Commercials

I've been watching a lot of TV lately. It's my last week before I plunge back into academia and, ... why am I making excuses? I'm watching a lot of TV, that's all you need to know. In the past few days, I've seen some rather interesting commercials. Indulge me while I reflect on these advertising masterpieces.

First: Pizza Hut. Pizza Hut, home of the "tomato juice covered cardboard," has introduced a new pizza - one that caters to the fine connaisseur in all of us, the same fine connaisseur who still wants multiple pizzas delivered to the house for $5 or less. "The Natural" from Pizza Hut has a wholesome multi-grain crust, organic tomato sauce made from sun-ripened tomatoes, organic cheese, and natural pepperoni. I'm pretty sure they've hired happy little birds to sing a happy tune while they construct your all-natural pizza.

On the commercial, the announcer says, "Put an end to pizzas made from processed crap." Clearly, I don't recall his exact words, but it was something like that. Here's the thing: Wasn't Pizza Hut the nation's leading purveyor of processed-crap pizzas? Are they finally admitting that their past pizzas were made with more unholy ingredients than a Twinkie? Interesting to note that they haven't discontinued the processed crap pizzas. In other words, "We care about you, more than our competition. We want you to be healthy. We're now using only all-natural ingredients, unlike our competition who will continue to harden your arteries and kill you slowly with their processed crap. However, if you'd prefer the processed crap, we still have that on the menu and will be happy to deliver to your home."

Next: Listen Up. This is a magic hearing aid that solves all of your problems, including not being able to hear private conversations from across the street or across the room. That's right, with Listen Up, you can finally indulge all of your paranoid and narcissistic fantasies and listen to what everyone is saying without the incovenience of hiding in bushes or pushing a glass against the wall. I'm going to forego the obvious questions about whether this is a good idea or not, and jump to filtering. This super-magic device simultaneously allows you to hear conversations up to 100 feet away, and allows you to hear a pin-drop from across the room. So, the question is: Who in hell wants to hear every sound in a 100-foot radius echoing in their ears? Ah, insanity has many manifestations.

Next: Weight Loss Supplement. I didn't catch the name of the brand, but the supplement comes in portions that look like the individual half-and-half containers you find in hotels and restaurants. The commerical shows a talking cartoon drawing of a rather shapely woman. She's telling us all about how she tried lots of diets and none worked. At this point, her cartoon figure ballons out, so she's now the shape of a beach ball (though her legs mysteriously remain slim and shapely.) Lady Cartoon then explains that she turned to this weight loss supplement for help. All she had to do was chug down two portions before her meals and she ate 1/3 less without being hungry. Then, miraculously, she returns to her previous shapely figure.

Here's my favorite part of this ad: After she slims down again, the advertisers put a disclaimer at the bottom of the screen. It says something like, "This is a dramatization using a cartoon drawing. Real people require sensible diet and exercise to achieve these results." So, if you exercise and eat sensibly and still don't achieve these results, you're not real.

Last: Macy's. The department store that ate the competition is having an end-of-the-year cosmetics sale. I guess they think that we all look like hell after the holidays. So much for rest and relaxation to restore our bedraggled skin and hair. So much for diet and exercise in these troubled times - nope, all we need is a new coat of varnish. According to the ad, you can get any of their fine elixirs and potions on sale, just in time to head back to work. One claim in particular caught my attention. At Macy's, "Sales associates are standing by to help you erase the past." Wow. It all seems a bit "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" but I'm almost tempted to head to Macy's, find a sales associate and inquire about this new service.

Interview Fashion

On Thursday, I'll ring in the New Year by flying to the Big Apple for the Annual Historians' Hootenanny. I often call it by its other name, but that name isn't suitable for mixed company, so I won't use it here. Let's just say it begins with "cluster." I wasn't planning to gather this year, but two schools took a shine to my application materials and want to meet me face-to-face - which means I need to look presentable. No conference call in my pajamas. Rats.

After I'd sufficiently recovered from the holidays, I scoured my closet for appropriate interview attire. Last year, I bought a very serviceable black dress (I learned the concept of "serviceable" from my grandmother. I think it means "something you can wear everyday until you're buried in it." Anyway, this black dress was great - a basic sheath. It fit like a glove.

That was then - when I was stressed out about dissertations, teaching, and any number of other things. That was then - when I was working out regularly. That was then - when I wasn't eating a steady diet of pasta and chocolate. That was then - before I turned 40. This is now. Now, the perfect black dress fits like sausage casing.

Now, I need a new interview outfit. I had a couple of options already in my closet. There was the ultra-boring wool pants, black jacket, blue blouse ensemble. No, my legs aren't that short. After some consideration, I decided that even on my most enthusiastic, bubbly days, I still wouldn't be able to cheer up this outfit. I would be, "That girl in the Confederate uniform," when the interviewers returned home and reflected on their interviews. I'm proud to be southern, but I didn't want to be THAT southern. So, back to the closet.

I found my brown knit dress. It's cute and fits well, successfully camouflaging my new "curves" and cleverly stretching to make room for things that don't fit in the sheath anymore. It's much more attractive on me than it appears on this hanger. So, I settled on the dress. Now, I just needed shoes and a jacket. How hard could that be?

Determined to meet with success, my friend and I mounted our trusty steeds and headed into the shopping wilderness. A jacket and a pair of boots were our quarry. We crawled through the underbrush, leaving no stone unturned. We looked in several forests, but other small-footed and petite hunters had already been through, taking the best trophies and leaving little behind. Undaunted, we pushed on.

Finally, we spotted our quarry, cleverly concealing itself among much cheaper items on the sales rack. Before long, I had my jacket. It's more of a sweater/jacket, but it was on sale and it would match the dress. We tagged it, bagged it, and moved on. The boots proved to be more elusive, but at last, we met with success. Leather boots, dark brown, low heel, on sale - perfect. Tagged 'em, bagged 'em, brought 'em home. Decided to let the purchases ride in the vehicle, rather than tying them to the outside.

When I got home, I put the entire ensemble together. The dress and sweater/jacket looked a bit "Maria Von Trapp" in "The Sound of Music," but don't care. I'd rather be Maria than Johnny Reb. I tried the boots, and alas, they didn't work. They were too casual, too bulky, just wrong. Rats.

So, I went to my local mall and bought a different pair of brown boots. They're not ideal, but they're an improvement and they were cheaper.

I'll return the other boots and call it quits. For a brief moment this afternoon, I thought about buying an interview suit. Then I thought, "It's not like I'm applying for a job in high finance. If I can achieve 'frumpy chic,' I should be OK. At least I'll look better than all those youngsters in their ill-fitting, conservative, boring, dull suits. They'll all look like they robbed their parents' closets and I'll look somewhat stylish." That's my story and I'm sticking to it - unless I get really stressed out about this and go shopping for a suit.

12 Unaccomplishments

For the holidays this year, I decided to mix things up with my annual holiday letter. Usually, people use the holiday letter to list all of their family's accomplishments, markers of progress, and current interests and hobbies. When you're single, you have to rely on your own accomplishments. The letter takes on a totally different tone when every sentence starts with "and then I . . ." followed by some stellar achievement. Because seriously, who's going to list their failures? Their shortcomings? Their disappointments?

Well, I gave that idea some thought and decided that listing my accomplishments seemed too self-aggrandizing. Besides, it was an embarrassingly short list. 1.) Finished Ph.D. 2) Got job that's one step away from adjunct poverty (like abject poverty, but with more work). And 3.) Turned 40 (I'm not really sure this was an accomplishment since I didn't have anything to do with it.) So, instead of listing all of my accomplishments in my holiday letter, I decided to list 12 things that I did not do this year. Here's my list:

1) I did not ask for, nor did I accept a government bailout.

2) I did not swim the English Channel.

3) I did not win American Idol.

4) I did not try to sell a US Senate seat for personal gain.

5) I did not construct a car out of a block of cheese.

6) I did not read the phone book from cover to cover.

7) I did not give birth to twins in the south of France.

8) I did not break any Olympic records.

9) I did not see any snow.

10) I did not change my home address.

11) I did not seek, nor did I accept, my party’s nomination for President of the United States.

12) I did not put my left hand in, I did not put my left hand out, I did not do the Hokey-Pokey and I did not turn myself about.

Who knows, maybe next year, I can move one of these items to my "accomplishments list. My money's on the cheese car.

