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.

Favorite Things

I've decided to attempt a series of blog entries, where I document and explain some of my favorite things. We'll see how far I get with this. (Those of you who followed my attempt at a "Photo a Day" blog are laughing right now.)

To get started:

I'm not a big snacker. I eat 3 times a day and usually don't eat in between. But, some days, I indulge in a late afternoon snack. I only do this on days when I finish my "to do" list by late afternoon. In other words, this is a rare occurence. I array a selection of cheese and crackers on a plate, open a bottle of wine, and sit back and relax, usually with a good book. On this particular afternoon, I had my favorite Townhouse Bistro wheat crackers, accompanied by 2 of my favorite cheeses: goat cheese and sharp cheddar. I went with a nice Pinot Grigio because it was warm outside and I wasn't really in the mood for red. The only thing missing was a bunch of grapes.

Honestly, I could live on bread and cheese alone. And pasta. Which might explain why none of my clothes fit anymore. I've met very few cheeses that I didn't like. Parmesan, brie, goat, cheddar, provolone, swiss, gruyere, ricotta, cream, Monterey Jack, colby, romano . . . all good. I'm not a huge fan of Asiago cheese. I tried it in a recipe once and it tasted like a wet washrag. Maybe I didn't cook it right. Either way, I haven't been brave enough to try again. I've not tried Limberger cheese, but its reputation, and smell, precedes it. And head & toe cheeses aren't really cheeses so I don't need to discuss them at all.

Likewise, I've met very few breads that I didn't like. As a child, I only ate white bread, as is programmed in small children's DNA. Nowadays, I firmly believe that white bread is the work of the devil. Who wants to eat bread that has no taste and becomes a soggy mess as soon as you put it in your mouth? Blech. No, give me a good hearty wheat or sourdough anyday. I'm not a fan of rye bread. Something about the smell and taste just don't do it for me. But, oh - cinnamon loaf bread! Nothing better in this world! Don't even get me started on bread-like products like doughnuts, bagels, biscuits, rolls . . . bread is perfection.

As for the flower in the photo, it's from a friend in Massachusetts. She's a college friend who likes to march to the beat of a slightly different drummer. She's not really far from center, but she's got this one "thing." Instead of sending birthday cards, she sends homemade Valentine's Day cards. Every year, it's a different design, cut from fancy printed paper.

I have to admit that I'd completely forgotten about the Valentine's Day card, so I didn't really miss it this year. Until, I received a box from my Massachusetts friend a few days ago. I opened the box and there, nestled inside, was this beautiful handmade flower. The card, cut from fancy printed paper, read, "Happy Valentine's Day!" It took a full 30 minutes before I realized that it wasn't February.

Even so, the flower brightened my day, and continues to brighten my kitchen. I figure my friend thought she was becoming too predictable, so instead of sending Valentine's Day packages in February, she'll start sending them at completely random times of year - just to keep the rest of us guessing.