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.

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.

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.

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.

Snow in the South

As I settle in to write this entry, I'm listening to the sound of thaw. After all, today is another day. Quite a change from yesterday's all-day snowstorm. For those keeping track, we amassed over 5 inches of the cold, wet stuff. And, yes, I did lose power - for about 15 minutes. Long enough to realize that I don't own a flashlight, but not long enough for me to decide to call it an evening, at 8PM.

Today, there's a bright sunny sky, temperatures are a balmy 50 degrees, and everywhere, the sound of melting snow echoes across the landscape. Feeling a bit restless, I took a trip out and about. I started by brushing off my car, using the NEPIW snow brush/ice scraper combo that I thought I'd never, ever need ever again. Imagine my feelings of superiority when I saw my coatless neighbors brushing heavy wet snow off their cars using their bare hands. (Insert scoffing noise here)

After brushing off the car, I headed out. "Wait 'til it melts" is clearly the official snow removal policy for my home county, and all surrounds. I made it to Home Depot, where I planned to solve my flashlight problem. Slushy snow covered the parking lot and the sidewalk into the store. I spotted a broom leaning against the wall as I entered the store. That was the only piece of "snow removal" equipment that I saw. I guess I never thought about it, but I would have assumed that Home Depot would sell snow shovels - even in Georgia. Guess not. Or maybe none of the employees have completed the "snow shovel" training module and are therefore unable to use that particular piece of equipment.

As I checked out, I noticed that the fellow in front of me was buying a bench. You know, the kind that you put in your yard, so you can sit and enjoy the cool breezes of early spring. I watched as he manhandled the bench out to his pick-up truck. I thought, "Ah, the resilience of southerners. Here's a fellow who wants a bench - and even though it makes absolutely no sense for him to risk life and limb to get to the store and then manhandle the bench across a slush-covered parking lot today, by God, he's going to get his bench!" I bet he's sitting in his yard right now, defying any dripping melting snow to fall on him.

Then, I went to the grocery store. I needed balsamic vinegar for a spinach dish I plan to make tonight. Yes, I risked life and limb for balsamic vinegar. So? While I was in the store, I heard the theme from "Chariots of Fire" come on Muzak. I was so tempted to start running in slow motion through the store. So tempted. In the end, I restrained myself.

Reminded me that a few weeks ago, I visited the earthy-crunchy grocery store on the other side of town. I found that I was totally distracted by "Bohemian Rhapsody" playing on their in-store speakers. You try buying sweet-hot Chinese mustard while listening to "Mama . . . just killed a man . . . put a gun against his head, pulled the trigger now he's dead." And, yes, I thought about doing the Wayne and Garth head-bob at the appropriate moment.

And, so, I conclude with some of the other sights from the day:

A fine effort by some very ambitious snow sculptors.

Two trees that fought the good fight.

Snow and early spring just don't mix.

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.

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.

Why I love the South

I know what you're thinking: What am I looking at? Here's a better picture:

That, my friends, is an open sunroof. Open on January 23rd. Open because it is near 70 degrees outside and with bright sunny skies. Open because it's not snowing, or sleeting, or slushing, or precipitating any other kind of winterness. Open a mere 3 days after it was 30 degrees at noon.

People used to wonder why I wanted to move south. I believe this blog entry, with pictures, answers that question better than I ever could.

Looking Backward and Forward

On my way to Big City University this afternoon, I decided to detour and visit an historic site with particular relevance. I stopped off at the Martin Luther King, Jr. memorial. Seemed like the right thing to do.

There was a time in my not-so-distant past that I spent lots of time at the King Center. When I was researching for my dissertation, I ate my lunch at the reflecting pool, trying to thaw out from the overly-enthusiastic air conditioning in the archive. Didn't matter how many times I saw it, the memorial always moved me, as did the visitors. I haven't been to the memorial since my last research trip but I easily found my way back. I was heartened to see that the crowds and media hoopla had died down since yesterday's festivities. I'm all for celebrating Dr. King's life, but today, I just wanted a few moments of quiet reflection and to snap a couple of pictures.