Coming to a Full Stop

Before the semester ended, I dreamed of a day when I could sit on the couch and watch TV all day. I thought the day would never come. Then, the semester ended and I kept right on working, like some sorry marathon runner who didn't know she'd passed the finish line. This past week, I started to revise my syllabus. Now that I have some idea of what I'm doing in this class, I changed books and reading assignments to better match what I'm actually doing. Earlier this week, I came to the conclusion that I'm simply not getting paid enough to kill myself, so I'm also simplifying assignments.

Yesterday, I woke up, came into the office with my coffee and surveyed the incomplete syllabus. I had my frequent and recurring thought: "I really don't want to work on this today. I wish I could just sit on the couch and watch TV all day." Like a bolt of lightening, I realized that I could sit on the couch and watch TV all day! I threw the work car into park and abandoned it right there in the middle of the road. I picked up my coffee, and headed down the highway to my couch, never looking back.

As soon as my butt hit the cushions, I found a Dirty Jobs marathon on Discovery. Perfect. I settled in, after starting the week's laundry so I wouldn't feel like a total slug. I watched Mike Rowe do any number of unmentionable things for hours. Then, I watched the last 90 minutes of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Love, love, love that movie.

I made it out to get groceries and returned home to make chicken and dumplings. I didn't care that it was over 70 degrees outside, on a lazy day, I want comfort food. The TV pickings were pretty slim in the late afternoon, and I considered reading a book, but that sounded like too much work. So, I watched 2 MASH re-runs (holiday episodes, including my favorite where they focus on Father Mulcahey).

After dinner, I watched, "You Can't Take It With You." Cute movie. Lots of recognizable stars. It was a bit jarring to see Jimmy Stewart getting along with Lionel Barrymore, since we all know how nasty Mr. Potter is to George Bailey in "It's a Wonderful Life." And, having recently watched Mr. Smith, it was a bit strange to see Jimmy Stewart having a civil conversation with Edward Arnold. But, how could anyone not love Jean Arthur? Ah, the old studio system.

Not sure how I'll spend today. Full stop feels pretty darn good.

Christmas Madness

I've been so immersed in my work that I haven't paid much attention to the calendar. Earlier this week, I realized that December 25 is next week. How did this happen? Luckily, I'd done some shopping here and there, but the 8-ball was still significantly obscuring my line of vision. Yesterday, I finished my holiday cards and put them in the mail. Yes, I still send holiday cards. I realize it's a dying tradition, but I've already established that I am a dinosaur, so there you go.

While I'd made some holiday progress, I hadn't shopped for my nieces or nephew. I hadn't even really thought about what to get. Gasp. Horrors. How did it ever get so late? Yesterday evening, I headed out with a local friend to finally address this significant problem. As we cruised through the aisles at the Red Dot Boutique, I realized that I'd made a serious miscalculation. All the holiday locusts had already swooped in and taken all the good stuff. All they left behing were a few scantily-clad Barbies and a bunch of Star Wars figures.

I was about to give up when we turned the corner and there before us was Thomas the Tank Engine. My hopes lifted as I imagined my nephew's squeal of glee, "Thomas!" I chose a new accoutrement for his train set. It has bells. OK, I'm not really allowed to buy gifts that make noise (reference aforementioned Hokey Pokey Elmo and Chicken Dance Elmo Christmas). Hopefully, my brother and sister-in-law will let my nephew keep the bell-ringing signal thingee. If not, well, I think we know who the scrooges are.

With Thomas safely tucked away in the cart, we moved on. I was determined that my nieces would not get anything Barbie from me. Determined. Instead, I decided to go educational this year. Books. Both girls are reading now and their PhD aunt would encourage their intellectual curiosity. So, this is what they were getting:

They'd learn all about Fancy Nancy and Amelia Bedelia. They'd get so excited about reading that they would compose analytical essays where they compared Fancy Nancy and Amelia Bedelia, using direct evidence and proper citations to support their original and insightful arguments. In other words, they'd outshine my college students. They'd also create original artwork with their sticker books, producing new and heretofore unimagined interpretations of Cinderella and the other Disney Princesses. Yes, they were well on their way to academic geekdom and I was holding the door open for them.

Then, I made one last trip to the mall. There, amidst a bunch of other red and black trinkets and clothes - there was Barbie. And it wasn't just Barbie, it was Barbie dressed in a red and black cheerleading outfit. Books would never do now, not when one item embodied everything the girls hold dear - Barbie and UGA. I checked the price. Just under my budgeted amount. Hope sprung anew . . . until the sales clerk told me that she had only one doll. "One doll?" I said, "One doll will never do." Sensing my distress, she told me about another store in town where they might just have more than one Holy Grail.

The search was on. Sure, it's graduation day and sure, the main drag and every side street is crammed full of graduates and family members and holiday shoppers. Did I care? No. I had Barbies to find. I drove straight into the eye of the storm.

I stopped in one store and they were out of Barbies. Crap, I thought, what if there's only one Barbie left in town? One Barbie will never do. But, then I remembered that I'm in the Mecca of college-related crap. There were plenty more stores to try. I headed back down the street and parked in front of the next college crap store.

I walked in and the sales clerk, sensing my desparation, asked, "Can I help you find something?" "Do you have UGA cheerleader Barbies?" I asked. "Yes," she replied. I can't spell my response, I think it sounded something like, "squeak." Pushing my luck, I asked, "Do you have two?" "Yes," she replied. The clouds parted, the angels sang, and I and the 2 Barbies headed home.

There will be plenty of time for reading. This Christmas, it's continued brainwashing. Go Dawgs!

Finished, For Now

It is finished. I put the last grade on the last blue book, calculated the last final grade, and electronically submitted my little darlins well-earned marks for the semester. Now, after a semester that seemed like it would never end, I find myself wondering where the time went. I'm in a reflective mood, so I thought I'd share some lessons that I'll take forward:

• No extra credit: I offered extra credit against my better judgement. Lesson learned, there's a reason why it's called "better judgement." As I suspected, it made more work for me than for my students. It also artificially inflated grades that had no business being inflated. Solution: I plan to channel Faye Dunaway in "Mommie Dearest" and declare, "No more extra credit - EVER!" I might even wave a wire hanger.
• More specific guidelines for papers: Students are crafty devils. They can't read a 2-page document or write a 2-page paper, but they're more than happy to spend their time researching a topic that we've covered in class - reading way more than the original assignment required. I'm convinced that students have formed a mass conspiracy to convince professors not to assign papers. That's right - students who can't organize a sentence have organized themselves into a mass social movement devoted to ridding the academy of all expectations about written expression. Solution: I will insist that they cite only course materials in their papers. I will deduct points if they don't. And, I will turn them into the Honor Squad when they call on their good friends at Wikipedia to make up for the fact that they slept through my riveting lecture on Indian Removal.
• Texting: Social networking is great. While I find most of my students to be on the dull side, I'm glad that they have people in their lives who want to respond to their witty and insightful OMGs and LOLs. I'm not so fond of it when they're OMG-ing while I'm TEACHING. Solution: Three strikes and you're out. It's good enough for baseball, it's good enough for me. Take out your cell phone and start texting your friends? Thank you, your cell phone is mine for the remainder of the class. What's that, you're doing it again? Fine, take your little phone and the rest of your belongings and get out for the rest of the class. WTF - again? Fine, I wanted to learn the university's "instructor withdrawal" policy. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. See ya, bye. Same goes for you, Sleepy Sleeperson.
• Smaller chunks: This is a tough one. On the one hand, I learned that I don't like to grade all the time. On the other hand, students don't learn simply because I say, "Write a paper." Solution: More in-class assignments where they have to at least attempt to learn a skill. More grading for me, which hopefully will result in better work in the long run. If not, I'm switching to one cumulative final. That's right - your entire grade is decided on the last day of class. See how they like them apples.

I'm sure that I've learned a lot more, but I'm tired and I think I'll spend the rest of the evening on the couch with a pint of Chocolate Peanut Butter Haagen Dazs. Lesson learned: Reward thyself.

Sugar High

The semester is over and the grading has begun. I'm learning so many interesting things from my students. Overall, I see their exams as a big game of telephone. You know, the game where you sit in a circle with your friends. One friend whispers a message to another and you "pass" the message around the circle, each friend taking a turn whispering to the person next to them. At the end of the circle, the last friend announces your message, which often bears no resemblance to your original message. That's the way my exams work. I know what I said, but what my students repeat back bears little or no resemblance to my original message. I'd post some of their responses, but that would be totally unprofessional. Instead, I'll chuckle to myself.

