Library Hour: Not Just for Fockers

Evan and I had a very nice morning attending library hour, playing at the park, and shopping for fruit at the Farmer's Market.

But, the highlight of the AM happened at the library, while the librarian was reading Walter the Farting Dog. One of the little boys in attendance shouted out, "You FOCKER!" to no one in particular. His mom, redfaced, turned to him and said, "So-and-so, what did you say?" "FOCKER!" he said again. Since the boy's mom didn't want to interrupt library hour further, she looked at him sternly and said, "Stop saying that right now."

I could tell there was a discussion to be had after story time. Problem is, how do you explain to a little kid that focker, while not really a proper swear word, is almost a proper swear word, and that he therefore shouldn't say it?

Pretty difficult.

The Whole Damn World Is Combining and Multiplying

Yesterday and today combined, I've heard three pieces of news concerning marriage and children:

1. A new friend/colleague from the Freshman Orientation staff announced his engagement to us yesterday AM, before yet another freshman orientation

2. A close colleague from the English Dept called while I was at the gym this AM, and left a message with Andrew that I should come see her engagement ring (this news thrills me to the bone-- her man's from England, they met on the net, and then of course in person, and have been going long distance for about a year-- and I told her this entire school year, "Better pack those bags, girl-- you're gonna marry him,"-- and she chided me the entire year, "How do you even know that?" To which I'd smugly reply, "Dunno. Just do." Turns out I was right!)

3. My older sister Amy, mother to one-year-old Great Ball of Fire Lincoln Edward Mendenhall, called to say she will have another baby this upcoming March. (Yikes. Kids 20 months apart. Lots of crying. Lots of diapers. There's a special place in heaven for moms who endure this... I am not/will not be one of them)

Congrats to all my friends and family, who are happily overpopulating this world.

"Liberally educated persons know about..."

"...basic forces, ideas and values which shape the world, and about the structure of organized human knowledge-- the arts and humanities, natural and social sciences, and their values, perspecitves and methods. They are skilled in reasoning, writing, speaking, problem solving, using and interpreting quantitative information, in working with others, including those of diverse ethnic and cultural background, and in thinking reflectively about themselves as individuals and as members of society" (p. 112, 2006-2007 Bulletin Undergraduate Studies, Central Michigan University)

If I used these sentences as a checklist to assess how much I learned in college, or to estimate how many "mad skillz" I acquired as a result of my liberal education, I would definitely be lacking.

I am skilled in: reasoning (sometimes); writing (most of the time); speaking (usually); problem solving (debatable); using and interpreting quantitative information (what does "quantitative" mean, exactly?); in working with others (yes-- and, no, too); including those of diverse ethnic and cultural background (does living abroad with mostly honky-populated areas count here?); and in thinking reflectively about myself as an indvidual and as a member of society (I truly wish I could stop thinking reflexively-- it takes the joy out of absolutely everything).

Pink Cupcakes + ER + $15.59 = Dog Bite

Yes. That is a mathematical equation-like title. Let me explain the equation so you can see how I arrived at this answer.

Last night, Evan and I paid a visit to our friends Courtney and Dan. We love Courtney and Dan. We love visiting Courtney and Dan at their house. Evan especially loves visiting Courtney and Dan's house, as it is much like Noah's Ark-- they have some kind of fat, orange, bed-sitting, drowsy cat; a medium large mutt dog named Crockett (I call him Crap-it, which says a lot about how I feel about pets); and two tanks of fish. Evan is always allowed to feed the fish, a job he takes a lot of pride in.

The purpose of last night's visit was three-fold: to unload some overly-decorated pink cupcakes (Evan's first foray into cake decoration was a success, but a success only children would want to eat); to prove that I am still alive (having been stricken with the cold from hell last week); and to socialize (I hadn't seen them in awhile).

After Evan fed the fish and patted the cat, we all went outside to sit in the back yard. I brought Evan's toy lawnmower, which he wasn't at all interested in pushing; and as we three talked, Little Person busied himself by watering the potted plants and exploring the yard. He and the dog were having a good time chasing one another, until Evan reached for the toy "baby" Crap-it carries around in his mouth. Next thing I heard was a snarl, followed by Evan's wailing. I ran over and picked up my kid, who was really scared but not terribly injured (as far as dog bites go). There was a little bloody gash, about an inch and half long, halfway between his eyebrow and his forehead. (Meanwhile, my heart was beating so hard it felt like I'd run a marathon or something, but I was trying to hold it together so Evan wouldn't flip out more).

