What Can I Say? It's How I Roll!

Well, kids, I'm proud to say that I did a brand new thing this AM. Still feeling the guilt from eating the Amish-baked lard-laden cinnamon roll I bought at the Farmer's Market yesterday, I woke up and decided the thing to do would be to try to run 4 miles.

And this I did. I ran it at 4.0 mph, in about 60 minutes.

My friend Courtney--who runs marathons (and could probably win a part on Baywatch-- she is so fine and fit) for fun-- and who gives me advice about run to manage my own running program-- told me that runners often have "easy runs," that is, where you run slower but for longer than usual. I enjoyed the slow run so much I think I'm going to try to do it once per week at least.

I rather like putting on headphones, rocking out, and running away.

Places you shouldn't hang from

Evan and I visited Chipp-A-Waters Park today. It's one of the smaller Mt Pleasant parks, but since Island Park (our fave) is overrun by SummerFest (carnies and other assorted local characters), I decided to move our outdoor excursion this afternoon.

The play structure at Chipp-A-Waters is fine. Evan had a good time climbing, saying "Mama, GO!," collecting sticks, and dragging his feet in the dirt. I had a good time marveling at the pre-teen boys hanging like drunken monkeys off places people aren't supposed to hang from on the play structure. I had a scary time thinking, "In twelve short years, I will have one of you."

I know I am the mother of sons; and yes, I do want to parent sons. But, sometimes, the thought of parenting sons scares the effin' crap out of me. Why? Well, at about age 12-14, when boys' leg hair starts growing in, and their voices begin to slide up and down, they become not quite human. They start to do things like have spitting fights with their cousins at the family reunion; and they invite their littler cousins to get "ejaculated" from the "penis slide" (the tube shaped slide, which, in reality, looks more like a big hollow drinking straw-- not a penis); and then they call each other names like "Michael-Jackson-wannabe," and yell, "Hey, you LOVE Michael Jackson!"

Awful.

Someone tell me these boys will grow into young men? Please?

You Are the Author of Your Own Life Story--- I think, anyway.

While my mom was visiting this week, we went to Loafer's Glory-- a general store/bakery/antique-and-knick-knack/luncheon place located in the charming village of Blanchard, about 12-16 miles west of Mt Pleasant. I like to take visitors from the metro Detroit area there, because they don't have anything like it in Corporate Land.

First metro-Detroiter reaction is usually, "Ohmigod, this is sooo quaint!" Then, the Detroiter combs the shelves of "handmade" crafty wooden and natural fiber items in search of the perfect rural souvenir. For my mom, these items were: a painted-to-look-like-granite pottery birdhouse (early birthday gift from me); a few packets of homey dried soup mix; a large jar of locally canned jam; chocolate and candy covered sunflower seeds; and a few other bits and pieces I don't remember.

Point is: rural folk are marketing geniuses. They know people go on road trips to places like Loafer's Glory; and they know that metro-Detroiters can't leave without finding something they absolutely "need"-- whether it's a wooden plaque that says something like GOD BLESS THIS HOUSE AND ALL ITS CONTENTS or a too-pretty straw hat with faux-sunflowers glued to it-- rural folk know, inside their corn/soy farmer souls, that city peeps romanticize country life enough to visit but that they would never, in 100,000 years, rent the one-bedroom apartment in the white farm house attached to Norm's Year Round Garage Sale. So, they play to that romantic fantasy, and let metro-Detroiters buy sets of enamelware dishes with roosters on them instead-- because, don't Amish people eat off dishes like that?

Apologies for the digression.

For lunch my mom and I ate the Summer Special: a red grape salad with a sweet creamy dressing, orange bread, and chicken salad in a pastry puff. My mom had a piece of cheesecake for dessert-- I took a bite of hers, and that was enough. We chatted pleasantly about the decor and history of the place, and remarked how many people we knew that would like a visit there. All these people were from metro-Detroit.