Anyway, I took a break from grading to get my hair cut and to get some groceries for dinner. I settled on steak, potato, salad, and red wine. I also needed some bread and chips. So, that's what I put on the conveyor belt in the check-out line. As I reviewed the trashy magazines to see who's doing who and who's getting screwed (often the same story), I took note of the fellow who queued up behind me.

He was an older fellow (in this case, "older" meaning, "older than me."). I mention this because I think it's important to point out that he was not a 6 year-old. He unloaded his cart onto the conveyor and when he was done, there were 2 bags of big marshmallows, 6 cans of vanilla frosting, 2 boxes of generic rice krispies, 2 boxes of generic butter sticks, and 2 bags of Hershey's miniature candy. That's it.

I was going to say something like, "Wow, that's a really healthy diet," but I stopped myself. I figured that he was going to bake something meant for a crowd, but who knows, maybe he was going to head home and whip up a big batch of frosting and rice krispies. Then, he'd settle in front of his TV to watch Friday Night Smackdown and make snowmen out of the marshmallows, stacking 3 together on popsicle sticks. He'd melt the chocolate and dip the snowmen, making what could only look like poop on a stick (I know because I saw a similar item in a gift shop in the NEPIW). I didn't want to think about what he had planned for the butter.

Admit it - right now, you're picturing a 50-ish fellow slathered in butter, eating spoonfuls of frosting and rice krispies, and dipping marshmallows in chocolate - all while watching professional wrestling. No need to thank me.

Reminded me of the time that I ordered a pizza and decided to stop by the grocery store on my way to pick it up. I got a 6-pack of beer and a pint of Ben and Jerry's. As I stood in the check-out line, the woman behind me looked at my purchases and said, "Well, you've certainly had a worse day than I've had." I said, "You said it, sister!"

Dog Days in the News

Today, I enjoyed the calm before the finals grading storm. At lunchtime, I sat down with the remains of my baked potato soup (yum!!) and read the local paper. Not the quick breeze through that I've been reduced to lately, but a leisurely perusal of all the news local and otherwise. Ahhh.

Lots of animals in the news today. The Blotter reporter caught up with two stellar canines in the local police department. Seems the other night, police pulled over a fellow driving without taillights. As they discussed the lack of lights in the fellow's tail section, one police officer smelled the unmistakable "odor of burned marijuana." Ganja. Wacky weed.

So, "while the officer wrote a citation for the broken lights" the fellow said to the other officer, "Sure, your drug-sniffing dog can smell my car." Word to the wise: If you've been smoking marijuana in your car, you may not be the best judge of whether a drug-sniffing dog should smell your car. As you'd expect, the dog found 15 bags of Mary Jane in the fellow's car, and the fellow was taken to jail. If I had to guess, I'd say that the fellow probably said, "Dude" more than once.

In a separate but related story, police stopped a young woman because she was driving with an obscured tag. The officer "asked if he could search the car when he smelled burned marijuana." Another word to the wise: Don't smoke marijuana in your car. The police in this college town are very familiar with the smell and will notice if it is wafting from your vehicle. Dog or no dog.

So, "the officer brought his drug-sniffing dog to the car, and dog confirmed that marijuana was likely inside." Here's the question: How could the dog confirm that the weed was "likely" inside? Did the dog say, "Well, I can't say with complete certainty, but based on my initial findings, I believe there's a strong likelihood that this car is toting the ganja." Or maybe the officer said, "Well, boy, are there drugs?" And the dog just shrugged. Either way, the young lady joined the previous fellow in jail.

Let this be a lesson to you: If you come to this college town, make sure that your car is in good working order, particularly if you plan to haul some drugs around. Alternately, carry around some fresh meat, just to throw off the drug-sniffing dogs and police officers.

In other dog and cat news, seems a local vet rescue operation is looking for someone with a horse trailer and some extra time. The vet rescue had access to a horse trailer but the owner doesn't want to help them anymore. Why? Maybe it has something to do with why the vet rescue wants the trailer. Seems they want to transport 60 dogs and 24 cats to Stamford, Connecticut for "an SPCA-sponsored adopt-a-thon."

Gotta say that if I had a horse trailer, I'd really have to think about loaning it out to transport 84 dogs and cats to New England. I assume the animals will be contained somehow, but who knows? Maybe they'll be roaming free in the horse trailer. It will be the end of the world as we know it - dogs and cats sleeping together. Woe be unto the person who has to clean out the trailer when it finally returns to the Peach State.

The vet rescue claims to have "a vehicle and experienced drivers" to make the trip. Really? If you've experienced transporting 84 dogs and cats to New England, why in God's name would you ever do it again?

One last point: Are we really so sorry in this state that we have to transport our stray animals to New England in a horse trailer so that they can find good homes? Seriously.

Last Day

Today is my last teaching day for the semester at Big City University. Next week is finals week, which means I get to sit on my tucus (also spelled: tuchus) while my students ponder the ins and outs of the development and evolution of the social welfare state in the United States in the twentieth century. I learned so many new and interesting tidbits from their papers, I feel certain that their exams will be equally enlightening.

On tap for today: New World Order. I plan to destroy the Berlin Wall and free Kuwait in about 30 minutes, including video accoutrements. If I've learned nothing else this semester, I've learned to boil down very complex issues into a steaming mass of marginally meaningful information. Basically, I spent all of graduate school learning how to make a short story long and complicated, and I've spent this semester unlearning all of those lessons. Turns out, everything can be explained on one powerpoint slide. WWII? Hitler - Pearl Harbor - D-Day - Iwo Jima - The End. Ta-da! (No, I'm not proud of this newfound skill.)

In 12 short hours, I'll be home on my couch in my pajamas, catching up on Top Chef and enjoying a large, well-deserved cocktail. But, before I can do that - must get through today.

Grading papers

I'm grading papers. I should be looking forward to a nice holiday break. Instead, I'm grading papers. I have no one to blame but myself. Me and my stupid committment to good writing. When will I learn? Students, for the most part, don't care about writing. They only care if they get laid and drunk, preferably at the same time. Why do I torture myself by making them write? Maybe if I made them write about getting laid and drunk...no, even then, their papers would stink.

That's really not fair. Many of my students seemed to take this assignment seriously. They had to choose an autobiographical narrative written by someone reflecting on the 1960s - 1970s. Then, they had to relate one or two main issues in the book to the longer history that we have discussed in class. In other words, I wanted them to demonstrate that they learned something this semester. Show me that you can trace change over time. Show me that you can use specific examples and not talk in complete vaguery. Show me that you cite a source!!

And, some of them did well. Only a few have managed to state an argument in their introduction, but who needs an argument? Who doesn't want to wait until the conclusion to learn the main point of the entire essay? It's like a nice surprise. Sometimes, I play a little game. I try to guess what their argument is as I'm reading, then I see if I'm right when I get to the conclusion. Sometimes I am, and sometimes I'm not. Well, I am right, but the student heads off on a new tangent in the conclusion and doesn't articulate the obvious argument. Oh, the frivolity.

What really wears me out are the plagiarists. These students piss me off. Not a mild irritation, we're talking white-hot rage. Without fail, they're the little jackasses who have been working my last nerve all semester. I hate, hate, hate, hate having to waste my time tracking down the original source of their masterpiece, printing it out, then marking both copies to show the extent of plagiarism.

Then, I have to take time out of my day to meet with the student to explain why he or she won't be receiving any credit for the assignment, and why they can't have a "do over." I hate that I'll have to sit and listen as they explain that they just didn't know that they couldn't "copy and paste" directly from an online source and turn it in with their name on it. I hate that I'll have to show them that I clearly forbid such behavior on my syllabus. Most of all, I hate that I'll spend 20 times more time with these slackers than I will spend with the students who did the assignment correctly.

They can't say I didn't warn them. I told them on the first day of class (and printed on my syllabus) that I am a professional researcher. That's what historians do - we research. When you start using the Britsh spelling of words and citing sources written in German, I know something is up. When you stop speaking in jibberish and start making sense only to return to jibberish, I know something is up. If you can find it on Google, so can I.

My only joy will come when I tell one hapless jackass that he can't possibly pass the course now. That he will have to repeat this course that he so clearly enjoyed. That he will not be welcome in any of my classes next semester. Then, I can kick him out of class for the rest of the semester. OK, it's only 3 more classes, but I won't have to look at his sourpuss and that makes me very happy.

I refuse to give up on teaching writing skills. I refuse. I do. Really. (sob, sob)

Mad Men

I've developed a new addiction in recent weeks. It's called, "Mad Men." I know that I am late to this party, but better late than never. I'm watching last season in Netflix. With two more episodes to go, I'm hooked.

