Mama Goes Shopping--Euro-style

With our car out of commission until sometime next week, we've been walking everywhere over the weekend. This AM, Evan and I took a walk to Ric's, a locally-owned not-too-big not-too-small grocery store about a 20-minute walk from our place.

I like shopping at Ric's. While the prices are hardly competitive-- the one time we shopped there for the week we actually spent MORE than we would at Kroger or Meijer-- the store is naviagable, they actually ask if you want paper or plastic bags, and usually the bagger asks if he/she can help you carry things out to your car, if it looks like you need the help.

Let me say before I begin my next section that Evan and I went to Ric's to buy milk, and that's it.

After I bought the milk, I thought, let's go check on the wine deals. Ric's does have competitive prices on beer and wine. But, since it was only 11:19 AM, and you can't buy alcohol until noon on Sunday, I didn't venture to put any in my cart. But, since I couldn't buy the wine, and I couldn't buy JUST milk, I found a bunch of other stuff I needed: a bar of Lindt 85% cocoa chocolate, a jar of marinated artichoke hearts, some pizza crust mix, and a small log of herbed goat's cheese. The latter three items will become dinner tonight, and the chocolate, well, sometimes you just need to have it around, is all.

After you've walked around a grocery store for awhile and filled your cart up with stuff, do you ever think: what do my food purchases say about me? If I deconstruct the choices I made today, a disturbing truth emerges: the items in my basket were more Euro than American... stinky cheese, random weird vegetable preserved in oil and herbs, crusty bread... very dark chocolate. Therefore, my tastes are more Euro than American; and therefore, I am more Euro than American. I even walked to the shop. And when shopping, piled the items in the little compartment beneath Evan's stroller. I'm pretty sure I even said, "Cheers," to the checkout girl.

I want my car to break down more often. I think it's helped me rediscover my true roots. Cheers.

My POS is the best

This morning I was supposed to take Evan to speech therapy. We were totally on time leaving the house, and would've even arrived a few minutes early-- but then, when I tried to start the car, it did something it's never done... shake and lurch. And then it smelled like burning.

Our car isn't that old-- it's a 2002 L-Series Saturn. And while Andrew has put a lot of miles on it this year driving to SVSU and back, it's still only at 50,000 miles. This is mostly due to the fact that Angela drove it while we were in Ireland, and was extremely careful about charting her mileage, making sure she was under the amount stipulated in our lease. And we do have our car serviced regularly, keeping up with oil changes and stuff. As far aas we knew, our little Saturn was doing fine.

Yesterday, Andrew and I went to get the oil changed at a discount type of place, Pittsley's, over on Pickard. We would really prefer to have our car serviced at a Saturn dealership, but the closest one is in Saginaw. So we went to a quickie place that was different from the last quickie place we tried, Midas, whose staff lied to us, saying we needed something like $600.00 worth of repair on our car (a side note here: I trust politicians more than I do mechanics OR doctors, most doctors don't have any bedside manner, and most mechanics don't have any car-side manner).

When all that stinky stuff happened this AM, I thought, "This is no coincidence. Pittsley's did something to eff up my car."

To support my case, I just called my friend Sue Murphy, who will be driving Evan, Andrew, and I to the English Dept. party tonight because her car, a Subaru, doesn't sputter or shake. I told her what happened to my little Saturn, and where we'd been to get our oil changed. She said the same thing happened to her when she went to Pittsley's. They overfilled her car with oil!

How, if you are a trained mechanic, and you service cars day in and day out-- could it be possible to overfill the oil? Aren't all engines, like asses, basically the same shape? Some might be bigger, some might be smaller, but all are made of the same parts, yes?

If I ever get in to a bar fight in this life, it'll be with a mechanic or a doctor. Hopefully both. First, I'd bloody their noses, then, I'd drag them to the bathroom, and give them swirlies in the toilet; all the while saying, "Take that, you lying, thieving, unskilled POS!"

Picture this...