While it was my third time visiting Loafer's Glory, I didn't enjoy it any less. The food is always good, the shopping is always twee, and, as a former metro-Detroiter myself, I always drive into Blanchard and like to remark, "Ohmigod! Can you imagine growing up in a town THIS SMALL!? What do these people do for fun?!"

Since I've been a semi-rural dweller off-and-on for ten years, I don't fall for country folks marketing ploys; and I've been able to resist buying any rural souvenirs from Loafer's Glory. That is, until yesterday.

Guess who bought a wooden plaque that says: You Are the Author of Your Own Life Story.? Guess who perched it on the ledge behind the kitchen sink? Guess who intends to use this plaque as a teaching tool in her Study Skills class?

Yeah, that's right. I'm still from metro-Detroit. You can take the girl out of the suburbs, but you can never, ever, ever exorcise the suburbs from the very white girl.

Sweet Jesus! The Summer Semester Ends!

Now then, in case you can't tell from my highly enthusiastic title, my ENG 201 class will be over on Thursday. All in all, it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be teaching a summer class. I needed the money, first of all; and, second of all, my class got along so well together-- helping one another draft, offering editing suggestions, etc.-- that they're trying to plan a pizza party. I don't want to take responsibility for that outing, because I have enough to do already, so I said-- sure guys, go ahead, organize it, and tell me where to show up and I will. Dunno if they'll take the initiative to do this or not.

Teaching seniors and juniors has been refreshingly organized. They can think properly, read actively, and even contribute to disussions. They can write thesis statements that aren't things like: my mom says killing babies is bad, so it's clearly wrong. They're more dimensional people; funnier, more interesting; they understand sarcasm and even irony. Moreover, they don't whine on and on about their grades-- why did you give me a B+ ? I really didn't deserve a B+ ; I got all A's in English in high school. Juniors and seniors are refreshingly over themselves, and don't have as much of a sense of entitlement.

I still do love freshmen, though-- there's something about their spazziness that's like watching a retarded puppy cross a poorly jointed bridge over a shallow puddle.

My plans for the rest of the summer include a visit home to see my peeps and homeys; a visit to TX to see Bacon's fam; and a visit to WI to see some old Mt Pleasant friends who've moved on. My mom visits this week-- we'll take Evan to Mt Pleasant Summer Fest, a hartley-bartley village fete, which includes things like a children's parade, an ice cream social, and a petting zoo. Ain't that America?

Sweeeet.

One more thing...

This goes hand in hand with previous post. For a long time, my ratings on ratemyprofessors.com have been chili-pepper free. This means that even though my students think I am an easy, clear, friendly teacher, not one of them thought I was a hottie.

Thanks to an Orientation colleague, that changed. He gave me a chili pepper. My self-esteem went up, up, up... and then, I went to view this lone chili pepper on the site itself-- and there was no pepper. Down, down, down the self-esteem went.

Apparently, you have to be rated with a certain average of chili pepps before they show up on the main page.

Twist the knife.

And the award goes to...

OK-- so, my mock award from last night's Orientation Banquet is: BEST STORYTELLER.

What's up with that? Here I was, vainly hoping for MILF-- and I come home emptyhanded. So I'd rather be recognized for timeless animalistic beauty instead of talent...

I knew I should've gotten implants before the banquet. That would've won it for me.

For sure.

The Big O's fantastic ending

Orientation season comes to a close today. As a team, we have overseen the schedules of 3,700 incoming freshmen. This means, for the past four weeks, I have had to tell wetfresh newbies different versions of the following statements:

1. College isn't like high school.
2. College is hard.
3. You have to get up to go to class, even if it is at 8:00 AM.
4. Yes, you do have to read in literature classes.
5. No, ratemyprofessors.com isn't the authority on whether or not professors can do their jobs.
6. How much you learn in a class has nothing to do with how hot your prof is.
7. Yes, even if you hate the arts, you still must take a class from "The Arts" subgroup of the University Program.
8. Just because you're good at a subject in high school doesn't mean you will be in college. In fact, you probably won't be.
9. Yes, there are deep-seated, important reasons why Reading Improvement and Study Skills appeared on your draft schedule.
10. I don't think you will succeed here, or in life.
11. If you're so smart, why aren't you smarter?
12. After speaking with you for 20 minutes, I'm positive your high school GPA was weighted.
13. Are you on top of your game, my friend?

