Mockingbird's Nest

Mockingbird and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

2012-01-22T16:23:00.002-05:00

(with apologies to Alexander)

It doesn't happen often, thank goodness. But Friday was one of those fortunately-rare-but-still-quite-nasty Very Bad Days.

It's hard to explain, but since we all go through these sometimes, I probably don't have to explain it much. It was a Very Bad Day. It's not that anything horrible actually happened - I didn't have an accident with the car, I didn't get some devastating diagnosis, and I didn't end the day with fewer fingers than I started it with - but it was a Very Bad Day nevertheless. See, it doesn't take a tragedy to drive me off into the Forest of Crazy; in fact, I'm one of those who totally gets the Dorothy Parker quip that it's not the tragedies that kill us; it's the messes.

And what a mess.

All I wanted to do (the lament of the unsuccessful) was take this Powerpoint I'd made for my upcoming online class - and made with love and care, mind you - put some narration over the top of it and then gently drop my baby into the online platform we use for such classes so my tender birdling students could be fed from its wisdom. Easy, right? A couple of clicks of a mouse, right?

Ha, she said bitterly.

I couldn't figure it out. Like, at all. I had the same chance of coming through this experience unscathed as (to borrow from the magnificent Douglas Adams) a whelk in a supernova. I couldn't get the microphone hooked up properly. I couldn't figure out how to start recording. I couldn't figure out how to save the recording. I couldn't figure out the search terms that would help me figure out the answers. I yelled at the computer. I yelled at the microphone. I yelled at Bill Gates and, just to be thorough, I roundly cursed Steve Jobs.

I am deeply ashamed to say I lost my temper and yelled at the dog.

Literally hours of that madness, and I was still not one whit closer to figuring out the answer than I am today at forming the Grand Unified Theory of Everything.

And yet.

I was reminded of how lucky I am. I have friends who listened to my wild-eyed rantings and told me it would be okay. Who made me feel better that I was even trying to figure out tech stuff (probably needless to say at this point, but it's NOT my strong suit. Hell, it's barely a card in my deck). I have friends who took one look at me and suggested that I just stop for a while. (Great wisdom is in these words: "When nothing you're doing works, do nothing.") I eventually figured it out - it may not be the quickest, more elegant solution, but duct tape can hold any number of things together as well as a weld. And tomorrow, one of my lovely and learned friends has agreed to meet with me and take a look at the patch-job I've come up with. She probably won't even laugh - she's that good.

The lesson in here? Sometimes the day just doesn't bend your way. When that happens, it's okay to quit. Walk away - the problem will still be there once you cool down (and if it isn't, so much the better) and you won't seem like such a raving crazy person. I didn't learn that and I had some apologies to make later. I also threw my good eating habits to the wind, because it seemed like cream sauce and cupcakes were a better choice than committing a string of Class A felonies. (Which is true, but it's far better to not get in that place to begin with.) Scarlett O'Hara was right - tomorrow is another day and you can always take another run at it then. Go a little easy on yourself.

Oh, and the dog forgave me. I swear, there are days when I don't deserve that critter.

Not All Hours Are Billable

2012-01-15T19:12:00.000-05:00

Back when I worked as a litigation lawyer, keeping up with my "billable hours" was a big part of my everyday life. It's not exactly a natural part of your life, but it's hammered into you that it's going to be a very important part of your bank-wall-grey-suited life. Think about it. Every time you make a phone call, even if you only leave a message, you must remember to enter the client's name and code and assign a time value to the call, usually one-tenth of an hour for a phone message. And you do that for every single task you perform that day. Every letter, every snippet of research, every paragraph drafted, every phone call made, every e-mail read, much less returned - all of these must be assigned to a client and billed for.

Crazy making. But that's how lawyers bill. (By the way, flat fees are the way to go. That way, you only pay once and you know exactly how much it is. Just sayin'.)

The problem is that once you get that mindset in your head, it's darned hard to get it out. And not all hours are (or should be) billable.

It's hard for me. I have a job that I really, really enjoy, but I've learned - slowly and painfully - that I'm better at it when I build in breaks and time off from it. I'm good with deadlines, but my brain also needs time to let ideas percolate. The trick is building in "percolation time." My regular course load requires me to teach five classes per semester, plus two in the summer. That's five classes worth of papers, tests, speech presentations, journals, outlines, and various smaller assignments to collect, comment on, and grade. That's five classes worth of student e-mails, excuses for missed classes, student appointments, and assorted student problems, on top of committee assignments, book orders, faculty and divisional meetings, reports, professional development, portfolio composition, and adjunct wrangling to handle - all without the prospect of tenure. It's a loaded plate and, for the most part, I love it. Seriously - I do. Furthermore, I think I'm pretty good at it.

Education isn't widget-building, no matter what the business folks say. You can't run a school like a business; not entirely. This is because you're dealing with people rather than interchangeable parts. I need to be chipper and upbeat and encouraging with everyone who crosses my threshold and that's not easy. And that's a task that takes way more than a single approach.

That's why you'll see bottles of soap bubbles when you visit my office. There are also cartoons on the wall and sock puppets in a basket. There's a plastic raygun that makes a loud "whizz, whizz, whizz" noise when you pull the trigger and also a miniature Zen water fountain for quiet. In the window are plants that need sunshine and water to remind me that we all need those things. There's a copy of Dr. Seuss' Oh, The Places You'll Go and sometimes you'll find me reading that. Sometimes you'll find me reading a copy of a journal that has an article describing an idea I want to try out. And sometimes you'll see a sign that says, "On walking track" stuck on my door - generally speaking, movement clears my head better than just sitting.

Sometimes, you need to be hunched over a keyboard, researching or drafting or grading or planning. But sometimes you need to be elsewhere, dreaming or thinking or holding an idea up to the light to look at it from a different perspective. And all those times are important.

Even if they're not all billable.

New Year!

2012-01-08T19:43:00.001-05:00

It's a new year, which means - well, all sorts of things. FryDaddy has returned for his last semester of undergraduate schoolin', leaving the house a bit on the lonely side. We took down Christmas before he left, but the bits and pieces of the holiday are strewn from one end of the guest room/study to the other. I'll get it packed over the next few days and when FryDaddy comes home for the weekend, we'll transfer it to the attic and hunker down for the holiday-less winter. (That's why I left the colored lights on the porch roof - maybe they're tacky, but they certainly seem cheerful on a grey January evening!)

My classes for the spring semester start Tuesday and, while I"m basically prepared, there are always things to do and tasks to complete. My resolution for this year is to try harder to realize that we're all doing the best we can and - face it - most of us have days where we're just trying to get by on half throttle. I'm teaching my introduction to film class in an online format this go-round and I don't want to just have blocks and blocks of text, so I'm working to master a variety of tech tools that I've used in the past, but never become especially proficient with. I'm trying to enjoy the journey.

And what a journey this year is shaping up to be! FryDaddy and I signed our first joint book contract right around the New Year - we're under contract with ECW Press out of Toronto, Canada to produce Wanna Cook? The Unofficial Guide to Breaking Bad and we couldn't be more delighted! We're working hard to both complete the draft on time - it's an episode guide, but goes WAY beyond mere recaps - and to spread the word about the project. You'll find us blogging about the project and Breaking Bad in general on our blogs - FryDaddy 's is here and I have a "work and publication" blog that you can access here; please follow us! - as well as on sites such as the network site and Television Without Pity. You can also keep us with us in short bursts on Twitter - use #wannacook and you'll find us.

All this and a full course load, writing a paper for Slayage 5 in July, and the commuter marriage. My cup truly runneth over! If only I can steer clear of that one valley . . .

Onward into 2012!

The Christmas Letter I Meant to Send

2011-12-30T18:10:00.005-05:00

Every year, it seems like the holidays almost sneak up on me. That doesn't make any logical sense, since I know full well that December 25th is Christmas and it's not a moveable feast. Still - this year, there were a few too many irons in the fire and I never got cards sent out. That's a shame, since I like Christmas cards (or "holiday greetings," if you prefer; whatever hangs your holly) a lot. I actually like sitting down with a stack of cards, an address book, and festive stamps. Alas, this year, it simply was not to be. At first, I told myself that I'd get them out as New Year's cards, or maybe Epiphany - nope, that's not going to happen either.

And since one of my pseudo-resolutions is to decreased the amount of beating myself up for not being a constantly efficient juggler of the fiery swords of home/work/writing/personal lives, I'm letting it go. I'm sorry for that, but I'm also accepting of it.

But if I had written a Christmas letter, it might have gone something like this:

Dear Family and Friends:

It's been an eventful year here in the Nest. FryDaddy and I celebrated our first wedding anniversary and he's now a semester away from being a bachelor - at least on paper! (And while there may certainly be a graduation party in May, it will in no way be a "bachelor party." I've made my voice heard on this one!) So let's look back on 2011:

January - A freak snow and ice storms caused the semester to get off to a late start. I resolved to ask myself often during this year, "How can I enjoy this more?" Not bad as resolutions go, and it's one I'm going to continue to work on in the coming year. I started teaching an introduction to film course that focused on science fiction and enjoyed it quite a bit. FryDaddy and I celebrated our joint birthday (weird, I know) and kept slogging through the long-distance marriage trial as he continued with his studies at UNC-Greensboro.
March - FryDaddy and I spent spring break in the exotic locale of the hospital. All is well, and he's now an improved cyborg. No mutant powers seem to have manifested.
April - We both traveled to San Antonio, Texas to present original work at the national Popular Culture/American Culture Association conference. We always enjoy the PCA conferences and this one involved Tex-Mex food and the Alamo. A beautiful, hospitable city that we hope to visit again.
May - For our first anniversary, we took a sightseeing trip up to Washington, DC. While we certainly didn't see everything, we had a blast and it was fun to get reacquainted after a semester of (mostly) being separated. We continued the separation with summer school sessions, though. Eyes on the prize, people!
June - I hosted what I hope becomes an annual event - a "girls only" party involving big hats and the Belmont horse race. We also added a small grey kitten to our household in June. We were a little concerned about what Spooky (60 plus pound shepherd mix) would think, but no worries. The two are best friends and often curl up together to sleep. That's cute - seeing Spooky attempting to groom a kitten, though - that's priceless!
July - With FryDaddy home for the last part of the summer, we spent a few days finally re-arranging the kitchen to suit a 6'4" cook. It's amazing how much room a pot rack can buy you!
August - It was my turn to be in the hospital bed as I had sinus and throat surgery. Minor in the big scheme of things, but uncomfortable and I'm glad it's in the rear view mirror of the year. Much improvement, though, so yes, it was worth it!
October - With the fall semester in full swing, we took off to spend fall break (where else?) at a conference. The regional PCA was held in New Orleans and we had bon temps galore, mon amis! I'd go back again in a heartbeat! Fantastic people, warm reception for the work we'd been doing and did I mention the food? In October, Dad was also inducted into the Davidson County Sports Hall of Fame - his college baseball team [he played catcher] won the college World Series in 1955.

Throughout the year, we were involved in the Great Buffy Rewatch of 2011, which was run by a Canadian we met through (where else?) conferences. Both of us had individual work published as part of this, as well as working together on a few pieces.

In no way does this cover everything that happened this year, but it's a good sampling. 2011 was actually pretty good to us and we're hoping the Mayans were wrong about 2012!

Love to all in the coming year!

Mockingbird and FryDaddy

Holly-Trimmed Musings

2011-12-20T18:02:00.000-05:00

Let the holidays commence! The final papers are commented upon and graded. Final projects have been graded and returned. The last communication journals have been (you guessed it) graded and all numbers have been crunched. For good or ill, the semester is done.

The Christmas holiday, however, is not.

Here at the Nest, holiday preparations are somewhat incomplete. We have a tree, which has been strung with lights. We held off on ornaments to give the kitten (it's her first Christmas, you see) a chance to get used to the outside being inside. It seems that she's not much of a climber (quite interested in the wrapping paper under the tree, though), so we hope to hang at least some ornaments.

Other decorations - well, I hope to at least get the mantel decked. The halls very well may be on their own this year. There are a few lights strung around the porch roof, a Christmas flag flutters in the yard, and most windows are adorned with an electric candle, thanks to an elaborate system of drop cords. It's not Martha Stewart, but it surely is not John Prine, either.

I was getting in quite a snit about this - I felt like a slacker. I mean, it's the evening of the 20th and my house is decorated in a style which can kindly be called "Early Box." I have family who begins baking for Christmas a month early and I have friends who go all out (and I mean "all out" in the Southern use of the term, which basically means that everything that doesn't move is spray-painted gold and tastefully gathered and grouped) and have their houses "holidayed" by Dec. 1.

You know what?

I finally figured out that it doesn't matter. My house will never cause an editor of House Beautiful to say, "By George, I must share this sight with the general public!" Doesn't matter. The bank account is a bit thin and the credit card balances seem higher than they should. Doesn't matter. The Nest is warm and cozy, populated by a friendly-to-the-point-of-goofy white mutt and a not-so-little-anymore grey kitten who can wipe out a day of grumpiness by curling up on my lap for ten minutes. FryDaddy and I are together, with clean bills of health. Our problems are the relatively small problems of people living in a stable, industrialized society - too much food, too many friends who haven't been sent cards, too many choices of what to watch and where to go.

Think about it - what lovely problems to have.

The angels will come to proclaim the Good News. It's up to me to stop whirling long enough to listen.

Come on in, friends.

Amendment One, Part Four

2011-12-04T21:35:00.001-05:00

I know this has become a lengthy series and I promise I'll write about other things. However, to me, this is an important issue which deserves some concentrated attention. (Also, it's my blog, so I get to decide what I'll write about.)

This post - the last in the series - will focus on the elephant in the argument; namely, the religious angle. Many people have a knee-jerk reaction to this amendment because of a particular religious point of view. It's a point of view that focuses only on the sexual aspect of a relationship and depends heavily on some flawed arguments. Let me deal with this briefly and then show how a particular court case comes into play.

1. God made Adam and Steve and a whole bunch of other people. Or maybe just Adam and Eve - Genesis will make your head spin. Chapter 1 says humans were created after the animals and that male and female came about simultaneously (1:24 - 27), while chapter 2 says that man came first, then the critters, then the female of the human species (2:7 - 22). Which account is correct? And if that's confusing, hang on. It's a wacky book.

2. Sodom and Gomorrah were not destroyed by tolerance shown to gays. Go back and really read the story - chapter 19 in Genesis. (By the way, don't you ever get curious as to what "gomorrahy" might be? No? Maybe it's just me.) Don't have a copy handy? Well then - angels came to town and stayed with Lot, a "righteous man." Wicked men of Sodom came to the house and demanded that Lot turn the strangers over to them for (there's not delicate way of putting this) a gang rape. Lot refused (good guy) and offered his virgin daughters to the crowd instead (what??). If you're going to be honest about what got Sodom smote/smited/smitten by the angelic host, you have to admit that it wasn't consensual homosexual sex.

3. Gay relationships are an Biblical abomination in the same way that sowing a field with both beans and corn is. The laws in Leviticus (where the term "abomination" is used to describe any number of actions; some of which are awful (child sacrifice to Moloch) and some of which are far less serious to us today (don't eat at Red Lobster) are hard to figure out. And it's especially hard to suss out exactly which of these outdated laws I'm really ought to obey and which I can shrug and ignore. I'm from the heart of barbecue country in North Carolina - the swine is hardly an unclean animal to me. Especially when you add in the New Testament.

4. Paul isn't to be totally trusted, either. In his letter to the Romans, Paul makes quite a big deal out of men who have chosen to go against God's "natural plan" (wording varies on translations). The problem here is that Paul often contradicts himself - look at Corinthians. In the very same chapter (14), he first says that all who have the gift of prophecy shall speak so all can hear and learn. Three verses later he orders that women are to stay silent in church. Hope none of them have the gift of prophecy, or things could get dicey.

5. Christ says nothing on the subject. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. I've always thought that if homosexuality was so all-fired important, somewhere in the four Gospels, His thoughts on the matter would be clearly recorded. Don't take my word for it - get yourself a copy of the New Testament and read the Gospels. If you limit yourself to reading Christ's words (the so-called "words in red" because they're often printed in red ink), you'll see what I mean. Instead of condemnation and contempt, we have accounts of Christ preaching through his actions a ministry of acceptance that doesn't just border on radical; it upends the status quo entirely. (My favorite is the bit of telling his disciples to get the room for the Last Supper from a man they'll meet who is carrying a jar of water, which was totally woman's work. May as well as told them to look for a drag queen.)

So the court case. Legal Lesson 4 - Any law must pass the "Lemon test," named for the 1971 case of Lemon v. Kurtzman. Here's the case, by the way. Governmental action must meet three tests to pass muster. If the action fails any of the three tests, it's unconstitutional as a violation of the Establishment Clause of the First Amendment (which way trumps Amendment One of North Carolina, remember.) First, the action must have a secular legislative purpose. Second, the action must not have the primary effect of either advancing or inhibiting religion. Third, the action must not result in an 'excessive government entanglement" with religion. Lemon makes it hard to say with a straight face that Amendment One is all about secular concerns.

I've heard patently ridiculous arguments on this issue. Such as . . . gays can't have kids (well, not "naturally," whatever that means in this day and age of in-vitro and surrogacy, not to mention adoption), so we can't let this happen. Or married gay couples will come into North Carolina and have legal issues (property division, child support, etc.) that our courts just aren't set up to handle. (That's from Rep. Kelly Hastings.) Really? Our courts can't determine and protect the rights of our citizens? Then we have bigger problems to concentrate on. Or that if we let this happen, soon we'll have 40-year-old men marrying 8-year old girls. (That one's also from Rep. Hastings, who apparently never met a slippery slope he didn't like.) Really? Even now, a bride has to be old enough to pay full price at the movies and I don't see that moving backwards. We're talking about consenting, loving adults. C'mon. Are we so scared that we're really willing to use the Constitution of North Carolina to codify discrimination and fear and intolerance? Shame on us if we are.

Watch this, if you will. There's nothing to be afraid of. This is a young man to be proud of.

And then watch this. The one thing both sides seem to have right is that it's all about family. I just believe in a bigger definition of that than some others do.

And then vote against inequality. I know I will.

Amendment One, Part Three

2011-11-29T21:54:00.000-05:00

The third in a series. This installment is also known as "it doesn't count if you move."

Remember playing Hide ‘n’ Seek when you were a kid? The whole idea was to hide from “It” then make a run for home base when the coast was clear. Once "home," you were safe. Well, some folks take the same approach to marriage with reasoning that goes something like this – if I can’t get married in my home state, but can somewhere else, I’ll cross state lines to have the shindig and get the certificate, then high-tail it back home.

It’s a good strategy and it worked for years. Across the Great Pond, Gretna Green was just a sleepy village in Scotland until England passed a law stating that those under 21 couldn’t marry without parental consent. Scotland let lovebirds as young as 16 get hitched, so Gretna Green (which was conveniently located just over the English border) became the “go to” wedding locale for teen sweethearts. Read the history here – it wasn’t easy, but the weddings were recognized as valid, since they were valid where they were performed.

In the United States, it’s different. While your driver’s license is recognized as giving you the right to operate a motor vehicle when you cross state lines, your marriage may not be as portable. We’ll use the example of first cousins getting married. (In all states, second cousins can marry, so let’s just ride right past that.) North Carolina allows those marriages, although NC prohibits double first cousins from marrying. (The statutory language is a bit confusing, so just think of it this way – two sisters marry two brothers. Those couples have children. Those children cannot marry in NC which, genetically speaking, just may be for the best. Then again, we also have a law on the books validating marriage between former slaves, so any number of wacky things are considered to be possible in North Carolina.)

Anyway, back to cousin marriage. A number of states say, “No way, no how.” Such states include Ohio and Nevada (with Las Vegas in its borders, I’ll admit to a certain level of surprise). A number of states say, “Don’t do it here, but if you come back here married to your cousin, well, that’s okay by us.” Such states include West Virginia and Louisiana. Look here for an entertaining comparison of state laws.

Interestingly, divorces are viewed entirely differently. So – Legal Lesson Three: If you get a legal divorce wherever, it’s going to be recognized in another state either under something called the Full Faith & Credit Clause or through a legal principle known as“comity” (which is a legal way of saying “courtesy.” We want them to respect our public acts and records, so we respect theirs). Interesting to note that this applies to the dissolution of a marriage, but not the establishment of a marriage, since both involve state action – let’s be clear here, you’re not married when the preacher says so; you’re married when that state-issued piece of paper is signed and filed at the Clerk of Court. The rest is lovely, but not legally required, nor legally binding. The paper is non-negotiable.

Back to the topic at hand. Full Faith & Credit (and comity, for that matter) doesn’t apply if the marriage “offends the public policies” of another state, which is why a marriage between two committed gay folks done legally in Massachusetts or wherever has no legal effect here in North Carolina under the current law. Amendment One, with its ham-hocked language about marriage being the ONLY valid domestic union, makes it worse. You’ve done everything right and move here to enjoy our mountains and beaches, invest millions in our hard-working manufacturing force, and pay the second-lowest business taxes in the country – well, your marriage has no legal protection here. And with that missing sentence that won’t be on the ballot, the validity of any contracts you may have drawn up (such as a pre-nuptial agreement) are in question.

I dislike second-class citizenship and ultimately, that’s what Amendment One is about. I get that gay marriage makes many people uncomfortable, which is why the next post will deal with Leviticus, Romans, and - believe it or not - Lemon.

Amendment One, Part Two

2011-11-28T08:03:00.000-05:00

In this post, I look at the title of the amendment - the "Defense of Marriage Act" - and ask just what exactly I'm supposed to be afraid of.

In Part One, I discussed the fact that the language that will appear on the ballot is not the same language that was passed by the legislature and the problems that may cause. Click here for the link to that post and this link goes into more depth about the problems with the current language.

Here, I'm going to look at the language that will be on the ballot next May. It's deceptively simple. "Marriage between a man and a woman is the only domestic legal union that shall be valid or recognized in this state." With this single sentence, North Carolina seeks to not only outlaw gay marriage (which is already prohibited by law in this state), but also invalidate the concept of domestic unions and civil partnerships - domestic unions that permit unmarried couples (gay or straight) to receive the benefits of married couples without using the word "marriage." There is evidence that there is support in North Carolina for these sorts of domestic arrangements - but it all hinges on just how the question is asked.

This is where things begin to boil down to the basic. In my case, no one blinked when I politely requested that I be allowed to stay overnight in my husband's hospital room - I've got the ring and the last name. For many gay couples, that's not a given, despite changes in the law. See here for the law (which affects all hospitals receiving Medicaid and Medicare funds, so it covers pretty much everybody) and here for Wisconsin's approach. Keep this in mind when you hear the argument, "Oh, it won't affect that. A patient can see anyone they want to." If you're in a committed relationship, there are certain things you are expected to do - visit your sick spouse in the hospital. Pick your kids up from soccer practice. File a joint tax return. Maintain life insurance to benefit the other in case of some terrible accident. Empty the dishwasher when it's clean. Only the last one isn't up for debate under this bone-headed law.

Also -"Defense of Marriage Act"? What's with the name? I most certainly don't need the National Guard called out to defend my marriage. That's the job of me and my husband - to protect this marriage and defend it from all enemies, foreign and domestic. No one else's marriage - be it Paul Newman and Joane Woodward's 50 year marriage or Kim Kardashian's 72-day marriage (my, she hasn't finished writing the thank-you notes yet!) - attacks my own.

