Where have all the crazies gone?

I have been having trouble coming up with interesting posts lately. My life is kind of boring. The job is all right, our house is all right, we still have a condo, and we’re pretty poor. Not much to talk about there. You know what the big difference is, though? I don’t have any time on the reference desk at my job. This is largely because there is no reference desk. It’s just the circulation desk, and they pay me too much to let me do that. If you had told me last year that I would be at all sad about that, I’d have told you that you’re nuts. But I kind of am. A reference desk shift breaks up the day. It’s a good time to do busy work. It lets you talk to people, which, surprisingly, I usually enjoy. And best of all, it gives you good stories.

There are far fewer good stories at my small little library. This is a library where people eat the food that patrons bring in without any worry. At my old libraries, patron food was met with suspicion. “Mary brought this? Is that Friendly Grandma Mary or Crazy Talks-to-Herself Mary? Did we make her pay fines recently? Let’s have one of the pages try some first.” Here, they know the names of just about everyone, and certainly everyone who cares enough about us to bring food. And they know them because they like them, not because they felt obligated to learn them in order to file a better police report.

It makes life simpler and probably safer, but also a bit more boring. Nobody tells me not to worry if there are any disturbances because “I used to be a cop, and I always carry.” (We soon found out that in crazy-speak, “used to be a cop” means “used to be a parking attendant”, and “I always carry” means “this is why your desk has a panic button that calls the police for you”.) Nobody wearing a large dragon pendant asks me to help them set up an email account in the name of “KungFuPinkFloydLennon742” (not the real name, but close). Nobody even asks me for the book that they read once that was blue, or maybe red, and had a cat on the cover, but not in the story.

The hardest part of no desk time, blog-wise, is that I would do some of my best thinking on the reference desk. There were times, such as science fair season, when the desk was crazy busy and I wouldn’t have a second to pause. In general, though, the desk is just intermittently busy. And I find it nearly impossible to get any work done while sitting at a desk in the middle of the room, trying to look approachable. Sure, sometimes I’d be on the desk with someone and we’d talk the whole time, or sometimes I would actually get work done. But a lot of the time, I’d stare into space counting down the 20 minutes until my shift was over and I could go to lunch, and then I would have an idea, and by the time I got home, a post was sitting in my brain, waiting to be put to screen. Not so much now. I’ll have to find a new source of inspiration.

Ho Ho Ho

At this point, I am two weeks past it, but I’ve got to share the details of the library’s second biggest program (after Summer Reading Program), if only so that I remember. The program is an ornament workshop. It was mentioned on my first day of work as an upcoming thing that is a Big Deal. At the end of September, it was mentioned again as something I should get started on, a suggestion which I pretended to seriously consider and then promptly dismissed. Christmas? In the fall? Ten weeks before the program in question? I’m so sure.

I started to do a little planning in October, but it was November before I really started to get cracking on it. Which probably would have been fine except that what with my other job responsibilities, I wasn’t spending the amount of time I should have. It wasn’t until about two weeks before the big day that the enormity of the thing really hit me. The program is set up so that the kids have 5 or 6 ornaments to pick from. There should be a variety of skill levels, a variety of types of things (i.e., one Santa, one reindeer, etc.) and I felt there should be a variety of materials that the ornaments would be made of. I couldn’t repeat anything done in the last 4 or 5 years. And there needed to be about 75 of each type of ornament. People, that is 375 to 450 ornaments, each with at least one thing that needs to be cut, even if it’s just the ties to hang the ornament

What this ended up meaning was that the last two weeks of November were spent furiously cutting out felt triangles and counting beads and tracing gingerbread men onto cork, and on and on. I developed a callus on my finger where the scissor handle rested. I developed a constant burning sensation in my stomach. And I developed a sense that this was karmic payback for my deep-seated reluctance to help with ornaments as a child. I’ve never particularly liked Christmas decorations, and I was known to get sulky when forced to help out with that aspect of the Christmas production that my family goes through each year. Every time I remembered something I had left to cut, or realized that something I thought was going to be quick was going to take an hour, I pictured my mom rubbing her hands together and cackling.

In the end, it turned out fine. I had been planning six ornaments, but one got cut at the last minute, not that anyone knew, or would have cared if they did. I genuinely feel a bit ambivalent about this much of the library’s resources being spent on a program celebrating a religious holiday, even if we do just focus on the secular. (My predecessor would occasionally do angel ornaments, and while I respect most of her choices, I kind of think if you’re going to do that, you may as well do a baby Jesus.) But the program brings in tons of people who would never come to the library otherwise, and it’s clearly labeled as a Christmas event, so for this year, at least, I turned off my inner alarm bells and rolled with the Christmas cheer. Next year, maybe I’ll be organized enough to plan a winter celebration storytime that features all of the many winter celebrations. Above all else, next year, when my boss brings up the program in September, I promise not to laugh.

Yes We Can!

I am so completely happy today. We're nearing the end of 8 dark years. I spent my day at work fighting the urge to hug people. I kept reminding myself that if I hugged a McCain supporter, it might come off as gloaty, but it's hard to believe that there are people (the majority of my blood relations, in fact) who aren't swept up in the hope and the excitement. I spent my drives to and from work listening to NPR, basking in the glow of being a teeny part of something huge, getting all teary-eyed every time they talked about how momentous Obama's victory is.