Me, sitting Indian-style on the floor, in my work clothes (nothing too fancy, just a blue dress with a narrow belt-- I've already taken off the shoes and pantyhose), with a big metal colander on my head. Evan running around me in circles, laughing maniacally when he stops every few moments to smack the colander with a little wooden hammer (it's meant to go with his toy workbench--but the hammer is rarely used in this fashion). Every so often I reach out to tickle him and he laughs like it's the funniest thing since Bob Saget trying to make money after the success of FULL HOUSE.

Flashback: my sister Amy and I running circles around my mom. We were probably 6 and 4 at the time. My mom wasn't wearing her work clothes, she was wearing a bathing suit, and it was summer time and we were in my old yard in Sterling Heights. If my mom was wearing a bathing suit, Amy and I were probably wearing them, too, and running circles around our mom was probably a break from running circles around our Spiderman sprinkler, which had been Amy's birthday gift from a boy named Devin Someone. I'm sure I had a similar feeling of joy when my mom would reach out to tickle me... but most notable was how her arms seemed like they could travel a complete circle around her upper body, as if they detatched from the shoulder and rotated in a full axis, the way a Barbie's head can move in isolation from the rest of her body. Since my mom's arms could do this, it meant that she could catch me no matter how fast I ran that circle.

I'm 28-- I'm still trying to run away.

Vaseline

I really considered writing this post from Evan's point-of-view, but doing so would demand that I really try to get inside his clever brain to reason out why, exactly, he thought it would be fun to play with a jar of Vaseline this morning.

Usually, where ever I am, there is Evan. Putting on my make-up (or, shall I say, cake-up-- as it is today to try to cover up these zits that keep sprouting for no reason) for work is no exception. He absolutely has to touch everything that I touch and do everything that I do. Evan's hobbies, in order of preference, are: 1) Mom, and 2) putting anything but garbage in the garbage. Again, today was no exception to the rule/pattern.

I was putting on my make-up, and Evan came into the bathroom so I could put some on him, too (do I allow my son to wear make-up? He can when he's 14, if he wants, but right now we just pretend). Evan began to gather up little fistfuls of things, perfume bottles, nailpolish, etc., and walked out of the bathroom with them. An action like this means I'll have to search the garbage momentarily, or it could mean that he's dispersing the objects to their rightful homes-- under the sofa, in his desk, in his toy box.

After I was done with my beauty routine, I went to find Evan. He was sitting on the floor in the living room, watching Barney, absentmindedly reaching into a jar of Vaseline and spreading it on his cheeks. An two-inch icicle of ointment hung from his jaw, leaving a slimy trail on his Batman Pajamas.

The time came that I had to take the jar away. I bartered with him: "Evan, if you give Mama the face cream you can have your bop." ("Bop" being Devenney-ese for "pacifier."). Strangely, he didn't protest, not even when I wiped the extra gunk off his face. Of course, while I'm inclined to applaud my active parenting, maybe he was just comatose from watching Barney and couldn't be arsed to put up a fight.

Professor Nice Lady

I've spent a large portion of the day chipping away at grading papers and computing subtotals of final grades. You would imagine, given the type of student I deal with, that this is a fairly easy task: 0+0+0=0 = FAILING. But no, it is not.

The reason why it's been such a chore this semester to keep track of homework grades is because many students are taking major advantage of my late work policy, which is as follows: late work is accepted, but is subject to a one-point deduction per class period late. I'm a pretty nice lady, I think, and I am dedicated to my students' academic success, so I don't want to penalize them with a policy that's SO strict that they won't earn any points when their work is late. I'm about sick of being a nice lady.

Another problem with my type of student is that they often turn in work half-done. Sometimes it isn't even half-done. That is, even if I specifically state on their assignment sheets: "On the day this assignment is due, you will hand in three documents, A, B, and C," they will often only hand in one of the three. I've told them before, "I will wait to grade your assignment until it is complete. Until you hand in all the documents I ask for, your assignment sits and cries in my huge, lonely pile of incomplete work. The longer you wait to complete it, the less likely it is for you to earn any credit for your work."