In North Carolina, we're very pro-marriage. So much so, that we'll let a 14-year-old walk down the aisle, provided she's pregnant or has already had a child and is marrying the child's father. (A 14-year-old boy can also take advantage of this provision to marry his pregnant girlfriend, provided the pregnant girlfriend is at least 14.) Seriously. Click here - and remember that not too long ago, the age for a pregnant girl to marry the "putative father" (to get all legal-like on you) was TWELVE. I'll let that serve as Legal Lesson Two - marriage is such a bedrock institution of our society that children who can't test for a driver's license can enter into it, yet it's too fragile to permit a committed gay couple to get within two furlongs of it.

The other argument seems to be, "Well, we're the only state in the Southeast that hasn't amended the constitution in this way." To me, this is the "if everybody jumped off a bridge" argument. Not to mention, following South Carolina's lead on social issues turned out so very well for us back around 1860, didn't it?

Next Post: Why saying "but it was legal where we got married!" probably won't cut it when you move.

Amendment One, Part One

2011-11-26T18:04:00.000-05:00

Please note that this is in no way to be confused with the FIRST AMENDMENT, of which I am a strong supporter. Nope, Amendment One is a measure due to be voted on in May in my home state of North Carolina. It was passed during this last legislative session and is one of the most ham-handed, badly worded, and downright wrong pieces of legislation I've seen. And I've written legislation before,* so I know a little something about this. Here's the text of the amendment as it will appear on the May ballot.

"Marriage between one man and one woman is the only domestic legal union that shall be valid or recognized in this State."

Sigh. It's bad when lawyers write legislation, but it's so very much worse when others do. I'm going to look at this very closely over the next few posts, as I think it's terrible for the state on a number of levels.

First, some background. The amendment is the brainchild of one particular state senator, James Forrester, who had (until his death on Halloween; write your own snarky comment about the timing) a remarkable gift for saying truly bone-headed things. There are also some allegations that he padded his resume, but as in the South we don't speak ill of the dead (mostly), that controversy, much like the senator, has been laid to rest.

The amendment, however, has not. Mind you, North Carolina already has a law on the books prohibiting the marriage of anyone other than one man/one woman, so a constitutional amendment seems to be a bit of overkill. That's my first issue with it; but don't worry - it's not the only one.

Originally, the amendment contained a second sentence - one that will NOT appear on the ballot due to somebody's error.** Only the sentence I included at the top of the post will be voted on. The other, which read "This section does not prohibit a private party from entering into contracts with another private party; nor does this section prohibit courts from adjudicating the rights of private parties pursuant to such contracts," is that language that was intended to guarantee that private business could extend benefits to same-sex couples (or, for that matter, unmarried hetero couples). Without that language, those protections become much murkier. This single sentence amendment also puts domestic violence protections, child custody agreements, and a host of other legal matters into muddy water for both same-sex and unmarried couples. Don't be fooled by anyone who says, "Well, that's not what it's about and it won't come up." Yes, it will and there's no clear path of which way a court will interpret the language. Let's go to Legal Lesson One.

Legal Lesson One: When it comes to interpreting language in contracts and legislation, courts look to something called the "Four Corners Rule." No, this has nothing to do with the basketball offense made famous by Dean Smith. You want a court to rule on a provision in a written document - the court is going to look at the language IN THE DOCUMENT, not the stuff that you tell the court should have been there, but gee, somehow got left out. If it's not in the "four corners" of the document, it doesn't exist and won't be brought into existence just because someone really, really wishes it was there.

So before you ask the fine folks of North Carolina to vote on an amendment, let's make sure it's the one you really mean us to vote on. There are no "backsies" in the law.

Next Post: There ought to be a law - Oh, wait, there is one! (or "Why my marriage is supposed to be threatened more by a committed gay couple than by the fact that 14-year-olds can marry in North Carolina")

*'Struth. Back in my old life working in the State and Local Tax division of a major accounting firm, I drafted legislation to be considered by another Southeastern state that was intended to grant incentives to film and TV productions doing business in the state. It's an interesting life I've led.

**For more on the winding path of the amendment, please access this link.

Come Ye Thankful People Come

2011-11-20T20:37:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving is nearly upon us. A holiday I greatly enjoy, although I'm thinking that I ought to give Evacuation Day a try. Sounds like quite a fun time (pole climbing? Really?) and I hate that it has been pushed off the national stage in place of Black Friday melees as we are encouraged to go into debt to save money on things we don't really need, but the retailers are trying mightily to convince us that out lives will be but hollow shells without having.

Then again, melees are getting to be quite common with us. Let's see . . .

In Berkeley, where you'd think they have some experience with student protesters, an English professor was grabbed by her hair and hurled to the ground. Look at the clip - she's the first one who gets so hurled (but not the last) - and tell me what she's doing that warrants such treatment. Her specialty is British Romanticism - obviously a clear and present danger to the cops decked out in full riot gear. At the same protest, English professor Geoffrey O'Brien was beaten while on the ground and suffered broken ribs. Robert Hass, a Pulitzer Prize winning poet who once held the rank of United States Poet Laureate, was repeatedly jabbed with a police baton. He's 70 years old. Guess the cops were fearful of blank verse. Don't take my word for it - check out the link and watch the video. Cameras are everywhere these days.

In solidarity with their Berkeley brethren, students at UC-Davis sat down with linked arms on the quadrangle, refusing to move. That's okay, said the cops, we know how to deal with such uppity, meddling kids! Open wide! The chancellor, Linda Katehi, had called in the UC-Davis police to clear the quad and had since minimized the actions of the police. (That's her, at the top of the post.) Again, cameras are everywhere. In a reaction that I find nearly poetic, her students watched her leave the administration building after an hours-long impasse during which she refused to address the students.

That's all. Just watched. And it's not with the cries of rabid wolves, or even the baleful eyes of the defeated upon seeing their conquerors. No, this is much, much worse - it's the cold contempt of those who find the coward in their midst not even worth the trouble it takes to call the coward names.

Oddly enough, I find this heartening. Look, even if you think the student protesters and the Occupy Wall Street ilk are malcontents, the undeniable truth is this - they have the same Constitutional rights as you do. And to borrow from George Orwell, "When I see a policeman with a club beating a man on the ground, I don't have to ask whose side I'm on."

Our country is in trouble. The super-committee is about to admit they can't agree on how to cut the deficit, so they're just going to go home. The trigger that was to punish such milquetoast behavior may be "untriggered," in which case why are we even bothering to pretend that our representatives are grown-ups, as they all seem to merrily dance as the ground crumbles. Newt Gingrich (very close to "Grinch," I'd like to point out) thinks that we need to put 10-year-olds to work with caustic chemicals to teach them the value of a dollar (wouldn't it be better to find opportunities for their PARENTS to find work? Just askin') - an idea so loony, so out-and-out crazypants that I went to FoxNews for the link.

Maybe we should all line the sidewalks, watch these architects of disaster leave their workplace and not talk to them. I'm not sure what is left to say.

And yet I'm grateful. I'm grateful for a country in which excessive force used on students takes the form of pepper spray, not bullets. I'm grateful for youthful enthusiasm and idealism that says that dammit, this time, things CAN change. I'm grateful for the presence of cameras to document what happens so the spin stops. And I'm grateful for students who understand the power of shame.

Keeping Your Eye on the Balls

2011-11-13T20:40:00.001-05:00

Sports do a lot of good. I really believe that, done properly, sports can teach valuable skills such as cooperation and team-building. Heck, I teared up upon viewing The Blind Side. I'm not heartless. However, done improperly, sports can also teach that bullying the weak and uncoordinated is good, that physical prowess makes you better and deserving of special treatment, and that the ability to hit, kick, and/or catch a ball somehow is a direct measure of your worth. Mind you, I am no advocate of the "everyone gets a trophy!" mindset. Not everyone has athletic ability, just as not everyone has artistic or intellectual ability.

I think it's always a good idea to follow the money and there's just too much money in sports. We no longer build cathedrals to the Divine, but we pass bond referendums to finance sports palaces for multimillionaires. We expect our children to learn in trailers propped up on cinderblock foundations, but Booster Clubs find the cashy money for a new field house. Why? Because there's money in sports. TV revenues are huge and everybody wants a piece of the pie. Student athletes get breaks that ordinary ramen-noodle eating students don't. (Sorry, but in my world, if you live out-of-state, that scholarship should be valued at the out-of-state price and if that means the school gets fewer of them, oh, well. Blame geography. Or better yet, teach geography! [Side note - highest paid geography major? Michael Jordan. Seriously]). At the same time, those student-athletes put their still-developing bodies through the wringer for a school that's making a fortune off of their efforts, yet they receive no compensation if their ACL blows out, thus ending their careers. And college is just practice for the meat grinder that is professional sports.

It becomes easy to ignore the wrong. The player who gropes girls. The student tutor who has too much of a hand in the term paper. The wealthy booster who gives a car to a prospective star player as an enticement to attend a particular school. And then there's Penn State, which goes so far beyond "scandal" that a new word needs to be coined. (And The Citadel is expressing "regret" for its lack of action. Same story, different day.)

Sports aren't bad. Slavish devotion to them is. John Scalzi explains this better than I could, so I'll re-post him here. The language he uses is a little harsh, but (in my opinion) completely justified in this case. As an occasional reader of H.P. Lovecraft, I was delighted to receive a sweatshirt for Miskatonic University as a gift. But I never, never want to be an alumna of Omelas University (look at Scalzi's post - it'll make sense then).

Paterno was a great coach.

And that excuses absolutely nothing.

Windfalls

2011-11-07T07:29:00.000-05:00

Life has been a bit challenging lately. I always hesitate to talk about this sort of thing, because I know full well that my "challenges" often aren't a blip on the radar to other folks and no one likes a whiner. But I also believe that there's a great difference between whining (which involves demanding that the Universe change its approach just because I'm in the flight path) and remarking at how troubles seem to come in battalions some days.

I wrote here a few weeks ago about the loss of my friend, an amazing, talented, generous woman who taught me some very valuable lessons about teaching, work, and life. At work, we've just finished our review by the regional accreditation agency and, while we came through it unscathed, there was a certain amount of stress, mental bruising, and the occasional hive outbreak from that experience as we put our best face forward. (I doubt I was the only one who kept thinking of Mr. Roarke on Fantasy Island exhorting his staff "Smiles, everyone, smiles!") Then, last weekend, on a night that was certainly dark and rainy, if not actually stormy, my faithful car simply dropped in the harness. It's pre-registration for the spring semester at my college and that never fails to bring out the jumpy ones.

Yike.

You know, problems tend to be as large as we let them grow. I had the privilege of knowing my friend for nearly a decade. Students often simply need someone to shut up and listen. FryDaddy's sister and brother-in-law loaned me their still-smelling-like-new car for a couple of days so I could get to work without having to hitch rides. FryDaddy drove all over western North Carolina to ferry me up to a doctor's appointment, where my post-surgical sinuses got a clean bill of health and my mother and I had some time to spend together. FryDaddy and I headed up to Asheville (look closely and you'll see "evil" smack in the middle of that town's name. Weird.) for me to collect my last few continuing legal education credit hours, a very non-painful process that involved staying in a nice resort hotel surrounded by fall-colored mountains. The conference got me fired up about a legal organization I volunteer with and we had a few hours in the sparkling November sunshine to stroll around downtown Asheville and sample handmade chocolates (dark covered crystallized ginger is fabulous! FryDaddy unwisely left the rest of the truffles here with me. Perhaps I shall blame the kitten), look at exotic spice blends, and browse that rarest of critters, the successful independent bookshop. Then, upon our return home, we found our car troubles were, if not solved, at least the first cousin to solved through a long-term loan of a "so tough you can't kill it with an axe" Jetta. It has a few scars, but who among us doesn't? Plus the unexpected (and undeserved, to speak truthfully) generosity of two friends has eased a few burdens.

I'm not kidding or exaggerating - sometimes we think the storm is there to punish us when it's really loosening the fruit from the tall branches so we can reach it on the ground.

Look around. There's a lot to be grateful for, both in what you have and in what you don't.

I've gotta try to remember that more.

Tea for Two!

2011-10-30T15:52:00.000-04:00

A few weeks back, I'd made plans with my friend Stacked Librarian to go to tea at the Ritz-Carlton. Stacked is about half way through her first pregnancy - she's expecting a little girl in early March. After the busy-ness of the last few months and the sadness of the last few weeks, we thought we could use a little "girl time." So we got all dressed up (it has to be a special occasion for me to wear heels on a Saturday!) and drove past the Occupy Charlotte protesters at Trade and Tryon (yep, the cross streets were named for the intersection where, back in the day, people assembled to both "trade" and "try on" goods). Bonnie was valet parked by uniformed folks who kept a professionally straight face at the gently ageing and highly dependable vehicle in the midst of the Jaguars and BMWs and we strolled into the imported marble lobby as if we belonged there. (Jimmy Buffett wrote about a similar experience in "Gypsies in the Palace" - check it out sometime!)

The "chocolate tea" at the Bar Cocoa was simply fabulous! We were taken care of by John, who made quite a fuss over the two of us. Stacked stuck with hot chocolate (thick as gravy and rich as gold) and I had a variety of teas - John switched up the teas to go with the savory and the sweet parts of the tea. Pixie-sized sandwiches were followed by scones with lemon custard and Devonshire cream, then teensy desserts with hazelnut creme, chocolate mousse, and edible silver.

Ooh-la-la!

We even picked up a few truffles to take home to make the experience last a little bit longer. Just looking at the light green box with its chocolate-colored ribbon makes me happy.

Sadness and Light

2011-10-24T14:51:00.000-04:00

It's been a very strange 24 hours. A friend and mentor of mine has been very sick with advanced pancreatic cancer. The disease had metastasized throughout her body and everyone knew it was simply a matter of time before - well, before time ran out. Over the last four months, she had struggled as one function after another shut down in response to the disease. Her time ended on Saturday. I am told that the end was peaceful; she was not alone nor was she in pain. I am grateful to the wonderful folks at Hospice as well as her other caregivers who helped to ease her journey.

The funeral was today - a bit quick, I know, but those are the decisions that were made. I cried for my friend, whose life was cut short by a cruel disease that didn't care in the least that her plans didn't include debilitating illness. I cried for her family, who really won't quite know what to do without her. I cried for her friends and yes, I cried for me.

I believe that our lives are lessons; that we all have things to both learn and teach. My friend's life contained many lessons for me and one of the big ones that I want to share with you is this one - it's later than you think, so don't waste time. It'd be a shame to get to the end of your life and not be able to think of the moments in which you were truly happy in your own skin. For my friend, I think some of those moments involved helping other people - she was heavily involved in her community and I think she derived great satisfaction from that work. I also hope she had a stash of personal "hey wow!" moments. I know that a few years back, she took a trip to India - I hope she rode an elephant. That'd be a "hey, wow!" moment. Only a few weeks before she died, my friend insisted on taking a cruise to the Bahamas and good on her, I say. I hope that trip had some "hey, wow!" moments, too.

I have a few "hey wow!" moments that I can recall easily. Some are profound and some are just silly. The pure blue of cobalt glass with sunlight behind it, for instance - that's one of mine. The feeling of connectedness I noticed this past weekend at the last farmers' market of the year - that's another.

The point is, no matter what form they take, you have to be on the lookout for those moments. There are several religious traditions that believe that when you arrive at the afterlife, you'll be called to account for your life. Not just the times you were selfish or mean or didn't quite live up to your potential, but also to give an accounting of all the times you could have been joyous in your life and failed to do so. The first time I heard that, it actually pulled me up short. What? There's actually a responsibility to be happy? Whoa.

It's no good to simply spin and spin and spin and not know why you're working so hard to spin so fast. The end comes for all of us and all too often, it comes too soon.

Requiescat in pace, my friend.

Note: Image at top of post courtesy of: http://www.flickr.com/photos/cobalt/41514857/sizes/o/in/photostream/

Out of the Park!

2011-10-16T18:43:00.000-04:00

As you probably know, I've been gone for a little while. The annual regional PCA conference was held in New Orleans recently and I've been blogging about that experience over at the other blog; the one I reserve for more academic musings. (The Nest is a bit more free-form in its range of subject matter.) You can click here to go to the latest conference post over there, if you're interested. The city of New Orleans was quite interesting but it didn't seem useful to double post.

But a few musings and then some "new stuff." I really, really enjoyed New Orleans. Not just the conference (although I heard some quality material and my own presentation was well received), but the city itself was just stupendous. Can't wait for an opportunity to go back - must buy a lottery ticket! Also, I had the great experience of seeing for myself that the recent surgery was a success - it was the first presentation in years during which I didn't have to stop - not for a dramatic pause, but to simply catch my breath. Wow! It felt great to just be able to concentrate on my paper and the ideas I was trying to convey instead of constantly thinking, "Just breathe. Stop and breathe. You're okay."

Last night, it was my dad's turn to be the speaker. He was chosen to be inducted into the Davidson County Sports Hall of Fame for his contributions to his college baseball team's victory in the 1955 College World Series - the only ACC team (so far, anyway) to ever win that contest. (Click here for the newspaper article - Dad's on page two and you can access the slideshow from there, too. I've already posted my favorite a little further down.) That was his senior year of college and he was the catcher, as you can see from the picture at the top of the post. It was quite an honor and I know how humbled he felt at being inducted. I must admit to being right proud of my dad, but not exactly for the same reasons.

You see, I like sports. Quite a bit, actually. But I especially like the good qualities that sports can (and often do) instill in the participants. Qualities such as teamwork, accepting responsibility, a strong work ethic, and sportsmanship are all qualities that are useful off the field as well as on. In my opinion, my dad has used those qualities to make his community as a whole a stronger, better place. Among the contributions my father has made to his hometown that were left off his blurb in last night's program are his work in establishing a permanent location for the homeless shelter, his work to get a medical ministry up and running in town for indigent folks who find themselves in need of medical care, and keeping a public food pantry supplied. He also dresses up as Santa Claus and visits seriously ill children in the hospital around Christmas time, a trip I've accompanied him on and had to admit was just too darned hard to do. Yet Dad does it year after year.

Baseball? It's a great game. And that picture at the top of the post doesn't come close to capturing Dad's glory days.

Down a Notch!

2011-10-03T21:54:00.000-04:00

Fall weather has hit here at the Nest and it's quite a welcome relief from the nigh-oppressive heat of a Southern summer. I had the windows of the house open for few days and then needed to close them up and actually cut on the heat at night! Oh, it's good to need a thick blanket and have it, isn't it? The leaves haven't started turning just yet, but it's only a matter of time, and a short amount of time at that. Then it's time to start thinking about hearty stews, mulled cider, and pumpkin pies. In short, time to slow down a bit and take things down a notch.

It's fall break at my school this week and the county fair's in town. It's purportedly the largest county fair in North Carolina and, judging from the extensive schedule of events, I have no plans to challenge that claim. One of these days, I'm going to see an amateur demolition derby and be on the sidelines of the pig races. (And don't worry; "New Blood Wrestling" doesn't involve a pool of hemoglobin. At least, I don't think it does.)

But, as Aragorn might say, it is not this day!

This is the week of the PCA/ACA regional conference and I'm in the midst of packing. I'll be posting about the conference over at the other blog - click here to go over there. First post should be up Wednesday night (or so - this whole "taking it down a notch" includes me trying to actually have some vacation built in with this conference. It's New Orleans, after all, and a boatload of far-away friends are scheduled to be there). Check it out, won't you? Hear how my anime-purple-streaked hair goes over at the conference. (Or at home, for that matter!) Yep, I'm channeling my inner Faye Valentine. FryDaddy's reaction has yet to be recorded.

Update from the Desk

2011-09-25T17:29:00.000-04:00

Working weekend. I'd sigh, but I have to admit that it's pretty cool to see things get marked off my list. Moreover, I have to remind myself that these weekend "chores" are the result of some pretty darned cosmically-cool opportunities that came my way and it ill-behooves me to whine about good fortune. So buck up, sunshine.

What had me chained to my desk this weekend? Mostly, I've been turning a stack of notes and vague ideas into a coherent presentation for the upcoming PCA-South conference which is scheduled for the beginning of October. I'm fortunate that the conference coincides with my fall break, but getting this paper ready whilst juggling the responsibilities of five good-sized classes along with some other tasks has not been easy and (let's admit it) a few plates have dropped. The draft isn't quite finished yet - I have about four pages to go - but the hard stuff is done. I've covered the basics of feng shui (the link isn't one of my sources, but what the heck), the difference between manga and anime, some of the conventions of anime (not to give too much away, but look for the cherry blossoms!) and discussed why "cartoon" isn't a dirty word. I've been creating the bibliography and the accompanying Powerpoint as I went along, so once the draft is complete, revising should be fairly simple. I have no idea if this project will go beyond the conference, but if it does, I don't have to re-create all the initial research this way. Hopefully, I'll finish the draft by tomorrow night and walk away from it for a few days before working on revisions.

Also, FryDaddy and I had a chance to be part of the Great Buffy Rewatch's super-special "Once More, with Feeling" episode. It was VERY last minute and I hope our part is entertaining, because - well, let's just say we really can't rely on super-slick production values. Tune in to Week 39 of the Rewatch Tuesday night when it becomes available - you get to see us dance! It may be better than Angel's dancing in Season 1, but then again, there's a reason I don't write about us going out dancing.

You make the call!

Television and Work

2011-09-18T17:54:00.001-04:00

Or maybe that should be "television AS work"! Sounds a bit strange, perhaps, but after hearing about what's going on, you might agree with me.

First up, I'm due to hand in my solo write-up for the ongoing Buffy Rewatch project that's being going on all year. I'm in charge of three mid-Season 6 episodes which focus on Willow and her downward spiral. I think the post is nearly ready to send off - it'll be a few weeks before it's published and it's a spot on my plate that I'll be glad to have cleared for other projects. (It's a crowded plate these days!) Actually, the post is scheduled to be published when I'll be out of town in New Orleans at the annual conference of the Popular Culture Association/American Culture Association in the South. Which brings me to . . .

Second, I'm working on my presentation for the PCA-South conference. The paper explores the links between Watanabe's Cowboy Bebop and Whedon's Firefly. I've gone from the stage of "It's a cool idea, but is there enough here to write about?" to the stage of "Gaak! I've got too much to possibly narrow it down to my time limit! What do I do?" I guess that's good, but I have to tell you - work, work, work! (In fact, I have three more books to add into the research draft tonight before I can comfortably consider myself as being done for the day.)

Third, working on these two projects (in addition to everything associated with the job I get paid to do) means making some choices. One of those choices involved NOT attending the 6th annual "Can't Stop the Serenity" event held by the Charlotte Browncoats today. While I'm sure that was the right decision - I was able to both edit the blog post and start putting quotes and research in the proper places in my presentation outline - it was not an easy decision. I like that event so much - it gives me a chance to hang out with like-minded people who are Whedon fans and at the same time, raise some coin for good causes, including Equality Now. Not to mention, seeing Serenity on the big screen with a bunch of Browncoats is always a good time.

Sigh. Being a grown up is sometimes not the whirligig of fun I thought it would be back when I was nine. Still - having these opportunities to write and present and be heard and advance the field of credible academic study of quality television in general and Whedon in particular is not to be sneezed at.

By the way - I watched Sarah Michelle Gellar's return to the small screen with the premiere of Ringer this week. Quite promising, I'd say. I detached my brain a little (Identical twins? And both with dark secrets? Really?) and had a rollicking good time. And I'll admit, I didn't see the final twist coming, which is what should provide the show with its oomph and staying power. Let's see what the ratings say over the next few weeks, but give it a try.

Back to the books!