The thing that excites me most is that he refused to run a smear campaign. He insisted on responding to assaults on his character with even-keeled discussion of facts and issues. When he said McCain's name at a rally and heard boos, he didn't smirk or egg them on, he said "Don't boo, just register." So freaking classy. Our president is going to be classy!

Also, oh my god! Indiana went Democrat! Not since 1964 has that happened. The husband and I kept saying that we would weep if it did. Neither of us expected to live to see the day. In the end, we didn't weep, since we were sleeping when it finally got called. But as an undergrad, it was always hard to muster up enthusiasm to vote, knowing that there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell of changing Indiana's stripes. But now it matters! Go Lake County!

Now Obama's just got to stay safe and alive. I have heard several people comment on his safety today. I was in the shower when the husband said he was going to give his first speech as president elect (which was beautiful, by the way - our president is going to be eloquent!), and my stomach lurched. It feels like we're about to enter another FDR era. I so hope that's the case, and I'm so excited to get to see it, but I've gotta say I'm scared shitless that it's going to be more like JFK.

But now is not the time to dwell on negativity. Now is the time to be positive! And on second thought, the thing that makes me most excited is that once again, I am truly proud to be an American. I can reclaim my patriotism without reclaiming an ideology based on fear, hatred, and intolerance of those who aren't like me. So in that spirit, maybe tomorrow I will hug a McCain supporter. Or at least smile and nod. Because, like it or not, we're all in this together, and the rift-healing has to start somewhere.

What's the opposite of phallic?

I would like to offer kudos to the US Postal Service for its beautiful salute to female anatomy. Oh, they can call it tropical fruit if they'd like. And if it was just the breast-ish kiwi, or the papaya that looks a bit uterine, I could maybe roll with that. And I'll grant that the star fruit just looks floral, and the only womanly link I can think of for the pomegranate is that it looks like it is infested with ladybugs. (Get it? 'Lady' bugs? Ha ha? No? Well, you can't say I didn't try.)

But that guava? I swear that when I saw it on a postcard in the mail, my first thought was "Why is my dentist sending me vaginas*?" (My second thought, in case you're wondering, was "It has to be too soon for another cleaning," but it totally isn't. Yuck.) (I meant my teeth. A cleaning of my teeth, not... never mind.)

*On later reflection, I realized that, technically speaking, it looks like a vulva, but I'm trying to keep the authenticity of the moment.

Settling in

I have my first program for school-age children at my new-ish job tomorrow, and I've gotta tell you, I'm nervous. I have been working at the library in Jobville (conveniently located in the general vicinity of CollegeTown) for nearly two months, and I was starting to feel like a slacker for not offering any programs for the school-age crowd. But Story Time is a gaping maw that must be fed before all others. When Story Time sessions are delayed by a week because Miss Rachel is new, dammit, and doesn't even know where they keep the shaker eggs, the Story Time moms and grandmas howl. Once you have awoken the Story Time Beast, the children will show up four times a week whether you're prepared for them or not, and they will be left in the room with you, and woe be to the children's librarian who does not have an enticing fingerplay to lead them through.

Oh, and at this library, the Story Time Beast has a sidekick, and it is the Craft Monster. The Craft Monster is present at EVERY Story Time. I had escaped the Craft Monster at all three of my previous children's services positions, but the Craft Monster is wily and doesn't show itself until you have officially accepted a position. The guiding of 10-15 preschoolers through the completion of the craft isn't the hard part, it's finding a series of crafts that fit in with the weeks' themes, aren't too hard to be done without constant assistance, can be completed in 10-15 minutes, and don't require too much prep work on my part. The Craft Monster consumes a lot of glue sticks.

Now that I've got the Story Time Beast and the Craft Monster pretty much under control, however, I've turned my attention to the school-age kids. They are easier to ignore and harder to please. For my first go-round here, I figured I'd go with something I had done before, and planned a Magic Tree House Party. That's a series of books about a brother and sister who travel through time via a magical tree house owned by Morgan Le Fay. (Yes, from Camelot. No, I don't understand it either.) It is quite popular, and has been for years. The program, which is tomorrow, filled up last week, so I added a second session which will happen next week. I got an email tonight telling me that that session is full now. I don't even know what to say about that.

I've got a number of irrational fears that I'll enumerate for your viewing pleasure:

1.) The children who come to the first one will be so bored that they will tell all the children signed up for the second one not to come.

2.) None of the children will come.

3.) Only two of the children will come, and they will stare at each other and blink and not want to do anything.

4.) Most of the children will come, but they won't want to throw paper towel rolls through a hula hoop that is dangling from the ceiling (it's a javelin throw because once Jack and Annie went to the Olympics in ancient Greece), nor will they want to make a toilet paper roll mummy (they also went to ancient Egypt once).

5.) All of the children will show up plus they'll bring friends, and when I explain that registration was required and that I don't have enough toilet paper rolls for them, they will get angry and rebel, and then tell everyone at school that I have a weird obsession with cardboard tubes.

6.) I will forget to buy snacks.