I know I'm hooked because I have random flashes of Mad Men during otherwise un-Mad Men related activities. The other day, while I was driving home, I thought about how creepy Pete Campbell is. He really upsets me. He's such a snake. Yeah, yeah, I know that I'm supposed to feel sorry for him because his father doesn't love him and he only got married because his wife had money and he thought he had to get married. Well, I don't feel sorry for him. I would be very happy if he fell down the elevator shaft at Sterling Cooper, a la Rosalind Shays on LA Law.

Mad Men has made me fall in love with John Slattery all over again. I loved him in "Ed." I even loved him when he wanted Carrie Bradshaw to pee on him in "Sex and the City." How many actors can you say that about? In Mad Men, he's a real letch - having an affair with the office manager, hitting on employee's wives, getting schnokered at lunch. But he's so charming and endearing, unlike Pete Campbell who is just a sniveling, conniving snake. Something tells me John Slattery's character is not going to survive next season and I'll miss him terribly.

Still trying to figure out if Peggy is pregnant. Don't tell me!! Have to say that I loved the scenes where she tries to explain why women will love the "Rejuvenator."

Also loved the scene where Betty Draper takes a rifle and shoots the neighbor's doves out of the sky, all while smoking a cigarette and wearing a housecoat. Fabulous!

But here's what I really like about this show: Each of the characters is flawed and multi-dimensional. I also love that writers explore 1960s society without beating the viewer over the head with it. Rampant sexism, the malaise of college-educated housewives, the Nixon-Kennedy election, work ethics - all woven into great stories. I particularly enjoy the references to salaries and the cost of consumer goods. "He already makes $35,000/year!" "I'd like a $5/week raise. I currently make $35/week." I'm considering showing episodes of the show in Women's History classes, or classes on the 1960s. It's that good.

Barbecue is NOT a verb

I'm having a very relaxing weekend. I don't have anything to grade and I cancelled my class on Tuesday. The little darlins have a paper due on Thursday and I figured I could use a break before I have to grade their masterpieces. As a result, I'm kicking back and taking it easy this weekend. I've done some thinking about next semester, finished a book, and burned through 2 Netflix movies. Today, I moved on to one of my favorite activities: cooking something that takes a really, really long time. Barbecue from scratch.

I shopped for the ingredients yesterday. Boston butt was on sale at the P-store - a sign from God that it was bbq time. I chose this one, a nice 5.5 pound butt. I also picked up some buns, chips, pork and beans, and cole slaw. As I checked out, the cashier said, "Looks like you're going to barbecue." I didn't correct her, but everyone knows that "barbecue" is not a verb.

Making bbq is a 4-hour process. I started at 3:15PM. I took the butt out of the package and put it in a pot with water to cover. I added sliced onions, bay leaves, and whole cloves. Then, I turned on the heat and waited for the boil. Once I achieved boil, I put on the lid, and let it go for three hours. It smelled amazing! Spicy cloves and bay leaves permeated the house. I turned my attention to my syllabus for next semester and waited.

At 5:45, it was time for the beans. Yes, anyone who knows me knows that I believe that beans are the work of the devil. But, you can't have bbq without baked beans. So, I emptied the can of pork and beans and gathered the necessary ingredients.

Enough of this stuff and you can't taste the beans anymore. The cinnamon is the secret ingredient. Ssshh.

After adding the right amount of each of these wonderful transformative taste sensations, I popped the beans in the oven and turned my attention to the sauce. Can't have bbq without sauce. Without sauce, it's just shredded butt and no one wants that.

I like this sauce. It's spicy but not so hot that you want to die. It's got onion, ketchup, vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, water, brown sugar, chili powder, pepper, and salt. You know it's good when there's twice as much pepper as salt. It simmers for 30 minutes and gets good and thick.

With the sauce bubbling away, I turned to the meat. Armed with two forks, I opened the pot and said, "I'm goin' shred your ass!" I do like to crack myself up while I cook. Then, I set to work. I have to admit that this is the part that I'm not so fond of. Shredding an entire Boston butt with two forks is hard work. After about 20 minutes of shredding, I had reduced the butt to this:

Back into the pot with the shredded meat, add some sauce and simmer for 20 minutes. Finally, at 7:15PM, I sat down to this:
I went with the open face option, with extra sauce. And, yes, those are potato chips. Can't have bbq without chips. In case you're wondering, it was really, really good.

Real Reality TV

For the past month or so, I've spent the middle of the week with Big City friends. The commute from College Town to Big City got to be too much on my weary body and soul. So, I take advantage of my friends' hospitality, paying for my keep in food and good humor.

I've discovered a whole new world at their house. They watch TV shows that I didn't even know existed. For instance, did you know that there's a show where marginally talented hosts discuss the latest tech gadgets and internet videos? The key to this show seems to be the size of the female hosts' breasts. The other key ingredient is the type of videos that they choose to highlight. In one video, a woman inserted a rocket into her backside and her "friends" lit the fuse. The video ended with her squealing as the flame reached her bare backside. I know what you're thinking, "Why would anyone do this?" I think the more important questions are: Why would someone film it? Why would someone post it? Not to mention, Why would someone show it on TV? And finally, Why would someone watch it? All good questions. I'm choosing to avoid the answers because I'm pretty sure that the only explanation is that we're all going to hell.

I also learned that there's a TV show where 2 grown men go around and destroy whatever they can find. They call themselves "Human Wrecking Balls." The show is all about watching these two fellows tear apart houses, boats, airplanes, etc. - all with their bare hands. Oh, and they can use whatever they tear up as projectiles to continue their total destruction. They have an engineer on hand to help them understand the construction, and subsequent destruction, of specific parts of the house, boats, airplanes, etc. I think the engineer is supposed to lend an air of education to the show. They also have an attractive female doctor on hand to tend to their injuries. I believe my mouth actually fell open while watching the promo for this show.

I have developed a true affection for "Dirty Jobs" on the Discovery Channel. Mike Rowe rocks. The show often makes my skin crawl, but in a good way. Who knew that someone got paid to crawl inside a ship boiler and clean it out? Or who knew that someone makes money by rowing out into a lake and collecting leaches? Actually, the collection wasn't the bad part of that show, it was the frying and eating leaches that turned my stomach. Gotta say that I would love to get paid to research potential dirty jobs for Mike, then watch as he cleans out sewers or crawls under mobile homes with a crazy guy whose shoulder pops out of socket. Overall, this show makes me feel so much better about my job.

In addition to these shows, I've watched a fair amount of Tim Gunn's Guide to Style and What Not to Wear (or "What Not to Watch," according to my uncle). Here's my problem with these shows: They take a woman who has questionable fashion sense, take away all of her crappy clothes, then give her thousands of dollars to replace her wardrobe with more stylish clothes. "More stylish" as defined by Stacy and Clinton, and Tim Gunn. By watching these shows, we're all supposed to learn important lessons and be better shoppers and better dressed.

This works great if someone gives you thousands of dollars. My problem is that I don't have thousands of dollars, so I end up buying scattered pieces on sale, hoping that they'll magically form outfits in my closet. They don't. My wardrobe consists of maybe 3 good outfits and lots of other tops and bottoms that don't really go together. And I won't even talk about the stuff that doesn't fit anymore. Damn aging and gravity.

So, in this age where anything and everything makes its way onto TV, I'd like to propose a new show. I'd like for Tim Gunn and Clinton Kelly to come to my house and sort through my closet to find the stuff that I should keep. (I'm not all that fond of Stacy London or Tim's sidekick so they're not invited.) Then, I'd like for Tim and Clinton to use my current disposable income to put a wardrobe together. Good luck! They can show me how to look cute even when I have to wear dowdy shoes. They can show me how to look put together at 4PM when I'm starting my final class of the day. Then, they can give me thousands of dollars.

Toaster & Toast

I had a bit of excitement Saturday night. No, not that kind of excitement, though it was hot. I decided to make a big pot of spaghetti sauce. Spaghetti sauce is an all-day project because the sauce simmers for 3 hours. But, man, is it good. So, while I watched the Dawgs try their best to lose to the Wildcats, I made sauce.

Finally, as darkness descended, the sauce was ready. I boiled some pasta, made a salad, and put some frozen garlic bread in my toaster oven. I just cleaned the toaster oven because I was having smoke problems - the crumbs would smoke and set off the smoke alarm in my apartment, forcing me to throw open the sliding glass door. Then, I would grab the closest piece of newspaper, dish towel, or hot pad and start waving it wildly toward the smoke detector, like I'm trying to signal a ship at sea. The dialogue that accompanies this scenario usually sounds someting like, "Stop beeping, you stupid thing!"

