Oh yeah...

FYI: we won't be moving to North Adams, Massachusetts. Andrew got the you-suck letter in the mail this last Saturday (after we came home from Grandpa Jack's wedding).

What this means: we totally shift roles this coming fall. I become Bacon-Bringer AND Po' Bastard. At times, this change will feck with me something horrible.

So, all ya'll remember, when I call you bitching and moaning, say something like this: When life hands you a challenging role you don't think you can perform in (much less win an award for), it's important to remember that you're not just the actor. You're the writer and director, too, and you can rewrite and rehearse the scenes until it's something like how you thought you might want.

(The acting metaphor is a tedious and dull way to explain this. If you come up with a better way to say it, contact me immediately).

Huzzah! It's Springtime.

As I write this, my windows are open and there's a breeze coming in. The birds are chirping. Evan is taking his afternoon nap. When he wakes up, my toenail polish will be dry-- I'll put on some open-toed shoes and then we'll walk over to the garage sale around the corner.

Springtime is almost as perfect as fall. While fall makes me feel like I want to stay home and begin cooking root vegetables and drinking red wine and watching movies, Spring time makes me want to do very big things. This is the time of year I break out the mesh t-shirts and the butt rock: I just want someone to "Talk Dirty to Me," preferably "Dr. Feelgood." I want to just sit on my porch and drink Heineken in the sun. I want to go dancing in a short dress and I don't want to wear tights. I don't feel like grading papers or farting around planning the syllabus for my summer class.

There are a few things I don't want to do in Spring: 1) play hackysack, 2) throw horseshoes, and 3) attend toga parties on Main Street. However, I do find watching these activities very amusing in an Animal-House kind of way.

Springtime has a way of bringing out the nosy slut in everyone. Everyone checks everyone out. No one can concentrate for more than half an hour on anything at all, because everyone is thinking about "Girls Girls Girls." This is definitely true of my students: I held three out of four classes outside yesterday, and the entire time the kids were either gazing at the clouds or at the girls in short short skirts and mesh t-shirts.

Edna St. Vincent Millay started a poem something like: "To what purpose, April, do you return again?" Answer: what kind of silly-assed question is that? April comes so she can inspire the masses to do the same.

Great Grandpa Jack got Married

This past Saturday, Andrew, Grandma Marcie, and Evan and I headed over to Marshall, MI to attend Great Grandpa Jack's wedding. The man is on wife #3-- the first two passed away years ago: one in a car accident, and the other-- Andrew's maternal grandma, Lyla-- from cancer. So, Great Grandpa Jack married Gail, the girlfriend he's had for the past 13 years.

Great Grandpa Jack is 74 years old-- probably the same age as Hugh Hefner. If Hef ever needed a replacement, I think Grandpa Jack could fill in. Jack is just as good looking, maybe even better looking, because his comb-over is not as severe as Hef's and sometimes he wears a bolo tie. Jack might be funnier than Hef, too: during the reception, I said, "Hey Grandpa Jack, how old are you?" He replied, "74. And Gail's 69. She's a child bride." "Are you going on a honeymoon?" I asked. He replied: "Don't need to. I've been on one for the past 13 years. And we have to take the dog to the vet on Monday morning." Cheers! Let's hear it for love!

Grandpa Jack just recently gave up racecar driving, but he still plays guitar and sings in a sort of classic country band. They got up and played at the reception, and I have to say they rocked pretty hard... at least from what I could hear. I was in the bathroom changing Evan's diaper. When I came out, they were finishing the song, and Grandpa Jack looked every bit the you-shake-my-nerves-girl-you-rattle-my-brain pimpin' kind of Grandpa. Gail looked on in blushing-bride pride.

Looking at Great Grandpa Jack and Gail, I thought about phases and facets of love... and how great it is to witness love in all its seasons. I suppose if there's one constant in life, love is it--whether it's the love we have for friends, family, or partner. I hope I am always able to know/feel that; and, more importantly, that I will always have to courage and strength to communicate that message.

Rock on.

The real test of love is throwing a ball

Parenting a son requires stamina that even the most energetic and productive human is unlikely to muster 100% of the time. This is why God invented television-- most boys can be distracted just long enough for their Mama to do something unproductive and selfish-- like pee.

After her well-earned three second rest, it's off to do more running, mess-making, and terrorizing. Mama trails 10 miles behind her little bundle of joy, aiming at him with a tranquilizer gun, shooting every few seconds, and missing every time. Yes, little boys can outrun poison darts faster than Superman can leap tall buildings. Yes, little boys can run just about any distance, anytime, any day.

All of the above occurs if you parent a typical boy. But if you are a Mama to an atypical boy, as I am, the only thing you need to worry about is why your son doesn't like to do things that typical boys do. Yes, my boy runs; and yes, he is distracted by television; but he would rather walk around holding my hand; he'd rather look up at the sky and search for squirrels, birds, planes, clouds, blimps, faeries, whatever.

