Talkin' 'Bout Reconstruction

As I prepare to jump into this new semester with both feet, I put together this little song about today's classes:

Talkin' 'Bout Reconstruction
(sung to the tune of "Talkin' 'Bout a Revolution," by Tracy Chapman)

Don't you know, I'm talkin' 'bout Reconstruction
Sounds like a snoozefest
Don't you know-oh-oh, I'm talkin' 'bout Reconstruction
Sounds like a snoozefest

While I'm talking about radical republicans
Cutting the South into 5 military districts
Students stare, deep blank stares,
Saying prayers, that I won't ask about the reading

Don't you know, talkin' 'bout Reconstruction
Sounds like a snoozefest
Don't you know-oh-oh, talkin' 'bout Reconstruction
Sounds like a snoozefest
Bored students gonna rise up, and drop this class
Bored students gonna rise up, and take some math

Don't you know they're gonna run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run
Don't you know they're gonna run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run

Yes, finally enrollment is starting to drop,
Talkin' 'bout Reconstruction
Yes, finally enrollment is starting to drop,
Talkin' 'bout Reconstruction, oh-oh, oh-no

(My apologies to Tracy Chapman.)

New Year, Fresh Start

Yes, I know, it's been a while since I wrote anything. And yes, I know, I've probably lost all of my followers (all one of them). And finally, yes, I know that this is probably not the best use of my time. Now that I've acknowledged all of this, can I continue?

I really don't have a good excuse for the long break. Between the house purchase, move, and speeding snowball of work craziness, I just didn't have time to keep up with my writing. OK, the truth is that I didn't have the mental energy. I lost my sense of humor sometime in early November and I figured that no one wanted to read about how badly I was dog-paddling in the deep end. Day after day of "students irritated me again," or "I'm still really tired," or "delivered yet another soul-crushing lecture" - who wants to read that? (If you do, just know that you make me very sad.)

But, it's a new year - a new decade even - and that seems like a perfect time for a fresh start. OK, in the interest of full disclosure, I'll admit that I watched "Julie and Julia" this weekend. If that movie doesn't inspire you to blog or cook, or both, then you've completely missed the point. I did not miss the point and in the past 24 hours, I have both blogged and cooked. I even tried a new recipe - braised short ribs. Slow cooked ribs in a rich tomato sauce, a baked sweet potato, and buttered asparagus sounded perfect for a cold, cold, cold winter night. In the end, I have to say that the ribs let me down. Lot of fat and not as tender as I'd hoped. I'd make a joke here, but the only ones that come to mind are really not nice. I know, that's never stopped me before. Well, new year, fresh start.

So, the cooking didn't turn out so well, but hope springs eternal. I'll also share that I had an epiphany during "Julie & Julia" - I decided that there must be two kinds of people in the world: those who have a crush on Stanley Tucci, and those who will have a crush on Stanley Tucci. I'll close with this promise: Until Stanley Tucci arrives on my doorstep, I'll try to write more regularly.

Bureau-Speak on a Friday Afternoon

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

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

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

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

Adventures in Moving, Part I

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

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

Here it is today:

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

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

Been Inside Too Long

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

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

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

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

And So It Begins

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adventures in House-Buying, Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adventures in House Buying, Part I

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

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

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

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

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

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

The More Things Change...

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

Or, this example:

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

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

Adventures in House Hunting, Part II

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

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

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

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

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

Adventures in House Hunting, Part I

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

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

More updates as the adventure continues.

Be Ve-wy Quiet, We're Hunting Houses

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Letting the Chips Melt

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




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

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

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

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

My Bliss

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fun with Technology

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Evergreen, Never More

Remember this photo?





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



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


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





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

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

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

That's Entertainment!

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

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

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

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

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

So many jokes, so little time.

Success!

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

Anyway, here's the sauce, bubbling away:

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

OK, I have the ingredients...

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


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

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

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

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

Crap.

Afternoon Delight - Moth Style

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

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

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

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