I don't know why I'm nervous. I've done this type of thing many times before. I think it's partly that I am the one and only children's librarian in a small town with a teeny library. If the children decide they don't like me, they may never come back. Also, I get the feeling that they don't usually get this kind of turn-out for this kind of program. Oh, and the person who had this job before me only worked five hours a week, and I worry that I'm not doing four times as much work as she did, and that my boss and co-workers are secretly judging me, and if this program fails, it will confirm what they've been thinking all along. It's totally paranoid (or at least I hope it is), but I think it all boils down to one thing: I really, really like this job, and I don't want to screw it up. So here's hoping the kids like playing with toilet paper as much as I do.

Babies and Obama!

Substantive posts? Bah, that's for "bloggers" with "something to say". Or people with cameras that "function" so they can take pictures of the beautiful shopping bag they knit in just one week. (That is a record for me. My previous record for finished knitted object was something like three months, so it's worth mentioning.)

Instead of substance, I bring you: Obama holding babies! If you won't vote for him because McCain is teetering on the edge of death and/or totally losing his shit, or because Sarah Palin is almost as informed about the pertinent issues as my dog is, or even just because it is the other side's turn to be filled with rage while listening to our nation's leader, then vote for him because he looks hot holding a baby. Please?

The Telltale Sump Pump

So it rained in Illinois. Nothing to compare with the hurricanes, mind you, or even the rain that the Chicago area got, but rain all the same. A consequence of the rain is that our basement flooded. The good news is that the house we're renting has a sump pump, so it only flooded a little. The bad news is that it's been pumping its little heart out since yesterday morning.

Have you ever lived with a sump pump before? I don't think I have. In all honesty, I didn't even know what exactly a sump pump did until we moved here. It turns out that what it does is pump. All. Day. Long. Squish-chug. Squish-chug. It's like a really loud, really persistent washing machine. Squish-chug. The exact same rhythm. Over and over and over again. And in a relatively small one-floor house, there is no escaping its noise.

At various times today I have found myself tapping my leg, petting the dog, and washing myself in the shower to the rhythm of the sump pump. When I was contemplating the writing of this, I checked my pulse, half-convinced that it would be beating in time to the rhythm of the sump pump. If the water doesn't go away, I will soon be in a padded room, rocking and twitching to the rhythm of the sump pump.

That may be a possibility. Along with the fact that it's still drizzling occasionally, the problem is that our basement water is seepage from the ground being so saturated. When the sump pump pumps, the water goes out through a long pipe back into our yard, where it goes back into the ground, and eventually back toward the house and through the wall, starting the cycle again. Over and over and over again. Squish-chug.

I am sorry to sound ungrateful, particularly if you're dealing with rain or, heaven forbid, hurricane aftermath right now. I know that the sump pump noise is a small price to avoid flood damage. I'm just wondering if we should check our renter's insurance policy to see if it covers emotional damage.

Everyone poops (but, dude, only dogs eat it)

Hi everybody! No, I'm not dead. I've been putting off posting for a host of reasons, not least of which is that I was having problems writing an interesting "Here's the story of our move and our new life" type post. And I was whining to the husband (as I am wont to do), and he said, "Um, so don't?" (Actually he said, "Dear god in heaven, stop talking about it and right about something else then," but paraphrasing is everybody's friend.) So, suffice it to say that we're moved, and I'm employed, and more on that another time. Today, though, I want to talk about poop.

Specifically, I want to talk about bunny poop, and its effect on my dog. (I should probably have warned you two sentences ago to stop now if discussions of gross dog habits bother you.) Our little piece of Midwestern heaven is Happy Bunny Land. There is lots of grass and very little traffic, and oh, how the bunnies love it. In our first weeks here, we noticed that the dog, when released into the yard, would sniff around very intently as if on the trail of something. "Oh, how cute," we said to ourselves. "The boy's hunting instincts have been awoken. He's on the trail of something, ha ha."

Then one day, I was out with him when I noticed an errant piece of dog poop. Next to it was a little pile of bunny poop. I went to get something with which to correct the situation, and when I came back, the rabbit poop was gone. The dog had been sniffing there, and the only reasonable conclusion to draw is that the dog ate the rabbit poop.

I fully realize that asking the bunnies of the neighborhood not to poop in our yard is like asking the kindergarten teacher not to bring in paste. The fact that my dog is not the brightest crayon in the box is not the fault of the rabbits (or the squirrels, or the raccoons, or whatever else may be providing my dog with mid-day snacks). And it doesn't seem to make him sick or anything. I just wish that he wasn't so intent about the whole process. If he thinks there's some in the vicinity he will ignore everything (with the notable exceptions of his tennis ball and the word "treat"), until he tracks it down. We feed him, play with him, allow him to share our home, and yet we lose out to rabbit crap. It's enough to make me weep. Or gag. Or, I don't know, fix the gap in the fence that lets the bunnies in.

On reflection, I think I'll stick to weeping and gagging.

Choose Your Own Damn Adventure

First off, a rare bit of good news: we found a home in College Town. It has a yard, and no weird smells. We are cautiously pleased. Now, on with your regularly scheduled blog installment.

