A positive cancels a negative, right?

Some of the Dublin poems were given the no-no, thumb-down, you-suck by an Irish lit mag. Oh well, they say this is normal for people like me: writers, I mean--that this is something we gotta get used to-- rejection.

I'm so much more than used to it. I expect it. I welcome it. It makes me feel just dandy. Dunno what my life would be without it. Empty and meaningless, very likely.

On another arty-farty note: in April, I will be giving a reading along with Julia, a fiction writer and a colleague of mine. Our reading is part of the Great Lakes Faculty Forum, where people present works in progress. As far as I know, our reading breaks precedent in two ways: 1) we're both temp faculty, and 2) we're both presenting creative works-in-progress, and in the past the GLFF's emphasis has been more on non-fiction works, like memoir or academic papers.

The best news of all is that since the reading is in April, I have a long time to add to my manuscript and revise it; and obsess over whether or not people will care about anything I've written.

But the bestest news is that Aunt Becky has given me an early Xmas gift since she will be in AZ over the holiday. It is a bottle of mental lube (read: gin) to begin the painful process of self-reflection and revision... one bottle won't see me through till April, but, it's always grand to have a head start.

Happy happy day

Things that make today great:

1. I got new glasses yesterday. Our new medical insurance covers $120.00 toward frames: this means I got a new pair of frames, dark burgundy, little red rhinestones along the sides, for $10.00. I'll be stylin', profilin', AND academic.

2. I ate a pan-toasted chocolate sandwich for breakfast. This idea isn't new at all, but I tried it based on the recipe in Rachel Allen's cookbook RACHEL's FAVOURITE FOOD. Irish people do lots of things well, and imitating French people is one of them.

3. I won a thermal stainless steel coffee mug from my book rep at Bedford-St. Martin's. I came into my office hours, and it was there, sitting on my desk in a box.

Too bad, Niall McMahon, that you do not live in America. I would give you this mug for free, because I already have one like it-- and I happen to know you need a mug with a lid so you don't feel so much Irish Catholic guilt about throwing away styrofoam cups. Come to think of it, though, maybe you should feel guilty-- last I heard from Satan, he said there's a level of hell reserved for those who throw away styrofoam.

No longer La Vida Loca

In the 1990's I loved Ricky Martin. Laugh at me all you want, but it's the truth. My friend Carolyn handed over his album to be when she moved on to Jay-Z. And while I wasn't a big fan of Ricky's ballads, I loved all the other booty-shakin' songs on it... they were supreme songs for liberating my Latina goddess within.

Then, after the success of La Vida Loca, Ricky disappeared for several years-- leaving only the memory of his tight trousers and embroidered shirts to carry me through lonely evenings. I wait, in vain it seemed, for Ricky to come back.

It seems now he has. Ricky will be releasing a new album very soon, entitled "Life."

While I'm still totally in love with him, he has lost a little street cred, at least as far as this girl is concerned. I just don't know that he's earned the right to title an album "Life." I don't know that anyone ever has or will ever have. As far as I know, not even melancholy poets release collections of poems called "Life."

Come on, Ricky Martin; you're awesome, but you could've chosen a more modest album title, which could express a portion of the vastness of "Life." Some ideas: One Day, Today, Tomorrow, Yesterday, One Moment, One Second, One nanosecond. I could go on. But, suffice it to say that singing about "Life" takes longer than 12-14 songs. Or, at least it would if I were the one doing this album.

Po' Bastard's Great Pumpkin

'Tis the season of big round orange vegetables, my friends. Be thankful: they are plentiful, tasty, and most importantly, they are CHEAP!

Po' Bastard's friends often make her gifts of such vegetables-- in this last week alone, her MIL gave her two small pumpkins, presumably for carving not cooking, but what MIL doesn't know won't hurt her; and dear friend Sue Murph handed over a large, infant-with-hydrocephaly sized acorn squash... (dunno, exactly, if it's acorn squash, it might be a turban squash, which makes the previous comparison far more tasteless and therefore more relevant).

So, now that Po' Bastard is in her own country, enjoying the bounty of American autumn, she thought she might try making a pumpkin pie--from scratch. Ah! Delusions of grandeur! While the multi-step process of creating the pie filling was fairly easy: clean and deseed pumpkin, roast pumpkin, cool pumpkin, mash pumpkin, season pumpkin, mix filling; it was the complicated chore of making pastry that made Po' Bastard want to give herself a swirly in the toilet.

Anyone else out there ever try to make pie crust? Doesn't seem like it should be that hard, right? Little flour, little butter, pinch of salt, little cold water-- it should be good to go, yes? No and no! Po' Bastard's pastry crumbled, she had to add extra water, which is a big pastry no-no, and she had to add more flour, and roll it roll it roll it before she could even press it into the pan...whereupon it TORE.