Ten Years Out . . .

2011-09-11T13:01:00.001-04:00

It's inescapable. Ten years ago on this day, September 11 stopped being the day between the tenth and the twelfth and instead became a synonym for catastrophic. All through this past week, just about anywhere you looked were reminders, memorials, and loops of footage of dust-covered, shell-shocked people wandering the streets of New York.

I don't like it. Not one teensy bit.

I have my own ways of remembering that day. I re-read the story of the first official victim of that day, at least in terms of death certificates issued. Father Mychal Judge's story is inspiring, not for his death, but for his life. There is much in his life to instruct those of us left here on Earth.

In the days immediately following that horrible September morn, my country changed. And in the ten years since, we've changed more. And in many ways, I dislike what I see. We've become fragmented and suspicious. It's harder to simply disagree with the opinions held by another - instead, we rush to demonize that other person as hopelessly naive at best and downright evil at worst. We talk, often shrilly, but listen very little. We're losing ourselves.

I think memorials are a fine thing. It helps us psychologically to have a physical place to leave flowers and notes and teddy bears and combat boots. But at the end of the day, memorials are still only places. By all means, lay a wreath. But also resolve to work to change the world.

Abraham Lincoln got this right at the Gettysburg battlefield when he stated that dedicating part of the battlefield was "altogether fitting and proper" but "in a larger sense we cannot dedicate - we cannot consecrate - we cannot hallow this ground" for that has already been done by those who struggled there. Rather, President Lincoln challenged his audience "to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they have, thus far, so nobly carried on." The task was to "highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation shall have a new birth of freedom . . ."

Mind you, this is much harder than making pretty speeches and flying the flag. But it must be done. For if we permit our hearts to harden to amber and use these days and places to only entrench our own dark fears, we dishonor our heritage. America is a grand experiment in democracy and, for the most part, we've taken that ball and had a good run with it. However, success in experiments is rarely total. We've had setbacks and shameful chapters in our collective history and to refuse to acknowledge that is to willfully remain blind. We're the home of the representative republic and rugged individualism. We're the birthplace of the interchangeable part and the assembly line. We invented powered flight and the computer chip. Those are American footprints on the moon and we rounded up our own citizens and housed them in camps during World War 2 because we feared almond-shaped eyes. We were the last industrialized country to abolish slavery and we turned attack dogs loose on citizens who dared to vote. We're Walt Whitman and Bull Connor. We're Hetty Green and Jane Addams. We're robber barons and Labor Day.

It's easy to be fearful and it's hard to be brave, but the ability is in all of us. So today, don't just fly the flag. Live the best values it represents.

Visual Delights!

2011-09-04T11:50:00.002-04:00

This weekend is one of those lovely crossroads - FryDaddy and I have both reached stopping places on our respective writing projects and, while the next one for both of us is gesturing frantically from the wings, we made a conscious decision to spend the long Labor Day weekend resolutely not working. As experience (that harshest of professors who refuses to grade on a curve) has taught me again and again, taking time off to breathe is necessary to produce quality work. Just going and going and going results in motion, but not usually of the forward-reaching kind. So we've spent a chunk of time watching things that we don't intend to turn into articles, presentations, or chapters.

It's been lovely.

First up, I worked to get caught up on Season 4 of Breaking Bad. I'm still not caught up on past seasons, but that'll come. Seriously, if you're not watching this, you ought to be. At least, you ought to be if you enjoy character-driven drama, seeing the effects of hubris, and flat-out gorgeous cinematography. The look is lush and the story has that sense of impending doom - bad things are coming, and they were set in motion by conscious choices. You can build the levee, but it won't hold back the tide forever. What's even worse is that the high water mark from this storm is likely to be so high you don't even see the mark, for the whole house is underwater.

We also treated ourselves to a popcorn matinee. (Yeah, the "eat healthy" plan took a hike for the afternoon. Good for it.) We decided on Apollo 18, which I will heartily recommend. It's a member of the "found footage" genre, but don't make the mistake of thinking it's "Blair Witch in Space." The production values are much, much higher and the story is a keeper for anyone who enjoys a slow burn. (Blair Witch made me jump, but also irritated me - just follow the river, people! It'll lead to some sort of settlement. Always.) By the way, Apollo 18 is not a film for the "whiz-bang-blow-'em-up" crowd. I was impressed with the film, which I predict will become a cult classic, despite a plot hole or two. The tricks with the film stock, the marketing ploy with the website given at the end of the film and the reminder that Watergate did indeed change everything about how we view our own government - all of these are reasons the see the film on the big screen. Having just read Mary Roach's Packing for Mars, which answers many of those questions you may have had about space travel, but never felt comfortable asking (How do you test a space toilet? How do you shower in zero-g?), the film has a different level. Astronauts are carefully vetted for psychological stability as well as desirable mission skills. It's pretty cramped up there and the flip side is that there's an awful lot of nothin' up there, too. Going bibbledy isn't an option.

I've read some rather vicious criticism of the film, which leads me to my next point. No one is going to like everything. However, if your main complaint is that the film takes too long and isn't scary enough, try watching something that wasn't edited together with smash cuts. Further, if you want a film where the astronauts are slashed apart and their innards are floating in space (1) this isn't the film for you and (2) exactly what's wrong with you? Disclaimer: I count myself in the "I don't like everything" category. For example, I despise slasher films. I find them to be uncreative, shocking-just-to-shock, and generally very unkind to women. Some people like that sort of thing. I try not to leave sharp objects around such individuals.

Also, one of the actors in Apollo 18 plays one of the leads in Alphas, a SyFy series about super-powered (read: mutant) beings. It has some promise - there are some very interesting characters and anything that brings the amazingly under-rated David Strathairn to television is worth a look. The fact that it also gives Ryan Cartwright a role that will make your jaw drop to the point of forgetting his very entertaining turn on Bones is simply a bonus.

Work beckons and a stack of books on anime yearns to be gutted for a short presentation on Cowboy Bebop in about a month, but this was the right call for this weekend!

Irons in the Fire!

2011-08-28T21:51:00.003-04:00

School has started back - the first week was crazybusy, but with fairly easy-to-manage stuff when viewed individually. The trick is that the stuff didn't come individually, but rather attacked in battalions, which made keeping the importance of various things in perspective a bit of a trick. (Forced perspective, perhaps?) Too many irons in the fire . . .

My nose continues to heal from the recent sinus surgery - I spent Friday morning at the doctor's office discovering just how many different suction tools can be utilized to clear out the *ahem* "debris." I'll have another couple of these appointments for Dr. Nostrildamus to check on his work and my healing. (I must say, it wasn't something that exactly hurt, but it sure felt weird, even after the "yummy numby" stuff, which is applied to strips of gauze which are then gently stuffed up each nostril and then left to [no kidding] "marinate.")

The blog post I co-wrote with FryDaddy was published as part of the ongoing Buffy Rewatch - check that out here. I'll have another one in about a month, but this one was specially special, as it concerned the Season Five episode "The Body," which has always packed such an emotional punch for me.

I've spent the last few days fine-tuning my chapter for an upcoming Whedon project which is to be published by Syracuse University Press, who has some very definite ideas about citation style and formatting madness. I think it's done, but I'm taking one more look at it tomorrow before I send it off to the editors. So many little things to fix (along with the big one of "switch all of the internal cites and references to Chicago author-date style" which made me go, "Huh?"), it wouldn't surprise me if something slipped by and I want to avoid that if I can. I'll own my mistakes, but I'd rather they not be the boneheaded kind.

FryDaddy and I are back to our commuter marriage, since classes have also started for him. In a way, it was fortunate that we both had writing projects this weekend - he's drafting a chapter dealing with Farscape as a allegory for the Cold War - but I'm already looking forward to next weekend, which we have ruled off as a "we're married; let's act like it" weekend. Between the doctor's delicate anteater-crossed-with-an-Electrolux procedure and the writing, we didn't have much time to enjoy each other this weekend, and we got spoiled over the summer.

Well, this too shall pass.

Post surgery, I'm discovering that I don't have to hack and cough to clear the clutter from my throat, which means I can push myself with exercise more. Still not training for any marathons, but it feels good to stretch. As a reward for hitting the gym today, my toenails are now a gleaming shade of dark, dark purple. Think black and you'd not be far wrong.

It's all about the small rewards. And surely I deserve one for (a) not biting the doctor, (b) getting a publishing project another step towards completion, and/or (c) keeping my sense of humor during the first week of the semester, among other alphabetized items.

And I like dark purple. And the glow from the fire with all those irons in it is actually quite pretty.

Nosey About Surgery

2011-08-18T07:57:00.000-04:00

I try to post here every week, but I'm a bit behind due to some recent surgery. I'm well on the way to recovery now and thought I should probably update. Be warned - while none of the following content is exactly graphic, there's a certain amount of ewwww! That's simply to be expected with Things Surgical, so let's be grown-ups about it.

The surgery itself was considered routine, but let's face it. Thanks to amazing advances in medical technology, "routine" is used to describe heart bypass surgery. It is a mistake to confuse "routine" with "no problem." Even if the procedure has been done to the point of boredom by the surgical team, your body is still undergoing assault and trauma and you're not likely to feel that great afterward. In my case, I was dealing with two separate and distinct procedures involving two doctors (no, there was no volume discount on the billing, but at least we could double up and not do this twice). First, Dr. Gullet, my throat specialist, would go into my trachea with a tiny li'l light and a tiny li'l camera and a tiny li'l laser to cut a star pattern in the scar tissue in my windpipe. Then he'd gently spread the cut tissue and laser away as much excess as possible, thereby widening the airway. Scar tissue always comes back - the goal is to (pardon the pun) stretch out the time between surgeries through medication, exercise, and diet. But I'll keep seeing him always.

Now that's the "routine" part to me. The surgery involves general anesthesia, but it's short - usually less than an hour. And it's miles better than it would have been say, thirty years ago when the solution was a tracheotomy and I'd have been breathing through a tube forever.

So let's wave a thankful goodbye to Dr. Gullet and let him go off and do other work on vocal disorders. Next up to the plate, we have Dr. Nostrildamus, whose specialty is nose stuff. This is the guy who was going to break and reset the deviated septum that had slowly smushed half my sinuses, then painstakingly rebuild my mutant sinuses which had openings that needed to be closed and closures that needed to be opened. He would be doing very delicate work from inside the nose, just under the eye sockets. This was going to take time.

And it did. Both procedures took approximately five hours. We started a bit later than expected - operating rooms are booked, but things sometimes happen and I don't want anybody pounding on the door and rushing my docs, so we have to be patient while being a patient. Still - that whole "fasting after midnight" thing is easier when you have to be at the day hospital at 6 am than when it's later.

The surgeries went well - or so I'm told. As with all good anesthesia, it came with amnesia. Don't remember a thing. I could very well have declaimed on literary theory in the recovery room or cussed like a longshoreman on leave - I don't know and they (wisely) won't tell.

But - ow.

I've never had "big" surgery before. I've never had to stay overnight in the hospital before. I come from very Calvinist stock and, provided you don't see bone, you simply soldier on. We were having None Of That. I was so drugged, hungry, and overall puny that my hands were shaking eating my post-operative applesauce. My feet seemed to belong to someone else entirely for all the good I was having in moving them.

So this is the romantic part. If you're going to be sick and puny and whiny with pain, it's absolutely marvelous to have someone else there with you. FryDaddy and I have reached a new level of intimacy that has nothing to do with Victoria's Secret and everything to do with those vows we took more than a year ago. Face it, my health affects him and his affects me. So we have to be able to talk about all sorts of things that polite company doesn't discuss and we have to be able to do it without averting our eyes or blushing too much. (This blog is for public consumption, so let's just say this - anesthesia takes a while to wear off and pain medication has some unusual effects on other parts of the body. As the book may tell us, everybody poops, but things change after surgery for a few days.)

My nose had "discharge" for two days after the surgery and it was heavy enough to be issued a "nasal dressing" which is a fancy way of describing a thingamabob that straps over your ears and runs under your nose to hold a gauze pad in place so you don't constantly dab at your healing schnozz. (Yes, the name of the device is real.) Yes, you look ridiculous. No, the nurses won't loan you a Sharpie to draw a mustache on the gauze. It's hard to sleep in, too. As the nose heals, there is a surprising amount of crusty blood and gunk. You can't breathe all that well, although stents have been inserted in your nose to help with that. You just have to tough it out and it'll take longer than you think. If you have good doctors - they ARE Board-certified, right? - you don't even have black eyes after all of this, but don't think that you're okay. You're not. I've been running on about half-throttle for the last few days (due some to the lack of sleep and some to the lack of good breathing and some to the drugs - there was infection in those sinuses) and that's pretty much typical.

But yesterday I had the stents taken out. (The packing in the sinuses stays for about another week.) Easy-peasy. Snip, snip and out come the stitches then gentle pressure and gravity remove the stents which OH, MY GOD, THOSE THINGS ARE HUGE! AND THEY WERE IN MY NOSE?!? WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?? Yes, I asked to keep one. I washed it carefully to make it pretty before I posted it here. The almond is only provided for scale - please don't put either of these up your nose yourself.

Two other asides in this lengthy post - one, when taking out the stents, Dr. Nostrildamus wore one of those Norman Rockwell headbands with the metal disk thing. I suppose it's intended to reflect light up into the nose, but maybe he's a worshiper of the Egyptian sun god Ra. Having those stents out feels so good that I don't really care. Also, that doctor's office has a lady on staff who - seriously - pushes a little treat cart around the the waiting room to provide patients with coffee, candy, and granola bars. Amazing. Still plenty of healing to do, but the breathing is already improved.

And that's what I did on my summer vacation.

I Will Not Bite My Nails . . .

2011-08-09T07:38:00.000-04:00

Nail-biting is a bad habit and usually done as an outward sign of anxiety. I don't usually engage in it, but lately - well, who could really blame me? After all, among the things that are on my squirrelly little mind these days . . .

1. Congress is behaving like a large group of spoiled children. Not wanting to make hard decisions that might cost them votes (oh, no!), they elevated foot-dragging to a near art form, reluctantly raised the debt ceiling (sort of) and then skedaddled from D.C. as quickly as possible to pout in their home states, which led to . . .
2. The FAA furlough mess. Upwards of 70,000 people were facing furloughs (way to go with that job creation stuff!) because the two houses of Congress couldn't decide how to/whether rural airports should be subsidized by tickets purchased at much larger hub airports. Sure, that wasn't the only issue. There was a big fuss about how to get around a labor ruling that would make it easier for airport employees to unionize. (Let's be clear on that one. The new rule would require a simple majority of the votes cast to be in favor of unionization. The old rule would require a simple majority of everyone who's eligible to vote to cast votes in favor, regardless of how few/many actually show up to vote. We don't run Presidential elections that way.)
3. Then Standard and Poor's downgrades the credit rating of the United States and investors begin to act like Chicken Little. These are the same jackwagons, by the way, who kept many investment banks (Goldman Sachs and Bear Stearns among them) at "gold" ratings the banks did not deserve as the banks were in the middle of free fall. So I'm not sure how much weight I want to give this development, but it's still a Something That Must Be Dealt With.
4. On more local news, classes begin next week and, while I've spent my days on the Hamster Wheel of Paperwork, it seems that there is so very much to get done so that the first day is smooth.
5. I have surgery scheduled in a few days and, minor though it is, I'll admit to being a bit jumpy at the prospect of spending the night in the hospital. FryDaddy is doing his best (which is quite good) to reassure me that all will be well, but I'm still nervous and want this to be done with.
6. I have a writing project due in less than a month that involves learning and applying the Chicago style of citation, about which I know exactly nothing aside from the fact that I'm pretty sure it has nothing to do with adding commas to deep dish pizza.
7. All of which adds up to -- diet? What diet? Bring on the fried chicken and pimento cheese and just back off so no one needs to get hurt, Drake!

As far as I'm concerned, there's plenty there to cause nail-biting. So then my job becomes to search for solutions.

Well, I can't do much about the first three. Write my representatives, be polite, be persistent and know that America is large enough to withstand any number of idiocies. (But they do seem to be grouping, don't they?) I try to keep in mind that people -- everybody -- really are doing the best they can with what they have, but some days, that's a harder point of view to maintain than others.

As for #4, who am I kidding? The first day will be smooth, despite the fact that there will be things that are not quite done. It'll work.

As for #5, I've got some of the best surgeons in the Southeast, if not the country. We're talking about relatively minor procedures; I'm just a teensy bit of a wuss about being knocked out and out of control as my insides are being reshaped. (Although the prospect of performing sinus and throat surgery on myself should make me quake with a totally different kind of fear, don't you think?)

As for #6, I'll learn. Fast.

And #7 - well, that's a battle to be picked another day.

I've been told that there are some days that you just do your level best to get through without screaming at people. Come home, pet your animals, wash your face, say your prayers, and go to bed.

And I realize that in life, sometimes you give the advice and sometimes you take it.

Hunger, Satisfaction, and Dessert

2011-08-01T18:09:00.004-04:00

I've been hungry a lot lately. Well, Mockingbird, you might say reasonably, that'll happen when you're trying to lose the last seven pounds or so. Rumbly tummies are to be expected.

And I say "fie" to reason! (I actually do that sometimes. It leads to a great number of very strange looks in public places and to those people, I often add a stout "harrumph!" to my previously-mentioned "fie"! Umm, I'm digressing here, aren't I?)

Strange how things go in groups. (Shakespeare had something to say about that, as I recall.) Yesterday, small Ramona, our god-daughter, was doing the readings at church. I cajoled FryDaddy into getting up early enough on a blissfully sunny, perfect-for-sleeping-in Sunday to go in support of the young one's efforts. He manfully pulled himself together (and poured himself a travel mug of coffee for the service - unusual for church, but hey! not at all a bad idea, provided he doesn't use the hymnal as a coaster), but I left without breakfast. Not so bad, until I realized that the first reading was about "eating what satisfies" from Isaiah. As if I weren't already keenly aware that I had skipped breakfast, the Gospel reading was the re-telling of a very few bits of bread and fishes being made to feed thousands. By now, I needed a snack!

Later, we took Ramona to see the new version of Winnie the Pooh. By the way, if you haven't gone, do. The film is just delightful, old-school animation, complete with a cartoon short (narrated by Billy Connolly!) a the beginning. But again - all about hunger. Pooh must ignore his own Rumbly Tummy to search for Eeyore's misplaced tail. And I'm trying to be all good, foregoing buttery popcorn and Junior Mints for baby carrots and grapes.

Sigh. One can only be so good for so long. Then the dietary Mr. Hyde comes out.

Supper last night was a large pizza and Klondike bars. (That's right - "bars," as in plural.) And it was perfection itself! Heck, due to some cash register glitch, we were even given the pizzas.

I've beaten Mr. Hyde back into submission today, but I don't regret a bite of that crust nor a drip of those bars. My goal is to get healthier, not saintlier. I'm so very, very fortunate that when I'm hungry, it's because I've chosen to be so, not because I can't find or afford food to keep the rumblies away. So yeah, I'm back to "being good," but let's not take that too seriously.

But I'll still take absolution for those Klondike bars from anyone who feels qualified to give it.

Of Friends, Food, Bullies, and Vita-Rays

2011-07-25T07:12:00.001-04:00

Big week here at the Nest. As you may know from my other blog (click here), I have a friend who is going through some bad times just now, of the hospital variety. Part of the way I dealt with the shock and sadness this last week involved developing a near automatic pilot path to the local Dairy Queen. (No kidding - they know me now.) So part of this week is devoted to getting back into the better habits I had been developing. There are plenty of better and more productive things I can do for my friend instead of wallowing in the self-pitying Blizzard of Despair. Besides, a few days of that sort of thing just doesn't feel as good as it used to. Please keep my friend and her family in your thoughts - this is going to be rough road.

In other news, I finished reading Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle and while I'm not quite ready to go as hard-core locavore as her family did, I'm thinking about trying a few things. Putting up tomatoes, for example, and maybe (just maybe) trying my hand at making mozzarella. We'll see. Great book, by the way and it points up the hidden cost of buying out of season (like asparagus in July, which I am guilty of snatching up).

Have you seen Captain America yet? If so, wasn't it great? If not, why not? Seriously - I've got my cred as a comic geek and this is quite likely the best superhero movie I've seen. Period. And I'll admit to going in with a few misgivings. Cap is hard to get right - it's too easy to make him either too gung-ho, "my country right or wrong" or just pitifully naive - and if they get this wrong, next summer's Avengers movie is going to be hard to get right, since Cap is the heart of that team. For me, they walked a fine line and balanced the story beautifully. It's amazing what filmmakers can do once they understand that it's about the story, not the whizz-bang stuff. It was a smart move to approach this as an origin story - you not only get great villains (who aren't Nazis, but are so evil that they believe that the Nazis are just wusses who refuse to aim high enough), but you get a "just war" against a clear-cut enemy. This Cap is loaded with pluck, courage, and a finely-tuned moral compass - he's not out to "kill anybody. I just don't like bullies." It also comes with an amazing cast, including Hugo Weaving (who totally sells the Red Skull character) and Stanley Tucci. There's even a woman (Peggy Carter, played by Hayley Atwell) who isn't flailing eye candy. Go. Be sure to stay through the very end of the credits - there's an "Easter egg" in there for you.

FryDaddy and I were part of a ceremony yesterday to officially become Ramona's god-parents. Yep, when she gets a little older and thinks her parents, Victorian Marxist and Barefoot, just don't understand her and why it's so crucial to her high school career to pierce her nose or some other bit of teenage rebellion, she's supposed to come running to us. We plan to offer a listening ear, an open door and a promise to never, ever take her parents' side "just because." I further solemnly promise to never tell her how pretty she'd look "if only you'd get that hair out of your face." But it's so much more than that - it's being there for her when she rubs up against the sharp edges of life and trying to set a good example by right living. It's showing her how spirituality can make life's inevitable sharp edges more bearable and teaching her that not everyone walks the same path. It's spending time with her and showing her that she's interesting and valuable and deserves respect and consideration. (It's also sitting through iCarly re-runs and [this weekend] taking her to Winnie-the-Pooh). It's meeting her for lunch at school and hearing about gymnastics practice. It's a humbling experience to realize that we're being asked to take on such a role in a little girl's life and that her parents feel we're up to it.

Big week, as I said. Oddly enough, I think it all ties back to Cap. Yes, Captain America is a "super soldier" who's been altered by a top-secret serum. But, as the film points out, really what that stuff does is just amplify what's already there. A good man becomes great. Whether we're trying to make sense of the random "gotchas" of the world or growing a garden or trying to help raise an amazing child - aren't we all just doing the best we can? Or maybe we're not quite reaching that potential. Cap knows what the right thing to do is - what separates him from most of us is that he then does it. We don't have Vita-Rays to enhance our natural abilities or a fancy-schmancy vibranium shield, but we can write our representatives to say, "Hey, this is important to me and I'm watching." We can speak up when we see unkindness. We can take a few minutes to drop off used clothing to places that'll get it to those who need it. Kids are going to dress up as Cap this Halloween, and that's good, but wouldn't it be great to start acting like him as well?

He's the Captain, but we're America.

Essay Writing Time!

2011-07-17T22:19:00.000-04:00

There is a time-honored back-to-school writing assignment that involves students writing a stilted essay about "What I Did During My Summer Vacation." Interestingly, I was never assigned this essay and I'm not sure how I missed it - probably the same way that I missed reading certain pieces of classic literature as part of the curriculum. (Really, the holes in my "what I've read" list are pretty appalling.) So since I'm wrapping up my summer vacation, I thought it might be interesting to sketch out what I might write about, in the event that I am assigned to do so.