That last one is most annoying. Because of orientation, I have sometimes been finding myself talking in sports metaphor. Earlier today, one of the peer mentors asked me how I was, and I replied, in utter seriousness, "Pretty good, Kelli. I'm on top of my game!" And yes, there was an exclamation point there, too-- I heard it in my voice. Totally gross.

Anywho, tonight is the big Orientation Celebration Banquet. I am very excited for this, because I'm guaranteed to win a Mock Award. I've never won a Mock Award before-- in high school, I was nominated for Most Eccentric (what?!), but they gave it to a purple-haired lesbian who shaved off her eyebrows... and she wasn't even at our All-Night Party to graciously accept the award. Where's the loyalty for her voting public?

Whatever I win, it'll be because I earned it. I'll share the fame and glory with you.

Evan Goes to Art Class

I've come to the conclusion that enrichment classes for two-year-olds are a complete joke. While the reasons behind child enrichment classes are sound: offer kids a chance to meet other kids, to try something new, etc... they mostly make parents crazy and want to drink.

Case in point: this AM I took Evan to a local art class. The instructor was enthusiastic and welcoming. There were four other kids, ranging in age from 22 months to 5 years. The three older kids had a great time playing little instruments, making animal noises, and dancing. Evan was willing to hold a pair of rattles, which he shook intermittently, but he was unwilling to participate in any group activity or conversation. At one point, the instructor asked, "Evan, what's your favorite animal?" He looked at her like she was on crack, and said, "No."

At craft time, Evan decided it would be a great idea to put his entire hand in the Dixie cup of glue. He then dumped an entire bottle of glitter onto his paper plate, which he was supposed to be decorating into an animal mask. At snack time, he didn't want the juice or the cookies; he preferred to play the piano, bits of green glitter still stuck under his nails.

During final song time, which I thought he would like-- the instructor was playing piano-- he got up, tugged on my arm and said, "All done. Go go go."

In the car, on the way home-- Me: "Evan, did you like art class? Did you have fun today?"
Evan: "No."
Me: "Dad and Evan are going to art class tomorrow!"
Evan: "No."
Me: "You'll have a fun time, singing songs and gluing things."
Evan: "No. DVD?"

I am convinced that the best activities for toddlers are unstructured things like visiting the park, throwing sticks and rocks into the river, and "helping" with chores. Whenever I've taken Evan to something that he's "supposed" to like, he doesn't like it.

He would've been happier playing piano for an hour, or just walking around the building looking at random things.

ENG 201 Blues

Sittin' here in class
bored off my fat ass
Ever notice how the word "cerveza"
rhymes so queerly with "tristeza"
one means beer and one means sadness
both are versions of elegant madness
I hate summer
it's a bummer
I should've been a plumber
I'd have a pocketful of dinero
to spend on my favorite hero
it's you it's you
oh yes it's you
especially when you do what you always do
to my feeble heart
which isn't smart
but you're a part of my everyday
in many ways
whether or not you see
it or believe it
some wine would be really great
and I'd like to sleep in late
so I can be a better person tomorrow
happier, happiest, free from sorrow

I Heart TV

Many times in my self-righteous 20's, I've told people things like: watching TV makes you stupid/retarded; TV is a vapid past-time; TV is rarely educational, etc. Most of the time, I'm right. However, there are nights when you don't want to do anything but turn off your brain, and that's where TV comes in.

