Snot floats

One shouldn't be surprised at this, I guess, but bogeys do indeed float. I found this out earlier this AM, when I was giving Evan his bath, and his nostrils were so moist that when he exhaled, it just flew out his nose and skidded on the surface of the water-- like a mucus-coated pebble.

I have to say this wasn't the worst part. I've seen some gross things in my short career as a parent, but what comes after is one of the grossest.

As I was draining the water from the tub, Evan kept trying to catch the booger to play with it. It was so heavy that it resisted the flow of the water, and didn't even go down the drain, but remained trapped in the grate. The stubborn sticky little bitch.

I wiped it out with a Kleenex, marvelling at how the color changed from green to gray in warm water... and also marvelling at my ability to marvel at such a thing. The trappings of motherhood are for the lionhearted, not those easily sickened by fluids and the like.

My New-ish Friends

Last night Andrew and I had another couple, Justin and his wife Abby, to dinner. Andrew has known Justin for several years, because he works at the comic shop where Andrew loads up on villains and superheroes. When they chat, it's usually about D&D or something of that nature; and lately, since Justin has gone back to school as a history major, sometimes they chat about that type of stuff too.

In all the years Andrew has shopped Justin's shop, I never once met Justin's wife. So, when I saw Justin last week, waiting outside a classroom in Anspach Hall (the building I teach in), I invited them to dinner.

Evan was born 21 months ago. Justin's wife Abby made us a cute fleece quilt for him; and it was one of the only blankets we brought to Dublin. We love it that much, but until yesterday, I hadn't met her to say thanks and tell her all this in person.

God puts some people on this earth who are here to remind you that you ought to try harder. And that means to try harder at everything, basically. Abby has many Housewife Superpowers. More than I thought possible in one woman. Here is a short list: canning--chili sauce, fruit, juice; fixing--cars, broken shit in general; remodeling--she knocked down bathroom walls and installed insulation; sewing--crochet, needlepoint, etc.; cooking--she can make her own pasta, and she even has a chicken that lays proper eggs. In short, Abby is a very well-rounded individual, who also happens to have a great personality.

But, there is one thing Abby doesn't do-- drink. So, since she can do everything else, this is one superpower I'm going to keep for myself. And I'm going to work really hard at perfecting my skill: I'm going to sit at my kitchen table, wearing an apron, with a bottle of gin and a jar of olives in front of me. Then I will l pour and drink and pour and drink until I'm sure I've solved all the world's problems.

One good prayer

They handed this prayer card out at church last night:

To my work, let me say "Yes."
To love, let me say, "Yes."
To life, let me say, "Yes."

Even if you're not a churchgoer, or someone who believes in God, it's amazing how powerful these three short statements can be. The connotative meanings are endless; the amount of weight they carry can shift; bascially, it's small enough to carry around and large enough to expand. It's a prayer/thought for all seasons of life, really.

I repeated it to myself, and thought about it this AM as I was doing all my daily AM chores: feeding and bathing Evan, feeding and bathing myself, etc., and I was struck by a deepness of satisfaction. Because while life is filled with daily chores, and some very mundane ones at that, it makes all the difference to do these things with a heart full of joy and light.

(And, no, losers, I'm not being sarcastic... sarcasm, while lots of fun, isn't always constructive; nor is it conducive to creating and maintaining the kind of mood/life-energy that I'm working on creating...)

Discuss: How are you saying "yes" in your life?

The Scharffen-Berger Principle

Lucky me!

Friday AM, I took Evan out for some time on the town. We stopped at Tuma's Country Gourmet, the closest thing Mt. Pleasant has to a strictly import/specialty grocery. Well, at least it WAS the closest thing Mt. Pleasant had to a strictly import/specialty grocery.

It's been sold, and bought by a friendly Indian man with an impressively large moustache and a long beard. I'm not sure what his new plans are for the store, but at the moment, everything is 70% off-- baskets, coffee, chocolate, cooking implements, etc. I bought a 275g bar of Scharffen-Berger 62% cocoa chocolate, which had been retailing for $11.99, for only $3.60.

Then I came home, melted it, mixed up a chocolate ganache, and dipped some lovely red grapes into it. (I've always wanted to try this, based on a dessert my friend Chris had at an Italian restaurant somewhere on her travels) I put it in the fridge, waited until it solidified a bit, and had a great dessert to serve my friend Wendy--a chocolate-loving, dog-loving, patchouli-wearing slip of a girl who needs more food in her life.

So, here it is, folks, the Scharffen-Berger principle: if you have a chance to get a great deal on a rich thing, an extravagant thing you want but usually wouldn't think of getting--if it's the last one on the shelf-- GET IT. It's probably a tool to realize a dream or concretize a great idea!

A Little Song About the Mt. Pleasant Farmer's Market

I wen to the farmer's market in the rain;
getting wet is such a pain;
such a pain in my ass.

I went there to buy a loaf of bread,
but I bought navy beans instead,
pearly little navy beans tightly sealed with dread
(of the boiling water I'll stick them in).