Some students wait so long to turn in their work that it isn't worth any points at all. But, if they do turn something in ungodly late, I still have to look back in my grade book, count up how many class periods late their work is, and award them the 1 or 2 points they have earned. It wastes time and it sucks.

Many of my colleagues do not allow late work under any circumstances... seems a little draconian, a little harsh, not at all like how I like to run my classroom. There's got to be a happy medium...

I'm thinking something like 5 points off per class period late. Most assignments are only worth 10 points, so a 5-point deduction seems on the harsher side of fair. Actually, the 5-point deduction idea came from a student, an upperclassman, who said she thought the younger students weren't taking their work as seriously as they should. This student has never turned in anything late. My policy only helps the ones who are awful at completing anything on a timeline. In fact, it rewards them for procrastination and laziness-- like, "It's OK, you're Mama's little underachiever, and I'm just so proud that you even finished your homework today, and that you wrote your name on it and that you stapled it!"

Next fall, I'm turning over a new leaf (hahaha!). No more Mrs. Nice Lady. No more late work. If an assignment is late, it is an offense punishable by death-- stoning by a squad of happy clowns and dancing midgets.

Soon, very soon...

I'll be 29.... I'm not totally flipped out about it yet, but, I have a feeling that on my birthday proper I might have a little freak out. This is because some small irrational part of me will keep thinking: you're closer to 30, you're closer to 30, and what have you done with your life?

Most of my friends are 30 or over and are still really cool. At 30, I hope to be like my friends who are 30 and over-- still cool. However, I would like to note that most of them did have a minor freak out when they turned 30. That is, in some way, shape, or form, every one of my friends had some sort of massive goal they wanted to accomplish "by the time [they were] 30". Many of these include: getting married, having a baby, paying off some portion of humongous debt, buying a house, traveling the world, etc. (At present, I have accomplished two and a third of this list-- with both major and minor success).

My question: Where does this 30-anxiety come from? Why do people feel like they all-of-a-sudden must settle down and become "real" people once they hit 30? As a child, I don't recall having any anxiety about turning 7, 8, or 9-- maybe about turning 13, or even 16-- but I suppose that was less anxiety and more about looking forward to major "firsts"... simply becoming a teen, for example, and then learning to drive.

But, I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel some sort of 30-pressure closing in on me. It's cliche; it's ridiculous, and I can't believe I stoop to such silliness. But, because some humans are prone to cliche influence, I feel the heaviness of 30 hanging over me like an evil giant's fleshy thumb. In one swift smush, I could be totally crushed.

To keep myself hanging onto the threads of my 20's (and so I can recall fondly my glory days) I will do all (or none) of the following before I turn 30:

1. Get a tattoo (or two).
2. Get published (again).
3. Win something.
4. Maintain (or lose) weight.
5. Stop passing up opportunities to buy impractical and excessively beautiful shoes (as I did just this evening, when shopping at TJ Maxx-- a pair of 3.5 inch high cork heeled shoes embellished with rhinestones cried out, "Save me, Mama!" and, because I am a callous bitch, I kept walking).
6. Get a job without following qualifiers: temporary, contract, adjunct, part-time, seasonal.
7. Travel to one of my old Euro-digs.

And now, to spend the rest of the evening computing final grades. I heart Math.

I was tired

After my reading last night, I went out on the town with a few friends and lovers. The conversation was light, like my two glasses of Reisling, and centered mostly on amusing anecdotes. My addition: during some student presentations, one group's handout urged their classmates to "Asses their time management skills," and another group's handout proclaimed, "Studying more will help you do well on testes.

After such a big big day and huge huge evening, I came home... looked at my lovely dozen red roses-- a gift from Bacon and my mom-- and passed out in my bed until 10:30 AM today.

And today, I walked to work admiring how the sweat dripped down my lower back in only 70 degree weather. Summer is on its way to suffocate me. I fear it will be brutal.

You can see pix of my reading, and all my sexy friends, here.

Mama's Busy Day

Well, here it is... office hours, which instead of being used to complete office-y tasks are being used for other useful things-- updating this blog, for example; and watching a group of three freshman girls in flip-flops and capri pants throw a Frisbee outside my window.