So, anyway, I cleaned out the toaster oven. I put the bread in and knew, just knew, that the smoke alarm would not go off this time. I turned my attention back to the game. I paid little attention to the warning at the bottom of the toaster oven door. You can't read it in the picture, but it says, "In the event of food flare-up, keep door closed and unplug power cord."

I'm not sure what drew my attention back to the kitchen. I think I heard a little popping sound. When I got to the toaster oven, flames were shooting from the heating element. I knew that I'd seen Pirates of the Caribbean too many times, because my initial response was, "Not good," a la Jack Sparrow when the incredibly offensive characatures of indigenous people tried to roast him.

Then, I opened the door. Now, I know why the warning says, "Keep door closed." The flames got bigger. I had a flashback to "Backdraft," and remembered that oxygen feeds fires. Instead of closing the door, I again turned to Jack Sparrow for inspiration and started to puff at the fire, thinking I'd huff and I'd puff, and I'd blow the flames out. Let's just say that I didn't. I didn't burn my eyebrows off, so it wasn't a complete disaster. All the while, I think I was saying something like, "Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap."

Then, like a bolt of lightening from the great beyond, I thought, "In the event of food flare-up, keep door closed and unplug power cord." I closed the door and unplugged the device. The flames died down and went out. In their wake, they left a nice black mark on the heating element of the toaster oven and on my toast. And a really bad smell in my apartment.

But - the smoke detector never went off. Apparently, it only detects smoke, not open flame. I feel so much safer. I'm already planning to buy a new toaster oven.

Change

Today is Friday, or "Hangover Day" as I have come to call it. No, I don't go on a bender every Thursday -though that's certainly an interesting idea. Instead, Friday is the day when I put the long week of teaching behind me and don't put any demands on myself. So far, I've recorded attendance and participation for the week, walked aimlessly through the Red Dot Boutique, and treated myself to lunch at Panera Bread. Now, I'm waiting on the dryer repairman.

I'm also contemplating making a change in my apartment. When I moved into this apartment, I changed the look of my bedroom. Gone were the pastels and daisies of my old duvet cover. In with the red and white. I like the bold color against the pine dresser, bed, and nightstands.

Of course, changing one thing led to any number of problems. I had to change the curtains. Out with the pastel green, in with the khaki. I have yet to replace the pastel green blanket that went with the old bedding. I figure that no one will see the blanket so I don't need to be in a hurry to change it. And, the last time I priced blankets, they were much more than I wanted to spend. Besides, I live in Georgia. I don't need no stinkin' blanket.

The trickle-down effect from the new duvet cover spread into the adjoining bathroom. I've ignored the discordant decorating schemes, but with all the talk about change, I just can't take it anymore. I'll be the first to admit that my bathroom decorating is uninspired. Whatever inspiration there was related to the old bedroom. Case in point:

The green rug worked great with the pastel theme from the bedroom (which is on the other side of the door. You can't tell from this picture, but the shower curtain has a fern pattern on it, also worked great with the pastel theme. Even the basket worked.

Now, not so much. (On a side note: I never imagined that I'd post a picture of my toilet on my blog. I really have run out of things to write about.)

Another view:

This is taken while standing in the doorway shown in the other picture. Yes, my bathroom has two doors. Kind of like the mirror has two faces, but totally different. The two doors only cause problems when guests come to visit. In other words, the two doors never cause a problem. With the two doors, the bathroom becomes a short-cut between the office and the bedroom, and who wouldn't want that?

Anyway, as you can see, decor is sad and depressing. I promise that the colors are more vibrant than this picture shows, but they're still pastel.

So, I'm looking for change. I'd like to extend the warmer tones from the bedroom into the bathroom. I don't think I want to do red necessarily, because then it all feels too "matchy matchy." I saw some really nice chocolate brown towels at Bed Bath and Beyond, so that may be a place to start. My plan is to figure out what I want and get it on my Christmas list and wait to see what Santa brings. Can I change? Yes I can!

(Note that I figured out how to make my camera talk to my computer. It's a good day.)

Good Day

Anyone who reads this blog regularly knows that I tend toward pessimism. So, in an effort to reset the universal balance of my life, I offer the following:

Today is a good day. The sun is shining and I don't need a jacket in this first week in November. The leaves have started to change colors. I wrote a lecture for yesterday's classes, then decided to review instead. My students confirmed that some of them, more than a few, are actually getting it. So, instead of spending my Wednesday struggling through mid-week exhaustion to put a lecture together, I'm relatively relaxed. My hair looks pretty good today.

And . . . change is on the horizon. Tomorrow, I'm lecturing on the civil rights movement of the 1960s. Sometimes, life just works out. I can't help but think about an August afternoon before I was born, when a preacher from Georgia stood on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and delivered one of the best-known speeches in our history. I can't say it better than he did, and I won't even try.

"With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:

My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,
From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true."

-----Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., "I Have a Dream," March on Washington, August 28, 1963

Today is a good day.

Scavenging for groceries

I'm having one of those days. The kind of day where I drink my normal daily allotment of coffee in the morning, and then feel like I haven't had any coffee at all for the rest of the day. I think this means that I'm tired.

I managed to get some work done this afternoon, finally completing a long-overdue, lingering consulting project that had been weighing me down like a ton of bricks. I'm not sure that it's my best work, but it's done. I put the invoice in the mail today so with any luck, I'll be able to finally pay off my new computer by Christmas.

I finished the project at about 4PM and decided to address another pressing problem: No food in the house. More importantly, no half-and-half in the house. I put together a grocery list and headed to the K grocery store. I've been shopping at the P store, but today, I had some dry cleaning to drop off and the dry cleaner is near the K store, so I went to the K store.

I stopped shopping at the K store when they rearranged all the food. I'm sure some highly paid consultant (present company excluded) thought that rearranging the food was a good idea. I'm sure they conducted many focus groups to decide where to put the food. I'm also sure that they only involved mentally handicapped, logically-impaired gerbils in these focus groups. Since I'm not a mentally handicapped, logically-impaired gerbil, I can't find a damn thing in this store.

Take today for example. I made it through the produce and meat just fine. Then, I turned my cart to the food aisles. I only needed a few things. I passed up the aisle with the buy-in-bulk specials because I'm only one person, I don't need bulk. I made it halfway through my list and realized that I needed rice. I went back down the pasta aisle. No rice. I went to the "ethnic food" aisle -where you can find salsa and chow mein in a can. No rice. Almost giving up, I turned down the bulk food aisle again. There, in the middle of "30 cans of beans for 10 cents" was the rice. I'm sure this made perfect sense to the mentally handicapped gerbils in the focus group. Next time, I'll ask myself, "WWMHLIGD?" (What would mentally handicapped, logically-impaired gerbils do?)

In total, I ended up going through the frozen food section 3 times, saw the pasta 4 times and passed the cheese twice. In the process, I almost mowed down a fellow in a wheelchair. I finally made it to the check-out line. The bag girl asked if I was having a good day. I considered responding, "Why? What have you heard?"

I walked out of the store and headed into the parking lot with great confidence. I knew just where I'd parked. Or not. Overshot it by an entire aisle. Finally, I found my car, loaded up the groceries and came home. Next week, I'm going back to the P store - and I'm drinking more coffee.

But, for now, I'm all set for a rockin' good Halloween. I have popcorn, candy, and . . .

What more could a girl want?

Distracted?

No, I'm not distracted these days. Just because I tried to pour coffee beans into the dishwasher yesterday doesn't mean anything. Nor does the fact that I've left the house twice with my fly open in the past week. At least I caught the problem in the car this morning. Earlier in the week, I made it all the way to my hair appointment before I realized that my zipper was not secured. Thankfully, it was cold enough for a jacket so no one knew of my faux pas.

I really don't know why I'm being so flighty. I'm not any more stressed than usual, I don't think. Maybe I've just reached a saturation point and my brain can't handle small details like coffee beans don't belong in the dishwasher. Anyway, I'll be sure to keep you posted.

Georgia Voter

That's right, I'm a Georgia Voter. Got my very own sticker to prove it. This year, the great state of Georgia is opening the flood gates early and letting any jackass (or elephant) vote early. Works out great for me because I have to be at Big City University all day on Tuesday, a location that is most definitely out of my voting precinct.