Today is a beautiful nearly spring day. The grass is still brown and there aren't any leaves on the trees yet, but it's warm enough to wear just a sweater and no jacket. Because I am the Meanest Mama on the planet, I decided that Evan needed to spend some time outside. I brought a little baby-sized football with us-- it is the same ball that Evan enjoys playing with inside-- he likes to hide it in his kitchen cupboards and then make Andrew or I "search" for it (it's always hidden in the same place).

We walked over to a wide expanse of brown grass where the high school marching band practices. I dropped the ball on the ground, showed Evan how to kick it and then enthusiatically encouraged him to do the same: "C'mon, Evan! Try it! Kick it!" He shook his head no, and pointed out an airplane overhead. "OK, then," I said, "Catch the ball. Mama's going to throw it to you. Here you go... hold out both your hands..." I threw the ball. No reaction. I smiled and nodded and encouraged some more. Evan looked at me like I was a retarded seal throwing a fish in the air. He picked up the ball, walked back to his stroller, and put it in the seat. We weren't going to be playing any ball. Not today, and maybe not ever.

He took my hand, and led me around the grass. Every once in awhile he'd squat down and point out some random piece of rubbish on the ground: a flattened plastic water bottle, a dried up leaf, half of a dirty shoelace. And I thought, "What am I supposed to learn from this?" Get close to things that are new to you. Pay attention. And when you back away, point in wonder, and say, "Hm? Hm?"

One more thing...

Yesterday evening my mom and I went to the half-price beef sale at Kroger.

As I was combing through the Porterhouse steaks, what came over the radio but a song by U2; and, funny of funnies, the first time I ever heard it was last year, in Dublin, one night when I was out at a pub called Porterhouse North.

Some coincidences are perfectly arranged....

St. Paddy's Eve in America

My St. Paddy's Day was far more festive than the one I spent in Dublin last year. Last St. Paddy's Day, Evan and I were at home alone, our latest portion of US-company recently gone, and Andrew was on his way back to DCU from a week-long conference in Belgium; and I felt like I always do after I have a lot of company and they all go home: sort of reflective, like, "Wow, that was a lot of fun..." and sort of relieved, "Wow, now I have the place to myself again..." and sort of lost, like, "Hmmm, wonder what I'm gonna do until the next company arrives." Dublin has big festivities, but I didn't attend on my own with the baby, for fear that the streets would be crawling with drunkards and freaks (oh, BTW, all said drunkards and freaks would be AMERICAN-- while Irish people certainly are drunks and freaks, St. Paddy's Day in Ireland has little to do with Irish people and lots to do with Americans who want their "authentic Oirish" experience. These people are the kinds who buy the big velvety leprechaun tophats from Carroll's. I, being neither a drunkard nor a freak, nor that type of American, stayed home balancing my baby on my hip and looking out the window watching people walk to the bus stop. Awesome.).

Well, my recent St. Paddy's has nothing to do with the last one. During it, I was reminded of why I DO love America. Here is why: American people are drunkards and freaks.

The first stop for the evening was dinner out at the Alibi, a happenin' Troy family restaurant, with my sister Angela and our 17-year-old cousin Sam. Sam is a festive kind of gal, and she was wearing a green t-shirt that said (what else) "Kiss Me I'm Irish" on it. I chose an equally festive but less inviting option, a black sweater that said simply GUINNESS on it in orange lettering (yes, in case you're wondering, I did get it at Carroll's Oirish Gift Store). Angela wore a Playboy bunny shirt, which would get you noticed on a regular day, but definitely NOT on St. Paddy's. After we three had finished our pizza and were sitting around waiting for the check, the guy in the booth across from us, who up until had been quietly eating dinner with his woman and their kids, leaned over and said to Sam, "Your shirt says I should kiss you so maybe I will." And that he did. It wasn't a full-mouth full-tongue thing, but it was definitely wet and loud and reverberated Sam's cheek. She was embarrassed, so I tried to save her: "Hey, man, what about ME?!" I exclaimed, pointing to my GUINNESS shirt. I got a kiss, then, and Angela got one, too. (The moral of this anecdote is: protect your young innocent cousins from quiet men eating pizza at the Alibi. These men are carnivorous cousin-eating devils who stop at nothing to satiate their thirst).

We had a few stops after this that meant nothing. The only things of note are that I didn't buy a book all about Bisquick pies, and that Angela got her engagment ring cleaned at one of the jewelry shops at Lakeside Mall. On our way to these stops we saw a lot of cop cars, and a lot of lines outside of really stupid bars no ond would go to if it hadn't been St. Paddy's.

