Bureau-Speak on a Friday Afternoon

Yesterday, I was forced to endure another yet another new faculty training session. The topic: Effective Advising. During this 90-minute session that started at 1:30 on Friday afternoon, I joined three of my fellow social science colleagues to learn more about the convoluted, overly complicated college policies designed to prepare students to be functioning members of society. OK, "learn" might be an overstatement. We were bombarded with lots of acronyms, numbers and requirements with multiple exceptions. The only thing I took away from this session is a renewed appreciation for clear and understandable explanations.

Here's my best re-creation of the workshop: "A student can use Spanish 1101 to fulfill a CPC but if he or she uses it to fulfill a CPC, he or she can't use it toward the core. He or she will have to choose another elective from Area F, but can't choose an elective if he or she needs Learning Support. He or she must pass the Learning Support classes before he or she can register for 1000-level classes in any area. He or she also needs to fulfill the Legislative Requirements by passing specific classes in Area E..." At that point, my head exploded.

As the presenter droned on about areas and levels and a bunch of other bureau-speak gobbledy-gook, I turned my attention to the other people in the room. I realized that I was the only faculty member who did not have a distinct accent. I was also the only female faculty member. There was the prof from Turkey who teaches American government, the Korean prof who teaches US criminal justice classes, and the Dane who teaches world history but yearns to teach Middle East history. I felt so, so . . . ordinary. I didn't have a cool accent, and I was an American teaching American history. Bo-ring! To entertain myself, I started speaking in a thicker southern accent and declared that I was going to start teaching South American literature classes. Only the Dane was amused.

After the session, the Dane and I walked back to our offices on the outskirts of campus. We both agreed that we were now well-equipped to lead any number of students terribly astray on their path to graduation.

Adventures in Moving, Part I

It's done. I signed the papers on Wednesday and it's done. I'm a homeowner. It's a bit surreal since I'm still living in my apartment. In the great real estate fruit basket turnover, I'm waiting until the current (past?) homeowners are able to move into their next house. So, I'm a landlord. Very surreal. I'm anxious to move in, so I have to keep reminding myself that it works better for me to wait since I have a lighter teaching week in mid-October. I'll move in on October 22. I've booked the movers, I've arranged to get utilities transfered, and I'm packing boxes. Forward progress is being made.

The packing chaos reached into my home office today. Remember when it looked like this in May?

Here it is today:

Yes, all those boxes are full of books. My and my damn book compulsion. Why couldn't I collect something lighter, like feathers or bubble wrap? I trust that I'll turn a corner at some point and my work will look less like a chaotic mess and look more like a highly organized model of efficient moving. This view looks a little better - at least there's some evidence of change over time:

The bedroom is the only room that remains unscathed. It's next.

Been Inside Too Long

I'm inside today, working up a lecture on the 1920s for today's class. From what I can see through my windows, it's a gorgeous day outside. Bright sunshine, no clouds, slight breeze. It's been a long summer so I naturally assumed that it was hot and humid, and that the day would be best enjoyed from inside my air-conditioned apartment.

Because I'm highly distractable this morning, I decided to check the local news rather than work on my lecture. I pulled up the newpaper's webpage and noted the temperature: 56 degrees. "Really?" I said to no one in particular, "It's only 56 degrees outside?" I decided to double-check the newpaper's facts. Keep in mind that this is the local paper that originates from the same college town where I am sitting right now. How did I check the newpaper's information? I immediately and without hesitation pulled up weather.com on my computer.

As the page loaded, I smiled as I thought about the absurdity of my situation. "I could just go outside and see what the temperature is," I said aloud. I fear that I have embraced this academic lifestyle a little too tightly, that my stranglehold is finally choking the life out of normal, rational reasoning. "Go outside? Are you out of your mind? There's no desk outside. There's some bright light that's not coming from a bulb or screen - and it burns! Strange flying creatures make sing-song noises. Worst of all, there aren't any bookshelves! There's very little tweed! It's too scary out there!"

The first step in recovery is recognizing that you have a problem. I've now made a solemn vow to move away from my computer, go outside and enjoy this beautiful day. Besides, it's Mountain Day at Mt. Holyoke College and the college has decreed that I must join my sisters in this annual celebration of the great outdoors and ice cream. We'll forget for the moment that I only climbed one mountain in the 4 years that I was actually at Mt. Holyoke. The other years, I went shopping. Hey, at least I wasn't working!

And So It Begins

I'm back! It's been a crazy month, so crazy that blogging seemed completely beyond my capabilities. I've decided to carve out a few minutes this evening to catch up a bit. First, the new job: It's exhausting. I made the mistake of volunteering to teach at the auxiliary campus where all the students want to be bulldogs but don't quite have what it takes. They're junior bulldogs. Second-class bulldogs? Calfdogs? While their official status may be in question, they're attitudes more than make up for it. I have 2 late afternoon classes over there and those people are Dementers (like in Harry Potter). They're sucking my soul, man! Imagine 75 minutes of your life with people who steadfastly refuse to engage in any kind of substantive discussion. One kid told this absolutely disgusting story about killing a pregnant spider and that's what got students' attention. Gotta say that I don't have a lot of stories of historical figures killing pregnant insects. So, I'm screwed.

My other classes on the main campus are much better. Yes, there's the obligatory contingent of "just out of high school" boys who feel the need to turn the classroom into their own personal testosterone playground, but they're tolerable over the Dead Zone at the other campus. Few snips here and there and the boys fall in line. The rest of them are just cute - the overachieving non-traditional students, the young girls who lose their voices when paired with cute boys in class (or vice versa), the students who surprise themselves when they actually care about the correct interpretation of a primary source. Makes my day worthwhile.

BUT - the big news is the house. All is moving forward and barring any last minute problems, I'm scheduled to close on Wednesday. As of 4PM or so, I should be a homeowner. I'm not much for wild shows of emotion - but WOOHOOOO!! [You can't tell, but I'm flailing my arms like Kermit the Frog.] There are moments when I can't believe that I'm actually going to own a house - and stay put for more than 2-3 years. Then there are other moments when I absolutely cannot wait to move in and settle down. Been way too long in coming.

At first I put off packing, thinking it would jinx the whole thing. Then I realized how much stuff I have and how long it will take for all of it to find its way into boxes. So, I'm making progress.

I've established the staging area: flat surface, wrapping paper, bubble wrap, and boxes. Luckily, I have a job where people use lots of paper. Screw the environment, I say - I need boxes!! One of my new colleagues has appointed himself as the official "Box Monitor," collecting empty boxes on days when I'm not on campus. He's a real dear, and I don't say that about many people.

In the past week, the staging area has become increasingly crowded:

Those boxes on the right are full, as are the boxes on the left. As evidence of my efforts, I offer the following:

Note the empty shelves. [Insert oohs and ahs here]. What, not impressed? How about this?

That's an almost empty CD cabinet. The other CDs are just waiting for a half-full box to snuggle into. Forward progress, my friends.

For my friends and family who have helped me move in the past and are already feeling the pangs of moving pains in your backs, let me assure you that I'm hiring movers. Professional movers. They're here for a reason - to move my washing machine and boxes of books. God willing, these things will stay in place for a long while.

Adventures in House-Buying, Part II

Finally, I'm getting around to ending the suspense. After a weekend of finagling and negotiating, I reached an agreement with the home owners and [insert drum roll] we're signing a contract later this week! I'm still in shock and awe that this is really happening.

Here's how it came together: At the end of last week, I made my offer and the home owners countered almost immediately. We weren't far apart and I wasn't far from my limit. So, I countered with my limit. The home owners countered back, reducing their contribution to the closing costs. My agent relayed their last offer and I immediately responded, "That sounds good to me. I accept!" My agent, being wiser than I, advised some caution. "Maybe you want to think about this?" she suggested. Bursting with confidence and sure that I wasn't going to change my mind, I still heeded her advice. "Maybe you're right," I said, "I'll call you in a few hours." And I went on with my day, because classes started at my new job in 48 hours.

I didn't call the agent a few hours later. Instead, I spent the next few hours transforming from a confident first-time home-buyer into a frozen-footed chicken. I kept thinking about how the deal forced me to my limit - not only to get into the house, but also to be in the house. My carefully guarded savings would be gone, which I was prepared for. What I couldn't reconcile was having to spend incoming reserves on two significant repairs. These expenses would delay my attempts to restore my savings and I don't function well without a safety net.

I also thought about how much I know about home ownership and home repairs. My conclusion: I know squat about these things. No, to be more fair, I know less than squat. I know squat-minus-100 about these things. I felt like I was standing on the edge of a pool, staring straight into the deep end. As I thought about the home purchase, paralysis set in, followed by the cold sweat and the shakes.