I got the car parked in a near-empty parking lot and exited into what can only be described as the coldest day the South has ever seen. Holy crap! I decided that I'd save the quiet reflection for the car. Braving the cold, I walked the block or so to the memorial. I quickly realized that I was not the only person who had this idea. Loudspeakers from two different sources competed to see who could present the most meaningful message on this historic day.

I turned the corner into the courtyard in front of the new Ebenezer Baptist Church and saw the source of the noise. Someone, I'm assuming the National Park Service, had set up a jumbotron screen to show clips from Dr. King's most memorable speeches and marches. I thought this was a nice idea, giving people a sense of history. Would have been better inside where it was warm - but, a nice idea just the same. I noted that no one, and I mean no one, was watching the screen.

The rest of the noise was coming from a stage in the center of Auburn Avenue. I'm trying not to be an old fart, but there's no way that I'll ever be hip enough to appreciate the sentiments expressed by the singer on the stage. Let's just say that it provided a startling contrast to the jumbotron. As I rushed across the street to snap my pictures, I noted that a crowd had gathered in front of the stage. A crowd of approximately 10 very cold people.

The singer finished as I reached the gravesite and let out an enthusiastic, "OBAMA!" that lit up Sweet Auburn. I snapped my pictures, took a moment for quiet reflection, and got my cold little rear end headed back toward the car. As I crossed the street again, a new group of singers took the stage. Three young women began gyrating in what can only be described as "the seizure dance" and began singing. Again, I'm not nearly hip enough to understand what they were saying, but it sounded like, "Jiggle, girls! Jiggle, girls!" "Oh dear," I said, from my old fart vantage point across the street. Here, literally in between a jumbotron showing Dr. King describing his dream and his final resting place, were three young women urging all the females in a 4-block radius to "jiggle." Perhaps they were concerned about frostbite, and figured that people would stay warmer if they moved - or "jiggled."

I got back to the car, face frozen, and fingers tingling. I considered "jiggling" but decided to make my way downtown instead. I suppose I'm thankful that I live in a country where we can all decide if we want to jiggle or not. Perhaps that is the true meaning of Dr. King's dream.

[I'd include pictures from my visit, but I forgot the cord that connects the camera to the computer back at home. Look for pictures in the coming days.]

This close to being outraged

I'm on an antibiotic. I'm not going to say why because I believe that boundaries are our friends, and I know where this kind of conversation can lead and I don't want to hear about your medical problems. It's not that I don't care, it's just that ... who am I trying to fool? I don't care. The only reason I bring up my problem is to rant. Earlier in the week, my doctor prescribed a course of treatment: 3 pills for 3 days. Simple enough. So, I took the prescription to the pharmacy and learned that my insurance company would only pay for 2 pills at a time. Sure, that makes sense. I mean, paper-pushing penny-pinchers clearly have a MUCH better idea about what I need than MY DOCTOR. I took my 2 pills and came home.

Yesterday, I called in my "refill." I've just returned from the pharmacy. Seems the insurance company won't pay for me to take 3 pills in one week, no matter what MY DOCTOR (you know, the guy with the medical degree) thinks is an appropriate course of treatment. I tried to explain to the pharmacist that we've already tried it the insurance company's way and it didn't work. She was sympathetic but in the end, I lost the battle. In my frustration, I said, "You know, if this was Viagra, the insurance company would give me as much as I wanted anytime I wanted it." She nodded sympathetically, leaned toward me and muttered, "Yeah, we all know who makes these laws." Horny frustrated old men, that's who.

I took my outrage to Starbucks to refill my coffee supply. Good thing the insurance company isn't standing between me and my caffiene. Heads would roll and cities would burn, I tell you! As I waited for my beverage, I glanced around. Everywhere I looked, students had their noses buried in textbooks - on a holiday weekend. Warmed this cynical professor's heart. None of them were studying history and none of them were my students, but at least I'm not ready to throttle anyone anymore.

Now I remember why I wanted to do this

Today, it's cold outside. OK, it's not below zero or anything, but it is below 40 and that's cold in my book. Didn't stop a few jackasses from donning their shorts and flip-flops and wandering around campus. I wonder if their mommies will write them a note when they're sick with pnuemonia next week. (Crap - when did I turn 80?!)