I've just come from having lunch with my mom and Son-of-Bacon, but my day began much much earlier, at 8:15 AM, when I had an intro meeting for one of my part-time temporary summer jobs (someday, someday, I'd like to talk about work without putting all those qualifiers in front) with the Summer Academic Orientation staff.

I'm really looking forward to this job, because it's going to put me in touch with many people around the university who do not work in the English Dept. The larger variety of people I know the more knowledge I can share with my colleagues. The one thing I am not looking forward to is that I'll have to dress like kind of a tool: khaki pants or skirt, tennis shoes (what?!-- I only wear them to EXERCISE), and a CMU shirt and windbreaker. I'll definitely look the part of I-can-sell-this-university.... so, I guess I'll feel it, too?

I finish teaching at 4:00, then go home, then drop Evan off at his Grandma's for the night. Then, prepare meticulously for my poetry reading this evening. And, by meticulous, I mean combing my hair, putting on my bangin' new suit (yes, I FINALLY found something to wear), and repeating the phrase, "You are the best writer in the world," over and over to myself.

Being well-connected rules. Working part-time temporary summer jobs rules. Being popular rules, too.

A little afraid...

Everyone who knows me well knows I have one favorite emotion-- guilt-- and one favorite mode of being-- anxious. These two things, mixed and shaken-not-stirred, make a lethal cocktail. One that can keep me thinking, feeling, analyzing, articulating, evaluating, re-thinking, re-feeling, overanalyzing, re-stating, and re-evaluating for days on end.

At the moment, I am preparing myself mentally for my poetry reading tomorrow... and while it's well known that I am vain (I've obsessed over what to wear for like 1000 days) and that I am a bit of a show-pony, there's still that nervous little sparrow with low self-esteem at the center of me, cruelly chirping, "They're all gonna laugh at you! They're all gonna laugh at you!", "Your poems are pap and crap!", and worst of all, "Who's going to care?"

I got a flyer in my English Department mailbox today advertising my reading. I printed it off and plan to frame it the way rock stars do their gold records. I'll offer to sign copies of it afterward.

Tomorrow in the audience: many friends, colleagues, Bacon Bringer, my mom. So, I'll be surrounded by people who like me/love me (at least most of the time, anyway). What is there to worry about? I'll be delivering these poems to a largely supportive community of readers and writers (and loyal fans). I can worry about anything and everything. I could probably will myself into Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, as well.

I guess I also have to will myself to believe that my voice counts, that my experience is valid, and no less human than anyone else's. On a good day, I am very proud of the poems I'm reading tomorrow-- and am thankful for the experiences that opened me to writing them, and I have complete faith in releasing them to the world at large. Let's hope tomorrow is a good day, and that my hair looks great.

Because there's no promotion like self-promotion...

In case you care or want to come, I am co-starring in a poetry reading here on the campus of Central Michigan University, on Wednesday, 4/19, at 7:30 PM in the Lake Superior Room of the Bovee University Center.

The lead role will be played by Julia Fox, fiction writer/adjunct faculty. She's hot and she's English-- so if you like hot chicks with British accents, you should come listen. And I guess if you like short robust American girls with flat chests, you should come listen, too.

A Reflection on My Palm Sunday Homily

I've been an avid-to-nonexistent-to-moderately-avid churchgoer all my life. Most Catholics I know have one of two favorite times of liturgical year: Christmas or Easter. I've tended to favor Christmas, but over the weekend, at Palm Sunday mass, I sort of started to like Easter too... mostly due to a homily delivered by Karon, part of the parish leadership team here at St. Mary's University Parish.

Basically, the message of it was that life can change in an instant, as Jesus' did-- He went from being a hero to being a criminal, loved to hated, etc. The parallels Karon drew to everyday life are like when things go from bad to worse, from better to best, or sad to happy... like recently, with mine and Bacon-Bringer's unemployment woes. Bacon went from having the promise of another year-long contract in SVSU's History Dept., to a potential tenure-track job at MCLA, to having neither, in just a few weeks time.

