On Dying

I've been thinking a lot about death lately. I know that sounds a little bit morbid, but one does think about death often when that's what's going on around oneself.

Last week, my aunt's partner's mom, Inez, died age 90. While I didn't make it to the memorial service (at the explicit pardon of my aunt and her partner) my mom reported that it was an "awesome" affair-- the room was packed to standing with people who loved and admired Inez. There was a memorial table of photos, remembrance cards, etc. Attendees could also pick up a lucky quarter to put in the slot machine next time they were at a casino-- Inez loved to gamble, and, when in Michigan, often visited the Soaring Eagle Casino right here in Mt. Pleasant.

My favorite memory of Inez is from this past summer, when Andrew, Evan, and I visited for a weekend. Evan had been resolutely refusing to have his poopy diaper changed. I tried coaxing, bribing-- everything short of stabbing him with a tranquilizer. Inez witnessed all this drama and said to Evan, very clearly and sternly, "Evan, lay down." There was no confusion about what she expected him to do. He looked at her, and then he looked at me, like, "I don't know who this lady is, but something tells me I better do what she says." He laid down without protest; the diaper was changed; and I finally had an effective model on how to communicate with a toddler. It's actually made a lot of difference in how I handle Evan when he's being difficult (which, thankfully, isn't all that often).

At present, my paternal grandfather is in a nursing home, resolutely refusing additional medical support that would prolong his life. He is not on pain medicine or on a ventilator. His hearing is pretty OK and his mind is still pretty sharp-- but his major organs are functioning at about 10-15%. My family is in full support of my grandpa's decision: we understand, that at the age of 88, having outlived two wives, that the man has lived a full and reasonably happy life. The doctors have given him 2-4 months to live-- a grim timeline, at best. But my family is prepping themselves for his passing, in both the physical and mental sense. My sister Angela, for example, has plans to play cards with him next week. He's going to teach her how to play pinochle. My mom and dad have been making sure that my grandpa has everything he wants or needs-- Spearmint gum, his shaving kit, etc. I suppose we think it a comfort to my grandpa to know that he was cared for in this world while he's on his way to the next.

When dying takes a long time, it seems to give people a different perspective on life. My grandpa recently told my sister he wished he would've spent more time with my Evan. This came as a bit of a surprise to me, because growing up we weren't particularly close to my grandfather-- he didn't live nearby--we saw him mostly at major holidays; and when he remarried, he inherited a slew of step grandkids, who we saw once a year at a family picnic. I guess what I'm saying is that while he didn't really influence or shape my upbringing, his actions did show that he cared for us-- he never forgot my birthday, for example, the card and a gift of money always arrived early or right on time. That in itself means something; and for me, that's enough.

I don't think dying is the point in life where one should feel guilty for what one didn't do or didn't accomplish. I don't think it's the time to seriously evaluate your actions in life-- or to regret things. Rather, I think a long time dying is a life lesson about how important it is to be fully present in the present... to be 100% aware that any time spent is well-spent.

Pity don't come cheap

Evan and I went to visit my mom and dad this past weekend to give Andrew some quality dissertation-creation time. Soon, I won't have to worry about leaving home to guarantee Bacon's productivity. What I mean is that he has an official date for his dissertation defense: 01/29/07. I'm planning on throwing a wee soiree in the dissertation's honor-- but I'm not making concrete plans yet, because I have other more immediate concrete planning to tend to, such as: researching recipes for lamb shanks-- I bought some very cheaply while in Troy; grading--mid-terms and in-class essays (another SuperFun weekend ahead); and thinking about what to serve Sue Murphy, who's coming to dinner this evening.

The title refers to an incident totally unrelated to the intro paragraph:
While home, I went out for some catch-up drinks with my friend Sexy Ann. We were talking it up when the bartender came over and asked us what we wanted to drink. She asked for my ID, so I dutifully handed over the driver's license. The bartender gazed at it for a long time-- and all the thoughts running through my head are things like, "She thinks this ID is fake; she doesn't believe it's a real license, etc." She finally looks up at me and says, "You look familiar to me. Where'd you go to high school?" I tell her. After some discussion, we figure out that she graduated with my older sister and used to play in orchestra with her. Even better, the bartender graduated from CMU!

It was a very slow night at this bar. The bartender stayed chatting to Sexy Ann and I for about half an hour. During this time, we heard all about how once she turned 30 she decided she needed to experience life, and quit her job in banking and moved out West-- spent a year bartending there and realized she needed to come home to grow up, and now her career plan involves bartending and finding a man to take care of her. Her delivery was very comical, Molly-Shannon style, almost-- but, listening to this girl talk I have to say a lot of what I felt was, well, pity. (In my journal, I wrote: "the tables you wait the drinks you pour/ out the heart of a real girl/ with a serious case of the should-haves/ the supposed-to-have-dones"). And, I don't know if she knows it yet, but, if the reaction you incite in others involves pity to any degree, that isn't terribly alluring.