I headed across town to the university to do something that I haven't done in a year - research on my own work. Lately, as the pressures of teaching have taken over my life, I've been feeling disconnected from my work. I do remember being excited about my research at some point in the not-so-distant past. I have vague memories of enjoying the process of piecing the puzzle together to create a narrative. I seem to recall an almost "high" feeling on particularly good days. Yes, I also remember the utter and complete agony of writer's block and the devestating realization that I will, once again, have to restart this chapter. But, I'm choosing to be Pollyanna and focus on the positive.

So, today, I packed up the laptop and headed to the library. It was great! A perfect afternoon. The books I wanted were in a special reading room, far from the undergrad crowd. And, there really wasn't an undergrad crowd because it's a holiday weekend. A couple of students trickled in and out, but mostly, I had the place to myself. I set up and got to work. Almost immediately, I remembered why I wanted to pursue this largely thankless career.

I'm not really sure what I'm looking for at this point. I have a vague outline of a narrative that didn't really fit into my dissertation. It has all the earmarks of a compelling story: interesting historical actors, deep-rooted tension, rich local context. I'm sure there's a story there. So, I'm digging without a clear direction or purpose. Just digging. It's great! I feel like an academic glutton. I'm not on a research trip where I have to try to make the most of my travel money. This resource is right across town. Ready and waiting for me anytime I can get over there. Now, if I could just get rid of all of my pesky students at Big City University...

I spent the afternoon with a few books about focus of my initial investigation. All colorful histories by equally colorful writers. I also found a pictorial history of the county and had much fun looking at pictures of people I didn't know and would probably never meet. There's something about the rural south, particularly Georgia, that connects with me. Mind you, I don't want to live in rural Georgia, but the people, places, and history fascinate me.

While I was researching my target county, I allowed myself to get sidetracked and took a look at a book about the county where my mother's family lives. I think I squeaked when I found a reference to my great-great-grandfather. I also found references to freedpeople living in the county before the Civil War. "What's that story?" I wondered. Made a note to check it out later.

Tomorrow, I may head back to look at local newspapers. Microfilm isn't my friend, but in this case, I may make an exception. I am, without a doubt and without apology, a geek.

Finally caught up with me

Today, I awoke in my own bed, having survived the first week of classes. This is shaping up to be a semester of ups and downs. I'm particularly pleased that none of my classes are full. I don't care why students are avoiding my classes. The end result is less work for me - and I'm not complaining about that. Another plus is that I'm teaching the same class as last semester, so most of the prep is done. This semester, I'm intentionally working on incorporating more in-class assignments. This is a much easier task than starting from scratch.

A major downside is my schedule. I start at noon, have three classes back to back to back, then I cool my heels for 3 hours. Three whole hours. Just think of all the things you can do in three hours. You could watch "Saving Private Ryan." You could cook and eat a pot roast. You could enjoy a gala charity event. In the context of my daily existence, I could drive from Big City University to my house in College Town and turn around and drive back.

Instead of doing any of these things, I cool my heels for 3 hours. This extended break is late enough in the day, not to mention at the end of three consecutive classes, that my brain doesn't work anymore. So, if you're going to suggest that I use that time to get real academic work done, save your breath. I'm good for the first 90 minutes, then I can actually feel my brain shutting down. I'm mentally closed for business around the time that all of my colleagues pack it in for the day. I can literally feel a curtain coming down in my head. The little lights in my brain go out, one by one, each one calling out, "OK, that's it for today. See you tomorrow." This is not good, particularly since I have one more group of students to entertain.

This week, I've tried two strategies to try to stop the curtain. Neither were successful. On Monday, I tried to complete administrative tasks (code for: catching up on email and other internet happenings.) I had dinner at about 6PM, thinking that the food would perk me up. Nope. Leftover beef stew just made me all warm and cozy. Curtain continued to come down. Luckily, Monday was an easy night. I reviewed the syllabus and called it a night.

Wednesday, I tried something new. I got coffee after my late afternoon class. I enjoyed a caffiene high for about 90 minutes. Then, the curtain came. Not only was I mentally and physically tired, but I was also in caffiene freefall. Crap. Again, dinner didn't have the desired effect and I struggled through the class. It took every ounce of mental energy to concentrate on what I was saying. I'm not convinced that I was coherent. Next idea: Coffee injection 30 minutes before class. If that doesn't work, I'm bringing a pillow and blanket and settling in for a long winter's nap.