However, things might begin looking up soon. Bacon might be teaching some classes here at CMU in fall... he's waiting on some communication from the chair of the History Dept. I probably have an additional job opp this summer, working as an academic advisor for summer freshman orientation.

Anyway, what I wanted to tell you was that even when things seem really really bad, totally insufferable, and you are nearly asphyixated with sadness or grief or whatever, the important thing is to remain wholly present in that emotional state-- not to retreat from it-- because I think there's light and grace in every emotion, every event-- and there's nothing better about living than feeling everything as deeply as you possibly can.

A Reflection on "Indecent Proposal"

Over the weekend, I caught a bit of the movie "Indecent Proposal" on the Oh! network. This movie stars Woody Harrelson, Demi Moore, and Robert Redford. In case you don't remember the premise, it goes something like this: Demi and Woody are a young married couple, who are reasonably happy but are struggling financially. They go to Vegas on vacation, and somehow Demi meets Robert, who is, of course, a debonaire trillionaire, and he happens to find her insanely attractive. Robert offers Demi (and Woody, I guess--though he really doesn't have to do any work in this department since Robert isn't a swinger) $1,000,000 for one night of sweet lovemaking with her. A deal goes down and some terms are agreed to, and Demi does it. She earns the money and brings home the bacon; and the rest of the movie is all about the unraveling of relationships, venturing into new ones, and returning back to old ones. I guess it's a love story, for the most part.

I first saw this movie in the mid-1990's, in the theatres, so probably shortly after it came out. As I recall, I went to see it with a monkey-brained wrestler from Birmingham Groves High School. I think his name was Nate. He drove a blue Ford Festiva, and our dates usually followed this pattern: see movie, eat food, park car in random lot, make out. Pretty typical suburban teenage crap, I think. I remember thinking that "Indecent Proposal" was a perfect date movie, in that it really was fodder for serious conversation: "Would you ever....?" I'm not sure Nate and I had this conversation, though, because I'm pretty sure he didn't think much about anything-- ever.

So viewing parts of this movie now, in my late-20's, as a mom and wife, I found myself wanting to have this as-yet-unfulfilled conversation with someone.... and who better to have it with than you, my loyalyet reluctant-to-identify-themselves readers? Here's my Q: if you were in a reasonably happy committed relationship that fell on hard financial times, would you do as Demi did?

And here's my A: Probably not... at least not for a measly million. That amount might've been OK for the 1990's, but not these days-- why, that's barely minimum wage! I'd demand double-- no, TRIPLE-- what Robert paid Demi. (Aside to young readers, from your mother: it is illegal to have sex with someone for money. And it's a bad decision, besides, because you'll be hurting yourself and others).

The worst and most unrealistic part of "Indecent Proposal" is that in the end Demi goes back to Woody and they resume their reasonably happy pauper's life. In an alternative and more compelling ending, Demi would stay with Robert, the debonaire trillionaire, and she'd hire Woody to be her bed-in butler. She'd have the funds for something like that because of her connection to Robert; and Woody could still have a relationship with her, and she with him; and Woody would finally live a house with air-conditioning, a washer/dryer, and a dish washer.... best of all, he wouldn't have to fiddle with the AC, or do any kind of washing, because there would also be a live-in handyman, and a live-in laundress. Woody's main duty would be tending to the woman of the house. As long as Robert stayed filthy rich he'd be blind to any reality at all, and he'd continue throwing money at Demi, and everyone could live together and be reasonably happy-- and they'd have all the STUFF they could ever need or want-- helicopter, yacht, vacation houses; Aston Martins, Armanis; pet monkeys, personal shoppers and trainers; and lots and lots of $$$$$$.

Be grateful...

... for the opportunity to spend money on cool handmade stuff, especially when the proceeds go right back to something equally cool.

Yesterday, there was a pottery sale in front of the Bovee University Center. It was all stuff made by art students, members of the Clay Club. I don't ordinarily spend $42.00/day on pottery, but I was more than happy to yesterday.