Let's see . . .

1. Strolling through downtown Charlotte on a Sunday afternoon and discovering a lovely green space smack-dab downtown that is just crammed with whimsical book themed decor. It goes perfectly with the "Firebird" (not "Freebird") statue outside the Bechtler Museum. I hope to return soon.
2. I finished a frothy, brain-candy sort of book. The Temptation of the Night Jasmine is a perfect "beach read." Simple plot, easy to pick up and put down without getting muddled about who was doing what to whom. Still, not a re-read and I'll soon pack it up to go to the used book store for a credit. Speaking of which -
3. Picking up "new" used books at our secret stash store. Frank runs a combo used bookstore/movie rental joint down at the beach that we always hit. Seriously - we included a line item called "Frank's" on our honeymoon budget. Naturally, there are a lot of popular "beach read" paperbacks (Stephen King, J.D. Robb, etc.), but also some real gems, including some lovely leatherbounds. If you're ever vacationing in the upper end of the Grand Strand (aka the "Redneck Riviera"), drop by.
4. Movies! I caught up on two classics - I hadn't seen Dr. Strangelove probably since my halcyon college days and I watched a Tracy/Hepburn I hadn't seen before. Desk Set is cute enough, but not a must-see. Fun office comedy about the early "computing machines" taking over the research department of some unnamed company. IBM is mentioned both prominently and often. Also saw Me and Orson Welles (excellent and be on the lookout for Christian McKay. Oh, Orson - how hard you were on those who loved you) and Inside Job, a documentary that will get you fired up about the Great Meltdown of 2008 and how business as usual continues to be business as usual.
5. Being fired up and all, I wrote my Congressional representative (who often behaves as an illogical troll, but I have hope) and both Senators urging them to consider the big picture on the debt ceiling mess. Just maybe it won't just be business as usual - and I raised my voice to make it known.
6. Starting Animal, Vegetable, Miracle and getting some solid ideas about how to become a little bit more of a "locavore." The Kingsolver family went hard-core, but smaller steps could be taken. (I'm toying with the idea of making cheese. Don't call me Heidi.) And did you know that Federal standards are stricter for tap water than they are for bottled? Hmmm.

7. Taking another hike. This time, I took a shorter trail (1.7 miles one way), but it's rated as being "strenuous." You don't say! I was sucking wind like - well, like something that sucks wind, but I made it up to the top! The views were stupendous - and yes, the final climb is somewhat after the sign that's posted. Idiots will insist on getting too close to sheer drops and ruining it for those of us with the sense God gave geese.
8. Eating lots and lots of tempting (read "junk") food during this last week. Yum, Krispy Kreme. Yum, ice cream. Repeat as needed. It's back to the "good stuff" tomorrow (which isn't bad at all - I refuse to do some wacky diet of twigs and grubs), but it's been great fun to be off my leash for a bit.
9. Seeing the pack after being away for a few days. Spooky and Pip continue to get along beautifully, to the point of Spooky settling herself carefully down in her crate to avoid smushing the curled-up kitty who is contentedly snoring in the back of said crate.
10. Having Sunday brunch with my husband and mother-in-law. Usually it's just FryDaddy and Mom Squared, but this time I got to join in. It's lovely to be married into a family that you genuinely like and enjoy being around.
11. (Yes, this list goes to eleven. No exploding drummer, though, I promise) Finally seeing what all the fuss about Breaking Bad is about. Although I'm not caught up with the entire series (by a long shot!), I now better understand the buzz. The characters are three-dimensional (and that goes for both the so-called good guys and bad guys - it quite possibly may be the greyest show I've ever seen), the storylines are darkly plausible, and the filming itself deserves the word "cinematic." Check it out, if you haven't already - but make sure the kiddies are safely in bed.

It really was relaxing, although you might not think so after reading that list! Back into the breach tomorrow!

The Great Outdoors!

2011-07-09T12:36:00.001-04:00

It may be hard to believe nowadays, but I grew up as a major-league tomboy.* My family kept horses (and I have a very fuzzy memory of riding in a wagon pulled by a mule) and it was made clear early on that yes, ponies are just about the neatest thing ever, but they come with chores. If you're as tall as the pitchfork, you can use it. We had a huge garden and I was known to duck out of the chore of picking beans by running for the magnolia tree. (There were cornstalks to hide in when I was quite small, but people always look for you there.) My mother grew up surrounded by the gentle mountains of southwestern Virginia and she instilled a love of hiking in me. (Note that reads "hiking," as in the day variety. I'm not such a fan of hard-core camping. As much as I like the idea of through hiking the Appalachian Trail, it's not going to happen.) I was nine when I first hiked the Alum Cave Trail at Mt. LeConte which is the third-highest peak in the Smokies and one day I plan to go back.

Yesterday was the first day in well more than a year that I've felt up to a real hike. Since I hurt my ankle a year ago, there's been very little of that. Even on the rare occasion when I went to a state park (and yes, there's now an app for that!), I stayed on the flat. FryDaddy had an appointment in Charlotte yesterday, so I had some free time and, with my recent forays into exercise of both the cardio and weight-bearing varieties, I thought I could handle a "moderate" trail.

Well, success is rarely ever total in science. Or hiking.

As the picture at the top of the post indicates, I made it a mile and a half in (which means a mile and a half out, for a total of three miles) before I turned around. Still, it was glorious. Hot as blazes, with very little breeze, so I was soaked through. There was no "glistening" or "glowing" which are the Southern euphemisms for female perspiration - I was a sweaty, happy mess. But a few lessons are here to be learned - I got one and two right, but the rest - well, not so much:

Know your limits. While I hated "giving up," I wasn't physically ready to handle the full length of that trail. It's better to turn around than to be the focus of a search and rescue mission.
Take plenty of water and a few snacks. You get hungry quickly and you sure don't want to drink from a trail stream in these days.
Don't hike alone. Take a buddy - things happen out there. Not often, but when they do being alone is a short cut to trouble.
If you're too stubborn to listen to Point Three, at least check in at the ranger station and tell them where you're going and how long you'll be out. Then check back in when you return.

I'm back off to the gym today, but there's something about a gritty, uneven, roots-grabbing-at-your-shoes, Carolina-red-mud-covered trail that can't be duplicated in a shiny gym. I'll be back!

*I still insist that I'm a low-maintenance woman. It's perfectly okay in my book to own (and use!) both hiking boots and a decent moisturizer. Hopefully, you'll never catch me hiking in flip-flops (yes, I saw it yesterday) and false eyelashes (which I've never worn and am pretty sure would make me look like a hungover lemur).

Clattering in the Kitchen

2011-07-03T18:57:00.001-04:00

Today, FryDaddy and I began tackling a project that we'd been guilty of Talking Big about for over a year. While we're not quite done yet, we made a solid start and I'd say we're about halfway through the project. It's his fault, really. After all, he's a foot taller than I am and really - what am I supposed to do about that? So we'd always said we'd rearrange the kitchen and get things better organized. See, I enjoy cooking (and even baking, when that sugar-coated bug bites), but I've always been pretty indifferent about just where I put pots and pans and such things. (Note to self - this is how you wind up with not one, but three pasta measuring thingies that you never, ever use.) FryDaddy, on the other hand, takes cooking more seriously than I do - I'm one of those who has about a dozen recipes that I can whip up on short notice without a cookbook and thinks that cookbooks are, well, neat but hardly necessary while he can read over one and look up suddenly with a gleam in his eye and in two days, we're eating duck. Or paella. Or Cornish game hens.

It could have been a tedious chore. We had a good idea of what was going where, but you still have to empty everything out, clean the shelf liner (which was beyond disreputable), then reassemble everything. As is true in nearly everything short of a murder investigation, a sense of humor and a kickin' soundtrack helps. Skillets, along with pans for both sauce and saute, now hang jauntily from a rack installed over the kitchen window. (Alas, we didn't have the right pots to make the good ship Serenity a la Dr. Horrible.) We're halfway through the kitchen and have hauled one big box to Goodwill already, with another ready to go. And let us not speak of the items that wound up in the trash. Really - go through your kitchen junk drawer and I can almost guarantee you'll have at least two moments of "Why do we have this?" "Dunno. What is it, exactly?" Take my word for it - smile at each other, shrug, and toss.

Tomorrow is Independence Day. I won't make the tired joke about how we're "declaring our independence from kitchen clutter." This is just a task that very much needed to be done and we're right pleased with the results so far. But we will observe the holiday - I urge you to as well. Fly the flag, go see a small-town parade, marvel at fireworks and, by all means, read the Declaration of Independence. Good stuff there and most folks have never actually read the thing. Some of the best minds of the Enlightenment had a hand in Jefferson's masterwork and they weren't slouches. (By the way, Jefferson's grave marker mentions the Declaration, along with his work in founding the University of Virginia, but fails to mention his service as President. Hmmm.)

Forbidden Fruit!

2011-06-26T19:01:00.000-04:00

I'm here to report on my first week on the diet train. As previously reported, it was time to Get Serious and after some serious consideration, I selected The 17 Day Diet, which consists of four 17 day cycles. Right now, I'm in the "Accelerate" cycle, which is fairly restricted. However, I must say that this first week has gone better than expected. While I may occasionally feel a twinge of "hey, I'd like to eat something," my plan allows me to munch away, so I never get to that crazy, shaky, "I'd eat the lid off the peanut jar and push my mama off a cliff to get to the jar" stage of hunger.

A few things to know: Plenty of lean protein, but as I'm not a fish-eater, I've been getting creative with chicken, as two-plus weeks of grilled chicken salads would get me to clucking! I'm still getting plenty of carbs, but it's all coming from fruits, vegetables, and low-fat dairy. No bread, no potatoes, no rice, no pasta (yet). No sugar and no artificial sweeteners, so no diet soda. Some fruit is okay (not melon though, so the muskmelon sandals at the top of the post are merely decorative. Then again, they probably should stay that way in any event), but fruit is to be consumed before 2 in the afternoon to give my body time to burn off the sugar. That's actually turning out to be good for me. I tend to get wound up at work and eat very, very late in the day. This makes me go "Hmm. If I want those blueberries, better find a stopping place." I had a long drive on Friday and was snacking on fresh blueberries as I drove along the interstate. Better than popping M&Ms.

I'm exercising more. On top of my cheapo pedometer tracking my daily step count, I've hit the gym three times this week and done a "briskly paced" walking DVD at home two times. (By the way - that phrase "briskly paced" should be read as "it's good for me, but it's also good that chirpy woman isn't in the room with me. These hand weights could do some damage and, around Minute 22, it looks like maybe a good idea").

So what's the bottom line? It's Day Seven and I'm down two kilos (4.4 pounds). I've got more energy than I had last week and I'm willing to not throw it all away for a box of Red Hots. Parts of this seem a little crazy to me - I'm guzzling water like a camel at an oasis, hot lemon water when I first get up, plenty of green tea every day - but I can't argue with results. I'm eating foods I haven't tried before, getting experimental with spices, and actually liking going to the gym for circuit training.

Onward!

Time to Get Serious!

2011-06-19T20:30:00.002-04:00

I'm changing the focus of this blog for the next few weeks - hope you don't mind. Like many women, after a certain birthday, I've found pounds creeping on and refusing to vacate the premises. I've tried a variety of methods to counter the trespassers and, while I've had some success (I took up whole grains, for example), I'm just sick and tired of not seeing much change.

So it's time to Take Steps.

I've never been one to closely examine bookstore shelves for diet advice, feeling that it's all either (1) pretty much the same - cut sugar and fried foods, watch portion size, and exercise more or (2) kooky junk that desperate women will do despite usually having common sense, like slurping cabbage soup three times a day. Therefore, I was a little shamefaced about looking at these books, almost like I'd been caught doing something Not Quite Polite. Also, I accept that obesity is a (pardon the pun) huge problem in American society and I know that I'm really just looking to lose what my English friends would refer to as "a stone," but it's been a nagging problem for me.

But, like Willow, I am wearing my Resolve Face. I've looked over the book and made my shopping excursion. I have the CliffsNotes version printed out and posted on the fridge. Everything starts tomorrow. The first cycle only lasts 17 days and the only restriction that seems tough to me is giving up even whole grains for that time (rice, pasta, and bread are all verboten for the first cycle, after which I get to reintroduce them). It's a little of Atkins in that it's high-protein, low-carb. The idea is to spark a noticeable weight loss during this first cycle so I don't get discouraged.

I'll keep you posted. Don't worry, this won't turn into a place where I constantly fret about "how I'm doing," but knowing that I'm going to post will (I hope) keep me on the straight and narrow during this time.

In some ways, this is just another way that I'm Getting Serious. To wit, I've always been interested in politics, but mostly in the theoretical way. I vote (not straight ticket) and I follow the news and I go tsk, tsk a lot, but until recently, that's been the extent of it. But there's a change in the air here at the Nest. My much-beloved state is doing some things that aren't just bordering on the country of Stupid, they pretty much are setting up housekeeping there. Of course, the state budget has plenty of things in there for everyone to get upset about - I could almost accept that, in working on such a gargantuan task, there would be some tough decisions that I didn't like. Well, I was right about that. But:

Cutting all funding to Governor's School. This is a summer enrichment program for advanced high school students who show unusual promise in science, mathematics, writing, the arts, etc. Founded in 1963, NCGS is a jewel. By being forced to impose tuition, which for the next year affected by the just-passed budget is estimated to be $1,700 per student, the program will be unable to meet one of its primary purposes which is to reach the promising student of limited means. The best and the brightest shouldn't have to rely on the kindness of strangers dropping spare change into a pickle jar at local gas stations to fund such programs.
Cutting all funding to the NC Teaching Fellows program. This program is a merit-based program that grants scholarships of $6,500 per year to students throughout their four years of undergraduate instruction, with the provision that upon graduation from college, the students will repay the state by teaching for four years in NC public schools. Built-in trained teachers ready to tackle work in public schools - can't have that.
Muzzling the state Department of Revenue from vigorously going after multi-state corporations who juggle the location of their taxable assets in a transparent dodge to avoid paying state taxes. We already have the lowest business taxes in the nation (same as the previous link) and the lowest percentage (3.2%) of unionized workers.

Those items were included in the state budget that our governor vetoed and the legislature overrode. I can't do anything about that - until the time comes to hit the campaign trail. But the next one got me involved - I've never written so many e-mails to my elected representatives before. Both my state representative, state senator, and governor heard from me. It might not matter - I'm only one person, but it has to start somewhere. And this is simply outrageous.

Disingenuously called the "NC Women's Right to Know Act," the bill (which is waiting for the governor's signature or [please] veto) would require the following before a legal abortion could be performed:

A 24 hour waiting period (which for many in NC will involve finding a place to stay the night since abortion clinics aren't all that widespread in NC, which is mostly rural)
A required ultrasound, paid for by the patient
A session with the doctor, who will explain the ultrasound images, the development of the fetus, and explain what alternatives are available to the woman. The woman is permitted to "avert her eyes" from the images. The doctor is given a lengthy list of items that must be included in his spiel - yes, the legislators thoughtfully provided a script for the licensed professional physician to follow.
The only exception here is a "medical emergency," which is defined as imminent danger of the death/irreversible impairment of a major bodily function of the woman. Psychological or emotional damage from continuing the pregnancy is specifically not included in the definition of a "medical emergency." See subsection (4) in the "Definitions" section at the start of the bill.
Oh, and there's no exception in the case of rape or incest. None.

At this point, I think I actually felt my blood boil. Imagine a rape victim who has become pregnant as the result of the attack (or an incest victim, a crime that only became a serious felony in NC in 2002. Outrageous and it wasn't easy to strengthen the penalties - read here for details) having to pay for an ultrasound and then having to listen to a doctor explain the development of the fetus and explain what resources are available to help her with the pregnancy, which is the result of a heinous crime against her.

How dare the legislature treat NC women as so thick-headed that they don't know what's going on inside them? And how dare the legislature interfere in the very-nearly-sacred privileged relationship between a doctor and a patient?

I see the trend here - and it's time to start yelling. You'll find me writing more e-mails, volunteering with my local precinct and talking your ear off about these issues. I love North Carolina, but I'm not going to live in a state that dismisses the average citizen the way our current legislature is doing.

And I'm not leaving.

Big Hats & Delta Blues

2011-06-12T11:08:00.001-04:00

An eventful couple of days. Yesterday, I hosted a "Belmont Belles" soiree. Basically, about a dozen fillies got together to put on floppy hats and pick horses. More than anything, it was an excuse to visit with friends and nibble on Southern summer delicacies such as chicken salad, strawberries with powdered sugar, and pimento cheese. Yum! The preacher's wife picked the winning horse, which makes me more prone to believe in divine intervention. (I picked the favorite - nearly always a mistake in the Triple Crown races - who was lucky to finish sixth after a collision just out of the starting gate.) It was a fun time and I think I'll try that one again.

Poor FryDaddy was put to work - he valiantly cleaned, chopped, swept, shoved furniture around and then disappeared with Victorian Marxist to watch a movie in peace while the hens descended on the house. He really was a trouper about the whole thing.

Just the day before, I had an appointment to follow up on something that my "throat doc" had been concerned enough about to send me to a colleague. Leaving out some of the gruesome details, I have scar tissue in my trachea. This has to be monitored (leaving out the "how" that is accomplished is one of the aforementioned gruesome details) because scar tissue is rather like kudzu. It's a non-native species that, if left unchecked, will totally take over, choking the very life out of whatever it curls around. Thanks to modern medicine, taking care of this isn't that terrible. But lately, my nose seemed to be getting involved, along with the throat, so off I went to see a "nose doc" who would interpret the CT scan. (That's not mine at the top of the post, but it gives you an idea. Sort of like a Rorschach inkblot, isn't it? Or like an aerial view of a river delta. Mine's not nearly so symmetrical, which explains the "delta blues" part of the post title.)

The doctor and I got along well - always a consideration with me. If I can't crack jokes and still get my questions answered, it's best for all involved for me to find someone else. (My favorite involved a doctor I saw about my throat seeing on my chart that I was an attorney [strange, but true - passed the Bar exam more than a decade ago] and asking, "So are you a malpractice attorney?" and me answering, "Not yet." He laughed and we got along famously.) All joking aside, I make my living talking and teaching other people to talk - I'm very particular about who gets to poke around my larynx and in such an instance, I much prefer to go to the people who write the scholarly articles rather than the ones who (hopefully) read them.

As he put it, "You have some anatomical anomalies here." Yep - I have mutant sinuses, yet without any accompanying mutant powers, which just seems unfair. Shouldn't I at least get to breathe fire? In short, I have a septum (the thingie that divides the nostrils into two sides) that goes hard to the right. I have openings in my sinuses where I shouldn't and I have closed chambers where there should be openings. In short, it's a mess which is causing swelling, pressure, "recirculation" (the snot's too dumb to get out of the sinus chambers), and shortness of breath. Nothing dangerous, but it's beyond just being annoying. So in August, both docs are going to work on me. (Much preferable to me than having two surgeries done.) The throat surgery is quite minor (again, thanks to modern medicine) but the nasal work is more involved. He'll "detach" the septum and reset it, then basically reconstruct my sinus cavities to close off opening and open up closings. Recovery will not be lengthy, but it's likely to make me grumpy - stents to breathe through, black eyes, packing - much yuck.

And no guarantee of mutant powers at the end of it.

Sigh.

Welcome to Pip!

2011-06-05T13:55:00.004-04:00

The Nest got a little bit bigger this week, as we adopted (or were adopted by, there's a bit of confusion on that point) a teensy grey ball of fluff. FryDaddy had been longing for a cat for quite a while and I certainly have no aversion to the felines of the world - in fact, my very first pet was a Siamese/alley mix named "Mishka" whom I loved as fiercely as any five-year-old has ever loved. We didn't know this one's name at first, which is okay as animals will tell you their name, if you're just patient for a bit. Turns out this little lady is Chiana, which just happens to also be the name of an exceptionally agile, acrobatic, grey-skinned thief in the TV show Farscape. Like that Chiana, this one is nicknamed "Pip."

Pip seems to be settling in nicely - she only arrived Friday night, and she's already had the indignity of her first vet visit. She's quite healthy, has had her first round of shots, and has figured out where her food and litter box are located. She's discovered that she can climb, so it's time to "kitty-proof" the house by putting up some of the breakables that I would both cry over and cause others to cry over should they be broken. Spooky is entranced by Pip and wants very much to lick her. Pip, on the other hand, is understandably cautious about this mountain of slobbery fur and is prone to hissing and lashing out with teensy claws when Spooky ventures too much into what Pip considers her space. I have high hopes that things will work themselves out over the next few days as the critters find boundaries and treaties are reached.

It's likely to be an interesting week, don't you think?

Notes from Vacation, Part 2

2011-05-29T12:41:00.004-04:00

So what exactly did we do on this sightseeing trip? Good question, that. There's so much to see in DC that you are wise to make lists of "what we have to do" vs. "what we'd like to do." Then you still have some whittling in front of you, but you are far less likely to wear yourselves out. That's worth considering - we were lucky with the weather in that it was overcast (even a little drizzly here and there) which kept the heat down. I worked for a year in DC and the heat can be oppressive. It tends to get very humid as well, which can make for unpleasant "hiking around" weather.

While we didn't manage everything even on our "cut down" list, what we did see, we can say with certainty that we saw at our own pace and saw thoroughly as opposed to "hurry, hurry - snap our photos, back on the bus." (Aside - don't do those tours. There are so many "virtual tours" you can take through the technology of the Internet that if you're just taking a trip to say you saw some particular piece of art - be that David in Florence or the Hope Diamond in DC - skip the crowded tour, get yourself a cool drink and call it up on a good-sized computer screen and visit as long as you want to.) Sightseeing is about seeing the sights you didn't expect to see, so allow time for unexpected discoveries. For example, on our way to the Holocaust Museum, I spied a five-foot wooden cutout of Smokey the Bear and decided it would make a cute photo. An amused man outside informed us that the scaffold-covered building was actually the home of the U.S. Forest Service and that we should duck inside and see what was what. He was right - it was a side trip that we never would have made otherwise. And let's just say that the animatronic Smokey in his office was clearly designed to talk to the small fry. His eyes were set at the right height for children, but when talking to me - well, the focus of his gaze seemed a little risque.

We spent a lot of time in both the Natural History and American History museums - the first was always a favorite of mine (but really - re-setting the Hope Diamond? I felt old and curmudgeonly when I wanted it to be the "old" way) and it's been re-done and updated. I liked the old, 1950s diorama feel of it before, but I must say it's cool to have so much out from behind glass cases. (Interestingly, inside a glass case in the middle of the dinosaur bones is a room full of working scientists. Odd, I thought. I didn't try to feed them and I didn't even tap on the glass, tempting as it was.) In the "bug room," I got to hold a live Lubber grasshopper (which is horror movie big) and chat with volunteers (who were of regular size). So much to discuss - just go to the Website here and make plans to spend several hours in this place when you go to DC.

The American History museum was likewise a feast. They had an especially nice exhibit on Abraham Lincoln's presidency. The most shocking part was seeing the difference between the two "life masks" of Lincoln. Made only about five years apart, the aging of Lincoln is obvious; clear evidence of the wear the Civil War had on him. There's also a nice (and soon to be expanded) exhibit of popular culture items in this museum, with items ranging from Dorothy's ruby slippers to Archie Bunker's battered easy chair.