One bright spot in all of this is that the Evening Edition students seem to be good students. Enough of them read the assignment so we had a good discussion. I think that the only way we'll get through the semester is if I ask a lot of questions and they keep participating. We'll just hold hands, take a deep breath, and muddle through together.

So, today, I woke up at home. I felt sluggish most of the morning and by early afternoon, I decided to settle in with my reading-for-fun book. Three hours later, I woke up. I'm no genius, but I think this means that I was tired.

Interview Fashion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas Madness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sugar High

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scavenging for groceries

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What more could a girl want?

Distracted?

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

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

Georgia Voter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great, Now Shut Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crow for my Birthday

This morning, I couldn't seem to shake off the residual sleepy feeling from a not-so-restful night's sleep and I had some inexplicable aches. I also knew that I had an entire lecture to write because procrastination got the better of me. Actually, it wasn't procrastination. It was my futile search for something interesting to talk about. After much searching, I knew I'd have to write a rather dry lecture about the Constitutional Convention. In other words, I was not a ray of sunshine when I rolled out of bed on this, my 40th birthday.

After about three hours of work, I donned my yoga clothes and headed to the gym. Before this semester started, I made a promise to myself that no matter how crazy life got, I was going to stick to my gym routine. My favorite yoga instructor cancelled her class last Monday so I was looking forward to this morning's class.

We started with some stretching poses that we usually do later in the class, so that threw me off initally. I could just hear my muscles saying, "Umm, don't you want to warm up a bit before downward facing dog?" My shoulders were most vocal. This instructor is very fond of downward facing dog. She thinks it's restful. During a particularly vigorous class, I agree with her. At the beginning of class, I'm not so fond of my downward facing dog. It's more of a downward facing tired mutt. Anyway, we continued on and my muscles stopped complaining. By the 3rd or 4th dog, my shoulders were actually relaxing and enjoying themselves.

As I twisted myself into various positions, I thought, "To hell with being 40. A year ago, I couldn't do half of these things. A year ago, I was in pain every time I left this class. Now, I can easily keep up and I actually feel good when I leave." As I rested my forehead on my shins in a forward bend, I glanced around and took note of all the people who looked younger than me who were groaning and grimacing as they struggled to reach beyond their knees. Yes, I know, yoga is not a competition. I don't care. I kicked ass, decidedly younger ass.

About 45 minutes into the class, the instructor had us sit in a squat, then put our hands on the floor and raise our hips into the air. I knew where she was going with this. She was getting us ready to go into crow pose. Basically, it's a headstand tripod with your head off the floor. She did this in the very first class that I attended and I failed miserably. I can do a headstand tripod without any problem. I couldn't imagine being able to balance my entire body on my upper arms and hands without my head on the floor. I also couldn't imagine why anyone would want to do that.

Over the past year, I've tried to do a crow many times. I can get one foot off the floor, but can't get the balance right to get the other foot off the floor. I know that I need to lean forward, but I feel like I'll topple forward and smash my face on the floor. This is not something that I want to experience. I also find that I don't enjoy the sensation of my bony knees digging into my flabby upper arms.

Today, I was determined. I got into crow prep with my knees on my upper arms and my head off the floor. I inched my feet together and got one foot off the floor. Then, I heard a voice from above. OK, not above, from the front of the room. The instructor said, "Lengthen and flatten your back." That was all I needed. I did as instructed, leaned forward, lifted my foot, and I was up, perfectly balanced on my hands - for all of 15 seconds. But it was 15 glorious seconds! My knees didn't bother my arms as much because, much to my surprise, I have some muscle tone in my upper arms. Who knew?

As I continued on with the class, I thought about my friend who went rock climbing for her 40th birthday. I respected her determination to try something challenging and overcome her fear. I knew that I wasn't going to go rock climbing, but I did overcome my fear of smashing my face into the floor. And if that's not celebrating turning 40, I don't know what is.

(Images from:http://z.about.com/d/yoga/1/0/r/bigdowndog.jpg and http://z.about.com/d/yoga/1/0/J/crow.jpg Maybe for my next trick, I'll figure out how to take pictures of myself in these poses.)