I have happy

Overheard outside a single-seater gas station bathroom in Springfield, Mass

2010-01-26T12:41:00.000-08:00

"You got to let me in! This broad out here (she's referring to yours truly, gentle readers) doesn't know I'm with you."

"I can't! Veronica's taking a sh*t, and I'm turtling!"

2010-01-14T11:14:00.000-08:00

I'm waiting for my car to be serviced. I handed the keys to the mechanic with a look that said, "I will not be judged. I keep a litter box in my car. And dill pickle-flavored sunflower seeds. These things are not for me, but they could be, and I refuse to suffer your reproach." In forty-five minutes I will write him a larger check than I would like and then turn on my heel, regally. I will appear taller than my 5'2''.

I wish I had so much more than my little monies to send to Haiti. I wish I had magical powers. I wish people weren't such fragile things.

off to an impressive start

2010-01-09T17:27:00.000-08:00

It's a bad sign when I'd rather illustrate my state of mind with pictures of my cat than expend energy on analyzing my malaise. But here we are.

I've been feeling like this:

Or maybe like this:

I blame the 3700 or so miles we drove over the holidays. I went a little funny somewhere in Ohio. But I miss you. And I'll be back.

Fine, then. Happy jolly.

2009-12-16T06:33:00.001-08:00

When nobody thinks it's a good idea to get a Christmas tree, you may have to get the damn thing yourself. Which I did. I picked it out, flirted with the cute tree guy while he tied it ineptly to my tiny car with ten thousand feet of string, and then drove veeeery slowly home. I hauled it off the car, into the elevator, down the hall and through the apartment. I got Snorri out of it, put it in the stand, took off the netting, got Snorri out of it, wrapped it in lights, covered it in ornaments and got Snorri out of it. I may have broken a sweat but was well pleased with my efforts. Then n.o.c. came home and said, "Wow! That's wonderful! I'm so glad we got a tree!"

We? I don't know what you're smoking, but I seem to be the one covered in sap. And you're damn right it's wonderful, fool. I don't truck with less. Merry Christmas.

The tree:

Cosmo from P-town:

From Edgecomb Potters:

From Vermont (and a tribute to n.o.c.'s perfect cribbage score):

And one Pete painted while he was in Iraq, dreaming of snow:

And the Snorracle, worn slap out from attacking the tree:

ambitious

2009-12-09T12:22:00.000-08:00

Tonight I begin a baking extravaganza. I'm making these and these and these and these and these. Oh, and this. Lest you think my list a bit too too, rest assured that I'm also pulling out the Bisquick to make sausage cheese balls. Oh, don't even play. You know sausage cheese balls are good shit.

mewwsick

2009-12-08T09:46:00.000-08:00

I'm covering for an art class. The students are making sock monkeys, most bizarrely. The teacher, who is apparently far more kind than I, lets the students to listen to the radio. So here I am, critiquing the size of sock monkey hat pom-poms and listening to sh*tbeatsforfourteenyearolds fm. I can't even f*cking tell which voices are digitally altered - can anyone be that nasal? How do they breathe?

All the students are whining along, heads bouncing to the mind-numbingly repetitive beat.

Yes, dear, those button eyes are just the thing for your sock monkey. Look how expressive!

What am I doing?

When life hands you unidentifiable citrus

2009-12-07T07:36:00.001-08:00

If the phrase "time out of mind" applies to the contents of your refrigerator, perhaps it's a good occasion to examine your life.

OR, maybe it's time to cut this baby open and see how fermented lime(?) tastes in your holiday cocktail! Cheers!

In similar spirit, The Snorracle perseveres, despite our interfering.

Things goodish.

2009-12-06T18:34:00.000-08:00

n.o.c. is driving; I am not.

Though I feel slightly nauseated after drinking a vat of diet coke, I am pleased to have resisted the chicken tenders, which are never a good idea.

Snorri does not seem to miss his testicles. He wears the cone of shame in a weary, resigned sort of way, but he still cuddles and snores and plays cutely with all manner of battable objects. My conscience is unassuaged, but I feel slightly less monstrous.

It snowed on Saturday.

mea culpa

2009-12-04T07:18:00.001-08:00

Look. It's been a long time. A really, really long time. Long enough to justify deleting me from your blog roll. If you did, I understand. If you're still here, thank you. I'm sorry. You deserve better. You look nice in that outfit. I love what you've done with your hair.

I'd planned a lengthy post to explain my absence, chronicling all the things that have kept me from writing, but that would be boring as f*ck, and you don't come here for excuses. You come because you're supposed to be doing something productive, perhaps working or cooking or caring for your rabbit, but you want (nay - need!) to f*ck off for just a Few. More. Minutes. I understand. To that end, I will now provide you with some random, time-wasting information. And then I will be back. Soon. I swear it.

I've started taking cod liver oil because I have vague notions about Omega-3s and vitamin D, and surely anything so utterly repulsive must have enormous health benefits. Seriously, it tastes like walrus smegma and lemon pledge.
I took Snorri to get neutered this morning because I am a traitorous, self-centered asshole. I cried into his little furry neck until he pushed me away because I was embarrassing him in front of the cute vet assistant he was trying to cruise.
I have discovered that a messy desk and a harried expression are the best defences. I hide behind reams of unsorted papers, teetering stacks of books and a menagerie of unwashed coffee cups. I rumple my clothes and apply mascara to only one eye. I run down the hallways carrying impossibly large armfuls of books and papers, leaving a trail of crumpled parchment and uncapped pens in my wake. No one can possibly ask me to do anything else.

For what you wish, be careful.

2009-11-12T12:56:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I wish I could catch a good, solid cold. You know, nothing too terrible, but something just bad enough to keep me on the couch for a few days, swaddled in blankets and cradled by pillows. So I was excited when I felt a little tickle in my throat last Friday. By Sunday, I had the full-bodied whoop of a lunger and a worsening sniffle. By Monday morning, I looked and felt terrible and was actually sent home from work.

Now, in my imaginary world, this should be cause for pajamaed celebration. You know, break out the hot chocolate and movies - it's time to recuperate! Unfortunately, my imaginary world generally fails to consider the crucial and unpleasant details of my real one.

1) Feeling like shit, well, it feels like shit.

2) Damned Protestant Work Ethic. Despite my dreams to the contrary, I can't bear the thought of skivving off, so I dragged myself to work every morning this week. And every morning, they promptly sent my pale, clammy, shaking, hacking (and on one occasion weeping) ass straight back home. "Stay in bed," they said. "Go away, death!" they yelled. "Why are you here again?" they implored. "I just don't know," I moaned. I don't understand myself at all.

3) My poor Snorri has had diarrhea since Saturday. We're talking five to six fetid puddles of ick a day. There was even one instance of projectile vomit. We've finally achieved a firm turd, but, let me tell you, it was a long time coming.

4) I have about four functioning neurons. Seriously - if it weren't for spell check, #3 would contain the word "puttle."

And I'm spent. Off to stare at a napkin for a few hours, and then I've got to get some sleep before I dash off to work in the morning, scarlet snot rag on my chest.

By the by - thanks for the kind comments on my new 'do. I cropped my face because I have an irrational belief that this sort of measure will prevent work-place discovery. And enhabiten, your home is absolutely lovely - congratulations.

The Price of Beauty

2009-11-06T07:02:00.000-08:00

So, I saw Olga on Monday. Remember her? This time, she decided that winter was the perfect occasion for going truly short - she pressed the comb to the hair just above my shoulders and announced her intentions.

Olga: Here. And we add copper.
Me: I don't know.
Olga: Yes. Will be perfect.
Me: Copper sounds fine, but n.o.c. hates short hair, remember?
Olga: So, you have fabulous hair during day, at night you wear long wig. Yes.
Me: But...

But it was too late. Olga had decided, and she'd apparently decided on something much shorter than she originally suggested:

I love it. It's sleek and shiny and feels like an honest-to-god "style." I'm like a grownup or whatever. I check myself out in windows. Students fawn over me. I get compliments all the time.

Not, however, from n.o.c. While it wasn't as short as he'd feared, he told me last night that the cut was fine, but "it just makes you look average."

This was basically the most terrible thing anyone's ever said to me, so I killed him. Snorri loves the hair, and we're very happy together. Just the two of us, coiffed and adorable.

Joke's on you.

2009-11-05T14:08:00.000-08:00

Last Thursday:

Suckaroo, motherf*ckahs! No cash, no nice radio, only a used litter box:

And a little Snorri for your evening:

And I'm rambling.

2009-10-28T05:32:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, I began my mornings around 3:30 or 4. I'd have a vat of coffee with Splenda (this is why I no longer use artificial sweetener) and translate like a motherf*cker until 9, when I'd head off to class. Each week I had five classes of my own (each met three times), three classes and three sections of the class I TA-ed, research for my advisor, and daily exercise. I always made time to exercise. I didn't make time to have friends, but I did stalk a very cute coffee guy at the Tuesday farmers' market, and I pretended that I knew the patrons who sat at my favorite cafe. I'd cook a small dinner in the evenings, work for a few more hours, and then I'd head to bed around ten, though I made sure to read one short story before sleep, just so I wouldn't lose all sense of propriety.

While I don't reminisce fondly about this particular interlude, I do frequently marvel at my former self. So driven! So regimented! So diligent!

I was just coming off this schedule when I met n.o.c., and six hours of sleep seemed like the ultimate frivolity - a selfish and slothful waste of time. Then we spent a solid month sunning ourselves and sleeping when the mood struck, and - *SHAZAM!* - that driven, regimented, diligent person decided that she was done with that shit, threw her book bag in the trash and cracked a beer. Last I heard, she was tanned like luggage and slinging cocktails in a seedy South American bar on a dangerous but beautiful stretch of beach.

Lately, I've been sleeping a lot - going to bed around 9:30, getting up around 6:30. I love it. In fact, it feels so good that I wonder if I might be happy just sleeping my life away. When I think I've finally gotten my nap out, I find that I can easily sleep for several more hours. I don't feel badly about this, although I do suspect that I'm being judged by some past me. I also feel a little duddish and phlegmatic when I come across someone like this, who is inhumanly productive and probably sleeps less on purpose so that she can do more. But, I was never into computers - or anything profitable, for that matter - so there's really no sense in comparing apples to wildly successful, techy oranges.

At the moment, I spend most of my time reading, writing, cooking, and sleeping. I'm basically a literate cat with culinary ambitions. And I think that's fine. I think. For now.

Because I'm sure as shit not writing anything worthwhile these days.

2009-10-27T09:33:00.001-07:00

Read this.

The one where I talk about poop.

2009-10-21T12:45:00.001-07:00

Last weekish, n.o.c. and I were having a lovely evening. We'd just finished dinner, so I went off to read, while goodhusband n.o.c. worked on cleaning up the kitchen. Snorri (a.k.a. The Snorracle of Smallfry, a.k.a. Snorrious Maglorious Bloodeagle Ford (not mine), a.k.a. ooooooohhhhiloveyouiloveyouiloveyou (mine)) was off doing what he does best - conquering cat trees, manhandling bottle caps, destroying feathered playthings, what have you. Or so we thought.

As n.o.c. prepped the coffee maker (he's the shit), he noticed the Snorrster scooting across the floor on his arse. Not having read 2,935 books on cat rearing (punny!), n.o.c. thought our little guy was just being a clown. I, however, realized that something, um, fouler was afoot. Sure enough, Snorri had managed to embed two hockey pucks of poo into his very fluffy and once pristine buttfur and then decided to drag ass across the apartment in hopes of scraping them off. To his credit, there was a poo circle (something like a crop circle) around my chair, so he had tried to attract my attention before embarking on his apartment-wide shit-smearing adventure.

Anyhoo, we eventually put everything to rights, and Snorri endured the blow dryer with aplomb (and a considerably less furry, but poop-free, rear end). We chalked the incident up to youth and abundant, Pantaloon-like leg fur.