When I was about 8 or so, I became enamored with the Choose Your Own Adventure series. You know the ones - you would read a few pages and be presented with a scenario, such as "Suddenly the lion rushes toward you. If you wield your backpack as a weapon and charge toward it, turn to p. 48. If you turn around and run as fast as you can, turn to p. 15." (If you still don't know the series that I mean, you can stop by your local library which, depending on your property tax base, is likely to either have the shiny new reissues of the series or extremely tattered copies of the originals. )

Here's a childhood confession for you all: when I would read these books, I would carry around a little spiral notebook - at least one of which was a pink Lisa Frank notebook of the sort most girls used to write about unicorns or draw Luke Perry's hair. Whenever I would come to a decision point, I would make note of the page it was on, and the decision I made. So in the above scenario, I would write "Page 5 (or whatever) - p. 15" (Even in my imagination, rushing a lion was not going to be my first choice.) I would proceed in this manner through various choices until I reached an ending ("The lion quickly overtakes you and swallows you in a single gulp. You died. The End."; there was no sugar-coating in these books, at least according to my memory.) At that point, I would go back to the last choice in my notebook, and try the one I didn't pick. Once I had attempted all of the options in a given scenario, I'd cross off the entry in the notebook, and go to the one before it on the list. In this way, I would progress through each and every scenario.

I share this with you not just to let you marvel at my nerdiness, though it truly was (and is) spectacular. No, I want to illustrate that from a relatively early age, I was not comfortable with the idea of the path not taken. In case you were wondering, the husband and I have not sold the condo. Early on in this process, the husband would begin to say, "If only we had kept renting" and I would say, "Hush, you. Nobody knew what would happen to the housing market." But lately I am finding myself wondering if, perhaps, we should have turned to the page that involved running far, far away from this place.

The thing about those books, though, was that there were a very limited number of endings, and there were always multiple configurations that led to the same end. And looking back, there were things in our scenario that are easy to conveniently overlook. Like the roach that we saw as we were moving out of our last apartment, in which we had never before seen a roach. And the fact that we really really love this place, and we are letting our stress make us forget that. I have a feeling that if our life was a Choose Your Own Adventure book, there would be a page that went: "You and your husband sit in a room filled with boxes, thinking about the disaster that was your last few weeks in this home. You are also sad because moving sucks! THE END" And no matter what choice we made, we would keep coming back to that.

Or maybe it would go, "You and your husband stand in your new CollegeTown home, surrounded by boxes. Tired and sweaty, you push your couch into the perfect location and think that whatever else happened, it is okay, because it brought you here." Here's hoping we're just a few page flips away from that one.

The Impossible Dream

In the past two weeks, the husband and I have been to CollegeTown four times. We have clocked well over 24 hours in the car, and heaven only knows how many miles. We have seen trailers on blocks currently rented by "collectors of things" (i.e., people who live with piles of garbage stacked around their beds). This taught us to always ask for pictures or drive by the property before going to showings. Driving by a different property, we saw a couple actually brawling in the street. This taught us that CollegeTown neighborhoods are not uniformly nice, and prompted the following conversation:
Husband: Oh my god, he knocked her down, didn't he?
Me: No, she threw herself at him and fell.
H: Is that why they [the person or people who lived in the place we had an appointment to see] had swords on the wall?
Me: Sssh, don't talk while I'm cancelling appointments.

We have planned ways to scrimp and allow us to pay more rent, only to open the door to CollegeTown's larger slummy apartments. Frankly, we are at the end of our ropes.

Some of you may not have gone apartment-hunting recently, or at least not in a college town. When you are a dog-owner, you tend to see the world of apartments in three tiers. Tier One is for those of you without a soul who choose to live without a furry ball of love. Sadly for us, you have access to the nicest apartments. I get this. I really do. My first off-campus apartment smelled like dog pee from the previous occupants the entire time I lived there, and honestly, I was probably lucky that that was the worst of the damage. College students often don't properly care for their pets. A pet who isn't properly cared for can ruin a place right-quick. So fine, no Tier One for our little family.

Here's the one that throws me though. Tier Two is the world of cats-only apartments. And that I don't get. I just don't. I like cats. Were the husband not opposed, I would own at least one cat, and it would be named after a poet (Auden if it's gray, Yeats if it's ginger, and I could go on but I won't), and I would be a crazy librarian with a variety of pets named after literary figures, and that would be grand. (By the way, Beckett is named after Samuel, the playwright, because you just don't name a dog after a poet.) So I am not against the concept of a cat in an apartment, but cats only? The fact of the matter is that dog waste is no worse than cat spray - one might argue the contrary, in fact. Even if you have a cat who does not spray, cats have an in-born instinct to scratch. It marks their territory and files their nails. It's a damn fact people; Wikipedia says so. At any rate, there are many nice apartments in Tier Two. But not for us.

Then there's Tier Three. If you are a landlord with more than a couple of rental properties, apparently your thinking goes like this: "Complex A is a shitbox. May as well allow dogs." I can see that hardwood floors and a 50-lb dog might be a bad combination. But if you have carpeted the place anyway, why not allow pets? Please, for the love of all that's holy, allow pets. If you're renting to undergrads, there's a good chance there's going to be an irremovable puke stain on the floor, and you'll have to change the carpet anyway. (Or promise to change it, hoping that your unsuspecting future tenant won't make you write it in the contract.) To be fair, Tier Three also includes places rented by landlords who only own a small number of properties. They don't have to turn over 100 units in August, and thus they feel they can take the risk on pets. Our hopes rest on these types of landlords, or on people trying to back out of a lease they signed in April. But those types of places get snapped up fast and are often expensive. Or else you get there, and you see exactly how much a camera can lie and exactly why a moderately priced place near downtown is still available.

