Tata, Mamou, the Spider Incident, and Chicago

It's been awhile since I posted something new, so the title is actually a reference to three incidents...

Evan began speech therapy this week. His new speech pathologist, Tanya, is a slight blond-haired soft-voiced lady who wears mocassins. To prepare Evan for his first visit, I'd told him: "Evan and Mama are going to play some games and practice your talking with a new friend named Tanya." His reply: "No, Mama; no Tata." It ended up that he had a very good time with Tata anyway-- they played about 5 or 6 different toys in 45 minutes-- car garage, Play-doh, barn, and doll house. Evan was reaching for the bin of beans when it was time to go. I think he'll go for that one first next time, because it's similar to the rice box Gaga Patty made for him.

Lately, Evan's going through some sort of Latin or French phase, which must stem from one of his previous lives. Without any prompting or suggestion, he's moved from calling me "Mama" to calling me "Mamou." If we look at a picture of a lady in a book, or see a woman on the street, she is "Mama." Any man is "Dada." Any woman or man above a certain age is "Gaga," and any woman older than "Gaga" is "Gigi." I feel sort of special that he's invented a nickname for me-- since I've never had one that stuck... not any that I want to repeat, anyway.

Yesterday, a beautiful fall day, Evan and I were playing outside. I was pushing his shopping cart, and he was pushing his lawnmower. At one point, I stopped to point out a big spider crawling through the grass. "Look, Evan! A spider!" I said excitedly. He crouched down, got a close look at it, poked it lightly with his finger, stood up again, thought for a minute, and then exclaimed, "SHOE!" and crushed it with the force of a boulder annihilating an innocent flower. Once back inside the house, the conversation went as follows:

Mamou: Evan, tell Dada. Did you see a spider outside?
Evan, nodding and smiling enthusiastically: Uh-HUH!
Mamou: And what did you do with the spider?
Evan, stilling smiling, lifting his little Spiderman sneaker off the floor: Dada, SHOE!

Tomorrow, Mamou is off to Chicago to visit friend Wendy, The Omnisicent Reader, who is in a doc program at UIC. I nickname her thus because she is the one person, other than me, who actually read every single page of the fiction halfuscript (it's a HALFuscript because it's only HALF a book, if that) I slaved in vain over during the Dublin Adventure. I'm going to class with her tomorrow night. Hopefully there'll be some version of PhD. student show-and-tell, and she can be like, "This is my friend, Po' Bastard, whose minimal, measly Master's degree has allowed her to hit the academic glass ceiling, as a perma-temp instructor, at only 29 years old." Ha.

All that aside, I love my job. No, I don't rake in the money. And yeah, I have a lot of debts-- and someday those'll get paid off. But I feel important every day, and like what I do matters to the immediate good moment and to the greater, future good.

What can I say. I change lives everywhere I go. To Chicago and beyond!

The Taste of Victory

I'm engaged in an ongoing debate with my students about success. While we agree that each person has his or her own definition of what success is, we disagree on one point: they say it's possible to feel full success when you are attempting to prove others wrong-- and I say it's a better victory to succeed for yourself.

I tell them it's hard to live a life where you're constantly attempting to prove others wrong. That's a lot of negative kind of energy. Wouldn't it be better to channel that energy inward and succeed at something that belongs wholly to you?

It's different to have a victory and share it with others, than to share a victory with people who thought you couldn't achieve it to begin with.

I guess what this comes down to is surrounding yourself with people who love and appreciate you, who believe in your potential to achieve from the very beginning. Not everyone can do this in the environment they grew up in. I try to tell my students that college is a time to change that-- there are people here who can and will support you in everything you want to do-- just make sure you're asking for good support from good people!

(Aside: sometimes I think I'm more motivational speaker and entertainer than instructor).

Holly, Bridget, Kendra.... Andrea

I am absolutely in love with The Girls Next Door.

A few weeks ago, I posted something about my top three life goals: 1) to become a stylish, rich old gay guy; 2) to be a jam-making nun at Kylemore Abbey; 3) to be Amish.

At present, I have to add: becoming a Playmate.

Yes, I'm smart enough to realize that the show is intelligently edited to project a certain image of each girlfriend, etc. Despite that, I have to say it seems like Hef's girlfriends are always having a good time... and, who doesn't want to have a good time, most of the time?!

Hell-- who doesn't want to have a good time ALL OF THE TIME!?

Asphalt Sandwich

Yes, I agree, my title would make a great name for a band.

Evan and I arrived home today at about 4:30 PM after spending the weekend with my mom and dad. When dinnertime rolled around, and the cupboard was bare, Bacon announced that he would like to go out, but that he "didn't want to go anywhere big-- just to Big Boy or something." This we did.