But last night, after a delicious dinner of Cornish game hens (Snorri enjoyed Iams kitten chow and the smallest sliver of crispy skin), we settled into bed and Snorri frolicked off to take his evening constitutional. After I heard him exit the box, I immediately went to dispose of his deposit, because I am fastidious. Most unfortunately, Snorri had once again managed to - I don't even know how to describe it - it was like when you were little and you fell asleep with chewing gum in your mouth and it ended up in your hair... except, in this case, the chewing gum is multiple nuggets of poo and your mouth is a little feline ass sphincter and your hair is white fur. Too graphic? I just don't know anymore.

I tell you this neither because I'm weary of kvetching about work (never!) nor because I want to ruin your dinner - I just don't know how to proceed. Is the issue mechanical? Gastrointestinal? (I took in a sample yesterday.) Maniacal? What is he doing? Why is this happening? Help!

As long as I'm asking you for help with animals, please keep another furry friend of ours, M., in your thoughts - clap for her, give her the care bear stare, pray to St. Francis, smudge sage, whatever. Sweet little M. is having a rough go of things and could use whatever you've got. Thanks.

Guilt.

2009-10-13T14:29:00.000-07:00

I feel guilty when I don't post. It's not guilt of the Southern Methodist, do-you-know-that-you-know-that-you-know variety, but, still, it niggles. If let it go on for too long, it's bound to spin into:

Shame (I have let you down. You came to me for amusement, and I failed you.)

Inadequacy (I am not clever enough to warrant your attention.)

Self-loathing (I'm a sham. I have never been funny.)

So, it's best if I just blog on the regular. I feel better, regardless of whether you do or not. (Though I really hope you do. And that's the baldest emotion you're going to get for a while.)

Lately, though, I haven't felt compelled to write much. It's not that nothing's going on, it's just that I'm consumed with a weird apathetic hatred that makes me boring and dangerous. Like a wildly venomous slug. I'm also really fucking tired, but who the fuck isn't, so that doesn't seem like a topic of conversation. But I persevere:

Ninth graders think that circumcision is a rare and barbaric Jewish ritual. I have disabused them of this notion and given them permission to ask the men in their lives whether or not they are possessed of a foreskin. Consider yourselves warned.
Snorri enjoys having a perch for his rear end when he takes a poo, so he often lets his turds fall just over the rim of his litter box. I find this endearing and amusing, and so does n.o.c., except that he practically vomits whenever he smells kitten shit. This does not bode well for the prospect of actual human offspring, since I am sure as shit (punny!) not changing all the rancid diapers.
During last week's professional day, the dean of faculty began the morning by taking to the loudspeaker and commanding all teachers to leave their offices and march in the hallway. She then called out those who did not participate with enough vigor: "Ms. Lemplekins! I see you on the monitor! Get those knees up! You're only seventy-five!" She also sang the school song and a hymn.
My dear, sweet, slightly insane mother would not stop cleaning last weekend, and now I'm convinced that she has the hantavirus. And it will be All. My. Fault.

That's the best I can do for today. I must off to work on my drinking problem and decide how best to be subversive and hateful without expending excessive energy or getting fired.

Happy Birthday to The Rog

2009-10-06T13:24:00.001-07:00

I hope you're as happy as a rat eating shit from a broke fruit jar on a cheetoh. May your year be fine as frog's fur, may difficulties pass as quickly as greasy string from a cow's ass, and may you have enough happiness that if you turned that happiness into gasoline and put it in a piss ant's motorbike, he'd make it a billion times around a BB. Much love.

be careful, little hands, what you google

2009-10-05T09:46:00.001-07:00

I was trying to come up with a good metaphor for my persistent presence in someone's life, so I googled "untreatable std". Here's a tip, children. Clear your google browser before showing anyone anything on your computer.

Take that! And that!

2009-10-05T09:16:00.001-07:00

When I'm having a shit day, I sometimes like to see just how unpleasant I can make it. And that's what I'm doing today - poking the bruise that is my life.

To examine this day properly, we really need to begin with midnight last night, since that's when n.o.c. and I decided to stop at a Taco Bell because we were seeing double and nothing sharpens the senses like questionable meat coated in chemical hot sauce. Then I slept for five hours. Now, somehow, I'm at work, and I loathe everyone actively. I'm wearing pants that make me unhappy and ugly shoes. I am unprepared for my classes, but instead of preparing, I obsessively refresh my blog roll and nytimes.com. I have other, non-work things that need doing, but completing them would be too satisfying, so I perseverate over their magnitude. It's a beautiful fall day, but I will not be coddled by sunlight. Instead of walking up the hill for a salad, I sit at my desk with bad posture and eat a white bread bagel smothered with cream cheese. My tongue has a wax coating and my stomach churns. I am despised by my body.

bitterbitterbitterbitter

2009-10-02T09:45:00.001-07:00

Today is such a f*cking shit smear. Forget anything kind I've ever said about humans and get over my bullsh*t stance on not complaining. Here's why:

1) Two weeks ago, a three-hour and ten minute meeting to "brainstorm" about "process". Then a fourteen-hour day, largely spent talking with parents about why little Susie is a "modest scholar."

2) Then an eighty-hour week, sixty-four of which were spent in the woods with little idiots, talking about feelings and getting bitten by spiders. EIGHT spider bites. SIXTEEN tiny fang marks.

3) This week, in addition to attending three after-school meetings and completing interim report cards (which is surely a punishment from the fifth circle of hell), I have been informed that the classes I was hired to make academically rigorous are now too hard, even though they are the same as they were last year.

4) Now, even though I have made it absolutely clear that talking about feelings is my least favorite thing, I have been "asked" to be a group leader for the "Difficult Discussions" program - a bullsh*t enterprise that trains students to be "issues facilitators." I'm retching. AND they meet at night. For HOURS.

F*ck it. I'll just scrap everything and teach the students how to macrame while singing kumbaya, since that is clearly where all this is headed.

He likes the finer things.

2009-10-02T06:40:00.001-07:00

Snorri watches us breakfast while he lounges in a little something from Tiffany's. What?

You've got to do what you should

2009-10-01T12:31:00.001-07:00

I am not a big U2 fan. Oh, sure, I'll sing along with their old songs if one happens to come on the radio, but I don't own their albums or hanker for their music. Despite my ambivalence, I went to a U2 concert on Tuesday night, because sometimes people get deported and can't go to concerts like they planned. But I digress.

The concert was good fun, and the stage resembled a giant, be-nippled space spider, which, of course, is always awesome. Now, I have a vague notion that Bono is a celebrity do-gooder, but I don't really know much about his work, so I'll refrain from expressing an opinion on the topic. (Look at me! Being the change I'd like to see!) Nonetheless, I was touched by the concert's emphasis on human rights - Aung San Suu Kyi and Desmond Tutu, both featured, always appeal to my nobler instincts, particularly when I overhear f*cktards confirming to one another that Desmond Tutu is, definitely, that Mandello guy from Africa or wherever.

Sometimes I feel like a turd for not being involved in a cause. I give money, I help no-longer-homeless Rick, I'm kind (believe it or not), and I try to teach these dependably lackluster teenagers something about the responsibility that comes with their privilege, but it often seems a piss-poor effort. Perhaps I should be tireless and inspired - comforting the needy, clothing the naked, feeding the hungry...

Here's the problem. I am not made of the prerequisite stern and noble stuff. I am, in fact, absolutely overcome by the even smallest glipses of the magnitude of the world's vast f*ckedness. A couple illustrative examples:

1) There's a very old and toothless gentleman who sells succulents at the Sunday farmers' market. His are not your run-of-the-mill, plastic-potted, withered-at-the-tips succulents; they are works of art - plump, glistening plants nestled in gnarly tree trunks, raunchy old tires bedizened with lush, curling tendrils, fat cacti with leaves so perfect, I imagine that the wizened little man spent his Saturday night carefully polishing each one. He brings his creations to the market in an old black truck, and then he sits on the tailgate and waits. Now, he's not cheap (I wanted one of his pieces but had neither the money nor the direct sunlight), but I've never seen anyone buy one of his designs. Never. Few people even stop to look. He doesn't seem troubled by this, he just watches and works his gums, and then he carefully packs up his wares with his thin, weathered arms and prepares for the next market. Something about this just kills me. Seriously, I'm a little weepy just thinking about it.

2) Benches all over Baltimore are emblazoned with the slogan, "Baltimore - The Greatest City in America!" These benches are usually broken, occupied by homeless folk, surrounded by refuse, and/or in front of dilapidated rows of falling-down houses. At first, I thought the benches might be ironic - perhaps the work of some politically minded artist or a group dedicated to raising public awareness. But, no. This slogan was coined by our current mayor in what I can only imagine was a fit of idiotic and delusional optimism. What a f*cking numbnut. Baltimore may be many things - charming, gritty, dangerous, friendly, dirty, enduring, and maybe even resilient, but The Greatest City in America!? I think not. Now every time I see a bench, I seethe over the money some shit-for-brains spent on a wildly hyperbolic branding campaign instead of on, oh, I don't know, comforting the needy, clothing the naked, feeding the hungry...

So, I'm going to keep on in my own small way - writing checks, making sandwiches for Rick, teaching John Rawls, crying over the succulent man, shaking my fist at preposterous benches, and applauding those whose capabilities are more sturdy than mine.

A few faves...

2009-09-28T11:17:00.001-07:00

1) "I'm about a quart low on Chablis!" -- Elderly math teacher at recent hellish retreat

2) "How?" -- Over-privileged student's response when asked to close window blinds.

3) "non-shalantly" -- Clever student writing about her actions

4) "Oh, she's quite a trollop." -- Elderly math teacher describing a lascivious student

Kitten farts

2009-09-27T18:17:00.001-07:00

Who knew?

Some Action

2009-09-27T17:19:00.000-07:00

denouement

2009-09-26T13:30:00.000-07:00

After endless waiting and wild anticipation (thank you for your patience and understanding), we finally set out to get Snorri. The day dawned auspicious:

After a quick and beautiful drive to Old Virginny, we arrived at the cattery to find Snorri waiting for us at the door, and we got to meet all of his kinfolk - five generations of NFCs. I wish I'd taken pictures of his father and grandfather. They were huge. Lift-with-your-legs enormous. We realized that we'd never actually seen a Norwegian Forest Cat, much less hefted a twenty-pounder personally. Google image searches are not substitutes for actual experiences, children. Be ye warned.

And then Snorri was ours. I won't bore you with the emotional chowchow of it all; let's just say that we've already referred to ourselves as "mom" and "dad" on more than one occasion. I know.

I'd read that cats and car trips make uneasy bedfellows, and it's true that Snorri didn't immediately love his cat carrier.

But, after about fifteen minutes of pitiful mewling, the little guy snugged down and was a total badass.

Eventually, however, the humans could stand it no longer. Breaking every rule of cat training and car safety, we freed the Snorrster from his prison. At first, he did some 'splorin'.

But it wasn't long before Snorri showed his true colors. This cat is a fiend for the snuggle.

Do you know how to tell if a cat is relaxed? Look closely. This is drool.

So, Snorri is pretty much the most awesome cat ever, and, one day, he'll be a wild and fearsome Viking marauder. Just not right now. He's got to get his snuggle on.

Huzzah! Huzzah!

2009-09-26T03:10:00.001-07:00

I AM OUT OF THE F*CKING CHILD-INFESTED WILDERNESS!!!! WE'RE OFF TO GET SNORRI!!!!

I must have done a very dastardly deed.

2009-09-21T10:39:00.001-07:00

I am being forced to attend a three-day bonding retreat with ninth graders, the same wee folk who were earlier in raptures over awkward interchanges between ScarJo and a mortified-looking Colin Firth. (I believe I may have mentioned this previously and promised not to complain about it. I lied.)

Well, I just received the packing list, and... Well... F*ck. More articulate griping to follow.

C****** PACKING LIST

Sleeping bag (to put on bed)

Pillow

Sleepwear

Bathing suit (we are not going swimming, but some people feel more comfortable having a swimsuit for the shower)

Towels and washcloth

Toiletries

Blue jeans, etc., and bring two changes of clothes

Light jacket

Sweatshirt

Socks

Sneakers or shoes (two pairs suggested in case one pair gets wet)

Flashlight

Flip flops for shower

Day pack (book bag) for ropes course.