So that's where we are. Looking at shitboxes, while trying not to weep openly. There are nice places, but our budget only stretches so far and we are searching from over two hours away. You will notice the complete lack of discussion on the topic of buying. I look at what we wanted a few short months ago, and smile fondly at how cute we were. We have not given up on sheep and chickens, but we are trying to be realistic. We have allowed our dreams for the future to be put on hold and our expectations for the present to shrink. We know we missed the prime time to find rentals. All we want for this year is a clean place, where we can let the dog out at night without investing in pepper spray and, come spring, we can begin to search for our dream home for next year. Please, Tier Three, won't you come through for us?

Hanging on the Telephone

The husband and I just spent a few days at his parents’ house. One of the things that always amazes me when I’m there is just how often their phone rings - at least 20 times a day. I can't imagine having that many conversations, mostly with different people, every day. Somewhere along the way, I have become a phone-phobe. I don’t know why. When I was in high school, other than family-enforced breaks for meals, I would pretty much spend all of my non-school waking hours on the phone with my best friend. Stephanie went to the same school as I did. We would see each other at lunchtime and in several classes. Somehow, though, it didn’t seem at all weird to spend nearly every waking minute with a phone attached to my ear, listening to her breathe as we watched Friends or The Real World or whatever godforsaken form of entertainment appealed to us at that moment.

Then we went to college and I spent a year or two working for my university’s survey research center. I would call up randomly generated phone numbers, and ask questions designed by various government, academic, and other non-profit organizations. Working there, I learned that a certain brand of citizen assumes that any information gathered about their life would be recorded and entered into a national database accessed by the liberals, and they have no problem shouting at you to make sure you know that they're onto you. While doing a survey designed by the admissions department of the school, I also learned that one gentleman thought that my school was populated by lesbian witches. He knew it was true because he saw a sign for a lesbian witch meeting on a bulletin board during his one visit there. As much as I wanted to find out where and when those meetings were (my hermaphrodite drug-user meetings were getting a little dull), I couldn’t ask him because I had to keep to a carefully worded script.

I still enjoy giving and receiving calls from friends and family, but I think the job conditioned me to associate most phone calls with hostility and anxiety. Which makes it especially painful that I am basically tied to the phone at the moment. I applied for a job in CollegeTown, and got an initial interview. It was a panel interview over the phone. Combine their speakerphone with my crappy cell phone reception (we don't have a landline here, a mistake I don't intend to duplicate), and you get a recipe for frustration. I am waiting to hear if they heard and/or liked enough of my answers to grant me a second interview. I am also constantly waiting for a call from the real estate office requesting a showing. So my cell phone is usually in my pocket, and I find myself visiting it if I leave it alone in a room for too long. And that, perhaps even more than the fact that I want to be able to afford to buy food once we've moved, is making me really wish we could sell this place and that someone will just hire me already.

Stop and Smell the Smoke

Dear fellow residents of my over privileged suburban neighborhood,

Hello! How are you? I wanted to take a moment to congratulate you on your financial windfall! No, I don't know you, at least not those of you who don't live in my building. But I know you must be really really rich because you spent six solid hours basically blowing up paychecks in a cloud of noisy smoke on Friday night.

I have to admit, I don't understand the point of fireworks. Well, professional fireworks I get. They can be quite pretty and impressive. But the ones you set off at home? They're expensive - more so in Illinois, since you have to drive to Indiana to buy them. And they're really not very pretty. And they leave smoke-scented garbage littered all over the street. Not to mention the potential for maiming.

To be completely honest, I never really cared one way or the other about them before we had the dog. I have to make a confession. Originally the dog didn't care about fireworks either. And then one year, we thought we'd see our town's fireworks display and since the dog had heard fireworks before without caring, we figured we'd bring him with. But apparently, the combination of the loud noise with being able to see the explosion caused something in him to snap. We went home feeling like the worst pet owners ever, and since then he has been terrified of fireworks.

Which kind of makes sense, when you think about it. Friday night was surreal. I am fortunate enough to say that I have never been in an actual war zone, but I have to imagine that our neighborhood sounded like one, with explosions literally every few seconds. I just don't get why this is how we celebrate our nation's birthday. To remind us of past wars? Frankly, who needs a war to take off limbs, when the combination of beer and explosives can do it right in your own backyard?

But I forgot about you, neighbors. I just have one question. If you honestly believe that midnight is a super time to grab another bottle of beer and blow some more stuff up, then why not do it in front of your house? Why come to the playground, which is, coincidentally, right in front of my house? The dog was already huddled in our closet, shivering violently. Did you really have to make him pee on my husband's shirt?

Also, while walking through the town's downtown yesterday, a woman in a cocktail dress burned me with her cigarette as I was walking by. It was an accident, but she didn't even know it happened, and I was so taken aback that I didn't even say anything until she had passed. It's just further proof that you all need to learn a lesson. So, neighbors, I'm taking away your lighter privileges. I don't care if you spent this month's mortgage payments on fireworks and cigarettes. You can spend the time cleaning up that mess you made. And if I hear any lip from you, I'm going to make you pay the dog's therapy bills.

Peaches come from a can...