As Dan busied himself scolding the dog-- pressing its snout to the ground, giving it a few firm whacks and several you're-a-bad-bad-boys-- Courtney and I walked across the street to the ER at Central Michigan Community Hospital. (That's another really convenient thing about visiting Courtney and Dan's house-- should anything go terribly wrong, like if you have a heart attack, or explosive diarrhea and a heart attack, while you're there, all you have to do is walk across the street to the good docs at CMCH). It didn't take too long for us to get seen; and I knew Evan wasn't that hurt because as we were waiting, he turned to me and said, with big salty alligator tears in his eyes, "Mama, all done."

He didn't need stitches or anything. They were able to glue the wound shut with some kind of surgical stickiness. But, having said that, he didn't really enjoy his visit to the ER, either.

I am well aware that getting bit by something is a right of passage for most children. And even though I knew the wound wasn't deep and that Crap-it is up-to-date with his vaccinations, the thing that scared me the most is how much worse it could've been. I guess, as a parent, you always feel guilty when something happens to your child-- you don't want to see him/her in pain, or fear, or anything else. But, these things will happen, and probably the best thing to do (for the sake of the child, anyway) is to react like you're simply cleaning vomit up off the carpet-- "Oh, honey, I know it's yucky, but you'll feel better soon"-- because the truth is if I would've allowed my inner reactions to guide my outward reaction, I'd probably be chain-smoking and taking anxiety meds right now.

I was also really worried that this incident would ruin Evan's fondness for animals. I don't know how Evan will react when he sees Crap-it again, but last night, when we got out of the car, he waved to Marley, our dog neighbor from upstairs, who was sitting in the window. And for his bedtime story, he chose "How Much is That Dog in the Window." Dog bite doesn't appear to have hindered his enthusiasm (there's a lot to be learned from a Little Person's resiliance).

(Aside: I think I deserve a gold star-- or something else gold-- for bravery and maturity and calmness-under-pressure and all that. While I still think most pets are ass-licking fleabags-- Crap-it included--, I realize it would be wrong to teach my child to model the same deep-seated visceral dislike in his interactions with the mangy mongrels. Let's hear it for selflessness! Hooray!)

Sweet Home Mt Pleasant

Evan and I passed a pleasant week at home in Troy visiting with friends and family. There were several highlights to the trip, as usual, but the best ones involved seeing Evan play (or attempt to play) with other kids.

We spent one afternoon swimming in my cousin's pool, with little cousins Jack and Alexander-- Evan whined and refused to wear swimmies or sit in an inner tube-- that day ended with me smacking his bottom and yelling, "STOP WHINING!" We went to a BBQ at my friend Chris' house-- Evan stayed busy playing with the sprinkler and the little pool, ignoring the little girl closest to his age, who, when we left, solemnly vowed, "Eben, I'll call you,"; he was also fascinated by the size of baby Beatrix's jowls, and tickled them intermittently.

It was most interesting to watch Evan's waxing and waning interest in his cousin Lincoln. They were friends or foes. Evan was either chasing Lincoln around the house, trying to hold his hand, or hoarding all the toys and telling Lincoln, "Nonononono," every time his dimpled one-year-old hands reached for something.

Anyway, this is sure to be a long post, because I haven't even gotten to what I really wanted to write about, which is how I know, for sure, that I am getting really good at my job teaching study skills.

One of the things we attempt to teach our students is how to deal with distractions. We remind them that mental distractions can be just as difficult to overcome as physical ones-- and, in some cases, even harder. You can always go study somewhere else if your roommates are playing their music too loud, but it's a lot harder to get up and walk away from racing thoughts or emotions. Some people don't know it's possible to control these things, or at least to put them off, until a certain task is completed or a specific goal is reached.

Case in point. I had a full day of readmittance interviews on Tuesday. During my lunch hour, I got a message to call home. Turns out my dad had been taken to hospital on Monday night because he was having chest pain. That's all the info I had. Many things raced through my mind, such as: oh my god, my dad had a heart attack; my dad is going to die; my dad will never be the same; I'll really miss my dad; I love my dad, at least he can die knowing this; well, even if my dad is going to die, he had a great week last week with his kids and grandkids at home with him-- he can die knowing we loved him... these thoughts-- paired with traditional funeral images-- kept running through my mind. But then I said to myself: "Wait a second. Calm down. You can't worry about it too much yet, you don't even know what caused the chest pain."

So, in those moments, I was putting into practice one of the very things that we try to teach our students. Focus on the immediate task, the one that demands your energy and attention in the present, and DO THAT THING-- not the 1000 other things that tug at you. And, while it was hard to keep it under control the rest of the day, I managed to conduct the rest of my interviews with a high level of success by reminding myself that it wasn't time to worry yet.

It turns out my dad didn't have a heart attack. The chest pain was caused by pericardiaitis, an inflammation of the lining surrounding the heart, and it was treated successfully. He is already recovering at home!