Inside put:

rain gear

large water bottle

Kleenex

sunscreen

moistened wipes

insect repellant

Forbidden items:

Cell phones

Candy, food, drinks (they will be provided)

Surely, I don't deserve this

2009-09-21T06:16:00.000-07:00

Had another fantastic weekend in Vermont - the air was crisp, the leaves were changing, and the local cheeses were so delicious that you might as well apply them directly to my ass and call it a day. We even had a quick and easy drive back and were able to get to bed by a decent hour.

But now. Now! I'm subbing for an English class, which means that I'm watching Girl With A Pearl Earring, and if I have to watch ScarJo mouth breathe and emote for one more minute I may get physically ill. How? How??? How did she get paid to do this? Snorri could do a more convincing job, though, I admit, he is a remarkably talented kitty, so it may not be a fair comparison.

This makes it all better

2009-09-18T04:47:00.001-07:00

"Most of my married friends now have children, the rewards of which appear to be exclusively intangible and, like the mysteries of some gnostic sect, incommunicable to outsiders. In fact it seems from the outside as if these people have joined a dubious cult: they claim to be much happier and more fulfilled than ever before, even though they live in conditions of appalling filth and degradation, deprived of the most basic freedoms and dignity, and owe unquestioning obedience to a capricious and demented master."

HA! Brilliant! (Sorry, mom.)

From Tim Kreider's Opinion piece in the NYT Happiness series
http://happydays.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/09/17/the-referendum/

And then...

2009-09-18T04:21:00.000-07:00

I was informed that some toothless wonder has been running wild with my credit card in every Best Buy and Rite Aid in Bumblef*ck, GA. Thankfully, the small-town South is light on consumer opportunities.

So I went to bed at 8:45. Game over.

A message from above

2009-09-17T14:22:00.000-07:00

So, I recently left a three-hour meeting that lasted for three hours and ten minutes because people are so wildly f*cking incompetent. If you can't exhaust your supply of inane drivel in three hours, then you may need to rethink your action steps and then circle back, mmmmmkay?

Then, on the drive home, the check engine light came on in my brand-new-to-me car, which, by the by, is about as uncomplicated as a lawn mower, precisely because I don't have the inclination to think about shit like cars. But, here we are, me and my mechanic, developing a relationship.

Now I'm sitting at the bar across from my mechanic's having a pomegranate martini . I have 18 minutes of juice left on my computer and no power cord. I have just read the first entry in the City Paper's recent "Best of Baltimore" series, which reveals the number one reason to live in B'more - You're already prepared for the collapse of society. It's like tantra, practically. You're so disgusting you're almost clean! Things are so terrible they're almost great! You don't need to get used to a world that's f*cked - you're already intimately acquainted with one! Congratulations! Yay!

OMFG

2009-09-15T09:15:00.001-07:00

www.baltimoresun.com/news/maryland/baltimore-city/bal-sword0915,0,4027961.story

baltimoresun.com

Hopkins student kills intruder with samurai sword, police say

Two laptops, PlayStation had been stolen from off-campus house Monday

By Liz F. Kay | liz.kay@baltsun.com

7:35 AM EDT, September 15, 2009

A Johns Hopkins University student armed with a samurai sword killed a man who broke into the garage of his off-campus residence early Tuesday, a Baltimore police spokesman said.

According to preliminary reports, a resident of the 300 block of E. University Parkway called police about a suspicious person, department spokesman Anthony Guglielmi said. An off-duty officer responded about 1:20 a.m. to the area with university security, according to Guglielmi. They heard shouts and screams from a neighboring house and found the suspected burglar suffering from a nearly severed hand and lacerations to his upper body, he said.

The suspect was pronounced dead at the scene.

The student told police that he heard a commotion in the house and went downstairs armed with a samurai sword, Guglielmi said. He saw the side door to the garage had been pried open and found a man inside, who lunged at the student.

Detectives were still interviewing the student and his three roommates Tuesday morning, Guglielmi said. Burglars had already stolen two laptops and a Sony PlayStation from the student's home Monday, according to Guglielmi.

Dennis O'Shea, a spokesman for Johns Hopkins, said all four residents of the house are undergraduate students at the university.

The suspected burglar, whose name was not released pending notification of next of kin, had prior convictions for breaking and entering and had just been released Saturday from a Baltimore County facility, Guglielmi said.

This Monday deserves my ire.

2009-09-14T09:34:00.000-07:00

We had a lovely weekend in Vermont. Started our drive home a bit later than we should have, but the day was beautiful and the company swell. This happens. Stopped for gas and a sandwich in Connecticut and got trapped in conversation with a yokel. When I told him where we'd spent our weekend, he said, "Vermont? All they do there is make maple syrup and f*ck their cousins." I told him that I was from Georgia, so I felt right at home.

Then, in our sleepiness, we went the wrong way on the 87 and ended up in a part of New York that makes Baltimore look like Disney World. Say what you will about my city, but I've never seen a gaggle of ginormous, suited men selling drugs openly from a limo parked in the middle of the street. But maybe I don't get out enough.

So, we got home after one, and we had to get up before six. I'm not sure if I've mentioned this, but n.o.c. and I are not terribly hearty people. Still, we managed.

And I actually thought I was doing fairly well, until about five minutes ago when I had nearly finished with a half-hour lecture on Daoism. One of my students raised her hand and asked, "Aren't we supposed to be talking about Mozi?" Yes, Liza. Yes, we are. That's what's on the schedule, and that's what I said at the beginning of the lecture - hell, that's even what I wrote on the board - but here I am, yammering away about Laozi and the Daodejing.

Luckily, I have an 75-minute faculty meeting to look forward to this afternoon, so I'll have plenty of time to reflect on my failures. And put the finishing touches on meeting BINGO.

SNORRISNORRISNORRI!!!

2009-09-11T13:26:00.000-07:00

Just look at the size of those paws!!! He's going to be the most fearsome marauder in the world!!! Picture it - "Snorri, the neighbor's small human child is annoying! Destroy him!!! Then ransack the silver!!!" HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

I'm leaving the office soon. I swear.

Mwahahaha! Success is mine!

2009-09-11T12:43:00.001-07:00

Though most civilized bloggers have known since time immemorial that one can post scathing and derisive blog entries while seemingly typing Very Important Emails, I've only just caught on. Hey - I may be slow, but I'm fun to watch.

I've also just realized that most of the seniors I teach were born in - wait for it - 1992. I just... I mean... 1992? They're basically diploid cells, and yet here they are, walking and talking and looking for all the world like nearly formed humans. I discovered this because I was trying to reference David Koresh and the Branch Davidians, and they just stared at me blankly (which, by the by, was not nearly as disconcerting as the time I asked them to imagine how upsetting it would be to see a solar eclipse if you didn't know what one was. Let's just say it was reeeeeaaalllllly easy for them to imagine.). They do, however, remember 9/11, but they had a very different perspective on the world then, primarily because they were about three feet tall and in the FOURTH GRADE. I simply find it unthinkable that I'm old enough to be so much older than anyone else.

On another subject entirely, we're thinking of creating meeting BINGO cards - the winner gets a bottle of bourbon and a tee-shirt that says "Your teacher is a drunk". We believe that meetings will be more tolerable if "paradigm shift," "social identifier," and "an incoherent, impassioned speech that ends with 'I LOVE these girls!'" are actually steps toward a tangible goal and not merely a million little deaths.

this is a test

2009-09-11T12:14:00.001-07:00

Perhaps I can still blog with impunity while at work. We shall see.

Piss Poor Performance

2009-09-09T18:06:00.000-07:00

I've been a terrible blogger. A real shit. You deserve so much better, and I swear I'll shape the f*ck up. In the meanwhile, a few things that have given me happy in the past few days:

1) The Rog: "Hey darlin'. Sorry I missed your call. I was at Jim Shaw's with Mickey Mouse and Nut Bush. Hope everything's alright."

2) Poor, pitiful, mouth-breathing, bless-her-idiot-heart student: "So, like, is Judaism like, um, what the Jewish do?"

3) We. Get. Snorri. On. The. 26th. We're going to smother that little f*cker with love whether he likes it or not.

More tomorrow. Thank you for your continued, entirely undeserved support.

I'm done with that shit.

2009-09-01T16:19:00.000-07:00

No more complaining. Absolutely none. I'm just describing. Giving you a vision of my reality. It's what I do.

I am wearing a large Icy Hot patch around my neck in hopes that I will again, at some sweet spot in the future, be able to look to the right. I smell refreshingly decrepit. On my hobble to the CVS, I came across a very colorful person yelling "Max that shit out, Judas" to a doormat.

Today I asked a student named Anneke to tell me something interesting about herself. She told me her name was just like Hanukkah, but without the H, though she did concede that she had no idea how Hanukkah was spelled.

I learned in Diversity Training that being left handed in a right-handed world is really similar to struggling through generations of persecution and oppression. Neat-o.

I have made my peace with the Keurig. I am enamored of the german chocolate K-cups, one mini moo and no sugar.

Come late September, I will be spending three days away from n.o.c. and my pristine apartment, climbing ropes courses and participating in "bonding activities" with dear, sweetsome ninth graders.

See? Nary a complaint. Like a true Southern woman, I will suffer uncomplainingly. Then I will hack someone to pieces and fry them like chicken.

2009-08-27T18:29:00.000-07:00

UUUUUUUUnnnnnnnnnggggghhhh. (Fade to soft weeping sounds in background.)

Captivity Log: Day One

2009-08-26T15:24:00.001-07:00

I thought I might tell you about how I spent my first working hour of the year listening to drug-addled, lily pulitzer-clad crones demand that I wear a gold cardboard crown on the first day of school, but I decided that was just too pathetic. I considered whining about how I endured an hour-long presentation on Outlook calendars, but, really, who needs to relive that inanity? I almost wrote about how we were forced to make lists of words that described our motivations for teaching, but my chosen words - ignorance, privilege and revenge - don't really show me in my best light.

So, I'll just tell you this: vodka and pomegranate juice. It's all you really need to know.

Note: I have other things in the works, but I'm not yet blogging about them. Hubris will bite you in the ass. Every time.

The Last Ding-Dong of Doom

2009-08-25T05:53:00.000-07:00

One

I cannot sleep. Maybe I'll fall asleep at the beginning of the night, or maybe I'll fall asleep at its rosy-fingered end, but there will be vast stretches of wakefulness. I like to use these extra hours of consciousness to re-examine embarrassing things that I've done. I also like to think of all the ways that next year could potentially go to pot. Either way, it's time well spent.

Two

We just bought another car. This means that we are a two-car household. This shames me deeply. Although there is a tiny part of me that emits small squeals of delight, since I will now be able to leave work any old time I want. The car serves at the pleasure of the me.

Three

Work. Starts. Tomorrow. If I weren't so tired, I'd cry.

To blog

2009-08-21T07:54:00.000-07:00

I never kept a journal. Oh, I started many, but I always felt foolish after a page or so. I didn't know what to say or how to get things started, and I felt like I was ripping off Anne Frank, but, you know, without horrific life events to lend poignancy to my daily musings. I've come across a few of these abandoned logs, and I'm often nauseated by the overwhelming banality of my entries:

Dear Diary,

J is totally not into me; I think he likes C. God, I hate them. He probably doesn't like me because I'm fat. I need a pair of Gap jeans. I've gotta go, but more later, for sure.

LYLAS,

Me

Then I cringe over those entries where I tried to be all deep and shit.

Dear Diary,

Today I knew how the trees feel when they lose their leaves - suddenly naked, but unashamed.

Peace and Light,

Me

Fuuuuuuuck. Terrible shit, fo shizzle.

But after blogging a bit, I've realized the real reason I never succeeded in keeping a journal - you're just f*cking talking to yourself. No one's going to compliment you on being witty or funny. No one's going to tell you that they feel the same way. No one's going to yell at you to get the f*ck over yourself. I don't need to hear any more from me about me; I talk to myself all the f*cking time, and I clearly don't know shit from shine-ola. I need to hear from you, and I love hearing from you. And that, dear readers, is what keeps me coming back to I Have Happy. Thanks.

addendum to Singing Opera

2009-08-20T13:37:00.001-07:00

6) And sometimes I just enjoy a good fit of the sullens. Back the f*ck off.