Getting ready to move does funny things to your mind. We haven't even got to the point where we're deep in the throes of packing (which are less sexy than the throes of passion, but feature just as many noises), and we're already starting to think of things in terms of boxes. As in, that dictionary is like a third of a box; why don't we sell it?

Selling books is something we haven't done before, but this move, we were determined to cull the collection a bit. We have made over $200 selling books. This is really cool and exciting until you stop to think about how much we paid for them initially. We have decided not to do that, and so we're still excited. We are down to two bookshelves, the books in our built-in cabinets, and our cookbook collection, which for us is downright paltry.

The alternative to selling is, of course, donating, and we've done an awful lot of that lately too. Everything is up for grabs. The bigger an item is and the closer it gets to go time, the more tempting it is to get rid of. The ice cream maker was even considered. It's got to be about a quarter of a box, especially since it's an awkward shape and nothing can be put inside of it. In the end, it got to stay because it provides sweet, delicious, homemade ice cream, and what other appliance does anything that cool? (Immersion blender, I'm looking at you.)

Ultimately it doesn't matter. We have so much stuff, and we are people who try to keep our lives as simple as possible. We don't have knick knacks. But we do have a couch, and three chairs, and a loveseat, and two desk chairs, and two bookshelves, and a bed, and a mattress, and box springs, and a dresser, and a night stand, and, well you get the idea. The husband was telling me about a guy at Columbia College who was doing some sort of project documenting his efforts to only have 100 things. Food didn't count, I don't think, nor did things built into his home (the toilet, for example). But just think of all the things you need just to eat a meal: silverware, plate, clothing. If you count each thing as a single item, it adds up fast. I'm sure it must be a freeing way to live. I know we've been trying to move in that direction, but I don't think we'll ever get that far. Although I might change my tune on moving day. I bet you fit all 100 things in, like, 5 boxes.

By the way, do any of you remember the band The Presidents of the United States of America? Their big hit was "Lump" but they also had a minor hit in "Peaches". Every time the husband and I talk about moving to the country, in my head I have to add "Gonna eat me a lot of peaches." This isn't doing good things to my psyche. Just thought I'd share.

Things I Have Been Doing Instead of Blogging

1.) Making peace with the overwhelming presence of termites. They are confined to our back stairway, completely external to the actual unit. Thanks to them, we might get a nicer, less moldy and horrifying back stairway. So yay termites? Well, maybe not, but at least they're not eating the floor beneath me. (Knock on non-termitey wood.)

2.) Revising my novel. Back when the husband and I were not getting lucky in Kentucky (we had sex, mind you, but that was about the only positive thing we had), we did this thing called National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo to the cool kids). We did not do it in the official month of November, but we did it, and both produced a novel. The husband hated his, said it wasn't cohesive, and used certain plot elements in the jottings that he does when he is in a writing mood. Mine was pretty cohesive, actually. And not altogether bad.

The thing about NaNoWriMo, though, is that you have to write a certain number of words (1,500, I believe) every day for a month. Every. Single. Day. So towards the end, I started to get a little bit punchy and just throw in elements of my own life. I have been meaning to go back to it for a while now, and this period of intentional unemployment seemed as good a time as any. Honestly, it's not awful. If all goes according to plan, I'll finish revising it in the next few weeks, and maybe, possibly, hopefully send query letters to agents. I hesitated to share this one, but a little peer pressure wouldn't hurt here, so don't be afraid to nag me.

3.) Knitting far overdue socks.

I'm pretty pleased with how they turned out, but they took absolutely forever. I went for weeks without working on them because they pissed me off so much. But now they're done, and they're pretty, so yay. Onto the next pair. These are starting off late, so we'll see when they actually get done.

4.) Losing all sense of time management. When I started, I had lists every day, and I got shit done. Somehow I lost that in the past two weeks or so. I am much like the children whom I used to lead in storytime. I need structure. I need someone to say, "Hey, just a few more minutes of cover letter time, and then we'll do a story!"

5.) Not getting employed or selling a condo. I am trying to stay upbeat and positive, so I'll say no more there.

Why I Can't Stop Crying

I don't usually blog while crying. This isn't my diary; it's a public forum, even if my public is somewhat limited. People don't want to read about whatever spat the husband and I just had, at least not until the point when I gain some perspective and see a little bit of humor. Today, I am making an exception. If I waited till I stopped crying, it might be a very long time indeed before I posted.

You may remember that we're selling our condo. On Sunday, we had an open house. Only two or three people came, but that's not why I'm crying. We found out that our buzzer is broken, but that's not why I'm crying either. That evening, while I was finishing dinner and the husband was talking on the phone to a friend, he started noticing little bugs with big wings. They were all in the vicinity of the south wall of our living room. They looked a bit like ants, so we were a bit worried, but we killed all the ones we saw, and didn't find any more. All was right with the world.

Until today. In the past hour, I have killed at least 15 of these little bugs with big wings. And now they are along the north wall of our office. I put some rubbing alcohol in a bowl and dropped a few in, and googled "ants big wings". And guess what? Our ants? Not ants at all. In fact, it looks very likely that our ants are termites. Termites, you see, have big wings when they go out to seek love and shelter. They will shed the wings after mating, and then settle down to lead a happy of life of destroying the lives of wood-owning humans. I have already found two with no wings, and am hopeful that they are genetic freaks and not freshly sated lovers. Yes, that's right, I am at a point where I am just hoping that the swarming insects in my house haven't gone all the way yet.