We made a special trip to both the Grant Memorial and the WW2 Memorial, neither of which I'd ever seen. Both are worth the short hike. They are on opposite ends of the Mall, so keep that in mind. We went to one a day. The Grant Memorial is a great place to sit and think. Grant is astride his magnificent warhorse Cincinnati (the pair of them are at the top of the post) and seems to be a calm presence with chaos swirling on both sides in the side sculptures of artillery and cavalry. Go see it.

The plaza-like WW2 Memorial is also a calm place that manages to speak to the sacrifices and cost of war. Most striking to me is the reflecting pool which shimmers with the double image of gold stars, each one representing 100 fallen Americans.

We had gotten tickets to the Holocaust Museum early in our trip planning and I cannot encourage your enough to visit this museum. Without a doubt, it is the most carefully designed museum I've ever been to. Exhibits are thoughtful and horrifying. We lingered so long that we didn't have time to thoroughly explore the museum shop (I know - a gift shop seemed faintly disrespectful, like a hot dog cart at Dachau, but it was done thoughtfully and I wish we'd had more time there). It's not a light, carefree experience, but it's one I'm very glad we made time to have.

That's the quick rundown. Now we're both back and both deeply immersed in our respective summer schools - all the more reason to be glad we had the trip!

Notes from Vacation, Part 1

2011-05-22T13:58:00.004-04:00

FryDaddy and I spent most of last week on a sightseeing trip to Our Nation's Capital. While both of us had been to DC before, we'd never gone together and neither of us had been there in the recent past. Knowing that it was useless to attempt to see everything, Fry was in charge of the "what to see" portion of the trip, which we decided to approach as An Adventure. Keep in mind that the following only represents our own experiences; your mileage may vary and contents may have shifted during transport.

First off, we decided to travel via Megabus. While the return trip was closer to the advertising (which indicated a near-rockstar tour bus experience - lots of room, WiFi, heck, probably someone there to entertain the kids with creative balloon animals!), the trip up was rough. Surly driver, shabby vehicle and I had a sinking feeling about this trip. It's not always best to go cheapest. Consider that you're dropped off in an uncovered parking lot a few blocks from Union Station. Yep. Just a parking lot. I'd suggest re-thinking this part - it was cheap, but it also felt cheap. Thanks are due to Victorian Marxist who not only dropped us off and picked us up, but kept his opinions about the wisdom of our travel plans to himself (mostly).

Rather than a hotel (which can be criminally expensive in DC), we booked the downstairs "mother-in-law" suite of a schoolteacher's house in northeast DC. We had plenty of room, lots of hot water, a comfortable bed - really, there was no downside here. I'd heartily recommend booking through airbnb.com anytime you plan on travelling. Accommodations range from "hey, I've got a blow-up mattress on the floor of what's usually my study!" to entire houses.

For the actual sightseeing, we had decided to stick mostly to the National Mall. That meant we needed to figure out both the bus system (to get to the Metro) and the Metro itself. Piece of cake and we were both bowled over by the kindness of people to obvious tourists in the city. A Metro agent came out of his cubicle to walk two NC hick types through the ticket machine process (rechargeable SmarTrip cards are the way to go, baby!) and a bus driver actually waved us by when we were fumbling with the cards.

I have to mention our first night in town. We were bushed from the ride on CrampedBus (to the point we paid way too much to a gypsy cab driver to get to the house. He was very nice - who wouldn't be to the rubes who got so willingly rooked? - and we just were beyond caring at that point. We got suggestions for a nearby place to eat (we later bought groceries at the neighborhood bodega, but weren't up to it at that moment) and hot-footed it down the street to a Tex-Mex place. It was dark by the time we got finished eating and my ankle was making its still healing presence known. We were discussing what was best - hail a cab or puzzle out the bus system? - when I leaned over to the couple next to us and just asked for help.

The lesson is: Always ask for help.

Turns out the couple runs a Website devoted to publicizing all that is good to see, eat, hear, etc. in DC and they both see themselves as unofficial ambassadors of the city. They listened to our question and then said, with utter sincerity, "We live in the neighborhood. We can help you figure it out, but would you rather us just give you a lift?"

Huh-what?

Remember the lesson: Always ask for help. Most people like being asked and some will go way beyond the call.

Next post - museums, monuments and some moments that stopped us in our tracks.

Five, Six, Se-ven, Eight!

2011-05-16T08:06:00.005-04:00

For about a week, I'm in that lovely in-between time that occurs when one semester is finished before another one begins. It's especially pronounced between spring and summer, since my summer teaching load is so light (only one class, since I taught over my contractual requirements in spring) and yet such a concentrated class. (Seriously - I warn my students on Day 1 not to confuse my summer college class with Vacation Bible School. If they want three college credits, they're in the right place and shall continue to be there for the next five weeks every day class meets and they will come prepared. If they want to learn about everlasting love and watch a bean seed grow in a Styrofoam cup, they ought to hie themselves elsewhere. Enrollment tends to drop after Day 1.)

But that's next week. Since last we spoke, papers, tests, and projects were graded, grades were calculated and then posted. (Within two hours, I had the first complaint, but that's another story.) Graduation was held and the rain even held off from drenching the outside ceremony. I always rather enjoy commencement, despite the heat and the hard aluminum bleachers. Our students have accomplished something - and often something big that other people had mistakenly told them they couldn't do, and that's worth some noise and a sore behind. (Note to students coming up - it's also worth learning the value of subject/verb agreement and coherent thought. Just sayin'.) I spent the last half of this week cleaning the office and decompressing from a long, tough slog through the spring semester. Some of that involved getting out of town and doing some light hiking (the right ankle still goes "ow!" sometimes, so I pretty much just strolled in the woods), eating food that was deliciously bad for me, getting to know my faithful dog again, browsing in a book store or two, and spending time with the man who knew my moods, yet married me despite them.

The latter is something we intend to continue this week as he finally receives his Christmas present, which is a short vacation spent sightseeing without conferences, medical appointments, or anything else other than "hey, you want to tackle the Natural History museum or that place with the spatter paintings?" (He likes Jackson Pollock way more than I do.) There will be adventures galore to relate to you, as we're making this a Vacation on an Academic Budget, which is to say we're traveling only slightly higher up the food chain than when I was a student staying in the cheapest of hostels and traveling on a ticket stamped "cattle class." (I regret none of that, by the way. You meet very interesting people and gain a sense of freedom and curiosity.) We're traveling by Megabus (sounds like a horror movie, doesn't it?) and staying in a place we discovered through a Website that's a house, not a hotel. (Hey - before you knock us for traveling by bus - no two hour early check in, no baggage fees, free Wi-Fi and more leg room. I'll tell you what it was like, but I just might turn into a fan. And don't even think of that "they're gone. I'll break into their house and take all their academically-oriented books to resell on eBay!" Three words - "big dog" and "house-sitter.")

FryDaddy and I may have finished our respective academic dances for the semester, but we spent a chunk of yesterday at a dance recital. Our goddaughter, Ramona, takes lessons in dance and gymnastics (also karate - she's testing for her yellow belt in about a month) and it was her time to show off a year's worth of work. Also, her mother, Barefoot, was in an adult tap class (that sounds dirty, but it isn't. Just a class for over-18s.) along with Librarian Who and another friend of ours. Wow. Not having grown up with the dance recital culture, this was eye-opening to me. We went last year for the first time, so I knew a little bit of what to expect (I packed a snack, for instance.) While many of the numbers were distinguished by cute-as-proverbial-buttons outfits (especially the "Mary Poppins" and other little kid numbers), a few stood out, such as the annual "Daddies & Daughters" number, which featured large, often burly men, gamely strutting about with bright pink socks that matched their daughters' tutu-esque dresses. The little girls couldn't have been older than four and the overall effect was one of charm and adoration.

The same could not be said of a couple of other numbers, about which I shall be silent other than saying three things. 1 - Please pay attention to costuming, especially your high school aged girls. 2 - Listen to the lyrics before choosing the music. 3 - Resist cheap sentiment. It makes it look like you don't trust your dancers to communicate the basic ideas of the piece. I feel like a curmudgeon, but if I'm going to pay to be there for 3 plus hours with no way to use the ladies' rest room, I get to snark.

Dance shoes were in evidence yesterday - ballet, jazz, tap. I even got into the act with my latest present from FryDaddy. For years, I'd wanted these and had always talked myself out of getting - they just weren't practical. Then I saw that high-top Chucks have gone way beyond plain canvas. Mine are at the top of the post - double tongued, black-with-lavender. Do they probably look silly on me? Yep, and what's it to you? Much better than charging the cost of the mortgage for a pair of strappy sandals. I'm not really a "shoe hog," but I have to admit, these make me smile.

Off to the office - must get prepped for the first day back so craziness can be kept at a minimum when I actually get back.

Mother's Day

2011-05-08T08:34:00.003-04:00

So today is Mother's Day - a day set aside to honor our mothers and the difficult job they took on when we came into their lives. Face it, we're all born uncivilized little ego-machines and (to use a horribly overworked cliche) it takes a village to transform us into reasonably useful, compassionate citizens. While we're facing things, face the fact that most of the village goes home at night, leaving moms with the night shift - and often the day shift and swing shift.

The date of Mother's Day varies from country to country, but a few things remain constant. More phone calls are placed today than any other day, and boy howdy! it's flower day! Restaurants also love this day - it's actually the most popular day to eat out.

Although we won't be together today (end of semester grading is a pain in more ways than one), my mother is still very much a presence in my life. I appreciate that, for many people, this is a day that may be bittersweet or downright painful. Mothers are incredibly important to our development and to have a lousy childhood due to neglect, indifference, or abuse from our mother is something that I (thankfully) can only imagine. Further, I don't have children of my own (I occasionally borrow, but I always return), so I still have pretty much a grown child's perspective on the holiday.

So I think it's appropriate to look back on that upbringing with a first draft of a list of Things Mom Taught Me:

1. It's correct to address people older than you with "ma'am" or "sir," although once you know them, Miss ____ or Mister ____ can be substituted for people outside the immediate family circle. Hence, "Miss Lucy" might teach your Sunday School class.

2. Know how to cook. The food you create doesn't have to be fancy, but it's better for you and much, much cheaper. (True. I even know how to make jellies and can vegetables. And once I learned that "start in a cold oven" really means it, I learned how to make a pound cake that will knock your flip-flops off!)

3. A clean house is nice, but it's better to step on the occasional Lego or crayon and have happy kids. (Overheard: "I'd rather raise kids than grass.")

4. Playing outside is a good thing - how else will you learn that drinking from a garden hose not only won't hurt you, but also actually tastes really good if the day is hot enough?

5. When currying a horse, brush with the grain there at the end.

6. Read whatever you want to read, but make sure all homework is done first.

7. Not all adults are right all the time, but we're going to be polite about it. And persistent.

8. Pets are pretty much a necessity, but once you have them, you have agreed to take care of them. (I think this is probably good training to have children.)

9. School matters (quite a bit), but never make the mistake of thinking that makes you better than someone who didn't walk that path. When you need a plumber, you don't need an English major.

10. Being "ladylike" is not a bad thing. People may think that it's out of style or determined by the wearing of hats and gloves, but people are often wrong, and here's an example. Little is less ladylike than snootiness and a disdain for work. The need for compassion and grace remains constant and improving society, whether in the raising of a good child or the planting of an iris bed, generally requires a willingness to get one's hands dirty.

I haven't always lived up to all of these (frozen dinners are my friend, especially during the semester) and like most kids - even the grown ones - I haven't always appreciated the advice. But I do today.

Thanks, Mom! For absolutely everything.

One!

2011-05-01T14:23:00.003-04:00

Sorry for the unusual delay between posts, Readers Mine, but things have been hectic here at the Nest. The end of the semester is always rushbusyrush, but on top of that, I had the wonderful opportunity to present at the National Popular Culture Association/American Culture Association conference which was recently held in San Antonio, Texas. I maintain another blog for such professional activities (observations from my film class, writing projects - that sort of thing) and I was busily posting there about that conference and rather neglected things over here. I'm not going to recap here, but if you want to read details about that conference - which really was fabulous - click here then scroll down to April 2011. The pertinent entries are there, titled with imaginative monikers such as "Day One," "Day Two," and so on.

Today is May Day. As one of my friends has pointed out, the first of May is one of those "supernatural hotspot" dates - just about everybody attaches some significance to it. It's an important day for Celts, laborers, lawyers, communists, military leaders, spring lovers, Christians, and the Norse - and that's only naming a few! It also happens to be my and FryDaddy's anniversary of entering into the state of wedding bliss. It's been quite the first year and we look forward to many, many, many more.

Since he's a student, we celebrated yesterday rather than today. (He's on his way back to school for his final exam tomorrow. Latin. "Romance language," my foot!) It was a pleasant celebration, though. There was a spring festival here in town, so we went out to nose around craft stalls and exclaim over the work of artisans - jewelery, woodworking, painting, ceramics, textiles - all sorts of items were there, along with the first farmer's market of the season. (Strawberry bread. Who'd've thunk?) We had a fabulous candlelit dinner at home and exchanged gifts.

Now, among my people, the first anniversary gift is supposed to involve paper. We're both book people, so I figured that was the appropriate way to go and my gifts to FryDaddy were well-received. However, FryDaddy is a creative romantic. He worked with the minister who performed our ceremony and got his original hand-written notes on our wedding readings. This is what the minister used to craft his personalized wedding message to us. He took the readings, complete with gloss, to a framer and I think it's one of the most delightful, unique, and flat-out wonderful gifts ever! (Aside - it would seem that FryDaddy likes to make me cry on May 1. He's done it three years running now.)

So although we're not spending the whole actual anniversary day together, well, life is like that sometimes. He's off studying verbs and such and will be back tomorrow after the exam is finished. I, meanwhile, will still have stacks of end-of-semester grading to do for another week and a half. But I have those readings hanging by the door where I'll see them every time I leave this house we're busily working to turn into a home.

(stops typing to glance at the glossed readings)

Yeah. It's been a good year.

PS - For a great read about "gloss," click here.

Frog in the Throat

2011-04-18T16:16:00.004-04:00

It was bound to happen, when you stop and think about it. Over the last six months or so, I've noticed some unsettling signs - sudden shortness of breath, wheezing, the feeling of something being stuck in my throat, nasty hacking - all of these are bad signs for anybody, but when you make your living teaching people effective means of communication, well . . . it's really not fun.

I had a pretty good idea of what was going on and I didn't like it much. See, somewhere long ago and far away, I was diagnosed with a "idiopathic subglottic stenosis." (This was after a year of being misdiagnosed as having adult onset asthma, but that's another tale.) In short, I have scar tissue in my windpipe, cause unknown. (Aside: Doesn't "idiopathic" sound so much better and more elevated than "darned if we know"? I keep wanting to use that in class - "Dr. Mockingbird, why are we all here? I mean, what's the meaning of life? So many philosophers and religious leaders have wrestled with those questions - tell me, what's it all mean?" "It's idiopathic." Maybe one day . . .)

Treatment requires check-ups and those involve a medical device that bears an uncomfortable resemblance to the proboscis of an anteater being inserted in the nose and down the throat. Said device is equipped with (oh, joy!) a camera, so we can then watch my larynx in action (or inaction, as the case may be). Anyway, I had a scheduled check up with my surgeon today and - let's just say I hit the trifecta. Narrowing in the trachea, allergies kicking up the symptoms, and a nasal polyp. Well, at least it's not all in my head. My head has been scanned, I have an appointment with a "sinus surgeon" about the polyp and surgery has been tentatively scheduled for July. (It's only mid-April now so clearly, it's nothing urgent, but seriously - this coughing and hacking and feeling stressed about coughing and hacking is very old by now.)

On the plus side, my doctors are top-notch. I was diagnosed when I was in school in Winston-Salem, which houses one of the top ear, nose, and throat research departments in the country, so I trust these guys. (Given a choice, always pick surgeons who write the books, instead of the the ones who read them.) Even so, not being able to quite catch my breath has noticeably increased my overall stress level which is already red-lining here at the end of the semester.

Then again, the marquee outside a gas station reminded me today that "Stressed spelled backwards is desserts" and that's knowledge that makes me feel better.

Take It Down a Notch

2011-04-10T09:51:00.006-04:00

Back in January, I began a year-long course of self-evaluation in the area of body image. There were a few reasons for this - one, I had some weight I wanted to lose and two, I became curious about why numbers on a scale mattered so much to me. America is a looks-obsessed society - that comes as no shock to just about anyone. No one wants to age, except for the very young and Abercrombie & Fitch just got in hot water for marketing a push-up bikini top to seven-year-olds. We spend billions of dollars a year on goop in a jar to moisturize, exfoliate, firm, conceal, and/or color. Mind you, I like make-up - I think it's a hoot and I wish I'd had the gumption just once to put a purple streak in my hair. (And maybe some day I will.)

But we've just gotten out of control here.

Beauty standards change, of course. High heels have been used as a way to show off the male leg. And men preened like peacocks over the proper placement of wig curls. But overall, it's been the fairer (and less politically powerful) sex who have behaved like mooncalves over the use of cosmetics. Truly, for us, it's often been better to look good than to feel good. Women have been willing over the years to put any fool sort of poisonous concoction on their faces, provided it promised "youth in a jar." We'll strap ourselves into fiendish devices to accentuate certain body parts while downplaying others. We'll live on cabbage soup, take pills of dubious usefulness and avoid carbohydrates as if the Devil himself was in the kitchen. We've even been willing to break our daughters' feet to make them tiny and thereby adorable. (Bound feet also hampered natural movement, so good luck working and earning your own money to secure your independence. Don't tell me beauty isn't political.) Americans are "more civilized" than that, of course. We don't bind our daughters' feet, but we constantly hammer them with words and pictures that tell them what is desirable - and it's not realistic. Heck, it's not even reality.

Dove Evolution by Masterfill

Yet we buy into this nonsense. We starve, push, pluck, tweeze, and paint. Then we go further. We inject toxins into our faces, we undergo general anesthesia to "resculpt" ourselves - risking disfigurement and death - and we don't even ask "Are you Board-certified?" We celebrate the outside and ignore the development of the inside. There's a lack of balance and that's never good.

So I will continue to drink lots and lots of water. To eat more fresh fruits and vegetables. To exercise and increase my stamina and flexibility. These are all good things and I will take time (and make time) to do these things. And yes, I'll continue to wear lipstick and mascara and (just maybe) schedule a time to have that purple streak put in my hair. But I'll also keep reading and thinking and working on the inside. After all, you can always jam on a ball cap to hide bad hair, but it's a lot harder to cover up ignorance.

Throwing in the Towel

2011-04-03T09:41:00.005-04:00

As anyone who has read Douglas Adams knows, it's of the utmost importance to always know the exact location of your towel. While I do, in fact, know the location of my towels, pretty much the rest of the house is in a state of disarray that is generally the result of having a half-dozen frat boys in residence, with perhaps a goat.

Sigh.

I like to think that I have many good qualities and I certainly appreciate beauty and order; I just don't seem to have the gift of creating that in my own surroundings all that often.

For the last month, I've fought this. I had plans, by which I mean I Had Plans. Over spring break, I was going to work on my presentation for this month's conference in San Antonio* and I was going to scrub, polish, and clean. Heck, I'd probably have time to learn Italian while I was at it!

It's good to have plans, isn't it?

So things didn't work out as I had planned and I was beginning to despair. Seriously - at some point the lines were crossed from "tolerable" to "messy" to "yike!" I felt like a sloven and I felt downtrodden about that. I mean, I can juggle the planning and grading of six college classes, maintain a healthy and loving relationship with my shiny-cyborg husband, eat decently healthy food (most of the time), research and write my independent work for presentation and publication, yet I can't manage to keep a clean house? Why is that?

Oh, right. It might be because of the work that goes into the planning and grading of six college classes, maintaining a healthy and loving relationship with my shiny-cyborg husband, eating decently healthy food (most of the time), as well as researching and writing my independent work for presentation and publication.

There are times where the sensible thing to do is to call in the professionals. It goes against my somewhat-Calvinist upbringing, but I'm having a very nice lady come in tomorrow and scrub, polish, and clean. I have a counter brimming with cleaning products ranging from white vinegar to Ka-Boom! and a trifecta of mops. I have been reassured that the remnants of Spooky-hair will vanish, my ceiling fan blades will gleam and my bathroom tile will sparkle.

And that, Dear Readers, is so very worth paying for, at least occasionally.

* By the way, do you think the defenders of the Alamo in what is now San Antonio worried about the cleanliness of the baseboards in the fort? Exactly. It's all about priorities. (Although they were fighting in large part for the right to keep their slaves, since Mexico had abolished slavery, so maybe that's not the best role model I could pick. Yeah - that part gets left out of the movies.)

The Cat Scale

2011-03-27T18:10:00.004-04:00

The events of the last ten days have led me to face some realities about myself, specifically about how I mishandle stress. Now, you'd think that life at the Nest would have settled down after FryDaddy came home to recover from his not-exactly-planned-but-not-quite-emergency surgery. And you'd be right, if you were limiting your observations to how FryDaddy was handling things. However, if you were expanding your observations to include how I was handling things, well, let's just say that the term "basket case" would not have been inappropriate. Face it, I was flat-out crispy.

So much so, that mid-week FryDaddy (who was not yet cleared by the doctors to drive) called a mutual friend of ours, Victorian Marxist, and had him drive FryDaddy to the local dollar store where he went on a little spree of silly gifts to cheer me up. Cheer me up. Sheesh. Yet it's amazing how a sand pail full of bubbles, pinwheels, and cheap candy can make me smile. Oh, sure, Tiffany is great, but even they don't sell a miniature Zen sand garden, much less arrange it on the counter so it appears that little plastic dinosaurs are raking the sand and arranging the rocks.

That made me move to the left on the Cat Scale. What's the "Cat Scale," you ask? Think of it this way. On a continuum of cool, relaxed and contented cats of the cartoon persuasion, over on the far left would be Garfield, a plump, pasta-eating (see, carbs are our friend!) feline. Moving from contentment to "failed experiments in stress management" would be cats such as Chubby Huggs of "Get Fuzzy" fame and Sylvester, especially after mistaking a baby kangaroo ("Hippety Hopper," by the way) for a mouse. At the far extreme, where I was hyperventilating this past week, would be the epitome of burnout, Bloom County's own Bill the Cat. (I'm not sure about the placement of more literary cats, such as the Cheshire, Macavity, or Shere Khan. Perhaps you have suggestions on this matter.)

What I can say with authority, Dear Readers is this - don't spend much time in Bill-Land. It's not a healthy place.

Enough for now. FryDaddy is ready to go back to school. I must go play with my plastic dinosaurs and consult a feng shui manual for optimum pebble placement.

Heart of Steel

2011-03-20T10:52:00.005-04:00

It's been an interesting week here in the Nest. While the calendar said it was spring break, Real Life had other, more pressing ideas in store. Sure, there were a few errand-y things - worked one full day, had some tech issues, had a plumber come in (who looked under the sink and said, "Well - that's just wrong.") But more was in store.

You see, FryDaddy is a cyborg. Yep, sort of like Tony Stark, he has a device implanted in his chest. (That's pretty much where the similarities end, though and a good thing. Stark can be a first-class ass and having tons of money doesn't change that.) FryDaddy's device is a combo pacemaker-defibrillator that collects data from a lead that runs from the device in the chest wall to the chambers of the heart. Long story short, the lead fractured. (Get this - this was not an unexpected event. The lead had been recalled, but it's a tad more difficult to take out a wire held in place by human scar tissue than it is to trundle a toaster oven back to Best Buy, so it was left in, hoping there'd never be a problem. Great plan, until there was one.) When this happened on Thursday, the lead was unable to collect information and the device "alarmed" to inform FryDaddy to get thee to a hospital. To put it mildly, it's disconcerting to hear the sound of a British ambulance issuing from your beloved's chest.