Singing Opera *

2009-08-20T12:36:00.001-07:00

Sometimes life is staggeringly depressing. It seems so swift and pitiful, and I wonder whether the only things I'll remember at its end are those times when I was truly mean. I reflect on how I probably peaked at 25 and how pathetic it is that I'm relieved to see people older than I am doing impressive things - writing novels, finishing PhDs, publishing cookbooks - because then it seems like I'm still young enough to do something surprising, which, of course, most folks thought I'd do back when I was 25.

Thinking this way makes me a tool. Seriously, sometimes I'm so overcome by my own fruitlessness, I cry in the shower. What a loser. I'm blaming this particular bout of boring, self-indulgent, ridiculous ennui on a few things:

1) My second year of teaching. I generally stop doing dissatisfying things after one year. Something about motion feeling like progress.

2) n.o.c.'s heinous work life. When he's really exhausted and downtrodden, he starts thinking about could haves and should haves. This kind of talk generally makes me insane, but it is contagious.

3) Hormones. Bastards.

4) The end of the summer. This is somehow different from the beginning of the school year - it's melancholy and overextended and worn out by its own energy. I'm ready for a bit of crispness in the air, if you don't mind.

5) Various and sundry projects and aspirations that make me fear potential goods will be thwarted by lack of ambition. (See that? I'm even depressed by all the good things I have going on in my life! Could I be more pathetic?)

Anyway, I'm putting on my big girl panties and getting the f*ck on with it. Just wanted to hug it out, and I'm the only one here.

*When one participates in boring, self-indulgent, ridiculous ennui, The Rog says that they're "Singing Opera." You know, "Me, me, me, me, me!"

When you go to Georgia

2009-08-20T08:35:00.001-07:00

There are things you should do. First, start out with a beer at the airport. Prime the pump, if you will.

Then arrange to be greeted at the airport with a cooler-full of homemade buttermilk-and-tabasco fried chicken. I shit you not.

Since most things you consume while in Georgia tend toward the fatty, start your mornings with fresh figs - nothing gets you going better!

Sloth (it's a verb now) by the pool with your bellyfull of figs and drink gin and tonics. Instead of fretting about the inevitable ill effects of your sun exposure, end the day at the best seafood shack in Georgia - Jim Shaw's.

There are some dishes you must try:

Hushpuppies. This is a hushpuppie (Technically, I suppose it's about half a hushpuppie. Delayed gratification is not among my strong suits.):

These are what grits look like... Or is it, "This is what grits looks like"? I believe public opinion is divided. Nonetheless:

Fried pickles, odd but good:

Blackend oysters - soooo delicious:

Fried crab claws:

The next day, get yourself some peaches. Procure them here, since this, um, enthusiastic stand is conveniently adjacent to the gas station:

Eat peaches and drink gin and tonics. Inexplicably, your hunger will return. Eat ribs (cooked for 18 hours) and mac and cheese.

When you return home, step on the scale with trepidation. Be pleasantly surprised to discover that you gained nary a pound. Know that it's from all the limes in the gin and tonics - cuts the fat, you know.

I'm bringing the cuteness. Motherf*ckers.

2009-08-19T17:37:00.001-07:00

I'm back but not yet recovered. Many promises for an excellent(ish) post tomorrow. In the meantime, here's a little visit from Snorri the Badass Viking Maurader.

Don't let his mushmushpootukissnookums quality fool you. This cat can bring it.

Hey Y'all

2009-08-15T07:21:00.000-07:00

We're on a mini-break. We've eaten buttermilk-tabasco-soaked fried chicken, blackened oysters, stuffed crabclaws, and steak. Tonight, we'll have slow-cooked ribs and my mac and cheese. On a healthier note, the figs are sweet and heavy, so every morning I take a cup of coffee to the fig tree and pick my breakfast. The tomatoes are exquisite - ugly, fragrant and dripping with juice. I have not yet pickled myself, so things look good.

My little brother Keb'm arrives this evening, and high debauchery generally ensues. Since n.o.c. committed a slight breach of etiquette yesterday by requiring a nap after two stiffish gin and tonics, I feel certain that there will be a reckoning.

Vacationing can be demanding.

It'll get you.

2009-08-11T04:58:00.000-07:00

n.o.c. always makes the coffee. He readies the pot every evening, and the coffee is brewed and delicious by the time we straggle out of bed.

n.o.c. also makes the bed, folds the socks, and does any task that gives me the icks; I pack his lunch, buy the groceries, and keep track of our collective memory. We split the other boring f*cking minutia that becomes necessary when you're poor and anal retentive. This summer, however, the division of labor has been a little different, since n.o.c.'s been working a bizillion hours and I've been discovering the joys of internet television and growing my ass in preparation for the lean times ahead. (It's part of a plan, see?) Early on, I thought I might be able to say things like, "But it's my summer vacation! Why should I spend my time working?" Unfortunately, n.o.c. was busy losing fifteen pounds from stress and didn't have time to listen to my well-reasoned whines. So, I've been doing most of the house-holdy chores, and, though this may surprise you, I've done them with little complaint.

But because I am fundamentally a crotchety old bitch, I still expect n.o.c. to do his necessary. If he's dejectedly slumped in a corner typing away at a TPS report at 2am, then I might put down my most recent Dumas novel, haul my ass to the kitchen (thank goodness it still requires just one trip), and make the coffee, but generally he's still the brewmaster.

But last night, per my usual, I made the dinner, cleaned the kitchen, and crawled into bed to spend quality time with my kindle. n.o.c. made the coffee. This morning, per my usual, I somnambulated to the kitchen to have my cuppa and make n.o.c.'s lunch. Unfortunately, n.o.c. had forgotten to return the carafe to its proper place, so coffee and grounds had overflowed everyf*ckingwhere - in drawers, in cabinets, all over the floor, etc. I may have let loose an expletive or two. But then I cleaned up without complaint, because not only am I f*cking saint, but I am also someone who was gearing up for a day in which the most strenuous activity might be a gym visit, and I do have at least an ounce of perspective. n.o.c. felt pretty shitty about the whole thing, in fact, he mumbled something about feeling like a child who has messed his pants, but I still managed to send him off to earn that dollar in reasonably good spirits.

I tell you this rather mundane story becuase I think it has a moral: You can stick to your guns and require things of people who may be, for one reason or another, less able than you to perform them, but you must be prepared to accept imperfection. If we ever decide to breed, for example, I will have no compunction about little Pierce fixing mummy her martini, no matter how many glasses I might lose or how many times I'll have to remind him to simply wave the vermouth in my general direction. I will stick to my guns because I'm magnanimous, and I enjoy helping people feel needed. I'm also lazy, and at the end of the day, a bad martini is better than one you had to make for yourself.

Goodish Stuff

2009-08-06T06:13:00.000-07:00

1. My "notes" from the stink tank:

I am a deeply dedicated professional, clearly.

2. Last Saturday, we drove to Philly to pick up a friend at the airport and have an authentic cheese steak experience. After careful research, we chose our purveyor:

We'd been told that locals order their cheese steaks by saying "whiz wit," but we weren't entirely sure what that meant and suspected it may be a ploy to mark us as non-natives, the same way a northerner is immediately identified at any southern gathering by a loud and unmistakable, "Hello, YA-ALL!" I ordered mine with mushrooms and onions; n.o.c.'s was more elaborate, and, I believe, laden with pepperoni. I didn't know such a thing existed. The Cosmi's guy then sent us to Grumpy's, a bar down the street, where we purchased two-dollar beers, listened to fantastic accents, and marveled as people smoked - inside!

Here's mine:

Here's n.o.c's (note the No Smoking sign) :

3. We have one and a half bathrooms. It's been years since we've had more than one commode, and, since I am simple, I am endlessly delighted by the half-bath. Technically, we had two bathrooms when we lived in Las Vegas, one blue and one pink, but our roommate Porno Pete used the pink one, and, since a major reason that I enjoy my bathrooms is that they're nearly sterile, my trips to the pink bath were rare. Incidentally, there was also a small velvet painting in the pink bathroom that depicted Satan dealing with a mad bout of hemorrhoids.

Nothing much in particular

2009-08-05T07:58:00.000-07:00

One of My Favorite Baltimorians finally returned from his absurdly lengthy colloquium, so we spent yesterday doing what we do best - mixing beverages unwisely and getting on our high horses about the ways the world pisses us off. It's great fun.

One of our more extensive rants involved Eat, Pray, Love, which he spotted on one of my bookshelves. My mother gave me the book ages ago, and since my mother and everyone else and their mothers recommended it, I finally read it last month. And you know what I think? It's bullshit.

If you're unfamiliar with this condescending turd of a memoir, I'll give you a quick recap. A rich white lady leaves her husband, has a passionate affair, then takes a year to traipse across Italy, India, and Indonesia. By eating mounds of pasta, praying in an isolated ashram, and f*cking a hot Brazilian, the rich white lady achieves greater insight into the loving workings of the universe.

While I don't begrudge anyone the opportunity to spend a worry-free year indulging in all sorts of fabulousness, I do take umbrage at the suggestion that such rarefied experience has shit to do with anything. Hell, the most crotchety among us could probably muster a beatific smile after a year of not worrying about others, money, or work. Seriously, don't piss on my shoes and tell me it's raining.

Rants aside, we got the first fresh beans at the farmers' market last week, so I made spicy black beans and cornbread for dinner. I didn't have any milk or buttermilk for the bread, so I used two cups of half and half and a squeeze of lemon instead. Heart healthy and derlicious. Rumor has it that the first crop of butter beans should be in by next week. Times is good.

A whiz in the kitchen

2009-08-03T06:52:00.000-07:00

Remember the beginning of the summer? Back when I swore I'd do things like reupholster chairs and bake the day away? Well, unfortunately, my lazy-piece-of-shititude has prevented many of the more high-impact activities like upholstery. I have, however, done a bit of baking - summer veggie galettes, whole-wheat pizza crusts, the occasional cookie or crumble (and two bricks of wheat bread that I think we should all forget about). I fancy myself a decent cook - I'm not afraid of the kitchen and I enjoy the time I spend there.

But I am a kitchen neophyte and a domestic sloth compared to someone like Ashley. She cans things. With her own little hands. She keeps chickens. And bees. I'm wigged over the prospect of one little kitty. I know my limits.

If you go visit Ashley's blog, Small Measure, you can actually win some of her delicious canned goods - this week it's a jar of Cherry, Lemon & Lemon Thyme Marmalade. And if you win, I'll even send you a frozen six-pound loaf of wheat bread for the spreading. Though, really, her marmalade deserves much better.

A sniglet for your morning

2009-08-01T06:14:00.000-07:00

Fartle - v. t. 1 To give someone a start by passing gas loudly and without warning. Particularly appropriate for occasions when flatulence is inappropriate and unwonted - while snoozing during the very restful time just after sunrise on a lazy Saturday morning, perhaps.

As in, "This morning, n.o.c. fartled me."

Update

2009-07-31T06:33:00.001-07:00

Our friend Rick is no longer homeless. He slept indoors last night, under his very own roof and on his very own carpet.

suckulents

2009-07-31T05:43:00.000-07:00

I've never had a very green thumb (it's a brackish color at best), so if a plant wants to survive in my house, then the force must be strong with it. Recently, though, I've had a surprising bit of success with two Christmas cacti, one of which bloomed enthusiastically for six months. I also have a jade plant that has grown to fairly impressive proportions, particularly when you consider that it was just a leaf with some roots when I got it. (Note: some would insist that I'm supposed to "shape" the jade, weighting the branches with stones and the like, but I'm just not sure that I can impose my will on it more than I already have.)