They may or may not have been brought in through the cocoa shell mulch that our slovenly neighbors purchased and left in the main entryway. They may or may not be the kind of termites that eat houses. (Apparently there are kinds that don't). Does it really matter? Would you buy a condo with termites crawling in it, if the owners promised that the termites were just visiting and totally didn't want to eat the beautiful vintage wooden hutch or the gorgeous hardwood floors? Oh, and by the way, your visitors will have to throw rocks at your windows to let you know they want to come in. But really, the place is cute!

I am trying to stay calm. The internet has led me astray before. The husband is still at work, and there is a chance he will come home and convince me that I'm loony. But I've killed five of these things while typing this, so I think we might have some kind of problem regardless. So I'm sorry to blog while crying, but you know what? It's my decaying condo, and I'll cry if I want to.

Weirdest thing ever? You decide.

People, I just saw something so weird, I just learned how to embed YouTube videos so that I could share. Check this shit out.



So that's Mark Bittman (the ever so awesome food columnist from the New York Times), Mario Batali (the red-faced, Crocs-wearing, Iron Chef-competing TV chef), Claudia Bassols (the, well, I don't know what she is, but she's pretty and seems to be foreign), and Gwyneth freaking Paltrow (dude, if I need to tell you, you should probably not be wasting your time on my plebeian ass). On PBS. On a reality show. That takes place in Spain.

The preview (in case you don't watch the whole weird thing) features Michael Stipe and an architect who the husband would have recognized immediately but I didn't. Am I alone in wishing that this was on right now so that I could stare at it in joyous wonder? It's just so weird!

Full blog post in the works, by the way. I was out of commission with a really bad cold for the first part of my first week of freedom. When my sinuses get pissed off, they pin me to the couch.

The Unemployment Chronicles, part 1

As of last Friday, I am officially unemployed. Yay? Yes, yay! Unemployment, when it is voluntary, is awesome.

My last days were great. Really, for the most part, I liked everyone I worked with. There was an exception, but why dwell? I got a very kind letter of reference from a co-worker who also brought her kids to storytime. I got three gift cards, two potted plants, a box of chocolates, several photos, and several cards, handmade and otherwise. I had a very nice party, at which I was given a duck puppet (a very nice, expensive Folkmanis puppet - hey, it's a professional resource, people) and a few other sundries. I won't even dwell on the fact that they made me take the balloon arrangement home, causing me a very stressful drive home, as I am inordinately afraid of the sound of balloons popping. It's a lovely balloon arrangement, and it is still decorating my car, because I was really hoping the balloons would die out there while I'm safe in here. (I don't know if it's happened yet. Unemployment means never having to use the car.)

Now I'm done, which has been great, except for the fact that my first three days of unemployment would have been sick days regardless. It's lucky for the husband that he's still working, because I am terrible to be around when I'm sick. (I know that it is not at all lucky for the husband that he's still working, but I am trying to Stay Positive.) I become obsessed with my symptoms, checking on their progress at disturbingly short intervals and updating anyone stupid enough to fake a small bit of interest. I looked at my throat with a flashlight about a thousand times last week. I even looked up my nose to see if I could figure out if my sinuses were swollen. (They were, I think.) I could write a dissertation on the progress of my mucus. Don't worry though; I won't. I feel better now, and my obsession with my vital signs dwindles with the symptoms of illness.

Anyway, I had a week of blissful unemployment. This week is the beginning of more industrious unemployment. If we want to continue eating when we move to CollegeTown, I'll need to find employment. And if we want to have shelter from the elements, we'll need to start exploring housing options. So that's my job now. But I still get to do it in pajamas.

One Condo For Sale! (Do I hear a dollar? A nickel? A penny?)

All right, people. Just so you don't think I have both neglected and forgotten this blog, here is a list of post ideas I began writing in my head, but never got around to typing:

- The plumber seems confident that our bathroom fix-up will be super quick! Maybe we won't need a hole in the wall!

- There is a hole in our wall, and the kitchen cabinets are on the floor.

- How hot is it that the husband knows how to use dry-wall, and did so, rather than heeding my suggestion to call a hole-fixer-person?

- Please buy our condo!

- No, really, please buy our condo! There are no holes in its walls any more, I promise.

So you see, I have only neglected the blog, not forgotten it.

To bring you all up to speed, the condo is on the market, my last day of work is next Friday, and we don't know anything about where we will live or where I will work in the summer or beyond.

The thing that is stressing us out and taking over our lives is the condo. We have re-caulked the tub, re-grouted the kitchen tiles, re-dry-walled the giant hole in the wall left by the plumber, and re-painted the kitchen to be less salmon and more limey-lemon. We have learned that selling your home is a process designed to make you feel that everything about your day-to-day life is abject and worth hiding. "You hang your clean laundry to dry in your bathroom? Gross!" You leave your dishes in a plastic rack to air-dry? Ew!" "You own a knife block? Don't let anyone see!" And, best of all, "Half of your windows are exposed to the outdoors? Oh my god, you guys, what's wrong with you?"