I got a highly mediocre fish sandwich-- very lean on fish but pretty big on the chunk of deep fried batter wodged in the bun, some not-so-crispy fries, and a not-so-crispy tossed salad. Bacon's dinner looked more appetizing (some fish/shrimp/penne combo), and I found myself wishing I'd ordered what he did... or, even better, what we ordered for Evan: a grilled cheese sandwich.

When Evan goes out to eat, he never eats-- he's just too busy rearranging the salt and pepper shakers, and stirring my water with restaurant-provided crayons. But since I didn't want to cook for him when we came home, I kept my greedy hands off his sandwich for the duration of the meal, and asked for a to-go box, knowing full well Evan would eat the sandwich at home where he could watch TV.

Evan insisted on carrying the box out himself. He had it pressed to his little chest the way a suicide bomber does his weapon. Evan made it all the way into the parking lot and almost to the car when the box spilled open, strewing fries and sandwich onto the asphalt.

What follows is an approximation of the actual conversation in the moments after:

Bacon, looking at me: Should I pick this up? (Bacon says this knowing I feed Evan food off the floor all the time at home)
Me: Uhhh, I guess.
Bacon, crouching down, picking up sandwich: Gross. C'mon Evan. (Evan, seeing that Bacon has left the fries on the ground, crouches down and begins gathering a fistful of them like greasy sticks. Bacon walks back to the car with the boxed-up asphalt-dusted grilled cheese.) C'mon, Evan.
Me (standing next to Evan in the parking lot): Evan, leave the fries on the ground for the tee-tees. The tee-tees will fly down and eat them.
Evan: No, mama. (He hands me a fry)
Me: Gee, thanks.
Bacon: Evan, leave the fries for the tweet-tweets.
Evan: No, dada.
Me: You better bring that container over here. He isn't leaving without the fries.
Bacon (sighing): Fine.

We collect the fries in the container and drive home. Upon exiting the car, Evan insists on carrying the box again. He makes it up the front stoop, and almost into the house, when the box falls open again, spilling the sandwich and the fries. We collect everything in a hurry, but not before Evan can grab a fry off the ground and take a large bite of it.

Evan: Num, num!
Me: Evan, you're awesome.

Put your best foot forward... or, in my case, the shoes I like best.

And so it happened again today. My students commenting on/critiquing my fashion sense (or maybe, in some of their eyes, my fashion senselessness).

I happen to be wearing a pair of silvery Dr. Marten Mary Janes, which I picked up from Nordstrom Rack about two years ago. Even though I have branched out into other styles and other makers of footwear, I will always buy a pair of Docs on sale. Why? Great quality, pretty timeless style, pretty easy way to express my somewhat punk-ity rock-ity sensibility, comfortable as hell, etc. And even though I don't wear these shoes every day, I like being able to rock them when I want a bit of pep in the step.

The comment came from the front row, toward the end of class: "Andrea, I'm not sure if I like those shoes." Then a nod of agreement from someone else. "Yeah, they kind of look like martian shoes." Another voice, "Hey, have you heard of steel toed shoes? Those are like all steel. They're kind of scaring me."

While this is going on, I'm handing back homework assignments and sort of taking in all the comments. At the end of their commentary, I say, "You know, guys, I'm positive you don't talk to your other instructors like this." But I'm not reprimanding them or anything like that-- I say it all with a smile, because I understand who these kids are and why they act the way they do. Moreover, I understand the importance of having an instructor like myself-- in fact, I preface many things in class with: "Because I'm a nice lady and I care about your academic success..."

I'll wear whatever shoes I want to class. At least it gives them something to talk about.

Some random mindnight-ish ramblings

1. Why must water fountains always smell like... I dunno... uhhh... shit? Seriously-- the other day I walked past the new dorms, Celani and Fabiano, with the lovely water fountains in front; and, from afar, I was thinking, "This is a really lovely set-up. CMU is really trying all kinds of new things to attract students these days. We offer stiff competition against MSU, Grand Valley, Ferris, etc..." and then I smelled the water spouting from the fountains. These buildings and their fountains are less than two months old. Why can't the water spewing away smell brand bloody-spanking new as well?

2. My sister, Angela. Best Person on Earth, hands-down. She's a phlebolomist, and occasionally works out of one of the big hospitals deep the in the dirty armpit-like sections of the ghetto. In one case, there isn't secured parking for employees. So, my sister, knowing she will be accosted by street people begging for money, carries several packets of Ramen noodles in her bag. When asked for money, she says, "Sorry, I don't have any on me. But do you want some soup?" Apparently, there are always takers, since the street peeps can get hot water for free in basically any establishment.