Anyhoo, those triumphs under my belt, I decided that it was time to enter the world of slightly flossier succulents. So we bought this:

Lovely, no? But then it started this shit:

What the f*ck? I don't overwater. I keep it in the kitchen, mostly, but I move it to the bar on sunny days, because I figure it might like to catch some rays and have a cocktail. But does it appreciate my care and thoughtfulness? No. It decides to make cactus raisins, which, as far as I can tell, ain't good for sh*t. Look at all the denuded spots:

It's shameful. The others seem to be doing well, which makes me wonder if the snoots at the plant shop did me less than a solid:

So, I'm at a loss. Any suggestions? Bottom line: I don't truck with pansy-ass plants, so if it wants to stick around it best buck up.

In other news, it is finished:
Now I'm off to start on the cantaloupe and peaches, and if you've read The Grapes of Wrath, you know where that will lead. But what the hell - fall comes too soon, so you've got to get your local fruity kicks while the getting is good.

overheard at the library

2009-07-30T09:20:00.000-07:00

"So I have that Comcast in my bedroom, and I like to listen to the music channel, you know, and sometimes I get into it. I mean, I'm groovin', right? Then I hear her banging on my wall, yelling that she doesn't like my music. And I'm just groovin', you know? I don't like what she listens to, but I don't start banging on her wall. But I have to tell myself that she's twenty-six, and I remember how I was at her age, going around corners when my parents told me not to, rebelling and shit. But sometimes I just get into it, and I have to tell her that."

---- A middle aged woman, relating her evening ritual to a man of similar age

First of all, I love hearing about how people enjoy themselves when nobody's around. I imagined this woman singing along and dancing in her bedroom, though n.o.c. was convinced that she was engaged in bawdier activities. But twenty-six? Really?

Aio, quantitas magna frumentorum est

2009-07-29T08:52:00.000-07:00

Judging from these shots, I'd say that li'l Snorri doesn't like to be in front of the camera. And who can blame him? He's very busy learning Latin and redesigning public spaces for maximum energy efficiency. This cat ain't got time for gauche tomfoolery.

Too High on the Hog

2009-07-29T04:56:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I just can't stop myself - shoe sales, awful sci-fi trilogies, cocktails, good pad thai, whatever. I generally consider my overindulgence a charming peccadillo, indicative of nothing more than healthy exuberance. Occasionally, though, there are consequences, particularly when the object of my excessive zest is summer produce.

I mentioned my affection for tomatoes. I also mentioned that I planned to make corn again (I did, and it is damn fine). I did not, however, mention the ten-pound watermelon we bought at Sunday's market. I love watermelon. In my book, a perfect watermelon - crisp, dense, sweet and juicy - runs a close second to a perfect fig in the hierarchy of foods that I could happily eat for every meal. So I was brimming with anticipation when I cut into our melon yesterday morning, because, while a great watermelon is a splendid thing, a bad one - mealy, bland, dry - is just trash, and I was thrilled to discover that this watermelon was nigh on perfect. Seriously, among the top fifteen watermelons I've ever eaten. To make it even better, the enormous fellow who sold us the melon sounded like a muppet on steroids. I heard him from across the market and knew immediately that I must buy whatever he was selling. When we asked him if the melon we picked would be a good one, he said, "Should be. Sugar baby." I was pleased by his brief speech not only because it sounded like it had been squeezed through some heretofore unknown orifice, like a snurzleplotz perhaps, but also because I thought he was paying me a compliment. Later I realized that "sugar baby" was the variety of melon. Still.

So, for the last two days, I've feasted on corn, tomatoes, and watermelon almost exclusively. There was one fillet of pan-fried catfish and two pieces of pizza (I made the pesto and the whole wheat dough with my own little hands), but otherwise I've remained ardently faithful to the holy trinity of summer produce. Hence the consequences. Let's just say that I won't be straying far from the apartment today. And while I'm sure that I'll go right on enjoying summer's bounty, I think I'll also try to incorporate a bit more variety. Cheese, anyone?

Well, hello there.

2009-07-28T05:24:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, while I was perusing the CVS facewash selection, a woman grabbed my ass and started yammering away in Polish. She'd mistaken me for her friend, who was farther down the isle, and after a moment of confusion we all had a good laugh.

But here's the odd part: Since she didn't immediately notice her mistake, I assumed that she must someone I knew but could not place, and since I couldn't understand her, I decided that I must be having a neurological episode. I don't think that's a normal reaction.

I'm supposed to be typing stink tank minutes

2009-07-27T05:00:00.000-07:00

But because I'm feeling miffed that I only have four weeks and one day left of my summer, I will instead answer some survey questions that the very lovely Megan tagged me for ages ago.

What is your current obsession?

Tomatoes. Last week I spent $25 on tomatoes.

What is your weirdest obsession?

Avoiding bathtubs. The very idea of sitting in a tub gives me the willies.

What do you see outside your window?

What is your favorite color?

Last weekend we played bocce in the park. I yelled at n.o.c. to pick up my ball, and he just stood there staring at it, insisting that he couldn't find it. I was frustrated until I remembered that he is colorblind.

What is your weakness?

Fool, I ain't got no weakness.

Rereading mindless books in an escapist manner. I could spend years reading about imagined lives. Have, probably.

What animal would you be?

Snorri! Obviously! Who wouldn't want to be the cutest cat in the world with the bestest, happiest life ever! (Sorry. I'm stopping, I'm stopping.)

What do you want never to happen in life?

For bathing in bathtubs to become mandatory.

What is on your bedside table?

A lamp. A box of kleenex. Eight books and a Kindle.

What's the last thing you bought?

A dozen ears of corn from the farmer's market. Corn spiders be damned!

What do you think about the person who tagged you?

I think she should seriously consider relocating to Baltimore. I could use a friend and a florist, and the mean streets of California are far too dangerous.

What was your favorite children's book?

I was the second grader sobbing in the back of the classroom because I'd just finished Where the Red Fern Grows instead of my math assignment... When I was very young, like three or four, my favorite was Miss Twiggley's Tree - I can still recite most of it. "Old Miss Twiggley lived in a tree with a dog named Puss and a color TV. She did what she liked, and she liked what she did, but when company came - Miss Twiggley hid." Telling, I think.

Who do you want to meet in person?

Dolly Parton.

What did you want to be as a child?

Dolly Parton.

What did you dream about last night?

That I had two martinis and then made the coffee backwards and with butter. Also, there was a fat kid from my high school riding a beached whale.

Which do you prefer, day or night?

Breakfast and dinner.

What's your favorite piece of clothing in your closet?

Shoooes.

What would you like to get your hands on right now?

A compact sofa bed that is comfortable and does not a) make me gag b) make me feel like a college junior or c) cost a grand.

What's your favorite tea flavor?

Iced.

If you could go anywhere in the world right now, where would you go?

Anywhere, as long as n.o.c. could go too. Before you barf, know that my reasons are entirely selfish. If he could accompany me, then I could feel completely and totally on vacation, instead of just persistently and annoyingly guilty for not working.

Show me something AWESOME!

Three sights within a block of my apartment:

Now I'm to delete one question and add one of my own:

College- or wide-ruled paper?

College! College! The narrower, the better!

So, I'm supposed to tag eight folks, but it is not yet time for me to hand out assignments - I have a month and a motherf*ckin' day left, dammit.

Yammering Away

2009-07-24T05:14:00.001-07:00

Thanks, all, for li'l Snorri's warm reception. He won't actually be with us until late September, but when he does come he'll be as polite a kitty as ever was seen. And a badass. And a math wizard. And an author. And waaay more advanced than most other kitties his age. I would be an insufferable parent.

Norwegian Forest Cats are climbers, so we're going to have to get a cat tree. I refuse to have one of those hideous carpeted monstrosities in the apartment, so we're looking for something a bit less aesthetically nauseating. I will also be carting him all over the place in a baby bjorn, just see if I don't. Enhabiten, my fingers are crossed that you'll find your kitty soon.

Not much going on in these parts. Our visitor left. I participated in a day of Think Tank activities (which, by the by, I've cleverly dubbed the "Stink Tank." I'm just so creative.) Poor n.o.c. is working about a million hours a week. I feel very sorry for him as I click my way through yet another novel, but I don't let sympathy interfere with my scrabble playing. How's he gonna be tough if no one beats him when he's down?

Rick, our homeless friend, has gone through a bit of an unfortunate/fortunate period. Unfortunately, he got the shit kicked out of him on Saturday night, and now has four staples in his head. Fortunately, he signed the lease on a Section 8 apartment, so he'll be off the street by next week. Yay for Rick! Though, as he told us yesterday, he won't have a job or receive a disability check for a while, so he'll still be "working" in our neck of the woods. In truth, I'm glad that I'll still get to see him.

Incidentally, I've decided that the next time I have a summer off, I'd like to have an abundance of friends and money. My favorite Baltimorians have been off jaunting around Italy - one of them for the entire month of July, which is incredibly rude, since he has the summer off too and was supposed to spend his time entertaining me. It's bullshit, really. My favorite New Englanders have been marinating in stinky old Europe. n.o.c. is out the door by 7am and seldom comes home before 7:30pm, and he works a good bit when he is home, so he's not really in an ebullient I-don't-have-to-work-let's-play-all-the-time sort of mood . AND we're trying not to spend any money, which, let me tell you, limits your damn options something serious. I'm not complaining - I mean, I'd much rather sit on my couch or wander aimlessly around the harbor than try to teach seventeen-year-olds how to think rationally - but I just think I'll do this differently next year.

And on that oh-so-insightful note, I'll leave you until I have something more interesting to say. Happy Friday.

And I'll love him, all the same.

2009-07-22T12:39:00.000-07:00

Snorri may not be photogenic. He may not even be cute. But he's mine, and I'm going to have to kick your ass if you talk shit on my cat. That's just how I roll.

Tender is the morning

2009-07-21T04:30:00.000-07:00

A dear friend is visiting.

We made an amazing dinner last night - tender, spicy brisket; fried, stuffed squash blossoms; mustard greens; heirloom tomatoes.

I drank a vast quantity of wine.

I can feel my pulse in my eyes.

These are my people

2009-07-17T06:08:00.001-07:00

We've got a pretty predictable cast of characters in our neighborhood. There's always gentle, homeless Rick, whose sclera is the color of a bruised banana and who spends a lot of time reminiscing about his salad days as a dealer in Virginia. During the weekdays, we've got herds of state employees and investment bankers, all stampeding the hot dog truck around lunch time and giving their extras to Rick. Friday and Saturday evenings, the kids are out at the clubs across the street - some at Club X for hip-hop, some at Club Y for table service, some at Club Z for house. On Sundays, the yuppies come in from the 'burbs, braving the mean streets with their double-wide Bugaboos to score some fresh local produce and a curry pocket from the farmer's market.

But on some days, a distinctly different crowd creeps toward my little block - they are the children of darkness, and they have come to see the death metal shows at Club Z. I told you about Death Fest 2009 back when I thought that sort of thing was merely an annual occurrence, but it turns out that minions of Satan are pretty much regulars in these parts.

As I was on my way to the gym yesterday, I passed young lady with a complexion like white out. She wore an ill-fitting black satin dress that looked hot-as-balls, crusty blood-colored lipstick, and cat ears. It was, like, noon. Then I noticed all the Painfully Pale Princes of Pain streaming toward the club and I began to wonder. Why? Didn't death metal cease to be transgressive or shocking or subversive a decade ago? I remember being afraid of Marilyn Manson when I was in middle school, but now if I saw him walking down the street I might suggest that he take some supplements. "Whoa, gramps! If you want to cut your chest with that broken bottle, I'm going to insist that you take some iron first."

So if you're not listening to death metal to make a statement - which, I don't think that it does anymore - are you listening to it for the.... um... musicality? I mean, otherwise, you're just an angsty kid from the suburbs wandering around in half a halloween costume for no real reason. Am I right? Or am I an old fart? Either way, we're happy to have the Mephistophelian masses - they're unfailingly polite and they always give Rick a few of the cigarettes they used their fakes to buy.

Fickle

2009-07-16T05:04:00.000-07:00

I am not a very constant person. Mondays I'm hard-done-by and surly. Tuesdays I'm magnanimous - pinching adversity's cute little cheekums and indulging the foibles of others. Wednesdays I'm eating local and vegan. Thursdays I have veal and foie gras. Fridays are up for grabs; Saturdays I drink excessively; Sundays I do yoga. Point being - if you don't like what I'm doing or saying, then wait five minutes, and I'm sure something you prefer will come along.