Our last stop of the evening was at Joe Koolisky's, a sports-bar kind of place that had really good drinks in the early 2000's, but hasn't since. There, we met up with my friend Carolyn, her husband Mario, and a few friends of Mario's from work. Joe Kool's hired a solo guitarist--very poor choice-- to entertain a very large and increasingly drunk crowd. There were many leprechaun tophats in the audience. There's nothing worse than a drunk and hostile leprechaun. These people were downing green beer (ewwwww!) and green chardonnay (more ewww!) like water. Then they started dancing. Then they started singing. Then they hijacked the poor guitarist's microphone and--horror of horrors-- sang "Jessie's Girl." What happened after "Jessie's Girl" was worse. Another man came over to announce his intention to kiss my cousin. OK, fine: but this guy was a 45-year-old drunk Indian man, who made no bones about the fact that he only had eyes for her. So, I took him outside and kicked his ass. I'm pretty sure I flung him into the dumpster, though I can't be sure-- all I heard: bones breaking, then a massive crash, maybe some howling in pain.

(In the above anecdote, I am guilty of the following: drinking-- only a little, just one GUINNESS to match my shirt, dancing, and singing along to "Jessie's Girl.")

I am happy to report that my little cousin is recovering well, given the horrific nature of the attacks against her.

To many more happy and sober St. Paddy's Days. Slainte.

Spring Break highlights

Unlike many of my students, I did not spend the majority of my Spring Break days wearing a thong bikini on a hot, sunny, sandy, and sweaty beach. I also did not spend my Spring Break nights unintentionally auditioning for GIRLZ GONE WILD PART 4004. (In reality, I had only one night like that, and it ended with professing "mad love" for the DJ--a good friend who I hadn't seen in 2.5 years, slipping and falling on the ice on my way out the door, and laughing and crying hysterically about both while wolfing a plate of french toast at Ram's Horn with other wedding-guest rejects and castaways).

Evan and I spent Spring Break at home with my mom and dad, neither of whom was on break. My dad went to work in the day as usual, and came home at night to play with Evan. My mom ended up on break only because she contracted some kind of flu-like illness that caused her to quarantine herself in my sister Angela's old room for three days. She spent a lot of that time sleeping, and when not sleeping, wistfully yelling things down the stairs at Evan and I, who were doing our loud usual play-type things: "Gee, it sure sounds like you're having fun down there!", "Evan, I miss you! Next time when you come to stay with Grandma Patty she promises to feel better...", "What are you laughing about?", etc.

The upside of Spring Break is that Andrew got a lot of time by himself to write that bitch-of-a-thing-called-dissertation. And the upside for me is that I got to spend time with people I love most in life, my family, my son, the friends I grew up with. So, here are the things I did on my Spring Break, in no order of preference:

1. Attended Lauren and Peter's rehearsal dinner as Angela's stunt date. Attended the dancing/drinking portion of Lauren and Peter's wedding reception with Fantasically Gay Terry-- not as stunt date, but as invited "wedding crashers". Wore smokin' outfit. Found out whisky makes me into an emotional drunk.

2. Saw BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN for second time at the Main Art Theatre, with Fantastically Gay Terry, Courtney, and her mom. Ate very cheesy, sauce-free pizza. Asked for some suace on the side.

3. Graded papers.

4. Graded papers.

5. Stressed over fall employment. Made my mind up to apply for full-time work at CMU for next fall. Stressed over lengthy content of application packet. Stressed over when to begin writing application, as it's due on 3/15.

6. Graded papers.

7. Made good soup with pepperoni, ham, and cheese tortellini in it. Delivered soup to Munka, Husband, and new baby Beatrix. Held Beatrix. Loved Beatrix. Felt uterus comment, "Hmmmm.... when's it my turn again?"

8. Had lunch with Chris and baby Brooklyn. Compared sizes of children-- Evan, 26 months, probably about 25 lbs.; Brooklyn, age 1 year, about 21 lbs. Developed child force-feeding plan yet to be implemented.

9. Remained consistently sad that Carolyn was vacationing in Mexico, so I missed her.

10. Had drinks and gossipy hen-chat with new friend, old neighbor, Ann. Red wine sure is muy delicioso.

11. Drove Angela to college to retrieve the driver's license she'd left behind at the student center. Made fun of Angela. Saw Angela give her pet tortoise a shot in its neck. Gross, but admired Angela for her gentle touch and good aim.

12. Went to playgroup at my old church. Playgroup is run by DJ from Lauren and Peter's wedding reception. He commented on the size of my hangover. Haha. Compared size of DJ's son to Evan. Forcefeeding plan tumbles in head like a dryer sheet.

13. Hung out at car dealership while they performed $450.00 worth of maintenance (and oral sex) on the car. Entertained Evan with chocolate and free arcade game: Pac-Man, Frogger, etc. He walked around dealership pointing at floor models and saying "Oooooo!" and touching the tires.

14. Drove home to Mt. Pleasant. Spent today at the gym working off overindulgence, then at Wal-Mart looking for new PJ's for Evan, and then on that-bitch-of-a-thing-I-call-application-for-full-time-employment-at-CMU.

Fa Shizzle.