3. Breaking Up with Shannen Doherty. Just finished watching this show on the Oh! Network. It's horrible. It's like one of those candid camera, hahahaha set-you-up shows... only it isn't funny at all. People conspire with gap-toothed evil Shannen to break up with their significant other-- an elaborate scenario is invented, a video message relayed, and Shannen goes in to complete the dirty work. Tonight's episode featured a girl who kept going back to this sonuvabitch who was certain he was God's gift. He told her how to act how to dress how to sit how to stand and basically told her she was a fat cow. Yeah, in this case, I support the break-up-- but it's too bad the girl had to hire a TV friend to help her make a clean break. I'm not dissing the girl, but all the people around her who should've helped and didn't.

4. Let's hear it for step aerobics. I did a class earlier this evening. I'm gonna feel it tomorrow. But, I really tried hard to kick it up a notch by doing extra jumping. What can I say? I'm getting older, and I wanna show off a little that I can keep up with all the members of the cheerleading team.

5. Let's hear it for deadlines-- however potential they may be. Andrew's dissertation committee delivered a message to him during Week 1 of term: your defense is scheduled for Jan 29, 30, 0r 31. Finish it. Now.

6. Let's hear it for the Mt Pleasant Farmer's Market. Today I bought all the makings of a minestrone soup... for about $5.00. Plus, an oz. of maple sugar and some very ripe plums to sprinkle it on. Sometimes I'm really satisfied with this town.

Alas... there's nothing for me to buy.

Everyone knows I am an avid shopper. Everyone also knows that as soon as money lands in my pocket that I like to take off for the shops. Usually, I'm buying things I need-- shampoo, lotion, replacement eyelash curler for the one Evan permanently "hid". I also buy things that Evan needs such as diapers or baby wipes or other baby sundries.

I can't quite explain it, except to say that even though I don't have any money, that shopping relaxes me to some degree. Instead of wandering around thinking, gee, I shouldn't be shopping because I don't have any money, I like wandering into a clothing store, putting together an entire outfit for under $25.00, and trying it on-- even if I don't end up buying it. I like combing clearance racks, garage sales, estate sales, thrift shops. My closet is a motley combination of these things.

So, this past Friday I got paid. Evan was with my mom and dad for the holidy weekend, and so, I took some time to shop it out. I went to Wal-Mart, got some toiletries for myself, two outfits for Evan, and one for me-- which I ended up returning. I shopped in TJ Maxx for an hour and a half, and walked out empty-handed. I went to Deb-- a trashy, cheap-y place, bought a skirt-- and returned it today. I also wandered into Old Navy-- tried on a denim skirt-- and walked out empty-handed again. I had to wonder: why, when I gots the funds, why can't I finds no fun threads? HM.

To tell you the truth, I began my shopping excursions this weekend with a very hopeful attitude. I was inspired because Friday night, when I was out at the Blackstone Bar with my friends Courtney and Dan, I saw the girl I would've liked to have been at 20 or 21. One: her thighs didn't touch in the middle; two: her hair reached the middle of her back-- perfect blond, ringlets-at-the-bottom; three: she was wearing hot pants-- so help me God-- black hot pants-- and high-heeled sliver glitter mules. The Playmate-wannabe inside me was jolted awake. You see, I've always wanted to wear a very short skirt with very high boots (or something like that--I didn't even dress like that at 20)... and so, the rest of the weekend, I aimed to replicate a more age-appropriate version of that hot little mama's look.

That's why I returned so many things. Very short skirts are better left to the very tall and very skinny and very young. When I put on a short, three-tiered ruffle mini, I look like a fat cheerleader. If I tried on hot pants, I'd look like the Stay-Puft stay-at-home Marshmallow Mom. No kidding.

Weirdest thing of all: while I've bitched about gaining a few in the last year, it seems that running has made my ass firmer, but wider. How that's possible, I dunno-- but, I have a bubble-butt and a fierce desire to wear a mini-- and am really frustrated that these things don't jive.

Let's hear it for lipo.

Finally... I know what I want to be when I grow up.

There are very few things in this world that can eclipse my desires of becoming: 1) an elderly, stylish gay man and 2) a jam-making, soup-pureeing, bread-baking nun at Kylemore Abbey. But yesterday, while buying out the shop at Mt Pleasant Farmer's Market, I realized that there is one thing in the world that CAN outshine these desires: becoming Amish.

How one becomes Amish I'm not sure, but I do know there's a lot they do that's pretty cool-- like roast coffee, bake pies, make quilts and furniture, and give their kids old-fashioned cool-sounding names like Hannah-Sarah. Some Amish have electricty. Some don't. Some ride in horse carriages. Some don't. I'd aim to be the kind of Amish that could do either.

I'd learn how to make the Whoopie-pies Evan likes to eat every Thursday... they're like a cake-y chocolate cookie sandwiched together with vanilla buttercream frosting. I'd drive a big country-truck (though I'd have two horses-- Amelia and Bedelia, and a cart just in case); and I'd wave to people on the road, and call everyone, "My friend."

Sweet.