Perhaps I seem more staid from an objective point of view. Sure, there are things about me that you can depend on - I'm a loyal friend and a good cook, I enjoy fine cheeses, I have terrible feet - but if you're looking for someone with a clear-eyed, steady vision of, well, anything, then perhaps you'd best keep clicking. I admire folks who have a vast array of firm opinions - I hate onions, John Cheever was a drunk idiot, I only wear thin socks, my favorite book is Little Women, I approach life with an enduring sense of wonder, I look best in orange, eight is my lucky number, socialism is the work of the devil, whatever. Other than my general beliefs about kindness, the environment, and marriage equality, I don't have many convictions. Now, I will make one up should the need arise, but I'm generally just being quick witted, and I'm always thrown off when someone takes me seriously or refers to my position in later conversation. "No, no, no," I want to tell them. "I was just, you know, saying something, avoiding awkward silence. I didn't really mean it."

It's not that I don't have strong likes or dislikes - it's just that I can imagine situations in which I might feel (or have felt) otherwise. Like, say, last Thursday or next Monday. I don't have favorite books or movies. There isn't one food I most love (or hate). I don't think one attitude or political platform always works (though, surely, there are some that very rarely do). Maybe I'm just too lazy - maintaining lists of things I always do or like or believe seems terribly time consuming.

I was thinking about this last night as I was lying awake; n.o.c. was blissfully sleeping. And snoring. What a turd. Anyhoo, I've been busy preparing for grad school apps in the fall (favorite book so far: Good Wives, Nasty Wenches, & Anxious Patriarchs), and it struck me just how foreign my life now would seem to the me of five years ago. I mean, that me had barreled through undergrad, a masters, and straight into a PhD, with no intention of stopping or slowing for anything or anybody. Then - WHAM! - I was suddenly a hostess at a Hawaiian restaurant in Las Vegas and thinking about getting married. Aloha! Welcome to Roy's! Then after spending years trying to learn Sanskrit - POW! - here I am in Baltimore (what?!), getting powerfully excited about studying women, religion and science in the South. Who'd a thunk? (Please, please, please don't state the obvious. I'm not ready.)

All this to say - I think I am finally square with something that I can always believe: I am not really steering this ship. Oh, I can do my best to learn the maps, chart the currents and master the finer points of ship steering, but if I head for Goa, I shouldn't be so surprised if I end up in Panama City. And who knows? I'll probably discover that I'm wildly fascinated by the cruising patterns of rednecks and their dance club mating rituals.

I've watched several friends come to similar conclusions of late, and while it's disconcerting to hunker down with the bald and scabby truth of your limited control, it's also kind of nice. In fact, I'm going to incorporate my new-found belief in all aspects of my life. At work, for example, I may start saying things like, "Yeah, I think I should be able to meet you next Thursday. You know, Lord willing and the creek don't rise." And then I'll immediately start looking for ways to make the creek rise.

Give me your ears.

2009-07-14T07:16:00.000-07:00

When I was a young thang, my granny would shuck corn and let me race the corn worms around the dining room table, which is remarkable, since the idea of touching larvae now makes me a little sweaty with discomfort. She would also peel me huge bowls of fat, sweet figs, and I have been hopelessly spoiled ever since. Anyway, in a nod to my granny and summer suppers everywhere, we bought a dozen ears of sweet, Maryland corn from Sunday's Farmers Market.

Because I believe that I am a fearless badass, despite all contrary evidence, I decided to shuck 'em myself and make creamed corn. (Note: There is a contractual clause in my relationship agreement with n.o.c. stating that he handles all things tall, dirty, or potentially disgusting. While corn shucking may not be an explicitly tall, dirty, or potentially disgusting activity, n.o.c.'s from Iowa, so it has always fallen within his perview.) Things went fairly well until I came across a corn spider. I was prepared for worms. I was prepared for huitlacoche (I know it's delicious, but I can't. I just can't.). I was even prepared for worms in huitlacoche, though the thought of that makes me nauseated. I was not prepared for a corn spider. Hate spiders. Loathe them. Tooooo many legs. F*ck, f*ck, f*ck. So, despite a brief bout with a full-bodied case of the willies, I shucked all the corn, since it turns out that I am, actually, a badass.

And then I cut off the kernels and scraped out the juice.

Then I did what any normal human would do - I browned half a stick of butter, threw in a few shallots, added the corn and finished the whole shebang with the merest drizzle of heavy cream.
Can I get an amen from the amen corner!?! This shit is worth a corn spider encounter. Derlicious.

An oddlot - things that give happy

2009-07-10T08:50:00.001-07:00

Patterson Park, complete with a Victorian-era pagoda from back when Baltimore was a bit more grand. We didn't step on a single used hypodermic, so I call the day a success.

I don't believe I've introduced you to this Edgecomb beauty:

It's an orchid vase from Dawn Susan and The Rog. Kicks ass.

Sushi in Annapolis with n.o.c. - beautiful evening, and easily the best sushi we've had on the east coast. Kind of like being the best hockey player in Guatemala, but still...

Can you see the jeans? Tell me you can see the jeans! Oh, how I wish I hadn't been driving by myself.

"New" dining chairs! Six for $100! Though I'm sad to say that many naugas gave their lives for these chairs, I'm thrilled to report that you may now sit at our dining table without fear of plummeting to the earth. These sons of guns are sturdy.

Throwing out the rest of the crumble once I noticed vast mountain ranges of solidified fat. Tasty, but my blood cells like a little elbow room.

A full wine fridge. Wine has a protective cardiovascular effect, which I clearly need. Hush up with you and your increased cancer risks. You're ruining it for everybody.

Wise Words

2009-07-09T13:04:00.000-07:00

"Plaque is like pudding. No need to scrub so hard."

---- My Dentist

You get a day. At least.

2009-07-08T10:54:00.001-07:00

I always try to eavesdrop on interesting conversations, mostly because I'm unimaginative and hoping to hear something that I can steal. Two exchanges I overheard recently have stuck in my mind - not because they were particularly clever or funny, but because they were so similar.

The first, I overheard while perusing the shops in Hampden, a little neighborhood where blue-collar locals mix uneasily with their new artsy hipster neighbors. I was walking past a townie bar, the kind that appears to be open and in full-swing by 10am, wondering if I would get the shit beat out of me if I went in and ordered a Hendrick's martini, when a very thin, very pregnant woman stormed out of the bar, dragging a toddler. She was wearing tight jeans, a white tank top, and a little plastic crown with a veil attached. Her friend, let's call her Tammie, was close on her heels. While our bride, whose name really was Kim, smoked a cigarette, Tammie shouted at a man who refused to exit the dim safety of the bar.

"It's not Randy's day! It is not motherf*ckin' Randy's day! It's Kim's day. It is motherf*ckin' Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiuuuuum's day!"

The second, I overheard while double parked outside the library, waiting for n.o.c. to return our towering stack of Great Courses CDs. (Note: It is perfectly permissible to double park in Baltimore. You may also park in the right lane at will, and you may run red lights for up to five seconds after they have turned red. Just know that everyone else is at similar liberty and plan accordingly.) I noticed a gorgeous woman who looked just like Lisa Bonet walking toward the library, two small children in tow. She was having a very intense cellphone conversation with someone, we'll call him Tim.

"It was my motherf*ckin' birthday. MY. BIRTH. DAY. That shit hurts. It was my motherf*ckin' birthday, you know?"

She paced back and forth, enumerating the ways in which Tim was an irresponsible asshole and a poor steward of her feelings, but she always came back to her main point - it had been her motherf*ckin' birthday, and he had shit all over it. Meanwhile, her children, gripping supersized dunkin' donuts iced coffees in their chubby little hands, followed her back and forth like magnets, staring down at their football-sized beverages while their beautiful mother eviscerated some douchebag named Tim. Eventually she snapped her phone shut (oh, for the days of big, heavy phones that you could really slam down!), and shepherded her children into the library.

Now, I am not one to give relationship advice - seriously, before n.o.c., all of my relationships were the pits. But I do know this - if he/she/it is not willing to give you one motherf*ckin' day, then you should probably move on. Just saying.

Addendum

2009-07-07T17:55:00.000-07:00

n.o.c. just read the previous post (after working a twelve-hour day, mind you) and said, "Yeah, it's great, in a self-indulgent, I-just-sat-on-the-couch-all-day sort of way. I mean, it takes sand to make a pearl, and it just sounds like you don't have any sand." This was after I cooked him fried catfish and brought him two cocktails, mind you.

F*cktard, you're lucky I love you.

The Good Life

2009-07-07T12:55:00.001-07:00

I spend a shitload of time pondering the sorts of things that make a life good. Like, does a life have to be big and impressive in order to be good? Obviously, the answer to that is NO. Do you have to have a PhD in order to have a great life? No, but I'd like one. Are moderation, vegetarianism, and yoga necessary components of happiness? No, maybe, and I have studied too much Sanskrit to talk about Americans and yoga. Do you need love? Probably. Friends? Definitely. n.o.c.? Absolutely.

After much discussion - with myself, with others, with a bottle of rye - I've come to the conclusion that many kinds of lives can be good ones. Obviously, a good life is nearly impossible to craft if one is plagued by hunger or poverty or bombs or dysentery, but let's lay those circumstances aside because, at the moment, there's not much that I can do about them other than feel vaguely and persistently indignant - something must be done! - and give homeless Rick another granola bar (I try not to give Rick money, because Rick likes to smoke crack). Anyway.

I bring this knobby topic to the fore because I've been working to organize myself - my life - in the absence of official expectation. All of my bills are on autopay, my checks are directly deposited, and n.o.c. can feed himself. Other than a three-day think tank (groan), there is not a damn thing that I have to do. So, I get to do what I want to do. All day. Now wait - wait! Think about this for a minute - how do you live your life when there is nothing that you must do? I'm not talking about how you spend your time on a lazy Sunday or about how you drink gallons of banana monkeys and you cook yourself to a crisp while vacationing in Majorca. I'm also not talking about what you do when you're spending months in an ashram or backpacking across Europe. I'm talking about how you would live months of obligation-free life right where you are. In that chair. In front of that computer. Oh, and you can't spend any money. Important point.

I come from a long line of Southern Protestants, which, in case you're unaware, means that I'm often riddled with guilt about everything. I hide it well, but I'm generally perseverating about people I haven't called, thank you notes I haven't written, floors I haven't scrubbed, chairs I haven't reupholstered, physicals I haven't scheduled, applications I haven't finished. I've also spent a goodly amount of time in New England, so I'm basically f*cked. Doing what I want to do makes me feel devious and afraid that I'll be discovered and punished. For example, whenever I reread an entertaining book for pleasure, I feel compelled to hide it before anyone sees. Naps seem lazy and self-indulgent, so I have to fall asleep "accidentally" while doing something else. Buying food for myself while traveling alone seems wasteful, so I sit and watch others eat while I patiently wait for fifteen tasteless pretzels and a shot glass of water. All of this reading and writing and pajama wearing and cobbler eating that I've been doing? I feel as though I need to fast and self-flagellate.

Guilt be damned, this morning I sat on the couch for three hours and thought. Just thought - nothing measurably productive about it. That's what I wanted to do. And while I did it, I realized that having the time and space to really give things a solid f*cking think is a big chunk of what you need to live a good life. I know that Socrates beat me to this punch thousands of years ago, but sometimes a reminder is in order.

What else did I want to do today? I wanted to see n.o.c. off to work and pack his lunch. I wanted to write, I wanted to research and I wanted to do it all in my motherf*cking nightgown. So I did it. And then I wanted to take a nap, because being a self-fulfilled, good-life-living person is tiring shit, so I sat down with a book that I'd read before and pretended to read until I fell asleep. And then I slept through my guilt.

Quality - highly preferable to quantity.

2009-07-06T11:37:00.000-07:00

While the hoards may not be stampeding to my blog, the visitors I do get are the absolute best. Thank you. Anyway, the unwashed masses make me nervous, so this arrangement suits me just fine.