Some people opt to watch things like the History Channel, or even the Travel Channel. But, no, those are too high class for me. I prefer the so-called "chick channels" like WE, OH, etc. Why? Well, because their shows, at 10:00 on a Sunday evening, are things like: Extraordinary Pregnancies--in which a calcified fetus is extracted from a 76-year old Moroccan woman's body; 760-lb. woman-- in which a morbidly obese woman beats the odds and slims down to 450 lbs.; Intervention-- in which a junkie's family sits him/her down in a hotel suite, and convinces said junkie to undergo treatment for addiction-- junkie usually fails, and end-of-show credits feature sub-title things that read: so-and-so was last seen living in a car with a known drug addict; Daddy's Spoiled Little Girl-- in which thirty-something women are seen throwing tantrums over not getting new cars or new houses; and, my ultimate fave, The Secret Lives of Women.

That last one is a theme show, so it'll be something like: The Secret Lives of Women--Lesbians; The Secret Lives of Women-- Transsexuals; The Secret Lives of Women-- mother of quintuplets; The Secret Lives of Women-- Porn Star. The best one ever, in my opinion, was The Secret Lives of Women-- Surgeons. What?! Like that's a secret a woman would keep from friends or family-- "Peggy, don't you work at the university hospital as a neurosurgeon?" "No, I'm actually a cashier at Save-A-Lot." Notice the other Secret Lives of Women shows all feature something sort of late-night racy. Since when is being a surgeon on par with being a call girl? A show on a latter is a lot more entertaining.

Anyway, my late night TV watching goes in spurts, and will stop tomorrow when I'm handed 44 essays to evaluate in a reasonable amount of time. Until then, keep the trash coming. I love all things tacky-- and I'm insanely jealous of the 3-foot high plaster sombrero-wearing burro my neighbors put out on their porch.

Some enchanted evening

I passed a very pleasant evening celebrating my friend Sue Murphy's 66th birthday. We took Evan to the park, then dropped Evan off at home, then went back out to Mountaintown Station-- a Mt. Pleasant microbrewery (our ONLY microbrewery)-- to have a beer on the back porch there. The Mountaintown patio overlooks the Chippewa River, and Island Park, and all kinds of summer greenery. We all know I hate summer, and I think nature is overrated, but Mt Pleasant was looking very ideal this evening from where I sat... that's mostly because it wasn't ungodly friggin hot today, like it was over the long weekend.

Then something very incongruous happened. All four police forces, out of the five in this small town, showed up to handle some matter that needed handling. It was a quiet matter, something Sue and I didn't even know was going on until we were walking out to my car. Oh well, it was more amusing than anything else for us, the spectators, because we sat in the car chatting for awhile until a cop rapped on my window and told us we could pull out (he was parked behind me, blocking my car in, you see-- so rather than interfere with an investigation, I just thought I'd wait it out).

Sue Murphy gave me hell for enrolling three incoming students in Military Science and Leadership courses. She is anti-war; I am anti-war, too. She asked when I got brainwashed. I said I wasn't brainwashed. I personally feel that these kinds of courses can help mediocre students develop confidence, focus, and discipline. Many of them tend to function well when given clear sets of expectations... like, run around the block, come back, do the Chicken Dance at the 50 yard line, and shout, "Hey, hey, hey, cool!" Just because you take Military Science doesn't mean you're active in the Army. You wear the Army uniform when doing drills and stuff, but you're not IN the ARMY.

And after all, most of us wear some type of work "uniform"-- that's what happens when you're working for The Man. A dress code reinforces certain values, a certain state of mind, etc. That's all. Since when is it a crime to want my students--who are very unable to create structure in their own lives away from home-- to have a foundation for being able to create that?

Military Science courses weren't for me as a freshman, but I do see the value in them, and would never turn kids away from them as an academic advisor. In fact, I try to sell the courses properly, intelligently, and without judgment.

Happy Birthday, Sue Murphy, you hippie.