So, I performed my civic duty yesterday. I went downtown and got all prettified at the salon, then headed to the county Board of Elections. OK, I didn't get prettified just to vote, just coincidence. And, you never know who you'll meet in line to vote. As soon as my hairdresser put the finishing touches on my hair, I ventured out into the cold misty afternoon. "Maybe everyone is staying inside," I thought as I walked toward the Board of Elections.

I turned the corner and realized that everyone was not staying inside. Instead, they were clogging the sidewalk outside the Board of Elections. So, I turned around and walked to my car - where the meter had already expired. I didn't have any change to feed the meter, having used my last quarter on the first hour. Undaunted and filled with civic and national pride, I moved my car to the parking garage and joined the line.

I was really impressed with the number of people who were willing to stand in the cold and mist to cast their ballots. I waited about 45 minutes. I shivered a bit. I thought about what the mist and humidity was doing to my coif, and hoped my hairdresser wouldn't see me turning his hard work into a big frizzy mess. I thought that I really should have worn more comfortable shoes. Oh, and I thought about this historic election and how lucky I am to live in a democracy. No, really, I did.

Scanning the crowd on the sidewalk, I noticed a great diversity among the voters. Black, white, young, old, tall, short, obviously insane... OK, it was just one guy. He had on flannel holiday pajama bottoms with Tweety Bird calling for "Holiday Tweets for everyone." He carried a pink cordoroy purse with fur trim and wore a red velvet coat. As I made my way through the maze inside the teeny tiny office, he clutched his papers and moved from one line to the next, clearly confused and out of his element. I took a few more steps up the Geek Ladder as I thought about the 1908 Georgia voting law that required all voters to be sane. The same law required literacy tests and "good character." I thought about that as I took note of all of the African American voters in line with me. I also recognized a number of the pictures in the Board of Elections. "Oh, that's the 1912 woman suffrage parade in Washington DC," I thought. I stopped short of giving an impromptu lecture on the history of voting. I like to think that my fellow voters felt short-changed.

I finally worked my way to the voting machines. Carefully, I made my selection on the touch screen, double-checking to make sure I didn't pull a "2000 Florida" and choose the wrong candidate by mistake. I registered my vote and pulled out the little yellow card. I exchanged the card for my "Georgia Voter" sticker and walked out into the afternoon mist, leaving Tweety Pants sitting in the corner, looking very bewildered.

As I drove out of downtown, I passed a procession of strangely clad people, advertising a local version of the Gong Show at a local bar. I didn't recognize everyone in the procession, but I did recognize Jesus and Pac-Man. And an alien. I considered introducing these folks to Tweety Pants, but decided to carry on about my business, making a mental note to always carry my digital camera because you never know when you'll need it.

Great, Now Shut Up

Last week, I went to my mid-afternoon class and went through the now familiar routine. Walk in, put my belongings under the desk, rummage through my purse for the flash drive, put flash drive in computer, wait for computer to recognize flash drive while getting my notes out, etc, etc. About the time that the computer indicated that all systems were go, I heard singing outside my classroom. Yes, singing.

My 6th floor classroom faces the relatively small concrete courtyard in the center of the Big City University campus. The courtyard is surrounded by multi-story buildings and has a dry fountain in the center - one of the many casualities of the drought. There are a few sad trees that try to green up the place, but overall, the buildings and dry fountain give the courtyard the feel of a prison exercise yard. Whenever I look down into the well from my classroom, I half expect to see Morgan Freeman and Tim Robbins talking about hope. Instead, I see students milling about, trying to act like this concrete jungle isn't horribly depressing.

Apparently, one of them has discovered that the courtyard offers great acoustics. While I set up for my class, I heard, "Cupid, draw back your bow, and let your arrow flow..." Clear as a bell, a beautiful Sam Cook voice filtered into my classroom - 6 stories up. I thought, "That kid's got some pipes." My boring, dull students told me that the courtyard singer had been at it all afternoon. They weren't impressed, but then nothing impresses this group. I could walk in and set myself on fire and they'd just yawn and tell me how some other teacher set himself on fire earlier in the day and they were so over it.

The singer wrapped up his set and moved on just as I started class. I didn't give it any more thought, except at those random moments when I caught myself humming, "Cupid, draw back your bow, and let your arrow flow..."

Flash forward to yesterday: I was lecturing away in my late afternoon class, trying desparately to explain the stock market crash of 1929. I am not an economist and I don't want to be. I had a loose grasp on the basics of the crash and had successfully explained what I knew in 3 classes. Now, it was the 4th class and I just wanted to get done. As I walked through my explanation of "buying on margin," there he was again, the courtyard singer. "Day-o! Day-ay-ay-o! Daylight come and me want to go home." "Bastard!" I thought, but miraculously, did not say out loud.

My students also heard the song stylings emanating from the exercise yard and became highly distracted. I'm sure it was the singer, because what student wouldn't want to spend their afternoon talking about buying on margin and economic depression? Seriously. As the singer continued to insist that he wanted to go home, I said, "Yes, we all want to go home. Now, shut up!" My students laughed and we were back on track. Well, I had their attention again. My brain had shut down for the day. I was on auto pilot. Hoover - FDR - New Deal - blah, blah, blah.

I'm thinking of giving the courtyard singer a list of relevant songs for my class and have him provide background music for my lectures. Let's see - next up: World War II. Maybe he could do a rendition of "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy," or "Over There." When we talk about the women's movement of the 1970s, I'm sure he won't mind belting out, "I am woman, hear me roar." All from the prison exercise yard with the great acoustics.

History Writer

As my new work colleagues talk about sending out article manuscripts for review and obtaining book contracts, I remain mired in grading, writing lectures, and fielding student requests and complaints. On my way home yesterday, my trusty iPod shuffled to "Paperback Writer" by the Beatles. Got me thinking about courting publishers. I think I'll send this rendition with my propectus to potential publishers.

History Writer
(sung to the tune of "Paperback Writer" by the Beatles)

History writer (history writer)
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
It took six years to write, will you take a look?
It's based on a program to help people read,
And I need a job, so I want to be a History writer,
History writer

It's the southern story of excluding blacks
From voting and reading and all of that
The teachers try to help people read,
I've written it up and I want to be a History writer,
History writer

History Writer (History Writer)

It's two hundred pages, give or take a few,
I'd have written more but I blew a fuse
I can make it longer if you like the style
Or I'll change the whole thing, I'll even wash your car
History writer, History writer

If you really like it, you can have the rights
And I'll cook dinner for you every night
All I ask is that I get tenure, I need to eat
So I want to be a History writer
History writer

History writer, history writer
History writer, history writer

Angered the Wrong Universal Force

Apparently, I've angered some very vindictive universal force. I'm not sure when it happened or how, and I'm not sure how to undo it, but I hope this force smiles on me soon. Allow me to recap the past few weeks:

1) Lost my flash drive with all of my computer files on it.
2) Computer froze and slipped into a coma, cutting off access to my files.
3) Got in traffic jam, had to cancel first class, ran a very confusing and disorganized second class with wrong version of lecture
4) Confronted a very sluggish classroom computer, tried to run class, finally aborted class, cancelled the rest of the day and went home
5) Student risked life and limb to turn on classroom projector when remote failed to work
6) CD with sound files of oral histories wouldn't rip onto my computer, complicating what should have been an entertaining lecture
7) DVD wouldn't play in my office computer
8) Couldn't watch TV at friends' house because couldn't figure out satellite TV and Tivo
9) Blew fuse at friends' house while warming food in the microwave
10) Almost lost friends' dog when I opened the garage door instead of turning on the light

And finally . . . the best of all: I returned from lunch today, unlocked my office door, and the entire door handle came off in my hand. At that point, I just started laughing. What else could I do? A colleague told me "not to fly off the handle." I took some consolation that perhaps I did have a firm handle on things, all evidence to the contrary.

Death Takes No Holiday

We're 8 weeks into the semester and I have to say that I'm becoming increasingly concerned about the death rate among my students' friends and relatives. So far, my students have lost 3 siblings, 3 close friends, and a father. In addition, at least 5 of my students have diseases that require regular medical attention and make it impossible for them to come to class. One mother was hospitalized but is on the road to recovery. One student who started the semester on crutches is just limping now, so maybe she's healing.

The second exam is next week. Here's hoping my students' friends and relatives survive. Here's hoping my infirmed students can leave their sick beds, dragging an IV and oxygen tank with them if necessary.

Finally, here's hoping this isn't a sign of a larger curse that affects people who spend time with my students. I think I'll get my cough checked out, just to be on the safe side.