I wanted to give her a little lecture, like: "Look here, Wee So-and-So, your attitude toward life needs a facelift." (Again, better summarized in my journal--maybe: "your best life is the one you choose most to live in"). It makes me really sad when people fabricate their lives around the assumption that what's around the corner has got to be infinitely better than what exists at present. I'm not saying people shouldn't plan for the future or have goals to work toward-- people should do both these things, to a degree. But, when your attitude toward the present is kind of shitty and defeatist, you can't really plan or set goals because your ability to act is hindered by consistent longing... and you lack motivation to go forward.

Long story, one short point: we got our drinks for free. I did leave a hefty tip. I won't hope our bartender spent it on a bus ticket outta town or something else lifted from a Bruce Springsteen song. Instead, I'll hope she laid it carefully on a pile of crumpled bills in a secret lockbox, part of a reminder that she will do something with her future by recognizing the riches of the present.

Moving into new spaces

In the consistent and ugly battle for office space, I have lost once again. I have vacated my former office-- a person with a "real" (ie. not temporary faculty) job has moved in-- and I am now exploring previously uncharted territory-- my office is now in a hallway of engineering dept. offices.

I'm not complaining. The room is big. My desk is here, and the drawers actually open-- I think the movers sprinkled magic dust on it. My computer is here, and it works. I hope I have an ink cartridge in my printer, but I don't know yet because it's only my first day in here and I haven't printed anything. Best of all, the office is tucked away in a sort of remote corner, so no students will ever find me during my office hours.

I'm also not complaining because engineers are generally a congenial, macho-yet-slightly-nerdy bunch-- which means the views are pretty good, if you know what I mean.

Besides that, there's like a solar-powered race car or something parked in the main hallway.

Baseball Schmeisball

It's a highly published fact that I dislike sports. I don't play sports because I am not naturally athletic. Any suggestion of throwing or catching a ball, or hitting or kicking a ball sends me into fits of panic. Inside, you see, I am still the little girl whose gym teacher yelled "Easy out! Easy out!" when I went up to bat; inside, I am still the woman whose husband said, "You run like a duck."

In addition, I don't play sports because playing sports means following rules of all kinds-- small, big, and medium-sized. I can't think of anything less fun to do than follow stupid rules. This is why my friends who know me (and also like me) never call to ask if I want to play basketball, volleyball, kickball, on and on and on. "You go ahead," I'd say, "Call me for the drink-up afterward." I much prefer that type of athleticism, anyway... lifting pints with one's liver.

Despite being a person who hates sports, I have spent some time thinking about how to make sports better for people who hate sports:
1. Goals, touchdowns, etc. should all be worth more points. I'd be more inclined to watch a game where the score was 1,000 to 4,000.
2. With the above suggestion in place, all sports could be shortened. Instead of four quarters, make it just two. It seems like a lot more is at stake when there's only half a chance to win.
3. Get announcers who actually speak like humans, instead of special Jock-Itch Code words.

I could add to this list, but for the sake of time-- and the fact that I'm aware I sound like a real asshole, I'll stop.

What I really wanted to say was this: I haven't had a moment's silence in my house since the World Series or whatever it is started on TV two months ago. It's been all baseball all the damn time. I can't STAND the noise. It's just not the kind of noise I like... give me Evan on a harmonica for four hours straight; Bad Brains, "My Attitude," on a continuous loop... that's noise I can take.

As much as I hate sports on TV, my inner scholar realizes that they are culturally relevant. Michigan (and Detroit, specifically) really need the Tigers to win the World Series. It would bathe the city and state in a resplendent optimism one could probably see from Gary, IN, at the very least. In addition, when a sports team wins a big title, it's sort of like a victory for the people, by the people-- or at least that's how the people see it. You think, "Those are OUR guys," and you get the idea that teams do their jobs partially to please you, and that they delight in that fact (whether or not this fact is true). Let's face it: a sense of shared victory motivates people to change-- which could be very significant in an ELECTION year, when Michigan has the lowest unemployment in the nation, the costs of higher education and gas are steadily on the rise, and everywhere everywhere companies are cutting back on their work forces.

I hate sports-- but, GO TIGERS.

A Brilliant Reference... Totally Wasted

This afternoon, I was discussing an excerpt of Julia Alvarez's How The Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents with my intermediate comp students. In the story, one of the main characters, Laura, is also called by a few other names/titles-- Mom, Mami, etc. In addition, Alvarez tells us a little about the origins of Laura's maiden name, and its significance in her home country of the D.R. I was attempting to show my students that these subtle shifts in name change imply a lot about Laura's changing identity-- from Dominican to American--and that their meanings are all essential to creating a dimensional understanding of Laura as a character.

To bring it down a notch (or up, I guess-- depending on how you look at it),--to "concretize" the concept for them I said, "Like would Alex P. Keaton still be Alex P. Keaton if he were just Alex Keaton? Family Ties would've been an entirely different show, right?" I expected lightbulbs to shine brightly above their dim little heads. Alas, no.