Hospital, waiting room, technicians, heart clinic, cardiac unit. Philly cheesesteak for dinner, which doesn't seem quite right, but I wasn't about to argue for rabbit food under the circumstances.

On Friday, the boys in white coats took away his Kindle long enough to dope him up, reopen the incision, attempt to remove the old lead, decide it was less intrusive to "cap it off," inserted a new, shiny, super-sophisticated lead (more on that later), replace the old device with a new, fully charged one (yep, they checked the battery life!), stapled him up and sent him back. All in about four hours, only a little over one of which was the actual "procedure."

How I love modern medical technology!

While not on bed rest, he has to be a bit careful for the next two weeks while the new lead "scars into place" - odd words to bring comfort, but it's a strange world in which we live. No driving, no lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk with that arm, no raising the arm above the shoulder (which makes putting on a shirt somewhat interesting), and a few other restrictions. The incision is neatly bandaged and seems quite small for what it is. The new device is much more advanced than the old one - its sensors are constantly scanning the electrical workings of FryDaddy's heart and it will even page the doctor if certain levels begin to rise and it'll page the doctor long before the device alarms. (Although this requires a landline. Seriously. We're going to add a plan to avoid roaming charges!) And the old lead will now be a "backup" that can be turned on remotely, should that be necessary.

As you can see, humor is my defense. But it's wearing thin. You see, give me a crisis and I'm fine. Come into the house after the table saw goes "crunch" clutching something scarlet and dripping and I'm perfectly okay. But once the shock wears off, I'm a bit of a mess. As Dorothy Parker once said, "It's not the tragedies that kill us, it's the messes." Case in point: last time FryDaddy had an issue with the heart device, I'm told I was a rock. Until about a week later, when I burst into tears when getting a parking pass.

So spring break wasn't the lazy, sun-drenched week it might have been when I was much younger. It wasn't even the "gotta write the paper" week I thought it was going to be. But FryDaddy is home and safe and healthy and sane.

I'll take that.

Sometimes You Have to Play

2011-03-12T08:46:00.008-05:00

For the last two months, I've been on a diet. I know that's not a pretty word anymore - "diet" is "die" with a "t" at the end - but it's true. I'd put on enough weight that my clothes didn't fit properly and I decided, after about a dozen failed attempts, to Get Serious. So I've been trying to eat proper amounts of healthy food and exercise appropriately. (That's been hard, as my ankle just finally healed enough to get out of the walking boot I've been in for five-plus months.) I've adjusted (mostly) and seen the needle on the scale begin to settle in more friendly territory. Still a little ways to go, though.

But a day doesn't always go into the "win" column based on the overall calorie count.

Let me make this clear - this post isn't any more about a refined-sugar binge than Buffy was about vampires. There is a time in everyone's life when it is appropriate to Get Serious, but (and equally important) there are also times when it's crucial to test the boundaries to the point of finding yourself on the other side of them. I set rules for my "diet plan" that were realistic, but I'm a sugar fiend (Red Hots, you are my downfall). Further, past life lessons have taught me that there is absolutely no sense whatsoever in acquiring good habits only to become miserable.

Add to the mix that FryDaddy is home for his spring break and he spent most of the week working on a conference paper and I spent the week teaching. It was the week before my school's spring break, so the students were a little crispy, I was a little battered-fried and - oh yeah - the school was putting the finishing touches on the documentation that must be provided for our accreditation review, so everyone involved in that was stressed. (Such a high stress level among so many people is another reason ["ammunition," if you will] why weapons should not be allowed on campuses in my opinion, but I digress.) So yesterday, I ate sensibly until about noon, then I finished my work for the day and firmly shut my door. FryDaddy and I loaded up on dollar store candy, bought a bucket of popcorn and hied ourselves to a matinee showing of Rango, followed by dinner out and a decadent evening of cheap chocolate and Cowboy Bebop.

I didn't just marry him for his stunning good looks and devilish smile, you know.

Yeah, the diet is in tatters that I have to stitch back together. But my husband and I had a "play date" that we both sorely needed and, for a few hours, I didn't have to think about work, the toxic environment of American politics, or the devastation of Japan and points east (which are points west for me - it gets confusing). There is still work to do - I have stacks of papers to grade, lessons to prep, and I have a conference presentation that needs to be transformed from piles of highlighted, sticky-noted research into a coherent paper - but yesterday needed to be for play.

I joked that I have given up self-restraint for Lent but I don't think that's it, exactly. I'll Get Serious again later today (or maybe tomorrow, after FryDaddy must leave to return to his school). It's just that here on Earth, we're traveling through space so fast we don't even feel the motion and I don't want to look up amazed one day and say, "How did I get here?" Moreover, at my funeral, I sincerely hope there are other things to say than, "She always got her papers back on time."

It was a very, very good day.

Side note: Rango is a sly, charming film with some wonderful things to say about how we decide who we are, the nature and craft of acting, the myth of the American West, and how natural resources determine the life of entire regions. And you thought it was just Johnny Depp as a talking lizard! And Bebop is - well - gorgeous and heartbreaking and funny and has a soundtrack you want to download into ringtones so you always have it close by. Trust me on that one.

Local Boy Makes Good!

2011-03-04T18:33:00.003-05:00

I always love to see headlines like that, don't you? Well, gather 'round, children, and hear the tale. 'Tis an epic story of a starry-eyed young man who fell in love with the moving pitchers and decided that you shouldn't have to go all the way yonder to Hollywood to make movies that people wanted to go to drive-ins to see.

A local venue started doing a monthly Classic Film series this year - January was Jimmy Stewart Month, February was John Wayne Month ('cause nothing says "LUV" like the Duke!), and this month is Earl Owensby Month.

And the crickets begin to chirp, which is a flat-out shame.

Oh, Ed Wood may be better known, but among those who know films, the name Earl Owensby is justly famous. While no one sane person will take a bet on the chances of any of the Owensby stable of films overtaking Citizen Kane on any list of "Great Films That Everyone Ought to Know by Name," Owensby carved out a place for himself in film history and it's one that ought to be celebrated.

See, young Earl loved movies. A lot. And by hook, crook, hard work, a little luck, and a touch of sharp dealing, he created the largest independent film studio outside of Hollywood (at least for a little while). The linked article nicely outlines his career. It's true, the films he churned out were mostly drive-in fare that were thin on frou-frou conventions such as plot and character development, but these movies are valentines to, well, to movies. To the sheer magic of them.

For example, his 1978 Buckstone County Prison, which is a improbable (and possibly unholy) cross between Cool Hand Luke and Walking Tall. Here's the trailer, with Owensby as the hero "Seabo."

Or Rottweiler (later re-named Dogs of Hell, which I think might be catchier), which cashed in on an earlier 3-D craze - and slightly predated the film version of Cujo. Owensby and James Cameron have more than the 3-D notion in common - Cameron's 1989 underwater thriller The Abyss was partially filmed in an Owensby lot - he had the biggest underwater tank in the world, thanks to a not-completed nuclear plant. The sets were eventually demolished in 2007, when Duke Power decided to move ahead with the project. (Yep, this means Owensby bought the site for cheap from Duke then sold it back to them! How can you not love someone who manages that? It's like Malcolm Reynolds, if he had been successful!)

My point is this - by golly, Owensby didn't just whine about how great he'd be if only someone gave him a break. He made it happen! Maybe the movies aren't that great (in fact, it's shocking to me that the MST3K boys never got a hold of these. Then again, Owensby is nothing if not shrewd and he may have wanted more scratch than the Midwestern Magpies could afford), but you know what?

He made them. And he made money on them, too.

Visit the studio, would you? Here's the link. And you can see all sorts of trailers there, too. Even buy a movie or two while you're at it. Or browse this filmography.

All sorts of people blaze the trail for us, if we'll just take the time to notice. And they don't all have to be Harold Bloom or Orson Welles to offer valuable road tips and examples. (That being said, I'm still not naming my kids "Rhett" and/or "Elvis." Seriously. Check that out here.)

Sometimes it's not about waiting until you're convinced that you know enough to be great at what you want to do. Sometimes it's about deciding that you'll figure it out on the way - and then getting going.

Wisconsin's Workers Are the Big Cheese!

2011-02-27T10:22:00.003-05:00

I've spent a good bit of time this week looking to Wisconsin. Today is the day the State Capitol is supposed to shut down to allow crews to clean the building - we'll have to see if that happens and how the protesters leave the building and grounds. So far, everything's been calm and peaceful (well, aside from the incessant drum circles) and that should continue. (Side note: it's amazing how well-spelled and grammatically-correct the protest signs of outraged teachers are, isn't it?)

While I appreciate that there are multiple points of view on this issue, here's mine. It's my blog, after all.

Gov. Walker is overplaying his hand.

He had a valid point with his "5/12" plan, which required public sector employees to pay just over 5% into their eventual pensions and 12% into their health care premiums. Times are beyond tight and everyone has to do their share. The unions agreed to these points, at which time the protests and posturing should have ended. But no. Gov. Walker wants to strip away the collective bargaining rights of the unions (well, most of them - more of that in a moment) for all issues other than wages and salaries. In other words - benefits, working conditions, retirement pensions - all of those could now be unilaterally determined by the legislature, rather than going through the collective bargaining process.

"Most of them" - get this. Governor Walker's plan exempts local police, firefighters, and state troopers from the collective bargaining segment. In other words, they can continue to negotiate as a block. Now, I'm all in favor of cops and firefighters, but two interesting things crop up here. One: these are the three unions that overwhelmingly supported Walker's election campaign and two: these unions are overwhelmingly male. So you snowplow drivers - out in the cold. You mostly female teachers - to the back of the class.

Something smells in Wisconsin and I don't think it's the cheese.

Look, I'm based in North Carolina, which is the least unionized state in the country. I also work for the "public sector." I pay 8% into my eventual retirement and have no say-so in that. Currently, I do not pay toward my health care premiums, but that is likely to change this year. I also have no collective bargaining rights and haven't since 1959, when a combination of the Red Scare and the first hints of the civil rights movement made the politicians in Raleigh antsy about anything that had the word "collective."

And enough with the rhetoric about "feeding from the public trough." Public employees pay taxes, too, you know. And, contrary to what some are saying, you don't get rich in this profession. In fact, North Carolina ranks 15th out of the 15 Southeastern states in what it pays those who choose to work in my public service job. Wonder why? In part, at least, due to the lack of collective bargaining and its ability to bring pressure to bear.

Now, don't mistake me. I love North Carolina and I'm happy here - but let's set the record straight. We're a "right to work" state (often sarcastically called a "right to work for less" state) - we're very pro-business and (in part) that means very anti-union. For decades, this worked for us (sort of). We attracted many, many, many manufacturing businesses due to our low costs. Then they found out that Mexico and China were even cheaper. Businesses exist to make money for their investors - bottom line. We did it to the Northeast ("hee, hee, hee, those slobs weren't competitive enough, come on down!") and certain chickens have come home to roost on those issues. We let private businesses run free and while that resulted in hard jobs that paid a decent living wage, it also resulted in the Gastonia Firestone strike, the infamous Hamlet chicken plant fire, and a hell of a lot of empty shells of textile and furniture mills.

Unions have brought about a mandatory minimum wage, the end of child labor, workplace safety standards, and the 40-hour work week, to name a few benefits. Are there union abuses? Sure. Are there corporate abuses? Sure. Guess who gets the bailout?

Go, Wisconsin.

This, Too, Shall Pass

2011-02-20T09:05:00.006-05:00

Overall, I have to admit to greatly disliking the title of this post. While well-meaning people have occasionally told me, "Don't worry, this will pass" in the midst of the Bad Times, all too often folks have used this sage advice to quash a good mood by reminding me that yes, yes, this is all swell, cotton candy and ducklings, but it's transitory, so don't be fooled into believing that it's Real.

Pffffffht, I say. But they're (sort of) right, which is a tough pill to swallow.

Exhibit A - yesterday was sunny and warm, with just a whisper of a breeze. My jonquils are in bloom, which for me is always a certain sign of spring. So I strolled around the yard planning my fantasy garden ("and the blueberries will go there and I'll put tomatoes over there . . ."). And then I remember that spring doesn't come in late February to North Carolina and that those crocuses and daffodils are quite likely to get smacked by another frost.

Exhibit B - the schedule for the national conference that both FryDaddy and I are scheduled to present at is up and it looks fabulous! The conference is huge, since every other year, the national melds with one of the regional shindigs (and this is one of those years), and the real challenge is deciding which panels to attend, since so many interesting ones are scheduled opposite one another. Then I get dinged by the Nameless Ones who snark that popular culture isn't a "real" academic field and sooner or later, my school will figure that out and cut off the funding faucet.

Exhibit C - my classes are chugging along nicely, with students engaged in actual conversation about the material, whether that material is nonverbal communication (what's that shirt say about you?), science fiction films and the Cold War, or Romeo & Juliet. It's a bit of a struggle to keep up with the grading and keep my energy level up, but there are tangible rewards for putting in the effort. And then I'm hit with the "what about next semester? What are you doing to keep textbook costs down? But everyone needs to use the same one, but we don't want to step on your academic freedom, but, but, but . . . "

Sigh. There are days when I am convinced that Opus was right, but my area is engulfed in a total lack of dandelions at the moment.

Then I remember:

Rebuttal A: Spring will come. So I need to make plans to tear up the ground in about a month and get ready to plant my own garden. Don't worry so much about what others may do with theirs and know that crocuses and daffodils will come back next year anyway.

Rebuttal B: What I do does matter. (Joss Whedon would remind me that, in fact, "If nothing we do matters, then all that matters is what we do," but that's a discussion for another time.) I work hard to research and publish interesting, thought-provoking work, all while teaching a course load that would make a tenured Ivy League prof weep. And if I take the time to listen to the dogs bark (how much have they published, by the way?), I'll get distracted from the work at hand, which simply will not do itself. Go to the conference, present my work, nose around the Alamo, listen to the ideas of others, and come home with new methods, texts, and recharged batteries.

Rebuttal C: My job is to teach and enthusiasm for the subject and for my students is one of the biggest arrows in my quiver. (Or maybe it's a bolt. I like the idea of using a crossbow. Wow - I really do need to get out more!) It's okay to nod and smile and live behind my own eyes sometimes.

There. I feel better now. It's true - no matter what it is, joy or despair, it will pass. So take comfort in that or savor it, whichever is most useful at the time.

Love Is In the Air . . .

2011-02-13T10:30:00.002-05:00

Our first married Valentine's Day is Monday, a day on which FryDaddy and I will both be at our respective schools, a couple of hours apart. (My responsibilities that day include teaching about 1950s Cold War fears in movies with a viewing of Siegel's Invasion of the Body Snatchers which isn't a particularly "heart day" movie, but hey! pods. Oh, oh - since the pods are there to take over people - does that make them the original [wait for it] - IPods?? Okay, you can groan now.)

Bad jokes aside, we took Saturday as Valentine's Day - or at least the second part of the day. There were errands to run and so forth at the start of the day, some of which I found quite frustrating - I mean, when did it become unreasonable to expect that you could buy stamps at a post office? But we got ourselves all slicked up and set out to paint the town.

The object of our "date night" was the semi-local symphony, which was featuring an evening of passionate Russians. First up was Tchaikovsky's take on Romeo & Juliet, followed by his only violin concerto (a piece that is now much beloved, but was savaged when first produced - read about the vicious review in the link) then, after an intermission, selections from Prokofiev's Romeo & Juliet - c'mon, it was Valentine's Day! (By the way, it took years before the score was performed as a ballet - companies kept breaking the contracts, claiming the music was "undanceable," to which Prokofiev replied, "I know what you want! You want drums, not music!" Fiery Russian.) The selections were beautiful and our seats were up close and personal.

We noticed one viola player had an instrument that was very different from the others and at the intermission, we asked her a few questions, which she graciously answered. Her instrument is made from carbon fiber which keeps it from whipsawing in tone with changes in temperature and humidity. She told us about this video and it's worth the minute and a half it'll take you to see it (the other half is outtakes of the filming) - you really can't hurt these things!

However you choose to celebrate Valentine's Day (or, as one of my waggish friends terms it, "Single Awareness Day"), may you be happy in your choice!

Weekend Marriage

2011-02-07T07:31:00.008-05:00

When I was younger and just a half-fledged li'l Bird, I flat-out couldn't wait to get all growed up. For then, I reasoned, I'd be able to do whatever I liked, whenever I liked and the world would just have to deal with it.

Did I mention how young I was?

Sigh. The hard truth, of course, is that being a "grown up" is quite a bit more complicated than it first appears to nine-year-old eyes. Yes, you certainly can stay up 'til 2 in the morning, should that be your wish, but morning rolls around at the same time on the clock as it does on every other day and mortgages don't pay themselves just because you want them to, so rise and shine, sunshine. As far as that goes, you certainly can eat rich junk food day and night, but there are consequences to that choice, too. For example, yesterday was the Super Bowl, which is one of those rare days where I stay up past midnight on a school night and allow myself to snack gloriously. The trade-off is that it only happens after making sure my grading and other chores have been accomplished before the celebrations commenced. Moreover, I now have many days when I wish someone would tell me it was time for my nap!

I want to grumble that being a grown-up was supposed to be more fun, and then I catch myself. Because it is more fun. I'm part of the planning, rather than the planned. I write my own permission slips now and I make my own choices.

FryDaddy and I have made some choices that are hard now, but (we both believe) will pay off down the road a bit. It's not total fun having a weekend marriage, even with technology that lets us message and talk during the week. He's putting over 600 miles on his ever-faithful car every week to go back and forth to school and then come home to me for slightly-less-than-48 hours each week, all while knocking out five classes towards his degree. Summer calms down a little, but he'll be taking one course up at school during the first part of the summer while I'm teaching here and then he'll take another during the second half of the summer from home. Even when we're together, we've had to figure out that the weekends are not simply cake and holiday - both of us have work to do to keep this house running and to keep our respective careers on track. And once this is done, it's on to the Master's and Ph.D. work, which will take him farther away to best maximize opportunities - hey, if we're going through the frustration and occasional pain of doing this, we'd best do it right.

In short, it's not easy. But it was a choice. And, as choices, go, it's easier than being a military couple - I have a friend who recently moved to Germany with her kids and had to deal with packing up an entire house and having it shipped, switch the kids' schools, etc., etc. because of her husband's posting. Sure, she sends me cool pictures of her family cavorting in the Alps, but it's hard on them. And let's not even talk about the families of those who are deployed to hotter zones than Germany.

After years spent as a careless grasshopper, making the transition to responsible ant wasn't seamless - my natural inclination for many years was to say, "But I want! I want! No, I don't want that - want that! I'm special - give it to me!" The world rolled its eyes and I had to learn some hard lessons in hard ways - the only way I would learn back in those days. And, let's face it, this adult thing is hard. Deferred gratification is hard, especially in a credit-driven society. Do I think it's worth it?

You bet. Every day that I open an e-mail love note, every day that we chat and I hear about something in one of his classes that has caused his mind to catch fire (metaphorically speaking, that is), every time I hear the pride in his mom's voice and every day that I know I have a soft spot to land when work gets a little crazy. In short, every day, multiple times a day.

Doesn't stop it from being what it is, but it's important to look at the whole package, not just one side. And I wouldn't change it for a gold monkey.

Steak and Kindness

2011-01-30T08:46:00.006-05:00

Marriage has many, many benefits. There has been a definite upswing in my happiness factor. That joyous state has had an unintended consequence, which has been reflected in the numbers on the scale. So, as of January 3, I made a firm resolution to Do Something About This and for about a month now, I've been carefully tracking what I eat, what sort of exercise I'm getting (my right ankle remains a tender thing, so that part's been a bit disappointing), and so on. It's been going well - I still have miles to go before I sleep (to rip off Robert Frost) - but my birthday was a few days ago.

Oddly enough, FryDaddy and I share the same birthday (weird, I know), so we decided to have a celebratory dinner once he was home for the weekend. We decided to cook at home, rather than go out to a potentially crowded restaurant, then we decided on a simple menu and divided up the tasks - easy to do, FryDaddywould cook, I'd be "sous chef" and "pot walloper." (An aside - of course he was going to cook! FryDaddy comes from a family who takes cooking seriously. For my first Christmas with the family, I was given a copy of Julia Child's classic Mastering the Art of French Cooking because "every house needs the Bible." Further, FryDaddy doesn't brag about it, but in his pre-academic life, he trained under a chef of some renown. Early in our courtship, he came over to cook me dinner, toting a box of ingredients and yes, his own knives because as he told me gently, "Your knives are crap." And I actually like cleaning up. There's something Zen-like about it for me.) Anyway, off to the grocery with us!

I was amazed at the response of people when we explained that we wanted something special because it was our birthday. The salad and asparagus we picked out ourselves but we strolled right past the pre-wrapped meat to consult with the experts. The butcher took care to select two supremely excellent ribeyes for us (seriously - these babies were two inches thick, well-marbled for flavor and about 20 ounces each - steaks to celebrate with, indeed) and took pains to make sure we knew how to best cook them for full flavor and tenderness. The lady running the bakery took two mega cupcakes and frosted them thickly enough to make them appear to be the Cupcakes That Ate Toledo, even re-doing the petals on my frosted flower when she wasn't quite satisfied. These masterpieces of pastry were then gently packed into their own holder in a box for transport. (We made sure to sing the praises of these helpful folks to the manager before we left - everyone complains, few people compliment, and these people were as helpful as a brownie to us, whom they didn't know from Adam's housecat.)

We rolled out the grill (it was a mild day - finally!), dusted off the good china, put out flowers, lit a few candles and remembered just why this marriage idea was such a good one.

And it being us, we wrapped up the evening in the company of Mike and the 'bots watching a truly awful made-for-television movie starring Raul Julia (who really should have been ashamed of himself) called Overdrawn at the Memory Bank. The movie is very lightweight, not being encumbered with a coherent plot and the commentary from the Satellite of Love is rib-splitting.

It's gonna be a good year!

A Slow Week

2011-01-22T17:26:00.003-05:00

It's been a strange start to the spring semester. We had a snowstorm with a touch of ice come in right at the start of the semester and my little Southern town just isn't equipped. The plus side - the ice came late, so it didn't coat tree limbs, power lines, etc. and pull them down, causing massive power outages. (With the power on, snow events can be waited out much more comfortably!) The minus side - we lost the first three days of the semester as the snow froze into ice and attendance was low the rest of the week since the public schools continued to be closed and many students had child care issues.

Then this Thursday, the town experienced a massive power outage due, not to ice on power lines, but due to some quirk with an underground power line feeding a substation. My classroom is on the inner ring of one of our buildings, which means no windows. I got creative and both classes were at least able to finish their scheduled quiz, but we're even further behind right now.

On top of that, this past Monday was a holiday (and no, I'm not debating the value of observing MLK's birthday; this was just unfortunate timing this semester), so I have yet to meet with my Monday night class. Oh, and there's a threat of more "icy mix" moving in this week. So we're behind and, like Stella, I seem to have misplaced my groove, which I usually am in by the end of the second week of class.

So what's a girl to do?

Why, watch Bruce Campbell, of course! FryDaddy and I have joined Netflix to continue our "joint TV watching in separate cities" that began in the fall with our tearing through of the first 5 seasons of Supernatural and right now, My Name Is Bruce is awaiting our attention. In this film, residents of a small town being overrun by the undead mistake Campbell for his character Ash. Hilarity and the undead ensue. (Wonder if they think he still works at S-Mart?)