Weekend Update

It's late on Sunday and I'm looking at the back end of another weekend shot to hell. I spent much of the weekend preparing for lectures next week and grading papers. I hate grading. I really hate grading piles of garbage. I know that I'm supposed to offer helpful comments and find at least one good thing in each paper, but when over half of the papers are repetitive, redundant, repetitive summaries of crap, it's hard to be nice. For some, I was reduced to something that sounded a lot like: "Dear Student X: In your paper, you managed to spell your name correctly. Congratulations. It's too bad that you misspelled my name and Fredrick Douglas (the subject of your paper). Better luck next time." I'll just say one thing: Frederick Douglass's name has 2 Es and 2 Ss.

My lecture is incomplete. I want to use clips of oral history interviews and have run into technical difficulties. The CD is a companion to a book about African Americans' memories of Jim Crow segregation. When I did this lecture 4 years ago, I popped the library's copy of the CD into my computer and presto! It loaded straight into Media Player. From there, I could embed individual sound files into my Power Point presentation and really looked like a real techno-badass teacher.

Fast forward 4 years to a new computer, new operating system, and new CD. I put the CD into my computer and I can't load it onto my hard drive. I can play the CD and I can create a playlist in Media Player, but I can't put the individual files onto my hard drive, which means I can't easily embed them into my Power Point presentation. I don't know if this is a copyright issue, a Vista issue, or just God's wrath raining down on me. Grrrr. Very frustrating. Now, instead of looking like a techno-badass professor, I'll look like a techno-idiot, trying to construct a coherent lecture while juggling at least 2 different pieces of equipment. I'm not giving up, even after a major techno meltdown last Thursday.

Late this evening, I checked my email from the northeastern post-industrial wasteland. Second on the list was: "Job Offer: Secret Shopper." I like to shop, I thought. I don't like to grade, but grading salespeople might actually be fun. Just so I don't have to read any papers about Fredrick Douglas waiting on people.

Politics Georgia-Style

According to my trusty calendar, it's time for the Georgia State Fair, when folks from far and wide bring their oversized livestock and produce to the center of the state for a reminder of how simple life used to be. According to georgiastatefair.org, the fair is in Macon. Last time I checked, the state fairgrounds were in Perry, about 20 minutes south of Macon.

My only visit to the fairgrounds was for my last job in Georgia. In an effort to equalize travel for everyone, we had a statewide meeting in Perry, as close to the center of the state as you can get. The meeting was in a room that overlooked one of the indoor arenas. The first day wasn't bad. The second day, we learned that the room was not soundproof. Our meeting was interrupted by a loudspeaker announcing the beginning of some sort of horse competition. The rest of our meeting was punctuated by "So, let's hear it for..." followed by applause. We soon learned the room wasn't smell-proof either. We didn't have any more meetings at the fairgrounds.

According to my local paper, Georgia's candidates for US Senate were treated to a similar reception during their debate at the fair last night. The paper reports that "a rowdy crowd of 300 cheered, jeered, and often drowned out the candidates." Sitting Senator Saxby Chambliss apparently had a huge "Kick Me" sign on, as the other candidates criticized his support of the recent bail-out package. Their attacks were supported by "backers, most of them bused in from Atlanta." Leave it to the damn eco-conscious Atlanta carpetbaggers to ruin a perfectly good rural folk hootenanny.

But Chambliss wasn't without supporters. Scattered throughout the crowd, people who apparently drove their own cars to the fair "waved 'Saxby' signs and offered up sustained 'boos'" when another candidate mentioned Barack Obama. One woman even "hollered, 'Bomb Obama!'" That's classy, real classy. I'm guessing the woman is very familiar with "being bombed."

While the debate crowd grew more and more partisan and less and less dignified, "outside the cavernous arena, fairgoers munched on funnel cake and pork butt on a stick." Now I consider myself a good Georgian, but hell if I know what "pork butt . . . on a steeek" is. Unfortunately, the fair's website doesn't explain it either. After further research (which was a really good use of my time), I learned that pork butt on a stick is a member of the barbecue family, like a shiskabob of pork butt. I just know that there has never been a day when I've thought, "I'd sure like a pig's ass on a stick right about now. And a side of funnel cake. That would really hit the spot." I also know that if I ever form a band, I'm calling it, "Pork Butt on a Stick."

If you ask me, sounds like there was a lot of ass-chewing both inside and outside the "cavernous arena." Almost makes me wish I'd been in Perry last night, and I assure you that I've never made that statement before.

Straight to Hell, Do Not Pass Go

These are troubled times. The US and overseas economies are hanging on by their collective fingernails, the Presidential election is sliding into a morass of name-calling and back-stabbing, and Orlando Bloom is still galavanting around saving orphans and not making any new movies. Troubled times, I say.

But, the worst sign of all, a true omen of the impending apocalypse, a "bend over and kiss your ass good-bye" harbinger if there ever was one:

This movie was #1 in the US box office last weekend. Ouch, I'm in actual physical pain. Seriously. Real. Physical. Pain. We can't afford a tank of gas, but we can afford tickets to watch talking dogs? Really? I don't want to ruin the movie for anyone, but those dogs can't really talk. What's next? A full-length feature film starring the Aflac duck? At least that would be entertaining because that duck can really talk. Seriously.

Image from: http://3disneyboys.files.wordpress.com/2008/04/beverly_hills_chihuahua.jpg

Back in Business

Greetings from my new home computer! I'd include a picture, but I'm still working out the interface between my computer and my camera. I trust they'll be good friends before long. Although the camera and computer are still negotiating the terms of their relationship, I successfully managed to load MS Office, iTunes, printer drivers, and virus protection yesterday. For most people on the planet, these are relatively easy procedures. With my extensive history of killing computers softly with software, I'm always amazed when things go smoothly.

So far so good with the new stalwart companion. I'm adjusting to Vista and stiffer keys. The base is also "thicker" than my old computer so I'm pretty sure I'm at grave risk for a crippling case of carpel tunnel. I'm also adjusting to a squattier screen, forcing me to scoll up and down a lot more. The new computer has a built-in remote-looking thing next to the keyboard so I can easily watch movies. As if I need more encouragement to procrastinate.

I think my computer and I will be good friends. I notice that I'm not deafened by fan noise nor am I forced to wear asbestos gloves to avoid burning my fingers. All improvements in my book. And the sound system is better, probably because it's not competing with a loud fan. By "fan," I mean a whirring sound, not someone standing next to my desk yelling, "Go computer! Woohoo!" That would be really annoying.

So, after a week that left me feeling disorganized and completely off my game, I feel my life coming back on track. My errant flash drive came home mid-week and things really started to improve. I've decided that I can't ever lose that flash drive again.

Trash as a Metaphor

Today, I drove into work. Yes, I know it's Monday and I usually work at home on Mondays. Over the weekend, my computer froze up and slipped into a coma. Since this was the second meltdown in 4 months, I put a DNR order in place. I tried not to freak out, knowing that I'd lost my back-up last week. I took the machine to Best Buy where the Geek Squad recovered my data. My former stalwart companion is now in pieces, its brain in a plastic ziploc bag, and its data on both a DVD and flash drive.

I've ordered a new computer that should arrive by the end of the week. In the meantime, I'm forced to work in my office. It's been a long time since I've worked in an office. A really long time. Like 10 years. It's a strange experience. There are other people around and I can't work in my pajamas all day. There aren't any windows in my office and I'm beginning to feel claustrophobic. I'm not sure I like this. Anyway, I'm working through my lecture and trying to get ready for tomorrow.

I'm also spending the week with Big City friends, so I don't have to do a daily commute. When I left this morning, I hoped that I had everything I'd need to live and work away from home for 4 days. I remembered my students' exams, I remembered my books, I remembered the oh-so-important flash drive, and I remembered to take the trash out. After making 3-4 trips up and down the stairs, I got in the car and headed out.

About 15 minutes down the road, I remembered the trash that was still in my trunk. "Crap," I thought, "How perfect is this? I have lots of trash and I can't get rid of it. I just keep hauling it around, stinking up my life." I'm not sure I've ever managed a more perfect metaphor. I also appreciated the irony of my trash riding in the trunk with my students' exams. I wondered who was winning the stench war in my trunk.

Rather than worrying about computers, being away from home, or any number of other things, I decided to worry about the trash. When I arrived at the parking deck, I noted that there were trash cans with flip lids on each floor, right next to the elevators. While others pulled into the first space they could find, I drove straight to the upper floor. I parked right next to the trash can, popped the trunk, popped the top of the trash can, and secreted my bag of trash into the trash can. Problem solved. I'm hoping that this concrete act translates into metaphor and my luck changes soon.