Since Thursday, which will henceforth be known as The Meltdown of a Navel Gazer (funny Times piece about that), many good things have happened:

1) You all made me feel better, even though I'm a lazy sh*t and don't really deserve your scary German encouragement or your kind words.

2) I played bocce ball in a park while eating fried chicken and drinking excellent sangria. Made the ball a bit difficult to grip, but I persevered.

3) Snorri was born. This cat will be the sh*t. Just you wait.

4) I spent three whole days in the company of my Number One Cookie, who is a badass main squeeze, despite (or perhaps because of) his inferior scrabble abilities.

5) I made a blueberry-lemon-ginger crumble with a doubled (!) crust(!). I have eaten it (by itself! just the crumble! 'tis but a pittance!) for breakfast and lunch. I feel f*cking fabulous, thank you for asking, and I am on my way to the gym shortly.

6) I am getting sh*t done. Today, for instance, I activated my key fob, canceled my verizon DSL (which, by the by, you basically have to break someone's legs to do), scheduled dental appointments for me and n.o.c., arranged my f*cking summer work schedule, and ordered a new filter for the refrigerator. Daaaaamn. And that's in addition to finishing a book, napping, eating crumble and drinking an entire pitcher of green tea! AND I flossed!

So, things are looking up. I am now off to give some crumble to our homeless doorman, Rick, and waddle to the gym.

Hmfft.

2009-07-02T06:12:00.001-07:00

So, I need to apologize for the quality of the posts lately - they've been dull, unfunny and infrequent. Thank you all (Megan) for sticking it out. It's just that I'm not feeling terribly witty; in fact, I'm feeling a little lost. Here's the skinny, as I see it.

I cannot get my gears going at once. When I was the shit professionally, I was a wreck personally. Now that I'm as happy as I can imagine being personally, my professional life is in the shits. What the f*ck? I'm trying to work it all out, but to be honest, it's a huge pain in my ass. Do I finish my PhD, when I'm not sure that I believe in the stability or utility or import of academia? (Sorry D and A.) Do I dive into my unexceptional writing, when every self-indulgent loser (self included) is working on some piece of shit novel and the probable best case scenario is that I'll just end up editing copy on cereal boxes?

Maybe I should just put on my big girl panties, suck it the f*ck up, and be satisfied with my lot in life, because that's what people do and have done and will continue to do, and most folks don't have the leisure to sit on their asses bemoaning their fates whilst enjoying a work-free summer, dashing off to europe and drinking cocktails. But I can't. And I won't. And I will f*cking whine like a b*tch until I figure this sh*t out. Because I will have happy. Oh, yes. It will be mine.

And I'm Back.

2009-07-01T06:38:00.000-07:00

Berlin was fantastic. Lovely people, museums, archives, operas, schnitzels, beers... Since you've all seen pictures of the Brandenburg Gate, Checkpoint Charlie and the hotel from which the late, great MJ dangled his baby, I thought I'd focus on the aspects of my trip that most guidebooks don't mention.

1) German toilet paper. I strongly believe it's some sort of government plot to keep the population slightly downtrodden. I mean, how happy can you be if every indulgence leads to a hurtful encounter with splinter-filled sandpaper? OR, perhaps the German fascination with digestion (seriously, every product claims to be poop-inducing, and toilets have a little shelf that catches the poo so you can inspect it before flushing) is a subversive tactic, and the people are using the tools of the oppressor as a means to better colonic health! Are you with me?!

2) German fashion. In addition to numerous mullet sightings, I also saw a woman wearing shoes that were an adidas sneaker-cowboy boot hybrid. Perfect for those occasions when you need to dash off the soccer field and onto your waiting steed.

3) Meissen Porcelain - the only thing I purchased. (OK, so Meissen is in the guidebook. I just wanted to show off my new dish.)

4) German sodas:
(Can you see that? Beer + Cola + X! I can only imagine that X = fun!)

5) The baby birds on my friend's great aunt's back patio:

6) A beautiful cemetery in a small German town - complete with a coin-operated watering can thingy:
7) The flowers I got for coming home.

Ich bin ein Berliner. For a week, anyway.

2009-06-22T05:01:00.000-07:00

WARNING: Incredibly schmoopy post ahead.

Well, m'dears, I'm off to Berlin for a week of archive-exploring, museum-visiting, cafe-sitting, schnitzel-eating fun. Of course, if you were to guess what I was about to do based on the tearful, slightly hysterical parting that n.o.c. and I just had, you'd probably think that I was off to Iran for an experimental, highly toxic cancer treatment. Seriously, tears are running down my chest and my lower lip is having quivering spasms - we've never been apart for longer than five days. It's just silly; I mean, I'll be back in one week, and yet I'm still crying so profusely that I can barely see my screen. I do hope n.o.c. is having better luck behind the wheel, because if I'm reduced to a puddle by the prospect of an n.o.c.-free week, I'd be utterly ruined by an n.o.c.-free life.

Truffles, etc.

2009-06-18T04:39:00.000-07:00

When I was very small, I had a book that followed a boy (let's call him Fabian) through a truly terrible day and chronicled his adventures using the following model: Unfortunately, Fabian fell into a well filled with man-eating sharks. Fortunately, Fabian had an underwater machine gun. Unfortunately, the gun was out of bullets. Fortunately, Fabian was a hoss and beat the sh*t out of the pansyass sharks.

Kind of fun, no?

Anyway, I'm feeling kind of wishy-washy and not very creative, so I thought I'd give this model a try. Here goes.

Unfortunately, it's raining balls outside, and I need to take the train to DC.
Fortunately, I no longer have any actual obligations, so I can go whenever the f*ck I feel like it.

Unfortunately, our Lindt supply was severely depleted after a visit from Our Favorite New Englanders.
Fortunately, there is a Lindt store nearby.
Unfortunately, that Lindt store is closing, which is an inconvenience and an ominous economic sign, since people are supposed to be spending money on small luxuries like chocolate truffles instead of on big ones like houses.
Fortunately, I took full advantage of Lindt's hard times. We are ready for another visit.

Unfortunately, I baked two loaves of honey-wheat sandwich bread yesterday that just laid in their pans like flaccid, wheaty slugs and did not rise one bit.
Fortunately, though they have the heft of bricks, the loaves are still pretty tasty.

Unfortunately, I've become a lazy sh*t.
Fortunately, I went to a spinning class yesterday.
Unfortunately, I thought I was going to have a heart attack.
Fortunately, I didn't.

Unfortunately, this blog entry kind of sucks.
Fortunately, I'm done.

Technical Difficulties and Ballparks

2009-06-16T05:56:00.000-07:00

There are many things I like about our occasional internet-free periods. I read more. I resist the siren songs of online shopping and celebrity gossip. I say things like, "I didn't see your email/comment/status update!" or, "I wasn't able to contact Verizon!" with honesty.

But there are things I do not like. Such as composing lengthy, undoubtedly brilliant blog posts and then losing them because our pirated internet from the hospital down the street has farted out again. I know, I know, this is something I should take care of, but I can't get in touch with Verizon, because all of our information is online, and we don't have internet. So there.

Last Friday, we went to a baseball game. We can actually walk to the park from our apartment, which is fab.

My favorite parts of the evening included the excellent weather:
This gentleman, who knew everything about the history of the team:

(He told us that the O's used to be the "hottest ticket in town." As indicated by the large number of empty seats, this is no longer the case, which is unfortunate. It really is a great way to spend an evening.)

This youth's dangerous struggle with nausea:

Our lofty view:

And this woman's unflagging enthusiasm:

Less enjoyable was the mold on the ketchup dispenser:

I would like to tell you that I did not use this dispenser to procure ketchup for our dessicated hotdogs, but I try not to lie to you. Hey, some molds are beneficial.

Day One

2009-06-11T14:08:00.000-07:00

Since I've been crazed for the last month, I decided to spend my first obligation-free day in any old lazy way I pleased. Let's see how I did:

6am: Make breakfast and pack a lunch for n.o.c. Linger over two cups of coffee and read the entire Times and all blog subscriptions. In my bathrobe. While others travel to places of employ. Eventually transition into sweatpants.

9am - 12pm: Read Perfume, taking frequent nappish pauses and drinking an entire pitcher of green tea. Decide that the book may have been better read in small doses, since by the end I am far more bothered by the feasibility of Grenouille's distillation techniques than by his callous slaughter of twenty-five virgins.

12pm: Deem the day too unpleasant to venture outside. Beat down feelings of smug superiority.

12pm - 1pm: Eat Italian tuna with kalamata olives, followed by a large bowl of cherries. Cruise internet in search of perfect graduate program to end PhD hiatus. Disappointing. Mostly impressed by the wide variety of bio photos - blurry cocktail-holding snapshots, meditative beach scenes, uncomfortably casual poses with too much chest hair, mugshots, etc.

1pm - 3pm: Begin to reread The Practice of Everyday Life. Feel disturbed by the extensive marginalia in my handwriting, since I remember nothing about the book.

3pm - 4pm: Vacuum and mop entire apartment, an unnecessary, though pleasurable, activity. Worry about becoming a sick person in the manner of my mother, the only woman I know who was thrilled by the receipt of her own personal carpet shampooer.

4pm - 5pm: Decide to shower. Remember, randomly, that a sweet woman named Mary once fixed me a heaping plate of saltines that had been pan-fried in butter. Imagine circumstances that would allow me to serve pan-fried crackers. Immediately plan to hold a New South party, replete with sausage balls, cheese straws, and aforementioned saltines.

6pm: Actually shower.

Tomorrow, I may try to leave the house. Or not.

And the livin' is easy

2009-06-10T09:45:00.000-07:00

I have endured the most tedious, repetitive, interminable close-of-school in the history of the universe, and today is finally the first official day of summer vacation. But mine is not to gripe; mine is to plan. What should I do with the next 82 days of freedom? I have a few ideas:

1) Shower infrequently, a la grade school summers. Sadly bereft of my parents' pool, I won't be able to offer n.o.c. airtight excuses like, "But there was chlorine! I'm bleached!" n.o.c. does not like to go without bathing; it makes him grumpy and lethargic. Not me - I feel my best when I'm so dirty that I'm almost clean again. My hair starts to look interestingly tousled and piece-y, and I can grow seeds in my bellybutton. You're really living when you achieve that state. You're fecund, awake, aware. You're basically Thoreau.

2) Work on my posture. I look like a char woman.

3) Make things with dough, then give them to others so as not to resemble said dough - you are what you eat. Speaking of (loosely), the folks who sell eggs at our farmers market look exactly like chickens. Little heads, fluffy rears, stick legs - the whole shebang. n.o.c. thinks they may actually be chickens in human guises, selling their own produce to an unsuspecting public. Inneresting.

4) Write. Blog. Read. Repeat.

5) Reupholster this chair:

Am I delusional?

6) Have callous-free feet. This effort will be helped along, no doubt, by the accumulation of natural body oils that infrequent showering allows.

7) Make macarons. These are very different from macaroons. Do not be confused.

8) Go places. More on that to come.

9) Make weekly batches of salsa. And gazpacho. An all-tomato diet should nicely counteract my dough and macaron efforts.

10) Get rid of even more stuff. Enough with stuff! (You can use that catchy phrase, if you'd like. I'm generous with my genius.)

11) Other suggestions?

In other news, my lovely Grammy stayed with us last night, and she and I played seven games of scrabble. The record is unimportant. You needn't know that I only won two games, or that her cumulative score was several hundred points higher than mine, or that she now knows all the three-letter words in addition to all the two-letter words. That sort of information would be totally superfluous.

Long time, no see.

2009-06-05T12:15:00.000-07:00

We went from this:

To this:

And on the seventh day, we partied.

You only need four strings

2009-05-29T13:32:00.000-07:00

The ukulele is badass. Who knew?

an oddlot

2009-05-29T11:49:00.001-07:00

So, the upstairs neighbors gave us the grand send-off. I could actually follow the bed's migration across the room, traveling what I can only imagine are well-worn, er, ruts. After an impressive bout, they took a pausa - smoked a few cigarettes, used their bedside crotchfire extinguishers, popped their hip joints back in place, whatever. Not five minutes later, they were at it again. I suppose it's more efficient to f*ck the bed back into place than to drag it across the room.