I called my agent the next day - the day before classes started - and told her about my anxiety. She understood and said she'd pass my concerns to the home owners. I can assure you that I wasn't playing hard-to-get or any other games. I was playing, "Yikes! I'm drowning in a sea of stress and anxiety!!" Whatever I was doing, it worked to my advantage. The home owners responded to my screaming dash away from their house with another counter offer. I read their offer in the midst of the blur of the first day of classes. I couldn't believe it. It seemed to address all of my concerns. I rubbed my eyes and read it again. Yes, it was true. Having learned my lesson from the previous weekend, I told my agent that I wanted to think about it.

The next day - still in the blur of the first week of classes, I called my agent and accepted the offer. Now, it's on to the contract and home inspections. Along the way, I'm learning all sorts of new things: the difference between 3/4 inch tab shingles vs architectural shingles, the difference between an electric heat pump and gas heat, masonry fireplace vs non-masonry fireplace, crickets and roof vents. I feel sure that this is just the tip of the iceberg. And no, I don't want to know what the rest of the iceberg looks like right now, thank you very much.

In the meantime, classes started this week. House stuff combined with the start of a new semester has kept me hanging on by my fingernails. My tenuous grasp was sorely tested on Monday when I learned that my late afternoon class meets on Tuesdays and Thursdays, not Mondays and Wednesdays. I'm not sure where communication broke down, but I've vowed to shepherd my schedule through all phases of the process to make sure that this travesty is not repeated. For the first time in my relatively short teaching career, I'm teaching every day of the week. So far, I'm not fond of this. Don't get me wrong, I'm accustomed to working for 5 days straight. Hell, I'm accustomed to working 6, even 7 days/week. It's having to put on real clothes, do hair and make-up, be at a certain place at a certain time, and interact with people for 5 straight days that's kicked my ass this week. Yeah, yeah, I know, there are plenty of you out there that have been doing this for years and I should just suck it up. I'd type my response, but I try to maintain some standards of decency in this blog. Let's just say that my response involves five fingers and they're not all pointing in the same direction.

I trust that I'll settle into this schedule. I also trust that this semester where I'm starting a new job, prepping 2 different courses, teaching every day, AND buying a house and moving won't kill me. Next semester, barring any unforeseen problems, I'll have one prep and reclaim Fridays as my "sweats day," hopefully in my new house.

Adventures in House Buying, Part I

Today, I took the plunge. I made an offer on a house. My first offer on my first home. It's still sinking in, but it's certainly a high point at the end of a long, exhausting week.

My real estate agent emailed listings over the weekend and I half-heartedly looked at the pictures, sure that these houses would be as disappointing as the previous 22 houses. I focused in on this house and on Sunday afternoon, I enlisted a friend to drive out for a first-hand look. Immediately upon entering the neighborhood, I felt my spirits lift. This wasn't a cookie-cutter starter home community, nor was it a neighborhood of homes that were past their prime. Instead, it was a neighborhood where people planted gardens and took pride in their homes. All the houses were surrounded by mature trees and there wasn't any through-traffic. All good signs.

The house sits on a rise in the middle of a good-sized lot with trees. As we drove by, my friend commented, "That's really worth looking at." I agreed, hoping that the inside would live up to the curb appeal. The next day, my agent and I headed to the house. The owner is handling the sale so he was there to greet us, accompanied by the world's oldest dog. He showed us around and then offered to take the dog for a walk so we could have some privacy. The dog showed some excitement as the owner got the leash and off they went.

We looked around and I found my enthusiasm again. The house has a lot of what I'm looking for. Best of all, it is clean and well-maintained. It needs some updates, particularly in the kitchen, but there's nothing that needs to be changed immediately. I was thrilled to find out that there's no carpet. I can scrub the tile and wood floors once (maybe twice) and those folks will be out of the house. The whole house gets good light, all the rooms are big enough to give the house the feel of a much larger house, and it's all on one level, so I won't have to navigate stairs all day.

Throughout the endless orientation sessions for my new job, I continued to consider the house. On Wednesday, I received an email from a friend who successfully navigated the stormy seas of home-buying, securing the keys to her new first home. "Maybe this IS possible. If she can do it, so can I," I thought. Riding the wave of encouragement, I called in my uncle who has signed on as knowledgeable consultant and chief hand-holder. We walked through the house and he agreed that this is the best house I've considered. Over lunch, he urged me to make an offer. His stamp of approval really helped to take some of the fear out of the next step.

Late this afternoon, after the latest endless orientation session, I made an offer. We'll see what happens from here. I'm bracing myself for the unexpected because everyone says that something will happen. Hopefully we can get settle on a price and I'll really have something to celebrate on my birthday in 3 weeks. Not a bad birthday present. Not bad at all.

The More Things Change...

This morning, before turning my attention to work, I'm enjoying my morning coffee and reading the local paper. In today's news, seems the much-beleagured Gov. Sanford of South Carolina used state planes for personal use, like the time he flew from Myrtle Beach to Columbia (South Carolina, not South America - important distinction where Sanford is concerned) to get a discount haircut. Guess he learned something from John Edwards's million-dollar haircut. Unfortunately for Sanford, he seems to have learned that he needs to get cheaper haircuts. Big picture, Governor, look for the big picture.

Or, this example:

"Also, on five of the last six Thanksgiving weekends, Sanford used a state plane to fly himself, his wife and their four sons from the family's plantation in Beaufort County to Columbia for the state Christmas tree lighting. The cost for those flights alone: $5,536, including $2,869 for flying the plane empty to pick them up."

OK, using the state plane for this purpose is questionable, but did anyone else get tripped up by "family's plantation"? Not "farm", not "ranch", not "country home." Plantation. Perhaps the bigger scandal is that the Governor is living in the 19th century, a time when the landed gentry could "hike the Appalachian Trail" in peace and get their hair cut wherever they darn well pleased. Yes, his behavior makes perfect sense now.

Adventures in House Hunting, Part II

Since my last update, I've been on 3 house hunting adventures and seen 21 homes. If you're doing the math, 3 trips + 21 houses = burn-out. And that figure doesn't begin to include the hours I've spent on internet searches and drive-bys. Having spent all this time and energy and still coming up empty, I was beginning to feel like a huge loser, like I was doing something terribly wrong. Then, I read the following in House Buying for Dummies: "When you do it right, finding and buying a good home can be a time-consuming pain in the posterior." Validation at last.

Here's my most recent lesson: I'm not willing to settle. Yes, I have limited resources and yes, I know I'm not buying my dream home. But - this is a big investment and I deserve to have a home that I'm comfortable in. Like I said, I've seen 21 houses of all shapes and varieties. Out of the 21, I liked four, but none are quite right. Here's the Goldilocks part of this blog entry: House A was too small, House B had outrageous HOA fees, and Houses C & D were in iffy parts of town. None of them moved me to make an offer, though the small one isn't completely off the table. My agent assures me that this is normal and I'm not being overly picky, which is reassuring. She also assures me that my expectations aren't unreasonable, even in my price range. I hope she's right that my house is out there somewhere and that patience will pay off.

In the meantime, I'll continue the hit parade of bad choices:

• The Cave: Early in the week, we checked out a "3 bedroom unit" in a nearby duplex community. Upon entering the unit, we noticed the master bedroom right inside the door and smack on the front of the unit. No other room had a window that looked out of the front of the building. And it was pretty darn close to the street. Major turn-off. We continued through the unit - nice new kitchen, large living room, and separate dining room. Nice sized 2nd bedroom and another full bath - all good. But where was the much anticipated 3rd bedroom? The 3rd bedroom was a small interior room without windows. It was a cave. I could just hear my greeting to my guests, "Hello, welcome to my home. This is the walk-in closet where you'll be sleeping. Oh, and don't forget these sunglasses. You're going to need them when you emerge from this cave in the morning. Sleep well!" I decided to continue the search.
• Welcome to My House, If You Can Find the Door: Later in the week, we checked out a neighborhood of cluster homes on the other side of town. The agent pulled into the driveway and said, "OK, I'm confused." I looked closely at the rather narrow dark green house and realized that it didn't seem to have a front door, unless you count the garage door that dominated the front of the house. We got out of the car and stared at the garage door, trying to remember any Harry Potter incantation that might open the door. After about 30 seconds, the agent said, "Wait, there's a walk under all these pine needles. Maybe it leads to a door." We crunched our way around the house to the world's least welcoming entry way. Taking a deep breath, we plunged in. Inside was a slight improvement over outside, but the whole place reaked of undergraduates. As we beat feet out of there, I laughed and said, "I could hang out a shingle: Will trade History tutoring for yard work." My agent said, "Or you could just get a keg and call it a night."
• Red and Black Flag: After a long afternoon of house searching, my agent sent a few new listings for my consideration. One was for a 3-bedroom split level in one of my target neighborhoods. Split-level isn't high on my list, in fact it's a rule-out, but since we'd seen everything else in the neighborhood, I decided to read the description. According to the selling agent, the house is a "wonderful, spacious home situated on a generous, mature corner lot." Hmm, I thought, generous and mature. I like those qualities in people, wonder how they translate in real estate - ese. I read further and found this gem: "You will find a fun and playful rec room on the lower level. Painted in a whimsical Bulldog theme and accentuated with adorable, functional, and indestructible glazed concrete floors, this room is the distinctive selling point for this wonderful in-town home." Take a moment to consider how many times you've heard something described as adorable, functional, AND indestructible. That's some floor! And, let's not overlook the "whimsical Bulldog theme." For those unfamiliar with what this means (and I can't imagine who you are), it means that the entire room is painted red and black. I know, I saw the pictures. It's a converted 2-car garage. That's a lot of red and black, even for this bulldog fan. I had to agree, that's a distinctive selling feature all right. Needless to say, I did not add this gem to the list of possibilities.
• Smokey Joe's Toilet: Picture a toilet sitting in a non-descript master bathroom with non-descript linoleum. Now picture a burn mark about 3 inches in diameter about an inch from the base of the toilet. Add smaller burned specks all around the toilet. According to my agent, the seller's agent says that the house owner burned a hole in the linoleum while he was smoking a cigarette. I decided that this was not my house because no amount of hypnosis could erase that image from my brain.

So, the search continues. In the meantime, orientation for my new job is this week and classes start a week from tomorrow. Perhaps now is the time to work in syllabi that stubbornly refuse to write themselves.

Adventures in House Hunting, Part I

On Friday, I went out on my first real estate adventure. My agent took me around for 4.5 hours, which is a long time to look at houses. In those 4.5 hours, I learned some important lessons, which I believe will be the tip of a very large iceberg. Here's what I've learned so far:

• Lesson #1: I need more money. This point was made clear when we went to a dismal, horribly depressing community of starter-homes that are within my budget. Picture Dorothy's house tumbling from the sky and landing in colorized Oz. OK, now remove all the character from the house and send it tumbling from the sky, landing squarely on a concrete slab on newly-cleared Georgia clay that's still in black and white. Getting the picture? No trees, badly laid sod that has turned to sad little lawns, and bland little houses completely devoid of character. I'm convinced that you have to work extra hard to remove that much character from a domicile. After looking at 3 houses, I looked at my agent and said, "If this is my only choice, I'll happily rent for the rest of my life." She assured me that we weren't done for the day.
• Lesson #2: College Town is an oasis in the middle of the boonies: I like living in College Town because it has all the things I like about Big City without all the things that I don't. It's relatively easy to get around, you don't have to wait hours to get into restaurants, tickets for concerts and plays are reasonably priced, and there are multiple coffee shops conveniently located around town. That's the good stuff. Here's the down side: It doesn't take long to leave the relatively safe surrounds of College Town and enter the country, where there's no Starbucks and the only restaurant is Bubba's House of Whatever Beef We Got Today. Continue driving about a mile from Bubba's on an increasingly narrow 2-lane highway and you'll be smack in the middle of the boonies. All within 15 minutes of leaving downtown College Town. In my case, this translates to a smaller radius to hunt for a house, because I don't want to live where people regularly hunt for their dinner. I ain't a big city girl, but I also ain't a country girl. I want to be able to get the ice cream home from the grocery store before it melts.
• Lesson #3: You never know what you'll see on your house hunt: Let me just say that blush countertops were never a good idea. Not in the 1970s, not in the 1980s, not ever. Not in the kitchen, not in the bathrooms, not anywhere at any time. OK, got that off my chest. In another house, I learned a little too much about the current occupants. I looked at an older home - "older" meaning 1970s construction. I was drawn to it by the remodeled kitchen and great room with fabulous fireplace and large windows. Unfortunately, these rooms were connected to the rest of the house. The great room didn't have a television and I wondered if there was a den. The answer was "yes, but..." In the first bedroom, 2 chairs faced a television. The chairs were dead-ringers for Archie and Edith's chairs in "All in the Family." The TV was also vintage, a 15-inch big boxy TV sitting on a sad little stand. That was it. Nothing else in the room. I looked at the agent and said, "This is the saddest den I've ever seen." She agreed. We continued to the master bedroom. In the middle of the room was a very tall bed, which wasn't strange in and of itself, until you gazed at the relatively low ceiling and realized that the world's largest ceiling fan hung above the bed. I seriously don't think that you could sit up in bed without getting your head caught in the fan. And, as if that wasn't enough, the fan's chain was so long that it stopped about 8 inches above the foot of the bed. I said, "You could claw-toe that chain," and my agent replied, "Guess that's how they stop the fan so they can sit up without injury."
• This house brings me to Lesson #4: I need to be very honest about how much time, energy, and resources I want to devote to a house. In the 1970s house, the great room and remodeled kitchen were pretty darn great. The rest of the house, including the exterior, needed a major overhaul. I can only hope that someone will fall in love with the house and give it the attention it deserves. I'm honest enough to admit that I am not that person. After looking at houses with yards, I'm rethinking my commitment there as well. Yes, I'd like some space between my neighbors and yes, I'd like to look out on green space. However, I don't like to mow. I don't like to water. I don't like to dig in dirt. I don't like to sweat. You see the problem here.
• Lesson #5: A bland house doesn't have to stay bland. In our search, we found two starter homes that were remarkable because the owners made a few well-chosen changes. Both homes had tile floors in the kitchen and baths, wood floors in the main living areas, new paint on the walls, and relatively new decks on the back of the house. None of these upgrades were top-of-the-line, but made a big difference in the houses. While I wasn't thrilled with either neighborhood, I was encouraged that if I was faced with a character-free house, I could, over time, do some things to perk it up.
• Lesson #6: I don't have much pioneer spirit. When the housing bubble burst in College Town, it spewed a slew of unfinished high-density developments on my side of town. These are dismal, creepy places. The streets are paved and named, some houses are finished and stand within 20 feet of each other, but they look out on a big open field full of PVC pipes and weeds that are taller than I am (no height jokes allowed). The developments look like a tornado ripped through and spared a few random houses. Builders are desparately trying to sell the finished products before starting new homes, if they can even build new homes. Sure, I could buy into this emerging development, but there's no guarantee that the finished product will adhere to the original vision, and I'll have to live in a construction zone for years. Again, if this is my choice, I'll rent.
• Lesson #7: Patience. This is not my strong suit by a long shot. I'll admit that I'm feeling a bit discouraged. I thought my money would go farther. I thought I'd have better options. I thought I knew what I wanted. Friday was a series of, "OK, if you want a yard, this is what's available in your price range," followed by disappointment. "OK, if you want to be closer to town, this is what's in your price range," followed by disappointment. I'm certainly not giving in, but I am rethinking what I thought were my priorities.

More updates as the adventure continues.

Be Ve-wy Quiet, We're Hunting Houses

That's right, I'm boldly moving toward buying my first home. OK, "boldly" may be an overstatement. Trepidatiously sticking one little inconsequential toe into the water while making sure that all other body parts stay safely on shore. Yeah, that's more like it.

I don't understand people who jump right into home ownership. Hell, I don't even understand how anyone makes it to closing. It has taken me at least 3 solid weeks to just work up the nerve to call a real estate agent. Before yesterday, every time I picked up the phone, I broke out in a cold sweat and had the shakes. Picture a pimply-faced gawky teenage boy calling the most popular girl in school. Now multiply that by 100. That about says it all. Except I'm not pimply-faced, or gawky, or a teenage boy. Still, you get my point. I was nervous.

In the 3 weeks that I haven't been calling real estate agents, I've been doing a lot of research. Scientific research. First, I got myself addicted to any and all home-buying shows on HGTV. If someone's looking for a house, I'm all over it. The shows have been helpful in showing the ins and outs of the home-finding and home-buying process. It's helped to see real people buying real homes. It's helped to see them come out of the process with smiles on their faces, rather than huge dark circles under their bloodshot eyes, fingernails worn to the quick, and countless beads of sweat on their foreheads. I'm guessing that they've had some serious pharmacological intervention, and I want to make sure that it's a standard part of the closing process.

Here's where the shows haven't been so helpful: It's not helpful to see people who are my age qualifying for 3-4 times more than I'm able to afford. I've developed a real dislike for those people. It's particularly unhelpful to see younger people who are looking for a second vacation home in a different country. I've multiplied my dislike for those people. I actually enjoyed watching the episode where the guy bought a home in Honduras, followed by news of political unrest. I know that I'm probably going to hell, but I smiled at his misfortune. Poor bastard will have to live full-time in his beach house in Malibu. My heart bleeds.

In addition to HGTV, I've polled some of my house-owing friends to get their advice in this process. Some of the advice has been very helpful. For example:

• If you buy a house with a basement, make sure the basement doesn't leak before you buy the house. Sound advice if I've ever heard any. Yes, the friend who passed this along learned from experience and God bless her for forging the path for the rest of us.
• Buy in a neighborhood that does not appear regularly in the Police Blotter. Also good advice.
• Don't buy a house with a big yard if you don't like yard work. This is a tricky one because while I have a strong aversion to lawn mowers, I also want some space between me and my neighbors. I haven't yet figured out how to negotiate a balance here, though the idea of a hunky gardner is not without appeal.
• Think long-term. In other words, don't expect the house to be perfect from the moment you move in, and be ready to take your time to make it your home. Good advice. Reminds me of something a work colleague used to say: The reason God made time is so that everything doesn't happen at once. Very true.
• Have an idea of what you want but don't narrow your search too much in the early stages. Sure, you want to be on one side of town. Don't completely rule out the other side of town. Walk through a wide range of houses so you can really define your likes and dislikes. I'm hoping my real estate agent agrees with this advice.
• Get a copy of "Homebuying for Dummies." Here's one time where I don't mind being a dummy. This book is a gold mine. I almost understand "points." Where were these people when I was trying to understand statistics?

Friends have also offered less helpful advice. For example, "the market is down so aim for the absolutely best neighborhood in town and accept no substitutes." Yeah OK, I'll do that. Yes, it's a recession-style housing market. The problem is that I also have a recession-style income. So unless one of those fancy homeowners is willing to give their house away, I'm not going to be moving to that neighborhood anytime soon, unless I decide that walls and a roof are really overrated and I'd be just as happy with a canvas, poles, and some stakes.

Another friend advised that I should put 20% down to avoid the private mortgage insurance (PMI). This isn't necessarily "bad" advice, it's unrealistic advice. Sure, I could put 20% down - on canvas, poles, and stakes.

The advice I keep coming back to is something my grandfather told me years ago. I was buying my first car and the dealership kept pushing a car that wasn't exactly what I was looking for. My soft-spoken grandfather looked at me and said, "If you're going to pay that much money for it, you should get what you want." Absolutely.

So, tomorrow, I'm heading out on my first house-hunting adventure. I'm hoping to get through the afternoon without any episodes of screaming back to my relatively safe comfortable apartment. I'll let you know how it goes.

Letting the Chips Melt

Here's my motto for the day: When life hands you buffalo chips, make cookies!




Though I would advise chocolate chips, instead of the buffalo variety.

I'll admit that although warm chocolate chip cookies are satisfying in many ways, I still long for the satisfaction of kicking the Governor squarely in a place that would have him singing soprano for a while. But, in my ongoing effort to avoid criminal charges, I'll stick to the cookies. I'll just console myself with the knowledge that if the Governor wanted one of my cookies, I would look him straight in the eye and say, "No. You can't have any warm cookies because you are a mean, mean man with a cold, cold heart." Then I and my fellow state employee friends would eat our warm cookies right in front of him. That'll learn him to pass a mandatory furlough edict.

Wish I could take a picture of the smell permeating my apartment. Even on a hot July day, you gotta love the smell of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies.

And...in case you're wondering, I licked the beaters, spoon, and the bowl.

My Bliss

"Follow your bliss." How many times have we heard this overplayed Oprah pop psychology? Just do what you feel passionate about and you'll achieve everlasting harmony between your work and non-work life. In fact, you'll be so happy, you won't even realize how much you're "working." It's the modern day path to nirvana. I'll admit that I've drunk the Kool-Aid and after careful consideration, I've decided that my bliss is a frustrating tease.

It all started 8 years ago when I lapped up the Kool-Aid and decided to leave a promising career to embark on a new career as an historian. I was following my bliss, but my bliss wasn't going to make it that easy. Instead of studying at an idyllic southern university, my bliss said, "If you want me, you need to move to the northeastern post-industrial wasteland to study at the Concrete Jungle where it snows 8 months out of the year." I took another sip of the Kool-Aid and agreed.

Six years later, I returned to the South and finished my degree. "There," I told my bliss, "I held up my part of the bargain. Now, bring on the bliss." "OK," my bliss replied, with a sly smile, "If you want me, you'll need to teach over 160 ambivalent students each semester while simultaneously looking for a full-time job. And, oh, did I mention that you won't drive 15 minutes to the major university across town? Instead, you need to commute 90 minutes one way. All of this will leave you with precious little energy to write or do research." I took another sip of the Kool-Aid and agreed.

Three months ago, I secured the Holy Grail of academia - a full-time, permanent, tenure-track job in the Humanities. "There," I told my bliss, "Now, I have you." "Hmm," replied my bliss, "If you want me, you need to accept a relatively low salary, a heavy teaching load, and another commute." I took another sip of the Kool-Aid and agreed.

Just as I decided that I followed my bliss to a pretty good place - my bliss scampered farther down the path earlier this week. Looking back from the bend in the road, my bliss said, "If you want me, you'll have to work just as hard but take home even less money." This time, I shook my fist at my bliss. "Why can't you just stay still? Why do you have to keep pushing me to prove my devotion? Don't you know how hard I've worked?" I cried while setting up the decorations and party favors for a real, full-on Pity Party.

After some time for reflection, I'm beginning to pull myself out of this funk. In these difficult times, I keep reminding myself that in the end, I'll still get paid to talk about and think about history all day. Reading history books isn't a hobby that I try to squeeze in around my work life. While many of my friends struggle to find secure employment, I've been lucky enough to land a job that lets me live where I want to live. I get to interact with some pretty great people - and yes, some of them are students. From this perspective, the good outweighs the bad. Maybe it's the Kool-Aid, and if so, fill up my cup again.

That said, I still think this whole forced furlough idea stinks.

Fun with Technology

Today, I'd planned a full multimedia experience for my students. I had youtube pop-ups, I had iTunes on the iPod, I had a clip from a DVD, and I had 2 powerpoint presentations. Yes indeedy, it was going to be a big, big blockbuster of a day.

The first half of class went well. I got all the youtube clips set up and brought up the first powerpoint presentation (the same presentation I had to completely reconstruct when I ran into compatibility issues yesterday. Hate it when powerpoint versions just can't get along.) My riveting lecture on the origins of the Cold War went smoothly - complete with the inevitable student's question: Why did the US government get so upset about communism? I've decided this is the biggest indication of a generational divide between me and my students. Well, that and hip hop, which I really just don't get. As a child of the 80s, the threat of communism is ingrained into my DNA. But, for today's students, born after 1989, they have a hard time understanding the dichotomy between democracy/capitalism and communism - and then trying to understand why the US and USSR couldn't just get along.

(Hmm, maybe my 2 versions of powerpoint are fighting a Cold War...)

Anyway, had a good discussion about the threat of communism and moved on to Cold War society. I gave the class a break so I could eat a snack and get set up for the second half of class. Here's where class crashed against the rocky shoals of classroom technology. When I tried to insert the DVD into the computer, I discovered that some jackass decided to mash the eject button all the way into the computer, making it impossible for me to open the drive. Undeterred, I tried the DVD player in the classroom. It would run the DVD, but there was no remote to select scenes - and I didn't want to show the entire movie.

Left with no other choice, I called Tech Support. In the meantime, my diligent students filed back on time. It's the first time all semester that they've been back on time and the first time that I couldn't resume class on time. Anyone who knows anything about psychological theories of reinforcement knows that I'll never get my students back in class on time ever again.

Meanwhile, Mr. Tech Support squatted in front of the computer and jammed a very large knife into the DVD drive. Honestly, I wasn't aware that Tech Support guys were allowed to carry the equivalent of a switchblade hunting knife on campus, but OK, whatever works. I also didn't know that you could jam a machete into a computer and walk away unscathed. He explained that the "knife method" was the only way to work the drive. OR, he said, he could use a student's laptop, if someone would volunteer. The clouds parted, the angels sang, and a student brought forth his laptop. Knifewielding Tech Guy went to work.

While he fiddled with the laptop, cords, plugs, and knives, I explained homework assignments, I whistled a tune, I reviewed the previous lecture - and before I launched into an ad lib comedy routine ("Funny thing about Joseph Stalin..."), I checked in with Knife Boy. No dice. The laptop wouldn't work because the audio plug was no good, which meant no iPod music either.

Knife Boy promised to have everything fixed by Monday and left. The rest of class went better than I expected, mainly because I was still able to show the clip of Elvis and his pelvis. Thank God for Elvis! Here's hoping everything is working on Monday, because teaching late 20th century US history isn't the same without the bells and whistles.

Evergreen, Never More

Remember this photo?





I snapped this shot at the height of Freak Snowstorm 2009. As the photo shows, this was big, heavy, wet snow, and these two trees are bearing the brunt of it.



Within 4 days of this picture, the snow had melted under sunny skies and temps in the 70s. The trees bounced back, shaking off the heavy snow, raising their limbs, and boasting evergreen needles while all the surrounding trees had to wait another month for their summer finery.


All seemed fine, but below the surface, something wasn't right. Over the next few weeks, the tree on the right began to show signs of stress and fatigue. After several weeks of steady decline, it looks like this:





I'm no hortoculturist, but I don't think the little tree is doing well. I like to believe that the little tree fought the good fight through 2 years of drought, but the big pile of heavy snow proved to be too much to bear. It's a sad sight, particularly poignant when set against the vibrant green of the other trees and grass that seem to be bragging about their ability to hold up under adversity.

I feel certain that the corporate management of my apartment complex has already contacted the landscaping service to remove this blight on their perfectly constructed apartment paradise. One day soon, I'll come home and all that will be left of the little tree will be a stump and some wood chips. Before this post takes an irreversible turn into Maudlinville, I'll just say that I'll miss the little tree. And that other tree is just a big show-off.

One more thing - I don't want to ever live in a place called Maudlinville.

That's Entertainment!

This morning, I caught up on entertainment news. Thankfully, we seem to be moving past "all Michael Jackson, all the time." I came across two interesting bits of news on the BBC News website. In the first story, seems Daniel Craig and Hugh Jackman have agreed to star together in a Broadway play about two Chicago police officers. So, it's official. From now on, only non-American actors will be hired to portray Americans. I believe we have Hugh Laurie to thank for this turn of events.

While you chew on that, consider this comment from the BBC report: Scott Mallalieu, president of Broadway ticket agency Group Sales Box Office, told Bloomberg he expected the play to sell out very quickly. "These are two very sexy men - and male theatregoers will be attracted by the fact that it's a drama about two cops," he said.

Interesting. So, women don't care about the content of the play, and men will only care if the play is about cops. Wonder if this theory applies to selling history books. For my next project, I'm going to write a book about American policemen, and get Daniel Craig and Hugh Jackman to pose for the cover picture. Might even invite Hugh Laurie to join them. I'll be in a new house in no time!

And in other news, I'm not even going to try to explain this:

Hollywood actor Mel Gibson is in talks to take the lead role in a film directed by Jodie Foster. Trade magazine Variety said Foster will also co-star in The Beaver, about a depressed man who finds solace in his beaver hand-puppet.

So many jokes, so little time.

Success!

Good news! I found the recipe. It was right where I left it, in the last place that I looked. The dish is called "Mushroom Wine Sauce," printed on a page devoted shallot recipes. It was so obvious that I'm not sure how I missed it in my earlier searches. I may need to turn in my researcher credentials.

Anyway, here's the sauce, bubbling away:

That's shallots, green onions, mushrooms, and garlic sauteed in butter and flour, then simmered in red wine and beef consomme. From there, it was good, rich goodness on my grilled steak. To complete the meal, I added a baked potato, marinated asparagus spears, and a green salad with dried cranberries, blue cheese, and walnuts. Topped off with a glass of red wine and it was true Sunday dinner goodness, with enough left over for a Monday holiday. Doesn't get much better than that.

OK, I have the ingredients...

The other day, I sat down and planned my grocery list. I carefully planned a week of meals, hoping to avoid the every-other-day trip to the grocery store. I even found a new recipe to try - a sauce for grilled steak. I added the ingredients to my list and I was off.


Yesterday, I remembered the steak recipe and decided that I'd try it tonight. I set the steak to defrosting in the fridge and turned my attention to the sauce. Almost immediately, I realized that I was in trouble. I'd forgotten an important step in my planning process - I didn't mark the new recipe and I'd replaced the cookbook into its proper place. Bewildered, I faced my shelf of cookbooks:

Note the bookmarks. I can assure you that none of them mark a page with "mushroom steak sauce" on it. I know, I looked. At all of them. I also know that the recipe came from one of the Southern Living cookbooks. Note how many Southern Living cookbooks are on the shelf. Hell I know which one is the right one. To add final insult to injury, I think the sauce recipe was an "add-on," so not the primary recipe. In case you're counting, that's all cards stacked against me.

So, here's where things stand, I know that the recipe called for the following ingredients, because I bought these ingredients and they are not staples on my grocery list: That's red wine, beef consomme, shallots, and mushrooms. I seem to recall that the recipe called for more ingredients that I already had in my kitchen. Again, hell if I know what they were.

I tried searching for "shallots," "beef consomme," "mushrooms," and "steak" on the Southern Living website. No dice. I'm beginning to think that I made the whole thing up.

Crap.

Afternoon Delight - Moth Style

I spent the better part of yesterday afternoon trying to make the Progressive Era interesting. During a particularly frustrating moment, I glanced out the window in my home office, hoping for inspiration. Here's what I saw:

As this pictures suggests, it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust after staring at a computer screen for way too long. So, I moved in for a closer look, with my camera. Here's the image, in sharper focus:

As best I can tell, these are two moths sharing a moment of intimacy. Or, it was an intimate moment until that intrusive human glanced their direction, then grabbed her camera and shoved it into their little moth faces. As I snapped several pictures, I believe that I heard them say, "Hey! Do you mind?!"

Everybody all together now, "Sky rockets in flight..."

Summer Grading

I'm grading again. I do this to myself and I accept that I am responsible for my own pain. In my sick need to try to be fair, I usually offer opportunities for students to earn 8-10 grades each semester. I mix up quizzes, short papers, exams, and participation so each student has the opportunity to succeed. Some actually take advantage of the opportunity, which is gratifying. However, this means that I grade a lot.

As I wade through the latest stack of exams, I'm considering a new strategy. I think I should be able to assign a final grade at the end of the semester. To assist me with this new strategy, I'm going to look high and low for a sorting hat like in Harry Potter. Shouldn't be too hard to find something that only exists in JK Rowling's imagination. Armed with my hat, I'll have a grading ceremony at the end of the semester. Each student will come to the front of the room, take a seat, put on the hat, and after a few moments of deliberate reflection on the student's performance, the hat will announce the student's grade. Sure, this plan violates just about every principle of student confidentiality, but weren't rules made to be broken - especially if magic is involved?

Yes, this is the way things should be. Not the other way where I have to wade through open-ended short answers that conflate numerous ideas and concepts into one big maelstrom of crap.

I'm being a bit unfair. Overall, the exams & other assignments from my summer students aren't bad. I'm just tired.

Farmer's Market

It's summer in the southland, which means high temperatures, high humidity, and fresh produce!! Since I'm an apartment dweller, I can't plant my own fresh produce, but I can take advantage of our local farmer's market. I've been meaning to go for about 3 weeks and haven't gotten out the door on Saturday morning. Today, I finally got myself together and made my way across town.

Several factors worked in my favor this morning. First, the immediate environmental factors: I managed to get up and caffienated relatively early. There's a bright blue sky outside and while it is humid, it's still possible to draw breath.

Next, the broader environmental factors: Since moving to College Town, I've regularly loaded up my recycling and driven it over to the recycling center. I've also become much more aware of the movement toward organic and sustainable produce. I'll admit that I'm not a total convert, but awareness is the first step.

Next, the external motivating forces: Through the magic of Facebook, I'm in touch with several college friends who regularly sing the praises of their local farmer's markets. One friend sells her wares at her local market - hat's off to you, Mary! I bet your cheeses are the best around.

In Chicago, my friends make a weekly pilgrimage to their local market. During a recent visit, I witnessed the pilgrimage prep - complete with hard-core backpack baskets, like the one pictured here. Although invited, I opted out of the pilgrimage because it came with a 5AM wake-up call. I did opt in for the scones and fresh coffee that came back in the baskets. Amy and Phil, you're an inspiration.

But - to be perfectly honest, while all of these factors helped get me out the door, another factor decisively tipped the scales. In the past week, both major grocery stores on my side of town have sold nothing but disappoinment. I've sliced into bad potatoes and bad apples - and in this case, two bad apples spoiled the entire bunch, bought and unbought. I passed on lettuce and tomatoes that had no business being for sale. Add the bag of slimy mini carrots that I had the displeasure of opening two weeks ago, and I'm done with grocery store produce. It's like they're not even trying. So, I'll take my produce dollars elsewhere.

Upon my arrival at the farmer's market, I realized that I'd made two miscalculations that I'll fix on my next trip. I arrived relatively late. As I expected, the pickin's were slim, so to speak. And - I should have learned from Amy and Phil's example and taken a carrying recepticle of some kind. Next time, I'll know to take one of the many canvas bags lying around my house. Probably won't do the backpack basket.

Even with my late arrival and even though I had to manage multiple small bags, I was not disappointed.

I picked up some buttery Yukon Gold potatoes, crisp green beans and a fresh baguette with "everything" - think long, skinny everything bagel. The greens you see are a red-leaf variety of romaine lettuce. The grower was out of regular romaine so I decided to try this variety, figuring that it had to be better than anything I'd find the grocery store.

Later today, I'll head to the grocery store to get some cheese (sorry Mary, no cheese at this farmer's market.) Can't have bread without cheese. And, later tonight, I'll have fresh green beans, simple boiled parsley potatoes, and a leafy green salad with a pork chop. Take that, grocery store produce section.

School's Not Out For Summer

Today was the first day of summer semester at Big City University. I'm teaching the same survey course that I taught during the regular semester, except now, I'm teaching it all in 11 class sessions. For those of you who are keeping track, that's all of US History in 11 classes. The classes are two and a half hours long, because the 11 class sessions weren't challenging enough. Ever try to engage a group of undergraduates for two and a half hours? Did I mention that the class starts at 11AM and ends at 1:30PM? Yes, that's lunchtime, ladies and gentlemen. Yeehaw.

To get us started, I'd planned to do an introductory song-and-dance and let them go early. I've performed the song-and-dance before, so it's well-rehearsed and undergrad-approved. I got to the classroom and immediately noticed an unmistakable error message on the in-class computer. Investigating further, I learned that despite the summer temperatures outside, the computer was in "deep freeze." Apparently, "deep freeze" means that the computer doesn't do anything - not even "Reboot in 180 seconds" as the error message promises. I know. I waited. Nothing happened.

While I was staring the frozen computer, I considered just how bad life was going to be for the next hour or so if the computer didn't thaw. "Hmm," I thought, "my entire presentation is on Power Point, and there's no way in hell to do the presentation without Power Point because it involves a significant amount of student response to - oh yeah - the stuff that's on Power Point." My heart and stomach sank. "I can just go over the syllabus and send them home," I thought. Then I realized that in my effort to simultaneously save the department's meager resources a small corner of the environment, I posted my syllabus on the school's document-sharing site. No hard copies. Well, I had one, but I could hardly share it with 22 students. "Crap, crappity, crap, crap, crap. Damn me and my frugality and environmental sensibility," I thought as students continued to file in and take their seats.

I'll be honest, I considered running away. I hadn't said anything to them. They didn't know who I was. I'd just be that crazy woman who came in, messed with the computer, looked stricken, and left. But - my professionalism and desire for food and rent money won out. I called Tech Support. So, the first words my students heard this semester were: "Hello, yes, I'm in my classroom ready to teach and the computer is in deep freeze." I'm hoping it's not a metaphor for the entire semester.

Instead of launching into my rehearsed song-and-dance, I improvised. I'm very proud to say that I did not launch into, "So, who's here from out of town? I just flew in from College Town and boy, are my arms tired!" No, I blabbered on and on and on about things related to the class in no particular order. Here's hoping my students understand garbled jibberish. I figure they speak and text it, so they should understand it [insert rimshot here].

When I ran out of things to say, I asked them to introduce themselves. I asked each of them to say his or her name, where he or she was from, and one thing that interests them about history. We got off to a rousing start when 3 of the first 4 students declared that they "really didn't like history." The entire subject written off as boring and irrelevant. Great.

We continued around the room and the chorus of History Haters grew. Surprisingly, many of the HHs were girls, while many of the non-HHs were boys. I'm not sure what that's about, but I think it's interesting. I wasn't aware that history had become a "boy's subject," like math and science used to be. Anyway, of the non-HHs, one likes world history, one likes military history ("battles, generals, and war"), and one likes ancestoral history - or the history of her own family. Great. Out of a very small percentage of the class that doesn't absolutely hate history, a significant proportion like the history that I don't teach. Fantastic.

Mr. AV finally showed up and disappeared behind the desk. I continued my ad lib. I was almost out of material when he poked his head out, declaring that he had fixed the problem. Happily, he was right. By this time, we were at least 40 minutes into class and 2 students came strolling in. I guess they decided they'd only come in if there was Power Point.

One of the late arrivals is a repeater from a previous semester. He registered late that semester, had really inconsistent attendance, and eventually disappeared - which explains why he's back. It doesn't explain why he decided to come to class 40 minutes late on the first day. I'm sure that he decided to retake the class with me because he's somewhat familiar with my teaching style. The flaw in his plan is that I am also familiar with his past performance. Showing up 40 minutes late doesn't necessarily convince me that he's ready to make a bigger commitment to the class.

So, along with the contingent of HHs, the Repeater, Col. Military, Ms. Family Tree and a couple of brown-nosers, I also found this semester's Sleepy Sleeperson and Ms. Non-Ductive Reasoning. Sleepy Sleeperson decided to introduce herself about 30 minutes into the class, right after introductions. She took out her bookbag, placed it on her desk, then placed her head on it and checked out. There are only 22 students in the entire class, so, yes, I could see her. I felt like saying, "Really? On the first day? Are you familiar with the concept of first impresssions? How about object permanence? As any 4 year-old will tell you, just because you can't see me doesn't mean that I can't see you." Instead, she woke up just in time for me to say, "If you are sleeping in class, you don't get credit for being here. Stay home and rest."

Ms. Non-Ductive Reasoning introduced herself after class. In a throng of students, she informed me that she already knew that she'd have to miss 2 consecutive classes in the midde of the term. She wanted to know if she could turn in her assignments early. "Yes," I replied, "you'll have to turn them in early. And, by the way, it's not a good idea to miss 2 of 11 classes." "Oh," she said, "I plan to take the first exam and if I understand everything, then I'll miss class. If not, I'll come to class." To my credit, I did not say, "WTF?" Instead, I encouraged her to come to class. I look forward to reading more of her logic process throughout the semester.

So, there's the summer bunch. They're not as colorful as Mark Harmon's group in "Summer School," but then I'm no Mark Harmon either. I know because I don't live on a beach and I don't have a dog.

Tough Times Everywhere

As I made my way to the grocery store today, a sign caught my eye:

That's right - times are so tough that now you can take advantage of a two-for-one special here:

In these troubled economic times, the memorial garden has turned to "buy one, get one free" to try to move its merchandise. So, if you're looking for a deal on your final resting place - and want to make sure that at least one loved one will be there with you - look no further. And move fast, because it's a limited time offer.

While this selling approach ruffles my sensibilities, I applaud the garden's restraint. Think about it - in this age of product placement and advertising on steroids, there's no end to what these folks could have done. For example, you're out buying some planting soil and you see a sign, "You're planting daisies now, but one day, you'll be pushing up those flowers. Evergreen Memorial Gardens can make sure that you aren't pushing alone." Or the memorial garden could dress their newest employee in a Grim Reaper costume and have that unfortunate soul wave at potential customers as they drive by. The cemetary is on a busy thoroughfare. People are sure to take note of a waving Grim Reaper sandwiched between the liquor store and Cap'n D's.

Or, the good folks at Evergreen Memorial Gardens could adopt the upstate New York approach to selling "grave space." Let me set the scene: I'm sitting in my living room, enjoying a relaxing evening of TV and a glass of wine. The phone rings. "Hello," I say. "Good evening. I was calling to see if you would be interested in buying a funeral plot at [insert name of cemetary]," says the voice on the other end of the phone. This happened to me approximately 3 times in my 6 years in the northeastern post-industrial wasteland.

Every time, I had the same response. First, I would swear that I heard creepy organ music and wonder if the person on the other end of the line knew something that I didn't. Then, I'd start laughing. Uncontrollably. I mean, c'mon, what else are you going to do when someone cold calls you and asks if you want a burial plot? Each time, I would try to find a nice way to a) stop laughing, and b) explain that I didn't want to be in alive in the NEPIW, so I sure didn't want to spend all of eternity there. Then, I'd hang up with a new determination to get the hell out of the NEPIW. And I'd nervously peek through the peephole to make sure that the Grim Reaper was not standing on my doorstep.

Lumberjacks in Bhutan

Lately, I've had the urge to travel. Unfortunately, I haven't had the money or time to travel. So, I've made up for these minor deficits by watching travelogues. Through the magic of Netflix, I'm traveling through the Himalaya region with Michael Palin. (As far as I know, he does not have any Alaska relatives. I'm guessing this because he hasn't shot and killed any animals on his journey. And he's not making nasaly claims about being able to see Russia.) In his younger days, Palin was a member of the Monty Python troop - the greatest group of entertainers ever assembled. I'm on the last of the 6-part series and so far, it's been a bit slow. I didn't expect Palin to do Monty Python sketches across the mountains, but I expected some dry wit now and then. Instead, it's a lot of very edited interviews and very edited commentary. The scenery is spectacular, though.

Anyway, in this last installment, Palin is traveling through Bhutan, a tiny country with few roads that borders India and China. On his walk through the country, his guide took him to an old guy's house in the mountains. The old fellow wrote one of Bhutan's best known songs. At their urging, the guy sang his song. It was a bit difficult to follow since I don't speak Bhutanese.

When the old guy finished, Palin said, "That was very good." He chuckled nervously and continued, "I could sing a song about a lumberjack." The guide, who understood English, and the old guy who didn't, encouraged Palin to sing. Noticably uncomfortable, Palin said, "Oh no, it's rather a silly song." But then...with more encouragement, in the middle of nowhere Bhutan, he started to sing, "I work all day, I eat my lunch, I go to the lavat'ry..." He made it to the chorus, then forgot the words. I actually squealed and clapped while sitting on my couch. Made this series totally worth my time.

Here's Palin in his younger days:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5zey8567bcg

I am such a dork.

Minivans

Lately, my head has been full of cotton. No, not stuffy sinus problems. Sleepy, tired, lethargic brain problems. I've pushed myself to get some work done, but it's slow going. My brain is no fool. It knows that I'm "on break." It steadfastly refuses to engage in anything that remotely smacks of work. After fighting the good fight, and losing the good fight all morning, I gave up and went shopping for my nephew's birthday present.

I ended up at the Red Dot Boutique. Miracle of miracles, I wasn't there with all of humanity and actually found a parking space that was less than a 10-minute walk from the front door. Reveling in my good fortune, I made my way to the door. As I walked through the parking lot, I glanced over and saw a woman buckling into her minivan. I didn't pay anymore attention to her or her freak of automotive nature until I noticed that the van was getting closer - and it wasn't because I was moving toward it.

I did what anyone would do with a green behemoth bearing down on them. OK, to be honest, I did what no one else would do in this situation. I emitted a muffled squeal and jumped about 3 inches forward. I looked to my left and noticed that the van was still reversing straight toward me. Not only had I had failed to stop the van, I also failed to get out of its path. In fact, I was even further into the path. Cat-like? Decidedly not. My inaudible squeal and half step forward could not have been less effective. Doing nothing would have rendered a better result. Falling down would have been more effective. At least then, I'd be lower than the vehicle and could potentially miss the tires. Instead, I remained smack in the path of the dreaded minivan.

I kept thinking, "I'm sure she sees me. Surely she sees me." All evidence pointed to the fact that she didn't see me - or that the driver is a homicidal minivan-driving maniac who enjoys running down small-ish pedestrians in big box store parking lots. Whatever the truth, the van kept bearing down on me, no brake lights in sight. Let's quickly review my options - Did I bang on back of the van? No. Did I yell to get the driver's attention? No. Did I step backwards to get out of the way? No. What did I do? Well, I did a little skippity skip jump until I'd cleared the van's back bumper. Catlike? Decidedly not. Cool? Decidedly not. Awkward and ridiculous? Absolutely.

Once I was out of harm's way, I glared at the van. Not at the driver. The van. Again, very effective strategy. I really showed that van who was boss. I'm sure that van won't be backing into people anytime soon.

Once again, I am reminded that minivans are the source of all evil. And once again, I am reminded that I am useless in an emergency. I did manage to find my nephew's birthday present though. I hope he appreciates that I risked my life so that he could have some new clothes. Something tells me that he'd appreciate it more if I'd risked my life for Thomas. Clothes, meh. Trains - now there's a reason to throw yourself in back of a moving minivan.

Neighbors

I've lived in apartments for the better part of 20 years now. I've never felt settled enough to buy a house, and never felt financially able to take on a mortgage and upkeep. So, I've lived in a dizzying array of apartments.

Apartments have their advantages. If something breaks, I call the leasing office or landlord and they fix it at no cost to me. The landscaping always looks great and I don't have to lift a finger or break a sweat. In upstate New York, I didn't have to shovel snow. In Georgia, apartments come with central air conditioning, and most have swimming pools and exercise rooms.

Apartments also come with distinct disadvantages. Your rent can increase from year to year. There's not much space for entertaining or guests. I'm pretty sure I'm getting shafted on my water bill. And, neighbors come and go on a regular basis. This has to be the worst part of apartment living. Since I moved into my current apartment, I've had 3 different neighbors in the downstairs apartment. Each time one moves out, I pray for one thing: Lord, please send me a quiet neighbor.

Twice, my wish was granted. While my previous 2 neighbors had small children, I only heard them on rare occasions. It was bliss, and now it's over. I have a new-ish downstairs neighbor. He's a young fellow who moved in about 2 months ago. I've only seen him once or twice, both times in uniform. Seems he's assigned to the sailors' school in this landlocked college town.

I don't know much about him, and in the absence of real information, I'm constructing my own narrative from few visible clues. First, he has a hammock on his balcony. It's one of those hammocks on a stand. The hammock and stand barely fit on the balcony, so one end of the contraption is in the storage closet. The hammock seems to suggest that he enjoys lying outside, possibly in the sun. However, he never opens the blinds to his apartment, which suggests that he's a vampire. A vampire who dresses in sailor suits and likes to lie on a partially enclosed hammock.

Last week, the hammock vampire sailor found the volume on his television. I'm not sure what he's doing down there, but from my vantage point, it sounds like thunder. Intermittent, loud thunder. Annoying, irritating, distracting thunder. I'm guessing it's some kind of video game. Three to four hours every evening. Ugh.

All apartment dwellers know that there is a chain of responses to such disturbances. So far, I've used the "jump up and down" approach. So far, Sailor Vampire Boy is either a) blatantly ignoring my passive-aggressive message, or b) unfamiliar with the universal sign for "STFU" and is wondering why his upstairs neighbor is using the floor as a trampoline. So, today, I moved on to Step 2: Polite note on his door and discussion with leasing office staff. We'll see what happens. If nothing changes, I'll move on to Step 3: Sicking the leasing office staff on him. Here's hoping he doesn't turn into a bat and bite my neck. At least I can feel safe in my apartment because everyone knows that a vampire can't enter your home unless they are invited.

iTunes Random Play

Lately, I've taken to setting my iTunes library on random play and letting it go. I have about 3 days of music on my computer, so some songs get lost. Ironically, the shuffle brings them back into focus.


Right now, Nada Surf's "From Now On" got the call. I'd never heard of the band until I was driving home from a full day of teaching. From what I remember, it had been a long, tiring day in front of tired, unenergetic, sleepy students. I was whipped. Fortunately, I'd had the good sense to update my iPod before I left home. That morning, I'd downloaded an "All Music Considered" podcast. It was a live recording of Nada Surf in concert at a small club in California. Proved to be the perfect upbeat drive time music that allowed me to put the day behind me. I was never able to replicate that magic with "All Music Considered" podcasts and eventually stopped downloading them. On long drives home at night, I still thank them for Nada Surf.



Now, it's Better than Ezra's "This Time of Year." Got to be one of the greatest acoustic guitar introductions in all of music. I bought the CD years ago, for "Good," of course. I brought it home to my first single apartment, popped into the CD player and hit play. I sang along with the "Good" and "In the Blood," and sat back and listened to the unfamiliar songs. Just as I'd decided that I was undecided about my purchase, the first chords of "The Time of Year" rang out, and I was sold. Perfect song to remind you to"go on, let it be" and that we can all experience a "Friday afternoon" anytime we want to.



Now, "Fall on Me" by REM. College days, senior year, wondering if that Dartmouth boy would ever call me, wondering what the hell Michael Stipe is saying, wondering if I was ever going to finish my undergraduate thesis, wondering how long the bar across the street would keep $1 appetizers and beer for happy hour . . . all in that order. Then wondering where in hell was Athens, GA and how soon could I get there?



Up next, "Sweetest Goodbye" by Maroon 5. Since I don't listen to commercial radio, I discovered Maroon 5 through "Love Actually." I watch that movie every New Years Eve. If memory serves, this song plays when British Colin tells his equally British friend that he (Colin) is going to America because although Colin can't get laid in Britian, American girls will think that he's hot. We Americans laughed in the theater, but we watched as Colin arrived in Milwaukee and was immediately swept up by 3 American girls who thought he was hot simply because he had a British accent. We all knew that the scene was truer than any of us wanted to admit. Guess we didn't have the last laugh, after all.



Next, "With or Without You," U2 at their best. Always makes me think of someone I once knew who idolized Bono. Also reminds me of the drive from college to home - I-95 to I-287 across the Tappan Zee Bridge, to the Garden State Parkway and the New Jersey Turnpike, back to I-95 across the Delaware Memorial Bridge and home, singing along with Bono all the way.



Now, "Sunday Girl" by Blondie. I bought this song on iTunes about 2 years ago. If I heard it in the early 1980s when it was new, I don't remember it. When I bought it, I think I was aiming to buy "Heart of Glass," and got sidetracked. "Sunday Girl" is so catchy and upbeat, what's not to like? And, you can actually sing along with it, instead of muttering and humming along like we all do with "Heart of Glass."


Up next, a bit of country, Mary-Chapin Carpenter's "We're All Right." I'm a huge Mary-Chapin Carpenter fan. Time was, I'd buy her CDs after hearing part of one song. I'll admit that I'm not there anymore. "Time Sex Love" wasn't one of my favorites and made me a bit gun-shy. She got me back with "The Calling." Something about her music always hits me at the right time in my life with something that I want to, or need to, hear. "It's not too late to believe that fate has been keeping us from harm. No road maps, no lightposts, no North Star, no lifeboats, no miracle coming in sight. No voices to guide us, no angels beside us, no Shaman, no mystical light - but we're all right!" We're all right, all on our own.


And, finally, "Take Me For Longing" - Alison Krauss and Union Station. This was the first time I'd heard Alison Krauss, on a compilation CD of country music, blaring from my car stereo on a research trip in the Mississippi Delta. Blown away! "Don't choose me because I am faithful. Don't choose me because I am kind. If your heart settles on me, I'm for the taking. Take me for longing, or leave me behind." Amen. No settling for anything short of true passion. Choose a dog because he's faithful. Keep your friends because they are kind. Choose me because of something entirely different, and I'll be all of those other things. Amen, Alison.

OK, one more - "The Twist" by Chubby Checker. I bought this song as a possible accompaniment to my 1950s powerpoint slide show for my undergraduate history classes. I ended up using Bill Haley's "Rock Around the Clock." But, I still smile when "The Twist" pops up on random play. Makes me glad that my desk chair swivels.

Office Update

Regular readers will recall a blog entry from last month about my home office. I lamented that I had turned my office over to the neverending stream of clutter and disarray that comes with the end of a semester. I vowed to stem the tide of clutter and reclaim my space. This weekend, I set my entire iTunes library on random play and got to work. Nothing like listening to Frank Sinatra smoothly transition to Blink 182 and back to the Shirelles. The random holiday tunes were always a nice surprise.

I'm happy to report that after 2 days of solid effort, I struck floor . . . and table top, desk top, and couch. And so, without further ado - the before and after transformation:

First, the "under the table" mess that was my dissertation and teaching files, complete with overflow files and huge stack of trash:

And now:Note the absence of overflow files on the floor. The file cabinet and file boxes are sporting a new filing system that might actually be functional. Especially note the missing huge stack of trash. It only took 18 months, but I kicked that pile to the curb - or to the recycling bin. I also cleaned out a file box. Not sure what felt better - throwing out the many, many, many chapter drafts of my dissertation or throwing out all those job rejection letters. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course it felt great to throw out rejections. I actually said out loud, "You kicked me to the curb? I'm kicking YOU to the curb!"

Next, the table over the file boxes:

And now: Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that is a table surface. Amazing.

Working my way around the room, I faced my de facto file system:

Now: There it is, in all of its horrendously upholstered glory. (Almost makes me want to put all the crap back on it.)

Last but certainly not least - the centerpiece of the office: My desk. (Trust me, things got much more out of hand after I took this picture):

Now - drumroll please . . .

I've added a recycling bin under the desk. Between that new addition and the shredder in the corner, I'm hoping to stay ahead of the clutter for the summer. Wish me luck!

More Favorite Things - Strawberries

I love this time of year. The semester is over, and I feel like I've been released from prison. I have time. Time to catch up on reading, time to catch up with family and friends, and time to cook good food. AND - it's strawberry season! About 2 weeks ago, I made my way through the produce section of the grocery store. As I looked over the fresh corn on the cob, my nose picked up a new scent. I turned my head and there they were - strawberries! Not those sorry little excuses for strawberries that the store carries through the winter. No, these were red, plump, and not covered in bruises.

I abandoned the corn and made a beeline for the strawberries. I wanted spread my arms and scoop all of the little plastic containers into my cart, but I decided not to be stingy. Instead, I carefully made my selection, using the skills my grandmother taught me. Turn the plastic container over to check out the strawberries hiding on the bottom, smell the container, and finally, when you've made your selection, check out 3-4 more just to make sure you've got the best of the bunch. I might not be stingy, but I am competitive.

With my strawberries secured in my cart, I backtracked to the dairy section to get a necessary accoutrement. Barely able to contain my excitement, I made my way home. After dinner, I gleefully enjoyed one of my very favorite treats - sliced strawberries covered in vanilla yogurt.

A friend has promised to go strawberry picking with me. If I thought these store-bought strawberries were good, I may end up in orbit when I get my hands on some fresh berries.

Church Sign

The other day, I drove by a church sign that announced the following:

There's no recession in heaven.

I'll admit that I'm not sure what the message is. Clearly they're announcing that things are better in heaven than on earth. I'm pretty sure that's not news to anyone. I mean, seriously, why call it "heaven" if things are the same, or worse, than on earth? And let's be honest, don't we all want to believe that the Almighty has figured out how to avoid economic collapse?

Are the church folks pointing out a bright side? Kind of a strange way to do it, since in order to enjoy this particular bright side, you have to find a way to heaven. There's only one way that I know of to get there. Maybe they're encouraging us to create heaven on earth. OK, that's a message that I can get behind. Or maybe they're just taunting us, "You know, while you're struggling to pay your bills on earth, there's no recession in heaven. Nah, nah, nah, nah."

Maybe I shouldn't try to read into it. Maybe they're offering comfort, however misguided that attempt might be.

More Favorite Things - Blue Books

Yes, that's a stack of blue books. Graded blue books. Those are, by far, bar none, my favorite kind of blue books. I took this picture this past Friday, when this batch was freshly graded. Since then, I've added a second stack of graded blue books. Two stacks finished, with only two more to go. And one of the remaining stacks will be my small class - a mere third of the others.

I especially love graded blue books at this time of year. I love them because I don't have to make any comments on the exams. Students never return for their final blue books, so I can blaze through them quickly and efficiently, jotting down notes in my own shorthand just in case the student raises questions about his or her grade. I don't have to go through each one, writing comments that barely 1/10 of them will ever read. OK, I don't know if they read my comments or not. I do know that many of them continue to make the same mistakes - so either they're not reading or my comments are wholly unhelpful.

I should mention that a number of students did improve over the course of the semester. Their final essays were substantially better than when we started the semester and some even began to master the art of historical context and historical significance. Best of all, many figured out how to study without a Study Guide. These students were amply rewarded. [When I do a series on my "least favorite things," Study Guides will be at the top of the list.]

I also love blue books at this time of year because I know that I won't see anymore from these students. This is it. The end of the line. That light at the tunnel is shining brighter everyday. Yeah, I know that I'm supposed to feel pain in my heart as each of the little darlins leave. But, here's the truth of the matter: It's been a really, really long semester. Big City University decided that we didn't need any time off for the holidays, so we were back at work on January 5. I know, all you public school teachers are thinking, "Yeah, so?" Well, we pampered, coddled college profs are accustomed to a longer break, usually well into January. We spend the time revising our syllabi, reading ahead for our classes, planning interesting interactive activities for our students, writing an article or two, revising our dissertations for publication -all this when we're not watching movies, shopping, reading trashy fiction, and playing on the internet.

This is what Big City University took away and I'm feeling the painful consequences. I've been exhausted all semester, which translated into a bad attitude toward my students, particularly those in my first class of the day. Yes, they contributed to my negativity, but I can usually find some redeeming quality in a class. Some glimmer of hope that overrides all the jackassity in the room. Not in this class. And, with only 15 minutes between classes, I carried my frustration into my second class. It took about half of the semester for me to realize that I just needed to get through my first class, shake it off, and enjoy the rest of the afternoon. I think that a longer January break would have helped us all.

So, once I get the last blue books graded later this week, I can settle into a month-long break before heading into summer school. I've already got several projects lined up for the break, like coming up with the syllabus for my summer class, but I'm also going to enjoy the time off.