But, because Po' Bastard was reluctant to toss away the fruits of her labour (keep in mind: Po' Bastard is also a Cheap Bastard), she stretched that pastry until it fit, unevenly, into the pan. When Po' Bastard put it into the oven, it was an unsightly looking pie; fit only for other Po' Bastard's sad lonely penniless eating. And, when Po' Bastard took it out of the oven, it was still unsightly.

Po' Bastard let it cool, and then cut herself a little slice while to eat while she watched an awful TV program about some rich family's plight to save their heroin-addicted daughter. It was then she realized why the Betty Crocker Cookbook re-print of the 1955 edition considered this to be a "key" recipe. It was so tasty, so sweet and spicy, so yummy-bitches, that Po' Bastard began to believe pastry, even that which turns out ugly-looking, is well worth the bloody struggle.

To Po' Bastards everywhere: go forth, make ugly and tasty pies. You will amaze yourself and, most importantly, your friends will be even more envious of your poverty than they were before.

And the Dark Angel Came...

OK-- not exactly-- but the cable guy did. And he was doing cable "audits." This means he's checking to see people aren't ripping off his company... that people who are paying for basic cable get only basic cable (not deluxe cable, like we have been).

He says, "I can't find a filter on your cable hook-up."
I look at him questioningly, like, dude, what's that mean: all wide-eyed and mouth agape. It's sometimes OK to act like a dumbass if it'll get you sympathy or free shit. It also helps protect your innocence.
He explains, "A filter is there to block the channels that aren't included in your cable package. How many channels are you watching currently?"
The smartass answer to this would've been: At this moment, I'm not watching any channels; because I'm outside watching my kid throw little stones into a sand hole, and I'm talking to you. But, like a good wife, I say, "I don't know how many channels we have. Maybe 80? My husband set all this up..." (whenever possible, place blame on the opposite sex--makes you feel smarter, and less guilty besides.)
He says, "Well, if you want to upgrade to the cable you're currently watching..." (I'm not watching cable right now, asshole; check yourself before you wreck yourself-- I teach English, and I'm not afraid to correct your tenses!) "...it will cost blahblahblah per month, as opposed to the blahblahblah you're currently paying."
I tell auditor guy, "My husband ordered basic cable when the tech came to install the internet, and somehow we ended up with this."
"So, do you want basic?" he asks.
"Yeah, I mostly want it for PBS, for him," I say, smiling and pointing at Evan. (Again, sometimes bringing children into an issue such as lying--well, not lying, just "omitting information"-- to the cable company can do things for you. Though in this case, it didn't)

RIP illegal Food Network. I loved you wholly while you lasted. Now I will fill my nights with drinking and needlepoint instead.

Heaving heavy oh-so-heavy sighs...

Lawd won't you buy me a Baby Benzin

Cheers to Munka Benzin!

Sometime on, before, or shortly (let's hope) after March 2, 2006, she will deliver a luvely baby girl--to be named Beatrix-- into this world!

What a great day it is, and what a great day that will be!

At-Risk is Best

Last week, I went to my usual 4:00-5:00 PM aerobics class. It's called "Totally Toned and Fit", though I've thought for years attendance in these types of classes would improve if they changed the name to something like "Ass Class." The instructor is motivating and brilliant and peppy and knowledgeable, etc.

Anywho, she had us exercise in a circle instead of in the usual military line-up style, which is the cutest way to exercise. It made me feel like when class was over that we'd have a little carton of milk and lay down on a little mat and listen to a little lullaby or something. I was chatting with the lady to my right, who is a history/art/yoga teacher at the "alternative" high school in town, and she mentioned that the majority of the student body there is made up of so-called at-risk kids. And I replied, "That term doesn't mean so much these days. 'At-risk' applies to everyone, in my opinion." She agreed, and then it was time to exercise, so we stopped talking and sweated out our probs instead.

Well, though, isn't it true? Aren't we all at-risk for something? As far as I know, "at-risk" was a term once applied to young people whose demographics made them vulnerable to certain circumstances and behaviors later in life: early pregnancy, drug use, poverty, etc. But I maintain that this term has wider application: you can be at-risk for a heart attack; you can be at-risk for failing an exam; you can be at-risk by not using your coupons at Tesco or Kroger.

Moreover, since when is taking a risk a bad thing? At-risk sounds kind of exciting, actually--like you're on the verge of something life-changing, something totally radical, something totally awesome-- like you're about to jump off the edge of the Mackinac Bridge into a palace of Ryba's fudge.

Remember: being at-risk isn't necessarily dangerous. It can be totally sweeeet!