Anyway, I just packed a box that contained a bundt pan, a pair of swim goggles, and a kappa delta shot glass. The end is nigh.

The Dullest of Dullards Explains Why

2009-05-28T12:42:00.001-07:00

We've packed the easily packable. We've packed the awkward to pack. I keep finding single shoes and how-can-I-have-another-f*cking-book books. But we're so nearly there.

And once we are, summer will be really, truly almost here. Stupidly, I thought that I would be free when classes ended. That is so not the case; work does not officially die until the ninth (!) of June. It feels like the short story about Christmas happening daily for an entire year. I taught my last class on Tuesday, and I rejoiced. Then I still had to go to work on Wednesday - not terrible, I thought. I'll clean my desk, read the Times, la-la-la. Then came Thursday. Still not so awful, except for the wireless being out so I could not even spend quality time blogging. But, then tomorrow is Friday and another week and a half of trapped-in-my-cubicle boredom follows. Tedium is the enemy of happiness. And wit. Obviously.

This is my cube. For those of you who need a visual to suffer in solidarity.

A Royal Pain

2009-05-26T05:11:00.000-07:00

I have moved all of my possessions no fewer than 10 times since 1998. I loathe moving.

Hard Core

2009-05-24T07:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, we took a walk down to our new apartment to ogle it lasciviously and check out the parking scene. Little did we know that the venue two buildings down was playing host to Death Fest 2009, which is touted as the most fabulous extreme metal festival on the continent.

Since our plans for the weekend included playing croquet at a Victorian lawn party, a raucous game of scrabble, and plenty of Elton John, I have no doubt that we'll fit seamlessly into the cultural fabric of our new neighborhood. That, and I f*cking love Pantera.

On second thought

2009-05-22T10:51:00.000-07:00

I'm currently an unimaginative *sshole with laminate and bottom-of-the-line appliances. So I might as well have a nice-*ss kitchen.

My fear

2009-05-22T10:19:00.000-07:00

is that I'll just be another unimaginative *sshole with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances.

Your two cents.

2009-05-22T09:20:00.000-07:00

Should we move from this kitchen:

To this kitchen?

We love our little kitchen, but the siren song of the big kitchen with an island may be more than I can bear. All that space! Glass tiles! Thirty-some cabinets! I've been going on like this for days.

Obsessed

2009-05-20T07:16:00.001-07:00

If you're obsessed with something inanimate, say, for instance, a space (and I mean really obsessed - dreaming about it, staring at pictures of it, brooding over it), is that obsession is a sign of ultimate rightness? Or, rather, is it indicative of an unhealthy fixation from which one should probably abstain?

Thoughts?

Yummy, y'all!

2009-05-19T07:21:00.000-07:00

I love living in the South(ish). Just had a deviled egg and four sausage-cheese balls at a brunch put on by the math department. Any day that starts with Bisquick, Jimmy Dean and mayonnaise is bound to be good.

Thank goodness I don't hold myself accountable for the stupidity of others

2009-05-18T10:14:00.000-07:00

The Inquisition - This was a church court that dealt with any mishaps in the church. This resolved alot (sic) of issues that were built up.

Who's the sh*t?

2009-05-16T17:11:00.000-07:00

Thursday, we had Our Favorite Baltimorians to dinner. They brought roses, because they're the sh*t.
I made rhubarb cobbler, because I'm the sh*t.

(Unfortunately, Frog was too small. Not everybody can be the sh*t.)

Friday morning, we found our car covered in what looked like petals, even though we hadn't parked beneath a flowering tree.

Oddly, the car was covered, not in petals, but in confetti hearts. What can I say? n.o.c. and I are the sh*t. The universe f*cking loves us.

We met on the internet, like perverts.

2009-05-14T11:16:00.000-07:00

Four years ago today, I sent a *wink* across the internets to n.o.c. He replied with The Lamest Line Ever, so it's remarkable that there's more to this story. He redeemed himself by composing the most wonderful bits of correspondence I've ever received, and then I met him, and he was just like his emails, except taller and cuter and possessed of snakeskin cowboy boots.

Soapbox: Meeting someone on the internet has a skeezy reputation, but it's actually the perfect medium for courting if you appreciate a witty turn of phrase and good grammar. I highly recommend.

I like this anniversary because it's not as schmaltzy as a wedding anniversary; it's a little bit seedy, just like us. It reminds me of the hours I spent translating Sanskrit and Tibetan and Pali, hating my program and wishing that I had a different life. It reminds me of trips to the farmer's market when I could only afford seven Barhi dates. It reminds me of how I used to be nervous and brittle and prone to lapses in judgment. It reminds me of the decision I made to leave all of that, and how, just when I was trying to gather myself up to do something terrifying and depressing, I unexpectedly found something fantastic. It reminds me of the summer that n.o.c. and I spent being so improbably but wholly in love (and drinking gallons of mango margaritas).

Anyhoo, I have hit my maudlin threshold, and I'm sure that you have too. I'm also sure that n.o.c. is mortified. This is what comes of being around a school-full of graduating senior girls. This dithering, blubbering, nonsensical emoting has cracked my iron facade and exposed me for what I really am - a Rufus Wainwright-listening, life-affirming, tree-hugging, starry-eyed, soft-hearted p*ssy.

beans, beans, good for your... nothing.

2009-05-13T11:22:00.000-07:00

Last night, n.o.c. made delicious re-fried beans from scratch. Do you want to know how much butter is required for delicious re-fried beans? No, no you do not.

NCHANTD

2009-05-12T06:29:00.000-07:00

Today is one of those dreadful days when I feel as though I have nothing to offer you (other than the poor decision of some dipsh*t with vanity plates). Nothing funny. Nothing clever. Nothing crotchety. This is what fine weather and 18 remaining classes will do to you - render you happy and boring. Shook, I'm in such a benevolent mood that I'm considering chaperoning the prom, which is on a boat, motherf*cker. Anyway.

We even cooked a tasty dinner last night and played a barn-burning game of scrabble. n.o.c. won by two points, but he cheated, so his victory is hollow and benign. The apartment is still spotless. The bills are paid. The sun is shining. F*ck.

Last night's repast included steaks. I say this up front, since it makes people like my brother Keb'm very happy. I was a vegetarian for fifteen years, so the men in my life are inordinately pleased by the sight of me with a steak knife in hand - never mind that I can only make it though a silver-dollar sized portion before I start getting a little green around the gills. Now, if we're talking hamburgers, that's another case entirely. Hamburgers made me fall off the veggie wagon. I can always finish and seldom refuse a good hamburger. Particularly if it's topped with blue cheese. And bacon. But now I digress. My favorite parts of last night's dinner were the garlicky red baby kale (which was delicious but ugly) and the trumpet mushrooms with vermouth, caramelized onions and local blue goat cheese, but the grass-fed dead cow was good, too.

Now, I don't want you to worry that the the crotchety old b*tch within has been defeated. I think she's on vacation - which naturally begs the question, where would she go? Myrtle beach? Panama city? Definitely somewhere with lots of locals to ridicule and stairwells that smell of beer, urine, and Hawaiian Tropic. The better to be p*ssed, my dear.

Happy Mother's Day!

2009-05-10T09:00:00.000-07:00

Hot damn, children. I'm in one of my rare ebullient moods, so I'm going with it - this weekend has been bang-up. Friday night, we danced until my feet were so tired that n.o.c. had to carry me home. The scene wasn't too shabby, either. Nigh on flossy. (Note the curved door in the last shot. Faaaaaancy.)

Saturday, the team (that would be n.o.c. and me) put forth some A+ effort. With recent travels, the I-can't-bear-to-see-these-wretched-children-again blues, and the unfortunate introduction of a terrible but eminently readable sci-fi trilogy, we haven't been our most productive of late. But I'm thrilled to say that we've officially unf*ckulated our lives; all is bright and beautiful. We ran errands (death to Fed-Ex!), we scrubbed floors, we went to appointments, we bought groceries, we restocked the Lindt balls, we decanted the brandy, we made iced tea, we called the city about the f*cknosed bistro around the corner, we thoroughly impressed ourselves.

Then, as if all that weren't enough, we got today off right with an early trip to the farmers' market. We had curry pockets, Zeke's coffee, and I now have all the fixins for a rhubarb crumble. The day is gorgeous and life is swell.

And then we saw this guy, a harbinger of good things if ever there was one.

UPDATE: n.o.c. just fixed our running toilet, which has required handle jiggling for months. The man is on fire!

OMFG

2009-05-08T11:59:00.000-07:00

I really do have happy. It's Friday. I'm about to be rid of these exhausting and smelly children. We're going to a fancy dress party tonight. AND (are you ready?) I just discovered Garden and Gun magazine. Gardens AND Guns, people. Now, I have neither a garden nor a gun, but it's like the Pawn and Doughnut in Unadilla, GA - an unexpected combination, but surprisingly perfect in many circles. I have so far unearthed articles on Eudora Welty, fried chicken, coca-cola, and bourbon nut balls. Our Harpers and Atlantics are about to have some company.

best vanity tag i've seen in a while

2009-05-08T07:42:00.001-07:00

DVOTION

Word.

A new turn of phrase

2009-05-07T06:20:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, n.o.c. saw an email requesting a computer, email, phone, badge, etc. for a new employee. Instead of saying all of that, however, it simply said, "Kindly do the needful."

Love it.

Though it sounds a bit like an overly polite euphemism for requesting nookie, I can imagine employing it in all sorts of scenarios. At the mechanic's. At the salon. In the classroom - my students would have a bear of a time working out what I meant. Add a chill to your voice and raise a supercilious eyebrow, and you could employ it to great success in any unsavory situation where you'd like the upper hand. And at home! No need to enumerate a tedious list of to dos - yell again at bistro f*cktards for their f*cking garbage, find the stinky thing in the fridge, figure out why radio starts playing of own accord, brace ceiling to protect us from amorous neighbors - "Kindly do the needful" will suffice. And who knows? With all the time you'll save, maybe you'll have a spare minute or two to, you know, kindly do the needful.

bake yourself happy

2009-05-06T06:26:00.000-07:00

Friends, times are hard. Promising signs abound, and I'm so very hopeful, but for now there seems to be an awful lot of sh*tty to contend with. So I'm going to make a suggestion: cheese and macaroni.

When I was young, one of my favorite foods was my mema's cheese and macaroni - cheddar, elbow macaroni, and saltines, all saturated with milk and egg and baked until bubbling. Her cheese to noodle ratio is audacious, and, if you know me, that probably explains a lot. I still love hers, but it loses something when I make it myself, so I make my own flossy version.

Now what I'm about to share is practically a four-pound strata of holy f*ck, so watch yourself. It's also one of the most comforting foods I can imagine, so this goes out to all of you whose mellow has been harshed. If you can handle this much cheese, the only thing you have to fear is high cholesterol and a bigger waistline.

I'm more of an eyeball-it-and-do-what-feels-right sort of cook, so nothing is too specific.

Ingredients - Buy the good stuff. Organic and local when possible.
Big bag wide egg noodles
1 lb Gruyere, grated
1/2 lb Fontina, grated
1 quart half and half
Butter
Flour
Salt and Pepper
Nutmeg
Breadcrumbs
Butter

Boil noodles until almost done. Rinse in cold water, drain, and spread into an unbuttered casserole dish. In a sauce pan, melt, say, half a stick of butter over medium-high heat. When it's good and melty, add a few tablespoons of flour. Cook for a bit, stirring constantly, until it smells toasty. Whisk in half and half. All of it. Add a few grates of fresh nutmeg. Reduce heat to medium and heat until hot, but do not boil. Add cheese. All of it. Stir constantly until melted. Salt and pepper to taste. Pour cheese sauce over noodles until they're comfortable but not overwhelmed. Sprinkle breadcrumbs or panko over the top. Dot with butter. Cook at 375 until bubbling and browned. Eat. Feel better.

Fabulous for taking to barbeques, ailing friends, thin enemies, etc. The cheese sauce will also keep for a few days in the fridge and is fabulous on broccoli. Trust me.