Then I said, anxiety welling into my voice, "You guys have seen the show Family Ties, right?" Blank stares. Not just vaguely blank-- like, I've-heard-of-that-show-before blank-- but utterly, completely, starkly blank. I tried again. "Well, you guys know who Michael J. Fox is, right?" A few headshakes. "You mean that guy from Spin City?" Well, yes, but also not quite that same guy-- he was a different guy in Family Ties, because he was younger, and a different character, and all that other really important stuff. "Do you mean the Back to the Future guy? He was in another show? Ohmigod, when? It must've been a long time ago..."

Who am I fooling? I dated myself completely with that reference... but I was certain, that like Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Family Ties was a classic hit that pretty much everyone has seen. Even Bacon thought I dated myself. Most of my students were born in 1984, which means they finished high school in like 2002. Even my younger sister, my little sister Angela, is older than most of my students.

Arrrggghhhh. 30 looms. It holds a sharp, hot pitchfork in its spiny little hand-- occasionally it jabs me, pretty hard, and laughs like an evil sorority girl who compliments your 100% acrylic sweater at the bar but then laughs about it to her friends when you walk away.

Evan Goes to the Fire Station

There's one mom in Mt Pleasant who's always in the know about everything going on in the community. This mom is not me. Thanks to my friend Jennifer's group emails, I find out about a lot of free kid-related stuff-- and, today, Evan, Bacon, and I attended a free kid-related activity at the Mt. Pleasant Fire Station.

They had their whole fleet of trucks open for kids to climb into; they passed out plastic fire hats and packets of fire-safety information; there were tours and free food. It was some poor fireman's job to wear the large dalmatian costume. (It's pretty hot out today, and to be standing in the noon sun, with a fake fur mask covering one's face seems far from ideal-- other firemen had better jobs, like demonstrating the hose). Evan liked the trucks, but his favorite things were the human-dalmatian-- he kindly offered the "dog" a sip of his milk and some of his corn chips; and running through the hazardous waste clean-up/shower tent with a bunch of five and six-year-olds. Evan enjoyed the latter activity so much that he ran away with the group of them, and Bacon and I lost track of him for several minutes.

I wandered around the hazardous waste tent yelling, "Evan! Evan?!" I expected to find him crouching silently in a remote corner of it, pooping his pants. I was surprised not to find him there... but I was even more surprised when two other little boys approached me and said, "Did you lose a son?" Of course I had to reply, "Yes," feeling like a bit of a jerk-- what kind of parent loses track of a kid at a safety-themed community event? And, then there came Evan, smiling away, holding hands with a pig-tailed six-year-old girl... in his mind, he hadn't been lost at all. He'd just been swept away by all the fun. "Hi Mamou," he said.

What else. I ate two free pieces of pizza. Ogled the firemen. And thought about how the hazardous waste clean-up tent would be the perfect setting for a perverted afternoon romp. HOT!

Big Compliments and Small Victories

It was my intent to try to update while in Chicago-- but, I'm not going to lie-- I'm a popular girl, and when the city calls, you gotta answer. My trip to Chicago confirmed a few things:

1. I will never pursue a PhD. At least not now, and probably never. What confirmed this for me was attending a doc-level Stats class with my friend W, a student in Educational Psychology. As I sat there listening, I almost started crying because of the sheer pressure Math caused in my brain. I think I had an aneurysm. The only way to cure said head injury was to eat and drink the rest of the weekend.

2. Mid-western values are alive and well in Chicago, even though it is a big city. In some cases, it's even friendlier than Mt. Pleasant. For example, while W and I were walking to the train station, we passed the Episcopalian Church. I was pleasantly verbally assaulted by a gay (and possibly drunk and possibly mentally ill) man, who went on and on about my flowered tapestry coat: "Ohmigod! That coat is simply stunning-- just absolutely beautiful... what a fall gem. And, look at the whole emsemble-- your style is so elegant, you just wear it so WELL...." I was sort of embarrassed, and just went on repeating, "Oh, thank you, thank you..." And, then, this same man, turned to W and said, "Well, you look OK too-- but your style is a lot more low key than hers." W said thanks too, but on the train we marveled at what an odd social situation it was: why, when two people are together, and a stranger offers one a compliment, that he/she feels compelled to also compliment the other. Hm....

3. A good meal, always, is focaccia bread, olives, cheese, grapes, proscuitto (sp?), and red wine.

4. Valpariso, IN is a lot like Mt. Pleasant, but more religious.

On a far less Chicago-related theme, I was very happy today when one of my students reported that he had good news about one of his classes. "Well, what is it?" I asked. "I got a C on my business test that I studied four hours for." I congratulated him on the C, because the highest grade in the class was a B+ ; and, more significantly, he said that for the first time in his life, he wasn't the one kid in class who failed miserably.

His parents didn't share my enthusiasm, apparently-- which makes me sad-- because that means they might not be being realistic about what achievements their son is capabable of. They might've said, "Son, a C isn't anything to celebrate. Next time get an A." I fundamentally disagree. If you work your ass off for a C, like I did in Math and Science classes, a C IS MOST DEFINITELY something to celebrate.