Andrew went to Indiana: to a nerd
conference of British historians. I've heard
these things are cool, but they seem absurd
(like, who cares about history anyway?).

Thank God I'm having Kenlea for dinner!
Thank god I love the company of sinners!
Thank God I'll never be a winner--
if I was it'd be too much pressure.

Almost Famous

I spent most of the evening working on two queries when I should've been working on my lecture for Study Skills class (there's always tomorrow, yes?).

Query 1: for a writer's retreat house near the Cliffs of Moher, Co. Clare AND
Query2: a poetry submission to a magazine based in Dublin (they're poems about fucking Dublin, so of course I'll get published, right?)

Anywho, thumbs up to me, who rarely puts my work (uhhh, I mean MYSELF) out on the line. I suppose I've got 50/50 odds. But also 100 odds that I might get neither, or that I could get both...

Holla.

Congratulations To...

My sister ANGELA, who will begin to study the art of phlebotomy in two short weeks. Angela, you suck (blood).

(However, I would like to point out how similar the word "phlebotomy" is to "lobotomy." Let's hope Angela signed up for the right program.)

What Matters Most...

Discuss: University education should be about self-discovery.

Discuss: What types of experiences enable self-discovery? Moreover, do setting specific career goals, and rigid achievement standards even allow one the freedom to discover oneself?

Discuss: To what extent was your university experience journey of self-discovery?

Discuss: Was your university experience too linear? Why? Were the expectations placed upon you super-humanly high?

Discuss: To what extent are you a sane individual?

A Student Teacher

Today a student questioned my methods...

I'd divided them up into groups, based on the results of a self-diagnostic test they took. I looked at everyone's lowest score in a certain area, and stuck those with common numbers together.

My student said he wondered if it would be better to have a balance of students who had strengths in that area, and students with weaknesses. A class discussion ensued: two defended my reasoning very solidly.

Later on, he came up to me to apologize, saying he hadn't meant to be disrespectful to me. Not at all, I said, this class is the perfect place to discuss something like that. It shows you're engaging in critical thinking, and that you're doing a good job with the material presented to you.

I was so proud of him I almost cried.

Office Hour

Here I am sitting in my office, wondering what to do without any needy students stopping by to discuss their academic-writing woes. Then the thought came to me: yes, indeedy, write a blog post about what academics actually DO during their office hours.

I use my office hours to take an hour-long mental break. I eat my lunch, check my email, write emails to my million friends, and walk around the building looking for other people I can visit. Office Hours are the least academic thing about academia. In fact, it's much like a private lonesome happy hour.

We might appear hard at work, hunched over computers, squinting over the tops of our heavy-framed glasses, shuffling papers around the desk, etc., but the truth is we're shopping on Amazon.com for the latest Sara Moulton cookbook or a Keane CD. Or, even better, we're sending nasty notes to colleagues about other colleagues. Yes, all academics are gossip queens at heart.

Especially part-timers, like me.

Glory Be! Cable TV!

I forgot to tell everyone something very fortuitous. Yes, fortuitous; and very special besides.

We ordered basic cable; we are being charged for basic cable; but for some reason, we have 100 channels! Among the supremely awful: The Inspiration Channel (Brain candy for the Christian Right--features shows where kids with terminal illnesses meet the President and talk about God with him--a very bad idea), Lifetime (if they played only Facts of Life reruns, I'd watch it forever and always, even at the gates of Heaven-- but they mostly show movies which star women like Justine Bateman and Tracey Gold as bulimics, battered women, and incest victims), and Oh! (which is slightly like Lifetime, but maybe less tacky-- the only way to know for sure would be to watch-- and this I cannot do.)

Among the supremely brilliant: Food Fucking Network. Oh God! I'm moist already thinking of all the shows about roasts and cakes and soups and drinks. Do it to me, Emeril! Do it to me, you Big Iron Chef, you! Rachael Ray, what ELSE can you do in thirty minutes? And can you do it to me?

(What a loser I am, eh?)

The Summer of my Discontent

It's 9/11. But instead of musing about the anniversary of national and international tragedy, I'll instead say something more unexpected: enough with fucking summer already.

It was a whopping 90 bloody sweltering degrees in Mt. Pleasant today. Hopefully the heat kills me before I can't stand it and take matters into my own hands. That is to say if I see another college freshman wearing a halter top with jean cutoffs a-la-Daisy-Duke, I'm going to off her as a sacrifice to the faeries of fall and frost in an attempt that they smile upon me and paint the yellow and orange and ruddy red of autumn onto the leaves by tomorrow AM.

Everything about summer is awful: except for exceptionally ripe tomatoes, an overabundance of zucchini (that is to say courgette, for my Irish and British friends), and the occasional sleeveless dress. I'd like to point out that you can eat these vegetables in fall and also wear these dresses in fall, and that it means MORE in fall because you simply don't plan on doing these things. So, even if the tomato is of lower quality, or you need to wear a wee jacket with the dress, you are grateful for the unexpected chance to do these things out-of-season.

