knows just exactly what you want?

If so, then you have my sympathy. We should get together and commiserate. Call me, and I'll buy the first Bloody Mary. Assuming, that is, I can find it in my size and color.

I know--you've heard this complaint from me before. To paraphrase Sally Albright, I just want what I want. (But I'd like the pie heated and I don't want the ice cream on top, I want it on the side, and I'd like strawberry instead of vanilla if you have it, if not then no ice cream just whipped cream but only if it's real; if it's out of the can then nothing.)

In this particular instance, what I want is a new handbag. Although my current bag seems--to the casual observer--perfectly serviceable, it has, in fact, developed a couple of tears in the lining. No doubt you have spotted me on campus, one arm elbow-deep in my purse as I search for my (ringing) cellphone. The reason why I am only ever observed digging for--yet never answering--my cellphone, is because it has fallen through the rent in the lining, straight through to China.

I'm missing a lot of calls.

Image, Signs and Wonders' photostream.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

On Sunday, Muffin and I were at that restaurant of dubious cleanliness I told you about--having a couple of eggs, both of us anxious to be out of the house and away from a shin-deep pile of chores that wanted doing.

"Look at that couple," I said, nodding my head in the direction of the front counter.

"Aww," Muffin said. "That's adorable."

She's a pushover for old people pairs, especially when they don't act like they hate each other.

"I think," I said (chew, chew, chew), "that when it's all said and done, that's the only thing I'm gonna regret. Not having someone to grow old with."

"Mom. You can still find somebody. "

"Do you really think so? You don't think I've waited too long?"

"Oh, no," Muffin assured me. "You can still meet someone to be old with. It's definitely not too late."

We watched the couple pay their check and leave, she with her purse in the crook of one arm, he with his hand at the small of her back.

"I mean--you may have to, you know, fix up a little."

Image, Square America.

Ninja Cat.

I saved it for today.

The cherry on top.

You can't tell me that somebody in the Barack Obama camp doesn't have a comprehensive understanding of the challenges faced by women "of a certain age."

I'm ordering mine right this very minute.

Get yours here.

On being the best. At whatever.

I'm reading a little book of essays by Sloane Crosley called, I was Told There'd be Cake.

Even though I'd heard about this book when it came out, I was quite certain at the time that I most certainly did not want to read it. I had made that determination without having seen a copy, read an excerpt, or heard anything at all about the author.

Why?

Because she had given it very possibly the best title ever.

After all, I was going to write a book of humorous essays with the world's best, most clever, title. Given time, I could probably even have come up with this very same one--if Miss Crosley-pants hadn't gotten in such an all-fired hurry. Frankly, I don't understand her rush. I've been studying her picture on the back cover, and I'm fairly certain that I own emergency panties older than she.

You might think that being a writer who reads (or a reader who writes) represents the best of both worlds. You would be wrong. It is the sickest of sick relationships.

And I am trapped, right smack-dab in the middle of it. On page 112, actually.

Despite her youthful appearance, Sloan Crosley is an accomplished writer whose work has appeared in Playboy, Salon, the New York Times, and the Village Voice. I am enjoying her book very much. Because of this, I've decided to settle on another, equally perfect title for my future work. You can read about Sloan and buy her lovely book here.

photo, superbomba's flickr photostream.

I hope this doesn't mean that misery is my muse. I hate that bitch.

You might not remember, but just about this time last year, this space was devoted to my crabbing about the number of items on my publication schedule and the way they were all piled up on top of one another.

Bellyaching about the impossibility of getting something done, I found, was a very good way to get around doing something I didn't particularly want to do.

Then I changed jobs. Suddenly, I have all kinds of free time. As a matter of fact, I now have so little to do that I can't get anything done.

I haven't cleaned house or straightened out the closets. I haven't had the oil changed on the car, or crawled into the backseat to dig out the empty Diet Coke cans that are rolling around in the floorboard. I haven't plucked the extra hairs from my browbone, had the callouses shaved from my heels, or washed all the red items in the bottom of the laundry hamper. I haven't blogged.

But I've been smiling. A lot.

Be fearless.

I wrote that on the board 4 times this past week--one for each of my Composition I classes.

Having just finished reading 96 student essays, I'm wishing now that I had chosen something more traditional with which to send them off to their computers.

You know--something like, "Remember to punctuate."

Dear Ms. Steinem.

I wish I had your email address, so I could send you a personal note and thank you for your column in Thursday's LA Times.

In it, you said just exactly the things I've been struggling to put into words to my friend who is so disappointed that Senator Clinton won't be on the ballot this year, and to those women I know who believe that any woman in office--as long as she is a woman--would be good enough.

If I had your mailing address, I might send a small arrangement of flowers--or at least, a lovely little card imprinted with tasteful blossoms--on which I would write how sorry I was to see that so many people still have not learned to respectfully disagree, and how I wish now that I had signed in and commented in defense of your article.

If I had your phone number, I would call and invite you to lunch, and if you had the time to join me, I would pick up the check as a small measure of my esteem. It might very well be the only time in my life in which I sat quietly and happily listened--for just as long as you would like to talk to me.

Reading the readers' comments section to Thursday's LA Times opinion piece about Sarah Palin by Gloria Steinem very nearly broke my heart, and has done great damage to the hope I've been guardedly cultivating for our future.

Squid in love.

How serendipitous. We were just watching squid on the Disgusting Underwater Creatures Channel the other evening, and then today I found this.

via Why, that's delightful.

¡Feliz día de maíz perro.

My friend Cyndi is another year older today.

She's not a haiku fan--which is probably a good thing, since I seem to have lost the haiku magic.

She's pretty keen on elephants, though. So I went out and shopped for this, just for her.

Acupuntura de Elefante (Elephant Acupuncture) from juliano reina on Vimeo.