Add to that the fact that the graphic novelette Ash Saves Obama also rests on the coffee table just now and we're in for quite the Campbell weekend! The book, which I couldn't pass up, features Bruce Campbell's Ash discovering the dreaded Necronomicon at a comic-book convention (or, as the cover blurb puts it, the "Necrocomicon") at which the President of the United States is scheduled to appear. Hilarity and the undead ensue.

Sometimes you just have to appreciate the heightened level of absurdity in your daily life, don't you? Hmmm. Maybe I should add The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr. to my queue . . .

12 Minutes

2011-01-15T15:47:00.004-05:00

Today, I was browsing the news with my usual amount of "tut-tutting" at how the world continues to rush toward hell without the benefit of a handbasket - an easy attitude to take following last week's events in Tucson - when I came across a story that jolted me out of my world-weariness. You can read about it here (and CNN picked it up here), but the essence is this:

A businessman is traveling when he receives word that his three-year-old grandson has been viciously attacked (that's a separate element of the story; I won't dwell on it here) and is due to be taken off life support and his organs donated - a generous decision that had to be heart-wrenching in itself. The grandfather is in LA; the grandson is in Denver. Immediately, the grandfather begins traveling to Denver to see his grandson before the boy is removed from life support. This is a journey that involves going from LA to (ironically) Tucson. The LAX airport is jam-packed and security is a nightmare, with no exceptions being made for a grief-stricken grandfather on a sorrowful mission. He gets through security and runs down the concourse, not even taking the time to put his shoes back on. He gets to the departure gate - late - to find the pilot waiting for him. The pilot expresses his condolences and says to the grandfather, "They can’t go anywhere without me and I wasn’t going anywhere without you. Now relax. We’ll get you there. And again, I'm so sorry."

The plane takes off twelve minutes late.

Now, twelve minutes might not sound like much, but in the airline world - it's eternity. Airlines completely turn planes around in twenty minutes - it's both art and science. Airlines simply cannot (and do not) hold flights. That's why they tell you to get to the airport two hours early (the grandfather in the story had gotten there two hours early, by the way - LAX was just crammed). Were other passengers probably wondering why they were still on the tarmac? Sure. One or two of them might even have been Grinchy enough to grumble about it. The airline higher-ups might be startled at the pilot's decision, but probably not. The airline in question is Southwest and the official line is that they completely support the pilot's actions in this case. Southwest has quite a good reputation in the area of customer service, much like Piedmont did back in the day, which my daddy flew for.

Think about it. Twelve minutes. Twelve minutes that meant everything to that grandfather, because things were so wildly out of his control. He's in the middle of the worst day of his life and no one seems to care. Then someone tosses the rule book and said, "Nuts to that. This person needs help and I can give it." And - maybe only for a minute, but there was that minute - a crazy, cruel world got just a little saner and kinder for someone in pain. That person knew that his pain mattered to someone else - "They can't go anywhere without me and I wasn't going anywhere without you."

I'm going to try hard to remember that. School's started back and students are always flummoxed at the beginning. I'm going to try to remember that the extra minute or two (or even twelve) that I can give somebody might really, really matter.

And all it'll cost me is time.

Golden Rule, people. There are worse ways - many worse ways - of living one's life.

Life Lessons Learned from a Movie

2011-01-08T08:57:00.006-05:00

Ring in the New Year, Readers Mine!

OK, so that's a few days late. It doesn't matter, not really. Kindly permit me to tell you why.

Some years, you see, I make resolutions for the new year and some years I don't. This year, I made several, but they all can be boiled down to one central concept - with everything (and I mean everything) I do, I plan to first ask myself, "Self, how can I enjoy this more?" I hope asking myself this question will remind me of where I am and what I'm doing there. Of course, the new year is currently still in single digits, so I don't have much evidence to report just yet, but I can say that asking this question does have the tendency to stop me in my tracks and re-direct my thinking. After all, we only get one shot at this life and I don't want to waste it away by not even realizing why I'm doing what I'm doing. At the end of it all, I would greatly prefer to have a long list of regrets from things I actually did as opposed to things I missed because I was too busy.

Therefore, when I had the chance on Thursday to go to a restored movie theatre here in town to see the Jimmy Stewart classic Harvey with some friends, I went. The syllabi for next week could wait. And hey, only three bucks a ticket!

Wow. I'd forgotten what a sweet, charming and downright wise film this is. Rent it - you can learn a lot from a tall, invisible rabbit. (I hear he believed in the message of the film so much that he agreed to sacrifice his usual fee and only work for scale.)

Among the gems in this film: a shrink is trying desperately to get to the root of Elwood P. Dowd's delusions about Harvey. Surely Elwood has just made up this creature and taken the name from someone he knew at some earlier point of his life. Elwood will not be swayed.

"Didn't you know somebody, sometime, someplace by the name of Harvey? Didn't you ever know anybody by that name?"
"No. No, not one, Doctor. Maybe that's why I always had such hopes for it."

That's after this: "Well, I've wrestled with reality for 35 years, Doctor, and I'm happy to state I finally won out over it."

Elwood drinks a bit, but he's pleasant and puts on no airs, despite being quite wealthy. The patrons at his local don't mind Harvey all that much (when asked if Elwood is alone, the bartender replies, "Well, there's two schools of thought, sir."). Elwood realizes that life has some very sharp edges that people tend to get snagged on and he sees his nightly bar conversations as a form of what we today might call therapy:

"Harvey and I sit in the bars, have a drink or two, play the juke box. And soon the faces of all the other people they turn toward mine and they smile. . . . And they come over and they sit with us and they drink with us, and they talk to us. They tell about the big terrible things they've done and the big wonderful things they'll do. Their hopes, and their regrets, and their loves, and their hates. All very large, because nobody ever brings anything small into a bar. And then I introduce them to Harvey and he's bigger and grander than anything they offer me. And when they leave, they leave impressed. The same people seldom come back; but that's envy, my dear. There's a little bit of envy in the best of us. "

Since only Elwood can see Harvey, Elwood is thought to be a nutter. His very respectable sister wants him locked away in a sanitarium, away from respectable people. A doctor suggests that he can cure Elwood with an injection that will remove the delusion. While the sister at first approves of this treatment, a cab driver sets her straight:

"I've been driving this route for 15 years. I've brought 'em out here to get that stuff, and I've drove 'em home after they had it. It changes them. On the way out here, they sit back and enjoy the ride. They talk to me; sometimes we stop and watch the sunsets, and look at the birds flyin'. Sometimes we stop and watch the birds when there ain't no birds. And look at the sunsets when its raining. We have a swell time. And I always get a big tip. But afterwards, oh oh . . . They crab, crab, crab. They yell at me. 'Watch the lights. Watch the brakes, Watch the intersections.' They scream at me to hurry. They got no faith in me, or my buggy. Yet, it's the same cab, the same driver, and we're going back over the very same road. It's no fun. And no tips. After this he'll be a perfectly normal human being. And you know what stinkers they are!"

Elwood's sister doesn't want to lose her gentle brother and if the only way she can have him is to accept Harvey, well . . . there's your happy ending, folks. Elwood's figured out that, while life will always be hard, we don't have to be so nasty to one another about our trials. As he puts it, in that inimitable Stewart drawl, "Years ago my mother used to say to me . . . 'In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.' Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me."

"Normal" is a big tent. I joked with FryDaddy that Harvey could never be set in the American South, for we like our eccentricities too much. We'd never lock someone up for having a tall, invisible rabbit for a companion - we'd probably set an extra place at the supper table for him.

Yet we do get caught up in "normal."

Bad habit. Lesson learned from a rabbit.

(Hey, that rhymes!)

Possum Post!

2010-12-31T16:25:00.005-05:00

So last night, FryDaddy goes outside to bring in the Spooky-dog, only to find that said Spooky is sharing her pen with a squatter - in this case, a large representative of the species known as didelphis virginiana. Yep, the sanctity of Spooky's pen had been invaded by a big ol' possum. Spooky didn't know what to think and I couldn't blame her. The possum was curled up acting as if it were just about to be an ex-possum - labored breathing, faint hissing, bared teeth. After a hasty consult, we took the coward's way out and just left it alone.

Silly humans!

As soon as the critter was sure the lights were off for good, he scrambled to his tiny li'l feet, ate all of Spooky's food, licked the bowl clean, and scampered off into that good night, probably shaking his prehensile tail at us while making a note of just where the suckers who leave out tasty treats live.

Now, possums are just downright weird animals. Living fossils, actually. They're marsupials with kinda-prehensile tails (they can't really hang from them all that well, but can sort of do it). Gentle omnivores, they "play possum" in a last-ditch effort to escape threats, after first trying hissing and retreat. Although all mammals can catch rabies, possums have a marked resistance to the disease. They've got more teeth than any other mammal and a nigh-immunity to pit viper poison - they chow down on copperheads. Oh, and they've got opposable thumbs on their back feet!

Freaky.

Then it occurred to me - what we have here is a redneck mongoose. A Rikki-Bobby-Tikki-Tavi, if you will. No one's idea of a pet, but they've survived nevertheless. People will spend a bucketload of money on Persian kitten or a collie who's been overbred to the point of inherent bad temper and health problems, but those same people will threaten a gentle possum with the business end of a broom when the critter just wants a taste of Gravy Train.

So I'm glad we let him alone and honestly, I'm glad he got a free meal out of the encounter.It's bound to be hard to be a possum in a pedigreed world and I think all of us have days when we can relate more to the possum than the pedigree. And I hope that when I'm next having a hard time fitting in (which I shall now call a "possum day") someone doesn't whack me with a Swifter.

Stop It! Just Stop It!

2010-12-24T11:06:00.003-05:00

No, I don't mean "stop Christmas." That would be a silly thing indeed. Even the Grinch knows better than to attempt to stop Christmas. Especially when there's only "one more sleep 'til Christmas."

What I mean is to stop worrying so much about it. Face it, by now things are either done or they're not. I know of which I type. I still have a smallish stack of presents that need to be wrapped and wrapped they will be. I'm not promising sharply-creased corners and cunningly curled ribbon, but the contents will be concealed from prying eyes. (As a point of interest, the mere fact that the presents are wrapped in holiday paper is worth noting. I come from a family that often recycled the Sunday comics for that purpose and it's a habit I find quite charming. When Sam gave Dean his Christmas present wrapped in crumpled comics lifted from the Sunday paper, I knew the Winchesters and I had something in common. Aside from that and an aversion of meadowsweet wreaths, not much, but there is that.)

It's Christmas! Stop worrying about the details. Trust me, your house is beautiful. The tree is gorgeously decked with ornaments and lights. The cookies are yummy and the stockings are hung by the chimney with care.

So get out of there for an hour or two! After all, Christmas isn't tinsel, as much fun and sparkly as that is. Go drop off that check to the Empty Stocking Fund. Take a box of old magazines to the rest home. Smile at the bell ringers and drop in folding money instead of change. Grab a couple of friends and go caroling in your neighborhood - the neighbors will probably invite you in to warm up. (Or, in my case, to bribe you with hot cocoa to stop what you enthusiastically term "singing.") Read the account in St. Luke and spend a few minutes "pondering these things in your heart." Toss a couple of handfuls of birdseed on the ground for the feathered ones. Remember that we're all in this together and none of us have it exactly figured out.

Merry Christmas, everyone. May life be kind in the lessons it teaches us this year.

Christmas Countdown!

2010-12-15T19:23:00.004-05:00

My semester finished up today. Classes officially finished yesterday, with final grades due in today. Just in time, too. The weather has turned bitterly cold (we simply do not do "wind chill of 12 degrees" here in upper Dixie) and Old Man Winter has even lacked the decency to snow. (Technically, I guess it's still "Old Man Fall" until the 21st, but whatever.)

For me, the end of a semester is always a little melancholy but that passes quickly with the looming holiday season. There is still much, much to do - some gift buying remains, plenty of wrapping, cards need to be written (I like that tradition, even if the cards don't contain lengthy messages, so I try to keep it up), and other assorted tasks. FryDaddy and I try to not take things too seriously - we're not Martha Stewart and really - we're fine with that. In fact, I'll let you in part of our secret. Ready?

We moved Christmas.

Yep. We celebrate early. Make sure supplies are laid in (including a boatload of Christmas movies), take the phone off the hook, and turn the area under the tree into a veritable wasteland of crumpled paper several days before the "official" calendar date. So very much easier and less stressful. We've found that it allows us to enjoy "actual" Christmas much, much more.

It might not work for everyone, but everyone doesn't live here.

Also, I'm discovering that I have a dark streak when it comes to Christmas music. Don't misunderstand me, I loves me some Messiah and I even can stand "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" (among other Christmas staples), but I really like the lonely ones. It could be the Irish in me - a people of whom Chesterton said, ". . . are the men that God made mad, for all their wars are merry/And their songs are sad." But I actually like "Fairytale of New York" and the incomparable John Prine's "Christmas in Prison." I think that stands to reason. The poor and the forgotten are with us always and yes, that includes the hale and hearty holidays.

Don't forget them, please. There are children who go without presents and parents who worry (I mean really worry) about the rent. There are the lonely who would like a warm pair of gloves and there are the lost who would like to know that, even if it's just for a single day out of the whole stinkin' year, the world doesn't just rush obliviously past them.

Christmas is for all of us. So please - take a box of old clothes to Goodwill. Drop a five in the red Sally Army kettle. Buy an extra toy while you're shopping and drop it off with those sharp-dressed Marines manning the "Toys for Tots" display. Gracious, just write a check to your local Empty Stocking Fund.

Christmas is for miracles. Go be somebody's.

Love & Miracles

2010-12-05T14:13:00.008-05:00

. . . well, that's what I was planning to write about, anyway. Seemed like a nice, feel-good, fuzzy-warm sort of thing to write about at this time of the year. And so many Decembery celebrations have the twin elements of love and miracles at their hearts. The Baby God born in a manger. The blessed oil that somehow burns for eight days. The return of Light on the darkest, longest night of the year. Proof for seekers that the Divine cares for and cherishes us.

And yet. Maybe I'm better off not looking at the Big Picture and should instead only focus on small details, such as the continual broadcasting of stop-motion animation featuring Burl Ives snowmen.

You see, Ramona, my little, funny, shy-until-you-know-her godchild had a sharp lesson in separateness and intolerance this week when her best friend told her that they couldn't play together any more because the two seven-year-olds aren't of the same religion.

Let's pass right over the fact that one's a Baptist and one's a Lutheran. FryDaddy and I, along with her parents, have all been tumbling over ourselves trying to figure out what happened, exactly who said what and where the idea came from in the first place. (The other little girl's parents aren't talking much, making me wonder if this wasn't a childish misunderstanding but is instead rooted in some ugly truth.) The girls have been best friends since forever and have attended after-school care together and even gone to Vacation Bible School together, for Pete's sake. So the argument of "you're not like me" doesn't hold water (holy or otherwise) in the first place.

Beyond that, what would the big screaming deal be if the two little girls weren't following the same faith path?

All I know is this. The exchange has left me sad, angry and confused - and I'm a Woman of a Certain Age who's had her fair share of bumps, bruises, and abrasions in life. How would I feel as a seven-year-old if my bestest friend told me that I wasn't good enough? Dear Angels in Heaven, that's enough to cause parents to start a therapy fund.

Why must so many of us believe in such a cramped, petty God? Why are so many of us so afraid of anything that isn't just like what we already know? I don't know the answer to that, but I do know that I believe that God often shakes His (or Her, or Its) head over the nonsense that is perpetrated in His name.

Either we're all God's children or none of us are. And Love and Miracles are well worth celebrating, in whatever form we find them.

Now you'll have to excuse me. I need to go make latkes and spin a dreidel before I start the Yule log burning as I sing Christmas carols.

Thankfulness, Gratitude, & Pie

2010-11-27T11:50:00.004-05:00

We're on the other side of Thanksgiving now. A large portion of my family gathered up in the mountains of North Carolina for a feast and mini-shopping frenzy. Before FryDaddy and I headed up the mountain, we had our own pre-Thanksgiving ritual - no, not watching the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, although I greatly enjoy that. No, we watch "Pangs," the Thanksgiving episode of Buffy. While the episode is not without controversy for its somewhat stereotypical portrayal of Native Americans, I can easily overlook that to enjoy lines such as, "I know it's a sham. But it's a sham with yams. It's a yam sham" and the inimitable Anya's, "To commemorate a past event, you kill and eat an animal. A ritual sacrifice. With pie."

The Thanksgiving feast for my family is pretty typical - roast turkey, cranberry sauce from the can, dressing, a variety of vegetable casseroles featuring lots of cheese and condensed soups, crescent rolls (again from the can - my contribution this year) and a table groaning with desserts. Truly a carb-fest - Dr. Atkins can stay far, far away from our table and we'll thank him for the favor.

I like Thanksgiving, primarily for the whole idea of taking a day out and thinking about the good stuff that's going on. Given the still cloudy economic situation, the fact that my beloved Carolina Panthers are playing with the passion of a two-day-old dead fish, and the overall cussedness bordering on paranoia in much of the current political discourse in my country, it's good to declare a one day time out. Because there has been (and is) an awful lot of good going on this year; to wit (as my lawyer friends would say):

Late winter into spring - write, write, write. Because people wanted to hear me talk, talk, talk.
May 1 - FryDaddy and I got married with much love and joy and very little fuss.
Mid May - FryDaddy completed his first two years of college, even donning a flimsy polyester gown and very flat hat for the occasion.
Early June - Slayage 4 was held down in the lovely town of St. Augustine, FL where we hope to return.
Fall - FryDaddy began his final years of undergraduate schoolin'.
August to November - I discovered Supernatural and found a whole new way of looking at angels, some of which are quite scary, yet deeply, deeply satisfying.

Yes, I know the list is heavy on the pop culture references, but . . . and there is the prospect of decorating for Christmas and maybe even spending an afternoon not grading. With hot chocolate.

Indeed, life is good!

"Right about now I wish I was back in a TV show."

2010-11-17T07:12:00.004-05:00

The title is from "Changing Channels," a Season 5 episode of Supernatural. Let me explain.

When FryDaddy left to continue his education full-time at a university that was close enough to allow him to come home often, but far enough away to not allow him to live at home, it was suggested that we find a way to meet in the middle for dinner once a week and further, that we find a TV show to watch so we'd have something to talk about that wasn't school or work related. We listened to this sage advice and decided (after three years of people patiently trying to get through to me) to give Eric Kripke's Supernatural a try. I'll admit that I wasn't too sure - it seemed like the anti-Buffy and maybe a little too guy-centric for me.

One of the marks of an adult is that she can admit when she's wrong.

We started out with the idea that we'd watch one episode a week. That barely lasted a month and that was back in Season 1 when the show was still finding its feet and the scripts had a certain "Monster of the Week" feel. Then we began bending the rules and ripping through the seasons - we're about a third of the way through Season 5 today and will probably finish that season by Thanksgiving. (We did keep the rule that we have to either watch together or watch the same episode apart - no getting ahead!)

If you haven't watched the show and have any interest in it, you might want to stop reading now. I have tried to stay basically "spoiler-free," but you just can't help but learn a few things along the way and I'm sure it's colored how I look at a few things. (And I know there's a Season 6, so I'm going to happily assume that both my boys make it through Season 5 and somehow triumph over the looming Apocalypse, emerging with bodies and souls relatively intact. If I'm wrong, please don't bother to tell me.)

So - why care? I mean, it's a fantasy-driven TV show about two brothers who are always on the move, fighting Darkness in any number of small, mostly mid-Western towns. Their classic car has an arsenal in the trunk and a cassette player ready for the best of 1970s arena rock. They live in a series of seedy motels (with truly hideous "theme" decor) that even the Gideons steer clear of and fund their activities through questionable poker games and (probably) credit card fraud.

I grant you, it sounds either (a) ridiculous or (b) like a really bad movie made for the SyFy Channel (see again (a)).

But Supernatural isn't about that. Like high school in Buffy, that's the cover and the wise are not taken in by covers. Supernatural, at its best, is about the Big Questions. Life. Love. God. Angels. Demons. Evil. Destiny. Free will. Compassion. Sacrifice. Choice. And boy howdy, is it about consequences - intended and otherwise.

It's about taking home with you and holding tight to those you love, even when you really can't stand to be in the same room with them. It's about Duty and Pain and fumbling to do the right thing when no one bothered to tell you what that was.

And it'll make you laugh. Horse-laugh, out loud. And, if you have a heart that beats and has ever known loss, it'll make you cry.

I marvel that it took me this long to find it. But I'm in the Impala 'til we run out of road.

Fall's Here!

2010-11-09T07:25:00.003-05:00

I can tell not only by the annual turning-back-of-the-clocks (and the other part of that yearly ritual, the finding-of-the-clock-you-forgot-to-turn-back), but by the heaps of leaves stacked by the curbsides of my neighbors. My yard is still covered in colorful leaves that the trees have shaken off. Oh, there will be more - it's sort of like Spooky shaking off after an (all too infrequent) bath. You'd think with so many water droplets that she'd have to be dry, but there's always one more good shake in there. Same with leaves.

I really enjoy fall. The crisper air is a pleasant change from the sticky heat of the Southern summer (we're not lazy, we're languid) and I have a thing for fresh apple cider, so it's my time of year! And big bubbling pots of beef stew. Or chili. Or vegetable soup. And pumpkin pie.

Might even toss a log in the firepit out back.

This change of seasons is also marking the end of the "wedding season." This was a "hitching year," make no mistake about it. This past weekend, my brother took the walk down the aisle (actually, he stayed in one place and his lovely bride did the walk thing, but you get the concept) and I was thrilled for him. They're an excellent couple who truly seem to complement each other and it was great to be able to be there (complete with my still-stylish walking boot!) to witness the event.

And no, it was wedding cake, not pumpkin pie.

People All Over the World . . .

2010-10-31T16:54:00.003-04:00

It's been quite a weekend. I was a guest at an out-of-town wedding this weekend, so I had the very "girl" problem of figuring out what outfit would look best when accessorized with my ever-present walking boot. (My bum ankle continues to heal, but certainly at its own pace, not mine!) The wedding itself was lovely - a very personal expression of the two parts of the couple. With cake.

That same day, Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert held their rally on the National Mall aimed at giving voice to the moderates among us. Squeaky wheels, we are told, are first in line for the grease and there's been no shortage of whining from both sides of the aisle, leaving most Americans sighing in the middle. The idea behind the rally was to demonstrate that there really are a large number of people who can disagree without thinking the other guy is Hitler. Stewart summed that up in his closing speech, saying that compromise is not just necessary to move forward, it's something we all do every day, without making a large fuss about it.

I thought about that. I have neighbors, family, acquaintances, and friends of various political stripes. We could vehemently disagree on issues and scream our suspicions at each other, but that doesn't get leaves raked and houses looked after. So we do what I suspect most people do - we shrug off our surface differences, plant our own election signs in the yard, hand each other surplus home-grown tomatoes and take care of pets while one another are out of town.

Same with marriage. That happy couple won't always agree straight down the line with each other (they're people, not sheep), but that doesn't mean one of them's totally right and the other is evil.

At the rally, there was the "Train trifecta" - "Peace Train" gave way to "Crazy Train" and the two sides couldn't agree on either one. It took the sweet Philadelphia soul of the O'Jays to bring everyone together.

It left me humming - "People all over the world join hands . . . "

And it gave me hope. If we can laugh, even at ourselves - strike that, especially at ourselves - we'll probably be all right.