I bought a vase that looks like an ancient Grecian version of a Dr. Seuss animal for my mother-in-law ($10.00), and four soup/cereal bowls with neat-o Fiestaware orange and green swirls on them ($8.00/each). The money for these products went to the student artist, and then to support the Clay Club, probably for materials, speakers, etc. Groovy.

I washed the bowls immediately upon returning home, because Po Bastard used them later on to serve a very manly three-meat soup to two friends. Po Bastard will get around to sharing the recipe later today... it received rave reviews (I mean, what soup wouldn't that had THREE meats, yes, THREE in it? Pepperoni, small cubes of ham, and thin slices of leftover Porterhouse steak?).

In another "be grateful" related point: I talked about this very thing with my study skills students today. "How can being grateful help you academically?" Their answer was something like: Well, if you do really poorly on a test, you could still at least be grateful for the opportunity to BE in college, because many people just have to work at McDonald's their entire lives. My response: Yes, it's important to focus on the big picture, to make sense of how everything matters in the long run-- though this can be really hard to do when nothing seems to be going well for you on any given day. Then I told them my fax machine story:

After I graduated college the first time, with my BA, I worked as a secretary for an agency that helped people on welfare find jobs. My boss there was a fierce Puerto Rican lady with a massive attitude. Her name was Ramona. One day, Ramona handed me a box and said, "Put this together." I said, "I can't do that-- it's a fax machine. I've never put together a fax machine before." Ramona said, "Sure you can," and left it on my desk. My choices were these: put together the fax machine or deal with Ramona's wrath. So, put it together I did-- and I programmed phone numbers into it and everything. It's something to be grateful for: powers people give us that we don't even know we have.

I love my job. Even on a stupid day, I can say I love my job. I am grateful! Are you?

Mama's Yucky Morning

It began about 5:45 AM, when I was awakened by the sound of Evan crying in his bed. At first, I thought he'd woken up because he lost his bebop (family code word for his pacifier); but, upon entering his room, I smelled that I was dead wrong. There he was, standing in his crib, gesturing toward his crotch, which is universal sign language for "CHANGE ME."

Change him I did, and what a production it was. His onesie and entire pajamas had to be changed. I used about 11 baby wipes, much in contrast to the usual 2. Then of course he had to be rocked and given some milk. I put the dirty clothes in the washer to soak, and went back to bed about 1/2 hour later... at 6:15 AM. I should've just stayed up for the day.

I slept through my alarm, got up about 8:15, and remembered that I needed to go to work early to have copies made. I left the house with a shower but without coffee and without packing a lunch. You might think who cares about those two latter things, as one can purchase both coffee and lunch at a variety of places on a college campus. But you can't purchase GOOD STRONG coffee, and you can't purchase sandwiches with Branston pickle on them.

Therefore, my breakfast consisted of a 16 oz weak-ass coffee, and a chocolate chip bagel smeared with peanut butter. Let me say that I thought it was a cinnamon raisin bagel when I picked it up. I like chocolate and even go in for the occasional chocolate sandwich, but this chocolate chip bagel tasted faintly of onion, which made it very foul. Top off the chocolate-onion bagel with a downpour of rain while walking to class.

I don't mind rain, really. In fact, I kind of like it-- but, because I had coffee in one hand and foul bagel in another, I had no hand to hold my umbrella. Consequently, my hair got really wet and it now looks like I have a Jheri curl. Most foul chocolate-onion bagel; horrible dishwater coffee; wet hair-- and the smells of rain and worms curling around in my nostrils.

I hate worms. I have never touched a worm and will never touch a worm. I was even able to avoid worm-touching in ninth-grade biology class-- my partner did all the dissection. I don't like how they look, and can only imagine how gross they feel in hand (GAG!), and the smell alone is enough to make me dry heave. Most of all, the thing I hate about worms is the soft crunching noise they make when you accidentally step on one. Stepping on a worm doesn't feel like stepping on an ant-- stepping on an ant feels likes stepping on a speck of dust. Stepping on a worm feels like splitting open a really skinny slimy lip-- and that's what they look like, too.

The rain has now turned in to snow. And I have a Pap smear to look forward to this afternoon. Whoopee.