In fact, it might help all these people who love summer to make them feel like it's summer all the time. So I suggest a move toward doing summer activities during snowfall or or leaf-raking. It would be very unexpected to attempt swimming in a snowbank, in a bikini, of course. How about crunching through the leaves in a pair of flip-flops? Or grilling burgers in a blizzard? Sound like fun?

All ya'll who suffer from Seasonal Affect Disorder should be well-pleased at the thought of it being summer all year round. But tomorrow, if it isn't sunny, and it's below 70 degrees, I suggest you stay inside and watch TV and cry. The temperature will soon be falling, and so will the likes of people like you.

And as soon as it's officially fall, people like me will be roaming the streets wearing long johns and turtlenecks, in search of hot cider and root vegetables and anything pumpkin. Beware.

Once you lick the lollipop of mediocrity, you suck for the rest of your life.

Face it. Most people in the world are better than you. They're probably better looking and have more money (and more friends because of it). They're probably more intelligent, far more articulate and witty. Moreover, they can probably outdrink Betty Ford, outparty Kid Rock and Tommy Lee, and out-sex Hef, Harry Reems, and Debbie and all of Dallas.

I'm not saying you're a loser. I'm not even saying you're mediocre. I'm saying that the existence of Near-Perfect people in this world demands that you try harder to hold yourself to a higher standard.

However you define that standard, or, for that matter, how you achieve the seemingly unachieveable, is your own business. But for me, and many others like me, this means doing at least one thing a day that makes the chest swell obscenely Dolly-Parton-large with pride.

For example, today I killed three crickets: I wrapped one in a Kleenex and flushed it down the toilet; the second, I plucked from the carpet and drowned in the kitchen sink; and the third I crushed in a napkin and tossed in the trash. It made me feel like a real man. Learning to crush the weak and love it is a key component to understanding the human psyche. That's the real reason I'm a teacher.

Can't isn't Won't

There seems to be some confusion surrounding the state of affairs down south. Some people don't seem to understand that it is, was, and always will be impossible for certain socio-economic groups to flee a city in the threat of disaster. These people don't even have money for homes, so how is it possible that they would have cars or the means to put gas in them? How could they afford a bus, train, or plane ticket out?

When a media report says Ida Mae Soandso from New Orleans wouldn't leave her home and was stranded on the roof for four days it seems they're pointing blame. But what they really should say is that America couldn't be arsed to rescue her and everyone else like her. I guarantee she would've left, as it's preferable to being drowned in your own backyard. She's paralyzed by poverty... a poverty so dire that most of us can't begin to conceive what it's like, much less recognize how often it occurs in this land of opportunity.

Yeah, OK-- if you pray, pray for victims of Hurricane Katrina. But add to that a prayer for our leaders to be leaders: decision-makers who look beyond class and color into the heart of this disaster to see what is human and humane in every person.

The World is Full of -Holes

Today, I realized many modifications can be made to the word "asshole," just by substituting a new prefix. Here are some amusing variations and their definitions:

1) Classhole-- n. a student who might be a perfectly decent human being outside of class, but in class is disrespectful, disruptive, and a right jerkoff.

Example: Patrick's anthropology prof says he is a classhole, but behaves differently when he visits during office hours.

2) Gashole-- n. any panic-buying fuel-monger, but especially those who are annoyingly slow at pumping gas and insist on cleaning their windows, etc. while parked at the pump.

Example: Last night at BP, the guy parked in front of Dan was a total gashole.

I promise I'll think of more klever things to say.

Times they aren't a-changin'

This past week has been full of changes (I'm working again, and trying to move at the same time!). And, most of you don't need to be told, but change is BAD. Change requires that you do awful and uncomfortable things-- like learning, trying something different, or meeting someone new. Change makes you readjust and trust things will work out. Change is pretty much always crap. That is, most change is crap--unless you are lucky enough to move to Mt. Pleasant, Michigan.

Things in Mt. Pleasant remain divinely UNchanged... which is why I am thrilled to be working here and living here again. Mt. Pleasant is small and friendly, full of weirdo hole-in-the-wall things like diners and thrift shops--and, perhaps best of all, anywhere I go, I see someone I know.

Yes, I am aware that people who live in larger cities, like Troy, or Big Cities, like Dublin, see people they know as they go about town. But, living in Mt. Pleasant makes that a far more enjoyable activity. When an English Dept. colleague sees me in the supermarket and they say, "Hey, let's get together," I know I don't have to wait two years for an invitation. It's not something people say in passing here.

In Mt. Pleasant, people care about each other; in Mt. Pleasant, people are genuinely nice. This town is about as quintessentially American "Our Town" as you can find. Tonight, after I eat a hamburger at Jon's Country Burgers, I'll head down to the Bird for a pint and play pool in my poodle skirt with the varsity quarterback/Homecoming King/class valedictorian on my arm.

Hahahaha.