Browncoats and Candy Corn!

2010-10-23T18:43:00.005-04:00

An odd title, perhaps - but bear with me.

It's been a rather frantic time in the Nest. It's that time in the semester when students have realized that it's time to get real or get gone, and (for some) it's a tough choice. I'm behind on grading (and finding a surprising amount of truth in the application of Kubler-Ross's stages to the process), although it's not as bad as it was about a week ago. Like most instructors I know, I try hard to get things back to students within a week or a week and a half at the outside - but sometimes that's just not going to happen. Students are understanding, but I still don't like it and often run myself down telling myself that I ought to be more efficient, work harder, take more stuff home, and in general, be the Grade-A-Matic Mark 2.4.

But I know that we work to have meaningful lives outside of work. (OK, I want to have meaning inside work as well, but stick with me here.) I have my family, my Nest, my friends, my writing, etc., etc. and those relationships and activities require time, energy, and attention as well as the stuff I do for a paycheck. It's all about distinguishing your real Work from your employment-work and it can be a tough, tough balance. Sort of like juggling with monkeys - those suckers cling, which makes tossing them in the air whilst simultaneously catching the ones coming down a mite difficult. (Don't ask how I know. Besides, I hear there's a place where the chief form of entertainment is juggling goslings. Now that's weird, although some people find in the phrase a richness of philosophy.) Sometimes in this life, you just have to pull hard and toss, doing the best you can with the resulting simian rain. (Bribing them with bananas can help, but that takes another hand and you're already using both, so it's at best a partial solution.)

At any rate, I put the grading aside for two events this weekend. The first was attending Day One of the 2010 Browncoat Ball where I had been asked to put together (and be part of) an author panel. It was great fun - you can read more about it over on the Whedon-centric blog, linked here.

I didn't stay for the whole event - I'm sure the shindig is a fabulous thing and that I'd have enjoyed it immensely - but I had a Halloween party for four little girls to help carry out. And who else is going to teach these young ladies the importance of holding your mouth so that your candy corn fangs don't tumble out? It's not the job of the schools and it has to be done. I take my responsibilities to the youth of American very seriously, thank you.

And my goddaughter won't be seven for long. When she gets older, I doubt she'll care that I had a book-signing this weekend, but I hope she'll remember that I was there acting the fool for her party.

Those papers? They'll get done. And they'll probably get done faster if I stop confusing my work with my Work.

Salt - Don't Leave Home Without It!

2010-10-13T07:28:00.007-04:00

When FryDaddy moved away to school, it necessitated quite a bit of adjustment for both of us. Add to that situation that he moved in to the larger family Nest and the jokes began to write themselves. Just imagine the Hollywood pitch: "OK - there's this college student, see? A little older than most, and he just got married. They're both happy and all, but he has to go away to school. Ready for the kicker? He moves in with her parents! See the comedic possibilities? It's a can't fail!"

Yes - my life is a sitcom. Probably on Fox and probably on Friday nights.

But we're managing. Cell phones help and we want to try Skype. Distance is such that FryDaddy is away during the week, but home for the weekend. And we try to meet in the middle for dinner once a week.

During these dinners, it was suggested that we find something to talk about that wasn't school or work. So, after three years and gently shrugging off the notion, I've become a Supernatural fiend. Neither one of us had watched it, so we watch in our separate homes one night, then talk about it at dinner the next. (And load up on episodes on the weekends!)

I'm really enjoying the show. There were some stand-alone, "Monster of the Week" eps that didn't really work for me early on, but now that we've finished Season 2, the major pieces are on the chessboard and I think the opening moves are just about to come. Now, I study Buffy and other Whedon work (just presented some ideas on Dollhouse - check out the more academic blog here for conference thoughts) and I have to say that I'm enjoying the Winchesters quite a bit, although it's sort of the "anti-Buffy." (Favorite example of this so far [that very well may turn into a presentation title] - Dean is telling li'l Jo why she shouldn't come along to fight demons due to her lack of training and Jo accuses him of being a chauvinist. Dean's laconic reply: "Sweetheart, this ain't gender studies." Tee-hee!!)

Meanwhile, FryDaddy seems transfixed with a mystical Colt. And we both notice where the salt shaker is in restaurants. Common, and quite effective, demon repellent, don't you know.

And I have to admit that yes, I created a Supernatural playlist for what I'm calling my "Impala moments."

Lucky I'm Not a Horse

2010-09-29T07:27:00.003-04:00

About two months back, I was participating in a Zumba class. Just to clarify, this is a dance-based exercise class - you'll see them advertised on TV and think that they're populated only with rock-hard, highly-trained dancer types. They're not - they let me in, even though I occasionally have trouble counting to eight while remembering how to distinguish my right from my left. The one piece of advice I can give you concerning such classes (which I had taken and enjoyed before) is this - don't wear sneakers! This one time, I forgot my exercise shoes and went in just my faithful Keds.

Pop.

Well, that was just my shoe squeaking against the floor, right? As I gamely try to keep up with the Latin beat.

Turns out no.

For the last eight weeks, I've pretended that the ankle was just a little stiff in the morning, but it hurt. Well, at least "heavy discomfort" and it didn't really get better. I went to the doctor after FryDaddy began referring to me not as his "Best Beloved" (a man who quotes Kipling. I had to marry him!), but as "Festus." A short course of steroids helped temporarily, but I wouldn't stay off the ankle to really let it heal - ten thousand steps a day is the goal, right?

Wrong.

X-rays and an MRI later, I wound up in an orthopedist's office, being cheerfully told, "Oh, no. You didn't snap the Achilles. If you had, you wouldn't need an X-ray to know it. But something's not right back there."

So I'm now the proud owner of the season's most sought-after accessory - a stylish black walking boot that immobilizes the ankle and causes me to lurch about. Wags have suggested that this should make my Halloween costume a cinch - Frankenstein, Ahab, Long John Silver, or perhaps a generic zombie.

Sigh. At least it's not a "real" cast, or something requiring surgery, or injections. And they're not talking about putting me down like a high-strung racehorse.

And if anyone asks, this is all the result of a thrilling trapeze accident.

Long Hauls & Lessons Learned

2010-09-20T18:48:00.005-04:00

My parents, Mr. and Mrs. Mockingbird, celebrated their Golden Anniversary this past weekend. It's a funny story - when Mom was considering the wedding date, she didn't choose to commemorate their first date, or some equally romantic time, for my mother is nothing if not pragmatic. So she selected the anniversary of the date my dad received his Navy flight wings. As she puts it, "He won't forget that one!" That's them up in the corner - happy and joyous on their wedding day.

But the wedding is not the same thing as the marriage.

While I'm sure my parents have had downs as well as ups (it's been fifty years, after all. And we're Southern, so we can hold a grudge good and tight), they've always been excellent role models for me. While I made more than my fair share of (ahem) unfortunate romantic decisions* prior to meeting FryDaddy, I always knew what I wanted, even when I wasn't sure how to get there. And those were lessons learned, in large part, from my parents.

Chief among those lessons is that people don't usually change that much after marriage, they just become more of what they already are. Take me, for example - I'm an indifferent housekeeper at best. I'm most unlikely to suddenly become Martha Stewart and it would be a foolish thing to hold your breath waiting for that to happen. Oh, I always have good intentions of dusting the shelves and emptying the ironing basket, but - well, that's part of the Road to Hell Paving Company. After a certain point in time, you just can't domesticate people, so it's best to look around carefully and decide if you can accept what you see.

Mom and Dad apparently did and it seems to have worked out well. Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!

*In the spirit of full disclosure, it should be noted that not all of my decisions were unfortunate. Bad timing, yes. Unfortunate, no.

Remember

2010-09-11T18:50:00.005-04:00

In the years since 9/11 became a shorthand notation for A Bright Line Event That Changed Life Into Before and After along the lines of the Kennedy assassination and man's walk on the moon, the eleventh of September has taken on great weight and meaning for Americans. A sort of calendar gravitas, if you will.

It has long been said that disasters bring out both the very best and the very worst in people and I imagine there's truth in that statement, for scared people are as apt to do extremely stupid things as they are to look beyond their own fright to offer assistance to others.

But there are those who do just that.

It is exactly for this reason that I take great comfort in the story of Fr. Mychal Judge, one of the fallen heroes of that awful, hellish day nine years ago. I never had the privilege of meeting Father Mike, but his story resonates with me - to the point that every 9/11 I re-read his story and I'll freely admit I still cry a little.

Black 47 sang his story - you can find the lyrics here - and they did it well, for he was a regular at the band's gigs, but there was far too much to fit into any song, no matter how powerful and moving. Fr. Judge (funny how that sounds, isn't it?) was Irish and Irish stories are at their best when they're funny and sad and wondrous and, most of all, epic. He was all of this.

He was - among other things - a twin born two days before his sister, a dedicated priest, an alcoholic who found redemption in the Twelve Steps as much as he ever did in the church he so devoted himself to, quite possibly gay, although he took his vows of celibacy seriously, so who's to know for sure. He loved New York and he loved the firefighters who protected the city. He was a chaplain for the NYFD and he accompanied his boys to the Twin Towers that clear September morn when death and damnation rained from the impossibly blue sky.

And he was the first official victim of the tragedy of the Twin Towers.

He died ministering to his boys and was, in turn, ministered to by them. His broken body was carried in a chair from the lobby of Tower One and was then reverently taken from the ongoing disaster scene to nearby St. Peter's Church and laid on the altar, his helmet on his chest. The picture at the top of the post was taken at the scene.

The firefighters paused to remember their priest and went back to work.

It's what Father Mike would have expected, they say.

You can read his story here. I do, once a year.

There's a movement to have Father Mychal Judge canonized as a saint, but to me that seems wholly unnecessary. The lessons of Father Mike's life are found in his life, not in his death. He took time for people. For all people. He practiced unconditional acceptance and love of people as manifestations of God, no matter how screwed up they may have been. He loved drunks and addicts and the diseased and the beaten-down. He loved the frightened and the brave. He loved the struggling and the recovering. He loved when it was hard to do so. He felt called to love and he didn't scold God for who he sent Father Mike to love. "They're all My children," God seemed to say to Father Mike. "How can I choose which ones to love? So how can you choose which ones are worthy to love and care for?"

So Father Mike loved 'em all.

There is a prayer attributed to Father Mike that I think sums up the man's life both succinctly and well. It simply states: "Lord, take me where You want me to go, let me meet who You want me to meet, tell me what You want me to say, and keep me out of Your way."

I spend so much of my time worrying - being a scared person on the verge of doing stupid things. Father Mike reminds me that we're all called and we're not called to worry. We're called to love and minister to the hurt and bruised and downtrodden. With a smirk and a joke, if at all possible.

Requiescat in pace, Father Mike.

White Shoe Alert!

2010-09-06T16:16:00.004-04:00

Traditionally, today is the last day that it's okay to wear white dress shoes. The rules have been relaxed tremendously and that's a good thing! Still - there's something about white pumps that seems to belong to the hot summer months. Sort of like seersucker, which would really, really look out of place at a Christmas party. Or potato salad, which also would look out of place at a holiday shindig.

So it's time to begin thinking about the cooler weather that's ahead. Here in the Nest, the heat broke a few days ago and, while there's plenty of warm to go around, we're not sweltering in the high nineties at the moment. I'm not much of a hot-summer-month person, so saying "Buh-bye" to the heat waves doesn't spark a sense of sadness with me. I'm set for fall. Let's see if I can come up with five reasons to look forward to Life After Labor Day:

Corn mazes, complete with pumpkin trebuchets
Spiced apple cider
Candy corn
Pumpkin pie scented candles
Knowing that Halloween is coming soon

Yep. Count me as one of those who's ready to pack away the summer shoes! But let me just finish that potato salad before we call it "quits" on summer . . .

Five Years Out

2010-08-29T18:28:00.005-04:00

Today marks the five year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina smashing into the Gulf Coast. I have neighbors because of this tragic event - two folks who were moving to the area anyway, but decided to move up their plans somewhat. I'd like to think that we as a country learned a few things from Katrina and maybe we did. Then again, we tend to be rather thick, so maybe we'll have to learn these lessons all over again. The one thing I know for sure is that Mother Nature will bring the lessons to us - whether it's a simple brush-up refresher or a total re-taking of the course is up to us.

When I was in my freshman year of college - the first time I was seriously away from home - my college was flooded. Really flooded - something like a dozen feet of water. Cold sandwiches came to us from the college kitchen via the outdoor club's canoes. This was prior to cell phones (yeah, I know - I'm old, deal with it) and phone lines were down, so it was several days before any of us could get to a phone and tell our parents that we were okay. The school was closed for about a month and it took ten years for the college to fully recover - the library was hit hard and while a great number of books were saved through the frantic efforts of volunteers, many were lost. But there was no loss of life, despite my own stupid idea of going for a walk to gawk at the destruction when there were live power lines down and lots of lovely electricity-conducting standing water around. I was young - it was an adventure, instead of being a crisis.

With that experience, until Katrina, I'd never really thought about being able to throw a few belongings in the car, whistle for Spooky and high-tail it out of wherever I was as a blessing. I have family and friends who will gladly loan me a couch and the property is insured, so replacing things would involve a painful amount of paperwork, but ultimately, it'd be mostly okay.

I'd never thought about not having that option. About being so down and out that staying was a bad option, but there was no way to leave. About not having the supplies you need - clean water, canned food, medicine - to ride out six or seven days until help might (just might) be able to get to you. Think about it - can you make it, totally on your own, for a week? No power, so no lights, no refrigeration, no computer, no air conditioning. Your house is flooding, so you seek shelter in the attic - can you chop your way out to the roof if need be? What about your kids or animals? Can they get up there? Can they get to the roof? Do you have food and water? Do you have a first aid kit to bind up the hand you cut open swinging the axe to smash through your own roof? Do you have anything to rig up as a shelter once you're out there on the roof? What about medicine for your allergies or your mother-in-law's asthma? You can't run to the drugstore to get a prescription filled. Did you grab a bucket to take care of certain personal hygiene issues? And I think we can forget about abiding by Clinique's three-step skin care regime.

Say a prayer for the Gulf Coast. And add into that prayer a little breath of thankfulness that it wasn't you having to answer those questions.

In Praise of an Empty House

2010-08-22T15:34:00.002-04:00

Strange time, this. The house is empty now – well, not exactly. Spooky and I are still firmly in residence, but FryDaddy has gone away to get some schoolin’. This is a good thing, don’t misunderstand me, but it makes for some melancholy in the air. While it’s nice to be able to straighten a pile of clutter and have it stay straightened until I decide otherwise, I miss his clutter.

Sigh.

To combat this tendency towards sighing, I’m trying to flip my thinking around. Rather than being sad and various shades of blue (I was up to 26 at the last count), I’m trying to focus on why this is a good thing. Three things come to mind:

1. FryDaddy is one smart cookie. School’s a good place for him to be. He’ll sharpen his thinking, have some ideas challenged and hopefully, come out on the other side of this a thoughtful, compassionate, hard-working so-and-so. (Sure, he already has those qualities, but maybe this will make it even more so.)

2. School matters. Yes, you can make it in the cold, hard world without a degree – I know plenty of people who have done just that; some of them quite successfully – but that precious piece of paper does carry some cachet. Not to mention, it shows in a very tangible way that a person can set himself a task and stick to it until the goal line is crossed.

3. This separation is temporary and really, not that big a deal. People run on opposing schedules all the time – especially in a family that has to deal with shiftwork. My sister and brother-in-law once had to spend several years separated by three states due to a job transfer. And all of this is flat-out nothing compared to military families who have to deal with deployment, perhaps even into a combat zone. Compared to that, two hours on the interstate isn’t much.

Still, this is going to take a little while to adjust. Thanks to technology, we’re talking often (Skype is coming soon!) and we’re going to try to meet mid-week for dinner. We’re also taking the suggestion of several good friends – we got two copies of the TV show Supernatural and we’re going to watch that episode-by-episode before we meet for our weekly (?) dinners so we can talk about something other than work and school.

What about you, Gentle Readers? Any suggestions on dealing with life changes and distance? The lines are open and operators are standing by to take your calls . . .

Let the Games Begin!

2010-08-15T17:37:00.005-04:00

It's true - summer speeds by on gossamer wings. The fall semester starts again tomorrow, which means that tomorrow is likely to be a day marked by students coming in a little late as they figure out where the classroom is or where to park to get inside the building in the first place. Many will wander as if shell-shocked. For my end of things, the first day handouts are ready and the proper information is available on Blackboard. Rosters will be (mostly) up to date. Regardless of all my planning, I'm sure I'll have my shell-shocked moments, too.

It probably won't help that my ankle is still gimpy. Maybe I'll go into the first day looking like a surly schoolmaster character out of Dickens, wrapped head to toe in black and banging a heavy walking stick down with each step as I grumble about "insufferable children." Hmmm - while not a good one, you have to admit that it's a plan.

At any rate, I think I'm ready for it. FryDaddy is also returning to school tomorrow, although for him, it's a one-day orientation to the university and then he's back here for a bit. Classes commence for him a smidge later than for me. So I have the abnormally-quiet house to myself for a night. Time to spend thinking about the role of education for adults, time to get excited about the prospect of a fresh page, time to puzzle over which patron saint of education comes the closest to meeting my needs (yes, you can shop for saints - but don't wait for the Christmas rush! Pick from this list. Or maybe this one!).

Wish me luck! And reserve your copy of Buffy in the Classroom! A must for every teacher and student returning to the hallowed halls of learning this fall! (OK, yeah, you got me - I'm in it, but still - it's a good collection!)

That Snapping Sound You Hear . . .

2010-08-01T13:01:00.002-04:00

. . . is my spine unlocking.

Yes, the honeymoon is in full swing now, but today is one of those grey, rainy days at the beach that make a day of watching movies and eating copious amounts of junk food seem like a very, very good idea! And I discovered that I have the necessary Internet connection here to allow me to access this blog, so here I am, for at least a few minutes.

There's not much to report. (It is a honeymoon, after all. You're not pruient enough to care about the details, right? Right.) It's been a wonderful trip so far - lots of sunshine, sand, water and time to do as much or as little as we please.

In short, it's been heavenly!

Hope your week has gone well and signing off for now, but back soon.

The "Getting Ready to Go" Part

2010-07-21T08:01:00.009-04:00

Tom Petty may have wailed that "the waiting is the hardest part," but I'm not so sure. I think the week or so leading up to a trip (be that trip pure vacation or work/conference) is the hardest part. Right now, I'm several days out from leaving for what promises to be a blissful honeymoon with my, well, my honey and the days whipsaw from almost manageable with loads of lists to just out and out crazy-busy.

There's a reason. There always is, I suppose. When we return, I'll only have a week before fall classes start, so I'm trying to get everything as ready as it can be. My school is also in the throes of pre-registration in an economy that would have Adam Smith saving money in a sock. Funds had been earmarked for some badly-needed renovation, so the halls are stacked with furniture while the floors of classrooms are re-done with more durable tile. I still have one writing project to edit into shape and send off. And there are a myriad of little things hither and yon that can look terribly important if you only glance in that direction instead of keeping your focus.

Which I haven't done too well lately.

I hate being worn out like this.

But this cheered me up. Twilight crossed with a delectable Southern picnic. Yum!

Enjoy!

Where's That Alligator Float?

2010-07-14T07:28:00.002-04:00

Lo, and the shimmering beach is beckoning, for the delayed honeymoon is quickly approaching!

When FryDaddy and I made the decision to enter into the exalted state of matrimony late this spring, we knew the traditional wedding trip would have to be put off somewhat. We went away for the wedding night to a bed & breakfast just up the road (and liked it so much that we booked for our one-year anniversary before we left!) but decided that a longer, "just us" trip would need to wait until the end of July when I was done teaching and his fall plans had solidified and a whopping chunk of time could be taken off. We laboriously saved for more than a year to be sure we could do whatever we wanted to do without breaking out credit cards, which I must sadly admit is a bit unnatural to me.

But - O frabjous day! Callooh, callay! That day is nearly here!

While I haven't started packing just yet, trust me - I've started figuring out what I want to take. We're both total book geeks, so we will both take pounds of books with us and return with yet more pounds of books (there's this great little used book store that's our version of a secret stash. I'd tell you more, but then extreme measures would have to be taken). I'm hoping to finish what I'm reading now before I go - it's the end of a hard SF trilogy by Peter Watts that's been patiently waiting for me for months as I worked on other tasks. Solid writing, but far from a usual "beach read." Although, now that I think about it, I started it in a laundromat down at the beach way back when, so perhaps I should revise my remarks. And I hope to take a variety of books with me. Don't bother to tell me, "Why Mockingbird, what are you doing, taking books on your honeymoon?" We're book people. It's what we do, but I solemnly promise that it's not all we do. And that's enough on that topic.

Sun, sand, the ability to pay as we go, and large parcels of time spent alone with my tall, handsome, bookish, funny, curious husband.

Looks pretty good to me!

Inside Pruning

2010-07-05T11:29:00.004-04:00

There comes the day when you wake up and say, "Well - how did I get here?"

(Apologies to the Talking Heads.)

But it's true - one day, you look around the house and go to bed thinking, "Hmm. I could really stand to do some work around the house." And that continues until the day you wake up the next morning and look around the house and say, "Dear heaven, no decent person would live like this!"

I'm nearly there.

I'm not a hoarder - well, certainly not in the pathological, let's-have-a-show-on-A&E-which-by-the-way-has-next-to-nothing-relevant-to-either-arts-or-entertainment-anymore sort of way. But I am a stacker of clutter and I've reached the point of needing to be willing to take a long, hard look at myself and say, "Self, the stacks are out of control. Time to sort, straighten, and yes, toss."

This is one (of the many) reasons I'm not such a hotshot gardener - I don't like to prune things back. I know it's for the long-term good, but I have a hard time with it.

But I just don't need two dozen butter tubs, even if they are clean and perfectly useful for - well, for something. So they've gotta go!

Wish me luck.

Summer Pleasures

2010-06-27T14:17:00.002-04:00

In the hot, humid Southland, it's not so much that it's "summertime and the living is easy," regardless of what Porgy & Bess might think. It's sticky-hot and you wish fervently for a thunderstorm to cool things off, although you know that the harsh reality is that the storm's just going to add to the general stickiness of things.

But we have camellias and magnolias, so there are consolations.

There are other summertime pleasures, too. I decided to sit in the air conditioning and contemplate some of them. They include:

Air conditioning. I grew up in an old, rambling, non-air-conditioned house and let me tell you, my brother-in-law got it right when he said of his summer days spent a-courting my sister, "I'd stay in the guest room. I'd lie awake at night, drenched in sweat, praying for dawn." So yes, air conditioning tops the list.
Baseball. A love of baseball doesn't just run in my family; it pretty much gallops. If you have a chance to sit in the shade (careful of those aluminum bleachers!) and watch a chaotic game played by seven-year-olds and some very patient coaches, take it. It's an excellent opportunity to be reminded that sometimes, joy is every bit as important as skill.
Cheerwine sherbet. I just discovered this recently. Cheerwine is a regional soft drink - cherry flavored and just out of this world! Soft-freeze that and I'm yours.
Dogs. Especially when coupled with the above-mentioned seven-year-olds.
Friends. During the worst of the heat, you don't want to go out much, but when a friend suggests that you try Zumba (in the a/c, naturally!) at the local YMCA, think twice before you say "no." Good exercise and you get the added benefit of working out your sense of humor as you figure out right from left to a throbbing Latin beat.

There are other summertime pleasures, I'm sure. Suggestions?