Train Wreck

Yesterday was one of those days. It was the kind of day that makes you wonder why you ever got out of bed. As far as I can tell, it all started the night before. After driving to and from the Big City to give a make-up exam, I returned home and got a late start on my lecture. For 5 hours, I struggled to pull the material together. I needed to cover antebellum reform and the Mexican-American War. After 5 hours, I decided to jetison the war. There's always the next class.

Turning my attention to antebellum reform, I stubbornly decided to revise my rather dry take on the anti-slavery movement. I decided to talk about African American abolitionists, and not just Frederick Douglass. Trouble is that I didn't have all the material I needed at my fingertips. At 10:30PM, I was still looking for the "perfect quote." I called a friend and babbled incoherently about being disorganized and unprepared. She advised me to call in "overwhelmed." I decided to keep trying to make my lecture work. By 11:30, I decided that life was too short. Exhausted and completely frazzled, I put the mess together as best I could and went to bed, not at all convinced that I was actually going to make it to work the next day.

At 6AM, I got up, determined to face the beast and get through the day. I went over my lecture, made some last minute changes, printed my copy of the powerpoint slides, and headed for the shower. Miracle of miracles, my hair actually looked halfway decent. I foolishly thought my luck was changing.

Before I left, I remembered that I needed to save my lecture to my jump drive. I dug though my purse - no jump drive. I emptied my purse - no jump drive. I repeated the procedure with my bookbag. No jump drive. Fortunately, everything on the drive is on my computer so I didn't "lose" any data. Fortunately, I have a back-up jump drive. I quickly saved my lecture and was out the door, hoping that my lost jump drive was in my last classroom of the day.

All was going relatively well. During the first 45 minutes of my 90-minute commute, I talked through some rough parts of my lecture, ironing out the transitions and explanations. I turned on to the interstate, drove about 5 miles and stopped. Stopped for a long time. Stopped long enough to discover that Big City radio stations have completely given up on traffic reports, especially for post rush hour wrecks on this "lesser" interstate. I sat long enough to discover that I was too exhausted to try to figure out an alternate route into town, and to discover that my cell phone was running out of juice and I didn't have the phone number for Big City University. I tried Information, asked for Big City University by name, and was connected to a phone that just rang and rang and rang. I pictured a lone phone in a soundproof room, sign on the door reads, "Gag phone for Information."

Increasingly exasperated as the minutes ticked by, I called a friend who found the real number for BCU. I successfully passed on the message and cancelled my first class. Then, as always happens, the clouds parted, the angels sang, and we were traveling at normal speeds again. I considered turning around and going home. I really did. In the end, I decided to persevere. Why deny the gods their opportunity to screw up the rest of my day? I arrived at BCU about 10 minutes before my class would have started. But, the die was cast and I was in no mental shape to lecture. I headed to my office to try to regroup. Nothing like feeling totally defeated at 10:50AM.

At the appointed time, I went to my second class which is in the same room as the first. Very reliable students were noticeably absent. I think they saw the cancellation sign on the door and assumed their class was cancelled as well. I decided to go forward when about 2/3 of them showed up.

I put in my jump drive, turned on the projector and launched into my lecture. About 3 slides in, I discovered that the lecture on the screen didn't match the lecture in my notes. Apparently, I'd saved an earlier version of the lecture to the jump drive. I tried to smooth over the problem, and realized that I'd just have to confess to the students that I was disorganized. I tried to make a joke of it: "Usually, it's you all who are surprised by the slides on the screen. Today, it's me. Let's see what's next..."

After class, I quickly got the slides in order and headed to my next class. As far as I can remember, it went smoothly. I don't think there were any major malfunctions in that class. Feeling a bit more confident, I headed to my last class. Got in the room, got my stuff out, and started searching for my lost jump drive. It was nowhere to be found. Fighting panic, I got out my purse to retrieve the back-up. It was also missing. I dug around furiously and it wasn't there. So, back up 2 flights of stairs to my other classroom where I found the damn thing still sticking out of the computer. Mark my words, from now on, I'm emailing my lecture notes to myself. No more jump drives - ever!!

The last class seemed to go smoothly. I made it through my lecture on antebellum reform, including some discussion about the temperance movement. After a long day, I made my way home. In one of my better ironic moments, I cracked open a bottle of red wine and toasted the temperance movement. I then proceeded to get drunk enough to forget the day. At 11:15PM, I headed to bed and passed out.

Today, I'm going to pick up the pieces, finish grading exams, and try to find enough gas to fill up my car.

Getting Dumber

The other day, I read Leonard Pitts's editorial in the local paper. I like Pitts. I can see where others might disagree with his views, but I like his reasoned approach to relevant topics. If nothing else, he makes me think, which isn't such a bad thing.

In this week's editorial, Pitts focused on recent reports from Wasilla, Alaska, claiming that former mayor Sarah Palin once asked the local librarian to remove certain books from the library shelves. Pitts used this report as a springboard to comment on "anti-intellectualism" in the United States. He forcefully argued that whether one agrees with a book or not, it's important to read. He concludes with:

"We are becoming the stupid giant of the planet Earth: richer than Midas, mightier than Thor, dumber than rocks. Which makes us a danger to the planet - and to ourselves. This country cannot continue to prosper and embrace stupidity. The two are fundamentally incompatible." (Leonard Pitts, Athens - Banner Herald, September 22, 2008)

I have to say that I'm on Pitts's side in this debate, though I think the "big stupid giant of planet Earth" may spring forth from different origins. Instead of being born from a complex argument against intellectualism (which seems contradictory), I think the giant is the result of just plain laziness. After grading 170 undergraduate exams, I'm appalled at some of my students' performance. I realize that I'm teaching a required course that isn't at the top of my students' lists, and I realize that not everyone likes history, but that doesn't excuse some of the absolute crap answers that litter the pages of these exams. Some of my students have yet to buy the books for class, much less READ the books for class.

Last week, I explained their paper assignment. It's a 4-5 page paper that requires that they read an entire 250-page book. That's right, the entire book. Gasp. I've given them a 2-month heads-up on this assignment. In other words, they have 2 months to read 250 pages. I feel sure that some will find an online review and/or summary and try to forego the actual reading part of this assignment. Or some will just make shit up from the title, hoping that I won't notice. Something like: "My paper is on Lakota Woman. It's about a woman who is a Lakota Indian. She had superpowers. She could fly and shoot fire from her fingertips. She was a real badass."

Others will read the first 20 pages of the book and try to write their papers. I don't think my students will refuse to read the book because they have formulated a complex critique of intellectualism in this country. I think they're just lazy. Either way, they're contributing to Pitts's "stupid giant of planet Earth."

But, I also know that some will actually read the book. Yesterday, one student actually had the library copy of the book, and had a bookmark to mark her place. The paper isn't due for 2 months and she'd started the book. I almost cried. In another class, I have a perpetual texter. I've called his attention to it, told him to put his phone away, and he persists. One day, when I was lecturing at a snail's pace, he pulled out _The Things They Carried_ by Tim O'Brien and started to read. I didn't say a word. I was so happy that he was reading a real live book.

So, here's to Leonard Pitts for having the guts to remind us that reading isn't obsolete or dead. I will continue, in my little way, to be David to the stupid giant of planet Earth.

Saturday in Late September

It's a beautiful early fall day here in the southland. Check out the blue sky:

I can't take a picture of the low humidity and comfortable temperatures, but trust me, it's a beautiful day. What am I doing on such a gorgeous day? Nice of you to ask. I'm staring at these:

Yep, that's approximately 170 blue book exams. The damn grading fairies have gone on strike, so it looks like I'll have to grade all these exams all by myself. Just looking at them (even in this picture) makes me nauseous and gives me a headache. I've been feeling woozy, headachy, and run down for about a week now and really wish it would go away. I thought it was stress, but now I'm wondering if there I've caught some sort of nasty bug. I'm sure this has nothing to do with the fact that I can't seem to find enough hours in the day to my work and I'm not sleeping or eating very well. Nah, can't be any of those things.

Despite not feeling well, I dragged myself to the grocery store, figuring the only way to solve the eating problem was to, well, eat. I decided I'd make one of my favorite pasta dishes for dinner. It's really tasty and I think I could use a feeling of accomplishment right about now. Things started to look up when I checked out at the store and got this for free:

Almost made up for the staggering nausea. I'm seriously thinking that I need to spend the rest of the day lying here:

Eating these:

And reading this: