That's the Breaks

I have a cold sore. It's reached the healing stage, which means it's a bright red spot on my upper lip. It's impossible to miss. I imagine that the astonauts in the Mir Space Station are charting its progress. "Da, it's shrinking, finally." I hate cold sores. I hate them for many reasons. First, it's impossible to hide a cold sore. My friends suggested that I teach in a burka. I actually considered it. I also considered a beekeeper's helmut. Finally, I decided that my students might just stay awake if they were distracted by the second lip sprouting under my nose. Second, cold sores make laughing painful. Contrary to my prickly exterior, I like to laugh. I don't like re-opening a wound every time I laugh. Pisses me off.

And finally, no matter what you do, no matter what you try, a cold sore never quickly goes away. No, it has to cycle through all of the really uncomfortable stages before it finally sings its swan song and disappears. My friend gave me some high-powered, prescription medicine and it seems to be working, but not fast enough. At least I'm on Spring Break this week, so I don't have to hide in the shadows, warning people to "stay away, I'm hideous!" Hopefully, this affliction will be gone by the time I face my students in 8 days.

Eight glorious days. One day more than a week. Yesterday was my first official day of Break and I spent the entire afternoon on the couch, in a coma. A three-hour coma. It was heaven. Then, I slept 9 hours last night. Today, I've actually felt the stress leaving my bones. I have work I need to to over break, but it's not immediately necessary for my current classes. I plan to eat good food, drink good wine, eat good ice cream, and work at a reasonable pace. And, I plan to watch movies. I know this break will be over way too soon, but I'm trying not to think about that. Eight days. Eight whole days.

Strange Sights

As I've made my way in the world recently, I've seen some strange things that I think deserve special recognition. Here they are, in no particular order:

• Didn't Just Marry a Mechanic: Picture a car decorated for a wedding, with all the usual accoutrements (shaving cream on the windows exclaiming, "Just Married," streamers hanging from the antenna and bumpers, etc.) Picture the same car broken down on the shoulder in suburban Atlanta. I'm guessing this was not their honeymoon destination. I surmised this when I observed that the car was not "a-rockin'" - though I did not go "a-knockin'" to confirm my suspicion.
• Mr. Hand Delivers Pizza: Followed a car adorned with a license tag announcing that the driver was an Educator. Glanced at the roof of the car and spotted a Papa Johns roof sign. Cuts out Spicoli's middle man.
• Second Coming, First Class: Picture if you will, a 2-foot-tall plastic kneeling Jesus, like you'd see in a church yard display. Now, picture that same kneeling Jesus impaled on someone's mailbox post. I'm thinking that won't make the mail run faster.
• Speaking of Jesus...: Saw a young man with long brown hair and full facial hair driving a BMW at the grocery store today. The miracle business must be pretty good in these bad economic times. I noted that he was not able to part the late afternoon traffic.
• License Plate Soul Mate: Followed a fellow driving an SUV today. His license plate read: AGH! I'm pretty sure he's my soul mate.

More as circumstances require.

Valentines

As a long-time single person, Valentine's Day is always hard. Yes, I know it's a fake Hallmark holiday, like Office Assistants' Day or Grandparents' Day. Still, constant commercials pedaling diamond heart pendants delivered by real-live teddy bears tend to put me in a sour mood.

This year, after spending much of the day in a funk, I've decided to turn a corner and embrace the spirit of the day. I don't usually tend toward sentimentalism, but I'm going to make an exception. On this day, here are 10 things that I believe about love:

• I believe that teddy bears holding red hearts can express love, but I think the real expression of love comes in everyday kindness and forgiveness.
• I believe in love at first sight.
• I believe that love takes patience and understanding, and the willingness to be a companion and friend.
• I believe that broken hearts never fully heal.
• I believe in soul mates. To me, they are the luckiest people in the world.
• I believe that finding love has more to do with timing than anything else.
• I believe that peace cannot exist without love.
• I believe that falling in love is a genuine act of bravery.
• I believe that a child's love can melt even the coldest hearts.
• I believe in the love of family and friends.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Aliens

Fair warning - this blog entry contains spoilers for "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull." I figure I'm one of the last people on the planet to see the movie, so I don't feel bad spoiling it for those who haven't seen it. In fact, I'd argue that Steven Spielberg and George Lucas spoiled it for those of us who have seen it.


So - it's Indiana Jones's last hoorah (let's hope). He's kidnapped by Russians, not Nazis, and taken to a military warehouse to help the aforementioned Russians locate a box. Nope, not the ark of the covenant. We've already seen that movie. No, these Russians are looking for something else. Something that landed in Roswell, New Mexico. Yep, these Russians came all the way to the United States to steal an alien. That's the first 10 minutes of the movie. I should have stopped there.

Aliens. Twenty years after the last Indiana Jones movie and this is what Spielberg and Lucas cooked up. Aliens. Seriously. Aliens. I can't seem to get over it.

But, the extended-skulled crystal-headed aliens with big bug eyes aren't the whole story. Turns out these aliens created an ancient civilization in Peru. At one point in the movie, Indiana Jones interprets cave drawings and determines that ancient peoples learned irrigation techniques and architecture from - wait for it - aliens. As a historian, I'm offended. As a moviegoer, I'm speechless.

Aliens.

I kept watching. I thought, "OK, the story is really, really unbelievably stupid, but maybe the stunts will save the movie." I was wrong. I understand that these movies require a certain suspension of reality, and I understand that I'm not good at that. But, c'mon - if Indiana Jones was at ground zero for a nuclear blast, then bounced to hell and back in a refridgerator, he'd be dead. He wouldn't get out of the fridge because fridges didn't have safety latches in the 1950s. So, he'd suffocate, but only after he broke every bone in his body. He'd be dead.

A few more observations - People don't learn to swing on vines by watching monkeys. Men who get hit in the crotch repeatedly do not continue fighting with swords. Based on my observations, they fall on the ground and squeal like little girls. Not in this movie. Nope. Shia Lebeouf (Shia The Beef, en francais) apparently remembered to wear his jeans with the iron crotch - just in case he got in a sword fight with Cate Blanchett. And speaking of Ms. Blanchett ...

What the hell is Cate Blanchett doing in this movie?? And why is she wearing a black wig? And why, in the name of all that is holy, does she talk with such an outrrraggeous accent? She played a Russian in "The Man Who Cried" - and I think Johnny Depp cried because her accent was so bad. And, why . . . why would a special agent in the 1950s Russian military carry a sword? Cate Blanchett didn't carry a sword in Lord of the Rings, and everyone had a sword in that movie. Ugh. I'm so disappointed.

I watched the DVD Extras to give Spielberg and Lucas a chance to explain themselves. Speilberg turned into rubber and blamed the glue - in this case Lucas and Harrison Ford. Seems the aliens were Lucas's idea. And Lucas was careful to say that his aliens aren't extraterrestrial. They're interdimensional. Whatever, George. You're extra- and inter-delusional. It will be a very cold day in Georgia before I watch a Speilberg or Lucas movie made after 1995.

Aliens. Seriously.

Bikes and Coffee

Today, I worked with the windows open, finally recording final grades on three of four classes of blue books. At 4PM, I realized that I'd been inside all day - inside on a beautiful spring-like day. I stood up, stretched, and put on my shoes. I did not grab my coat or even a jacket. No need. It's early spring - just like General Lee prognosticated. I wasn't sure where I was going, but I was going out.

I decided to drive and see where I ended up. I took my camera along, in case I saw anything worthy of my picture-a-day blog. After a weekend of seemingly endless grading, it felt great to have the sunroof open, music blaring, and no particular destination in mind. (My apologies to readers who are still experiencing winter - which is any temperature below 55 degrees.)

I ended up in Five Points and decided to stop the car to photograph all the Dawgs. I counted 5 in a 3-block area. A veritable Dawg bonanza! As I made my way from the first to the second, I noticed a father and son on bikes approaching me from behind. I didn't pay much attention, and I think I was walking in a straight line. I say this because as I passed a parked Toyota, I heard a crash and felt something hit the back of my leg. I did what anyone would do - I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, ducked my head and raised my arms to cover my head. Yes, I'm sure I looked really foolish, but not more foolish than the kid on his bike.

I looked to my left there he was - kid and his bike on the front of the Toyota. Interestingly, he was still sitting on the bike. He simply steered into the car and came to a stop leaning against the front end of the car. To my credit, I didn't laugh or ask if I could take his picture because he seemed a bit shaken up. His father came right over and apologized to me. "No, no, I think it was my fault," I said, "I think I moved into his path." "No," he assured me, "he's just learning. He wasn't watching where he was going." At this point, the kid, who had peeled himself off the car by now, interjected, "Yes, I was watching where I was going." The embarassment, coupled with his father's betrayal, proved to be too much and he started to cry.

Once again, I tried to take the blame, but the father insisted that his kid - his crying kid - was to blame. I decided to move away and started to walk down the sidewalk, then realized that I was setting the kid up for another round of failure. "You all go ahead," I said. The kid, now snotty from the crying, looked at his dad and sniffled. The dad helped him back on the bike and off they went, kid wobbling and weaving down the sidewalk. I continued to photograph Dawgs.

Then, I headed to Starbucks. I needed coffee for me and coffee for Big City friends. I chose my 2 pounds of coffee and approached the counter. "Get a free tall drink when you buy 2 pounds of coffee" the sign announced. "I get a free tall drink?" I asked, just to make sure that I wasn't hallucinating. "Yes, any tall drink," said the happy barista. "Tall hazelnut latte," I said, still not believing my good fortune. Surely, someone who knocks small children and their bikes into parked cars doesn't deserve a free tall hazelnut latte. But, within minutes, I had my drink and my 2 pounds of coffee - and renewed faith that our God is a forgiving God.

Life Sucks, and It's Great!

Yes, that's my vacuum cleaner. Why am I posting a blog entry about this mundane, everyday appliance? Well, I'll tell you. My vacuum cleaner has not sucked in a long time. I'd run it over the carpet and it stubborly refused to pick anything up. Dirt openly mocked my vacuum cleaner. I could hear its jeers over the sound of the suckless motor. Little strings would yell, "Ha! I'm still here!" as I took swipe after pointless swipe over and over and over. Finally, I'd bend, pick up the string, and throw it away - over and over and over and over. I'm embarassed to admit how long this has been going on. Let's just say that I considered calling Mike Rowe to come over and film an episode of "Dirty Jobs."

Today was a beautiful sunny day, Day 3 of grading blue books. I'd arranged the exams in stacks on the floor, organized by class. As I looked at the remaining stacks to grade, I also took note of the noticeable debris on my carpet. "That's it!" I cried, "I've had it with all this crap all over my floor! I'm going to take care of this right now!" (Savvy readers will note that my concern about this months-old problem reached a fever pitch as I looked at blue books to grade. Still, I'm sure that my concern was not at all related to grading avoidance behavior. Nope. Not at all.)

I grabbed the vacuum cleaner and was out the door to the repair shop. I was pretty sure that the problem would be easy to fix. I was convinced that if I had one of them handy men around the house, he'd have it diagonosed and fixed in no time. Well, OK, it would take some time, once I factor in the inevitable long-winded explanation about the problem - including how I caused the problem by simply using the vacuum cleaner for its intended purpose, then the 4-5 trips to the hardware store to get the correct belt or hose, then finally - the inevitable break to watch whatever sporting event is on.

I bypassed all of this by exercising my right as a single woman to spend my perfectly good money to pay someone to fix my vacuum. I was right - it was an easy fix. Took all of 30 seconds for the repairman to determine the diagnosis. The vacuum needed a new belt and filter. The kindly repairman restored my faith in all repairmen by not making me feel like a complete moron loser. He simply charged me for the repair and held the door open for me as I left.

I loaded the vacuum in the trunk and started the car. I actually felt my pulse quicken. I was going to go home and clean my carpets! I'm embarrassed to admit how excited I was. When I got home, I parked the car, carried the vacuum up the 3 flights of stairs and immediately plugged it in. It roared to life - light shining, ready to make up for all those months of incompetence, ready to show that dirt a thing or two about sucking. As I steered the vacuum around the room, it sang. OK, not literally, but it did hum. And it sucked. Man, did it suck.

Soon, all the carpets were clean. Even the carpet under the dining room table. Even the carpet under my dresser. Clean, clean, clean. I did something I never do - I walked barefoot through my apartment, just to feel the clean carpet between my toes. I'd include a picture of the vacuum's accomplishment, but it's just too gross. I can't believe that I lived so long with that level of grossness. I was so inspired that I moved on to the bathroom and cleaned it, too. I'm pretty sure there's medication to help with the unnatural euphoria that I feel.

Got the laundry done, too. Tomorrow, I think I'll dust. Oh, and I made it through the penultimate class of blue books, in case you're wondering.

Southern Groundhog Rules!!

Let it be known far and wide that General Lee did not see his shadow this morning. Early spring is right around the corner.

(I understand that there's some imposter groundhog in Pennsylvania who claims to be THE groundhog. Phil, I think is his name. I think we all know that he's not THE groundhog. He claims that he saw his shadow this morning. I think we all know that he was drunk. Don't believe Phil. He's a bit whacked in the head.)

Don't know about you, but I'm putting away the winter coat and gloves. General Lee says early spring - so early spring it is!

Grading Meltdown

I've hit a wall. A big brick wall. I've been grading for 3 days straight and I have many more papers before I sleep. I keep telling myself to keep going. There is an end to this grading nightmare and I'll never find it if I stop. I've even tried bribing myself with peanut butter cups(living on the edge with the recent salmonella scare). Nothing is working. I'm going to give into my lesser instincts and whine like a baby. Waaaa, waaaaaa, waaaaaaa.

My students have just about convinced me that our founding fathers were a bunch of whiny, spoiled babies. Don't believe me? You read 100+ flag-waving papers about how we really stuck it to Great Britain. After reading the evidence over and over and over again, I'm starting to see Britain's side of things. I mean, c'mon, they were just trying to collect taxes that were rightfully theirs. And those stingy colonists, who'd lived it up for quite a while, certainly had an inflated sense of entitlement.

Here's my new interpretation of the colonists' point of view: "Oh no, see, we don't have to pay taxes because we don't have any representatives in Parliament. See, we're the only people who can represent us because we're soooo unique and special, except that we're just like all the other British subjects. Confused? Must be your problem because I am making perfect sense. What's that? You're sending troops? And they're going to live in my house? Oh no you di'n't! We're declaring independence from your ass! Oh snap!"

I'm pretty sure that's what Thomas Jefferson wanted to say. See how committee wordsmithing can really ruin a perfectly good declaration? I'm considering defecting to England. The accent is much cooler and Orlando Bloom lives there. And there aren't any papers to grade. Good enough reasons for me.

Must grade more papers.