(Aside: did I marry a gay man? Andrew said he was watching the baseball game. I hear echoes of Project Runway coming from the TV room)

Bath City Grill with Grandma

One of my most favourite things to do when visiting home is to spend a day with my grandmother. Our routine rarely varies, which is fine with me: I arrive in the AM, about 10:30, we have some coffee and maybe a pastry, chat for awhile; we leave the house around noon and go somewhere for lunch; then we go shopping somewhere no one else will shop with us-- like Big Lots or TJ Maxx-- we buy a few things; we go home, examine our purchases, have some more coffee and maybe another dessert; we might play a game of Scrabble or watch some cooking programs on FoodTV. We talk more. Then I go home a little after dinner, thus bypassing rush hour traffic. Today my visit was no different, only the restaurant we went to-- the Bath City Grill-- so named because apparently Mt. Clemens was once known for its natural stinky mineral baths (conveniently now paved over)-- was out of mussels. Let me say this is a "Belgian" restaurant. Restaurants that pride themselves on their Belgian-ness should never ever run out of mussels. So we were a little disappointed on that front, because that's another thing Grandma and I have in common-- no one else we know likes to eat mussels, and so we planned on eating them together. We had a good lunch anyway, and then-- of course-- we went shopping. Another great thing about Mt. Clemens, in addition to its being a shellfish-free zone, is its abundance of thrift shops. I'm talking the three biggies: St. Vincent De Paul, Salvation Army, and Goodwill; and some smaller but equally magical ones, like Value World (formerly Value Village) and Mt Clemens Community Thrift (formerly Sunshine Thrift). And boy-oh-boy what a haul-in I got... for only $12.95 (a little spendy for a thrift shop, but I'm not complaining) a knee-length ivory 1950's mohair coat, complete with kickass decorative buttons and a fold-down rabbit (?) fur collar (also ivory). The secret now will be how to hide it from Andrew... hm ("What?! Another coat!?"). Anyway, back at Grandma's, we did the usual, and when I packed up to leave-- what I'm about to say is also usual-- I left with another bag of random loot... some hearts of romaine, a package of Light Twinkies, two jumbo muffins, and a bag of chocolate chips. I don't ask for this stuff, it just happens-- leave Grandma's, get a bag of stuff. I barely need to go shopping. In fact, I don't need to at all-- it's just something we do together because when we do it with anyone else they never think it's fun, just annoying. I love my Grandma... together our annoying tendencies become pleasures.

Reminder bracelet

I recently bought this bracelet from an antique store in Mt. P. It's got the 10 Commandments listed on 10 little silvery-gold circles. Totally Catholic; totally relig; totally tacky. I wear it often. Thing is, it's missing commandments 1-3. Why is that? Are those just not as important as the remaining 7? Hm. Puzzling... but the bracelet fits better without 1-3. Had those been added, it'd be more anklet size than bracelet size. The moon is full this evening! It looks a lot like the facets of my bracelet, actually. (Dawns on me: this will be a very annoying post to read because my mom and dad's dial-up crap computer won't allow me to hit ENTER and move to next line... oh well, suffer and read and be happy.) Tonight, I went with my sister Angela and my bro-in-law-to-be Kevin and our friends Terry and Nadia to the Alibi, the famous Troy pizzeria. Over a few glasses of wine and a pizza, Terry updated us all on the condition of his boyfriend's illness, which is very dire. Terry's bf is dying from pancreatic cancer, and has been told he will not live to see age 30. Terry is getting bf's affairs in order, as he has no living family, other than a crusty old granny who will someday die from cancer herself. I barely know Terry's man, having met him only once at a wedding, but, nonetheless, it made me infinitely sad to think about this poor soul. What do you do when you know for sure that you have less than six months to live? I guess Terry's bf is living the best he can one day at a time. I suppose that's all we all can do, anyway, esp. when 1-3 are missing from your reminder bracelet and you can't seem to remember 1-3 on your own. I spent most of my day playing with Evan and my nephew out in the sunshine, talking with my sister Angela, and doing other things I like-- baking. Terry's bf probably already does this everyday stuff-- but better than the rest of us do it. I hope to learn something about living from him, even if I only learn it secondhand-- from Terry telling his story.

Would you trust me to...

... decide if you were personally able to come back to university after you'd been dismissed?

... to set conditions for your readmittance to university, such as: you will attend counseling, you will seek assistance from a math tutor, you will take only 4 classes, no more and no less?

Starting tomorrow, at 8:00 AM, this is my next very part-time summer job.

I'm intoxicated by power... thrilled that my boss trusts me to do this very important job well...

I'm scared shitless.