Before this, the concept of cleaning windows was an abstract one. I thought of it a bit like I think of bikini waxes - I understand that there are people who do that type of thing, and I have nothing but respect for their desire to keep a tidy appearance, but I never thought I would be someone who would spend my time in that particular manner. Our realtor had other plans. The windows were pretty much the first thing she mentioned. (My bikini area has yet to be commented on, but I wouldn't be too surprised if it was on her list somewhere.) And since the husband did all of the kitchen-painting, I got to clean windows.

We are lucky to have windows that you can pull forward out of the frame to clean the outside, so it really wasn't that bad. In fact, the worst part is that since there is no screen on the top half of the window, when you pull that top half into the room, there is nothing between you and the outdoors. I spent my cleaning time humming loudly, talking to myself and occasionally yelling to try to scare off any birds who might be contemplating a visit to our condo. In the process, I think I managed to scare off any neighbors who might be contemplating a polite greeting the next time I walk by their home, but really, I didn't want to talk to them anyway.

So that's where we stand. Now that we are leaving it, our home is cleaner than it has ever been before. Every day before we leave, we hide anything that might cause a potential buyer to think we are dirty people. We also hide the knife block, which, in fairness to the realtor, I will admit is done so that weirdos can't use its knives as weapons. I would say that that's a sad commentary on our times, but let's face it, there were probably people in the '50s who would jump at the chance to attack a realtor. It's probably better that it's hidden anyway. If the realtor asks us to clean or fix one more thing, I might be tempted to do some (non-fatal) attacking - of myself, if nothing else.

A Heartfelt Plea

I hate to use my public forum to take care of a personal problem, but I need to take a minute to straighten something out with Johnny Depp. Allow me to explain. Last week, the husband and I were on vacation to celebrate our anniversary. I use the terms 'vacation' and 'celebrate' lightly - we spent most of the time doing things to ready the condo for sale, looking for houses in CollegeTown, and hanging out with family. These things had left us more stressed out than we were before the vacation. So when Melinda emailed to see if I could come watch Sweeney Todd, I declined. The husband and I were going to be all couple-y. In the email, I uttered (typed, really) the following ominous sentence, or something like it: "Perhaps Johnny and I are not meant to be." That was a mistake, and I realize it now.

Before I get too far ahead of myself, I should explain what I had in mind for the remainder of the vacation. I thought perhaps we would find a beach and walk along it hand-in-hand. (Yes, this is the Midwest in early April, but dream with me, people.) I thought we would find a coffeehouse and engage in spirited but intellectual debate before lapsing into silence and staring lovingly into each other's eyes. I did not think we would get a lesson in plumbing, Murphy's Law, and why you shouldn't live in a building from 1911.

On Friday, while I was in the shower, the husband noticed that our desk lamp was acting weird. When he examined further, the bulb exploded, and popped the circuit breaker. The husband went downstairs to fix it. And thus our adventure began. Rather than finishing my shower in peace and sitting down to a relaxing evening, I watched as the bathroom light went off and on and off and on again. (Our breakers aren't labelled.) Then I heard an "oh crap." While the husband was downstairs he had seen water dripping. After a lengthy series of tests involving taping over drains and turning on and off various configurations of faucets, we determined that it's the shower. The shower pipes are ensconced behind the wall. To fix this problem, we will either have to remove the bathroom tile and put a hole in the shower wall or take down the kitchen cabinets and put a hole in that wall. Bear in mind that we figured this out over the course of our last two days of vacation, and that solving this problem will require either the spending of $1,000+ dollars or an entire day of the husband working closely with his father. Neither appeals to anyone involved.

Now, Johnny, I haven't forgotten about you. We need to talk. My husband says that the paint being worn away near the drip probably means it's been happening for a while, but I know that you are behind this. You were, after all, in Crown Point, IN shooting a movie recently. That is right over the state line, and very near to where my parents and siblings live (parents and siblings who could tell you my address, I might add). And your exposure to movie set design and special effects would make it relatively easy to fake some eroded paint.

Look, I know that it must have hurt when I said we weren't meant for each other. But Johnny, here's the thing. I'm married now. And you've got a little thing going with that nice woman from France, right? You just can't spend your free time shimmying up my shower pipes and committing vandalism any more. Plus, Johnny, you were never really mine, were you? You belong to all of the people of the world who like men (and especially the aforementioned French woman). I belong to the husband, and that's for the best, since he also belongs to me. We've got the papers and everything.

Johnny, you'll always have a special place in my heart. I'm sorry to have hurt your feelings, and I forgive you for causing us a giant headache. But you need to leave the husband and me in peace. It's really what's best for everyone.

Actually, Johnny, wait a moment. If you want to make it up to us - and I'm sure that you do - I know of a beautiful 2-bedroom condo for sale. It's in need of some small repairs, but what's a little plumbing between former soulmates? Call me; we'll work it out.

Major Life Changes

Goodness, but I've been a horribly negligent blogger. I apologize for that. In my defense though, Major Life Changes are afoot.

The husband has gotten accepted into graduate school with a tuition waiver and a stipend. This is super exciting, of course. For too long, we have come home after hellish commutes, tired from our jobs - of which mine is frustrating and his is soul-crushing - to a dog who is sad because he's been alone for nearly 10 hours. But no more! Now we will live in CollegeTown in the central part of the state. We will own a house! We will not deal with traffic! We will own chickens!

Have I shared about the evolution of our dreams? Remember alpaca? That was so four months ago. We moved on to thinking we wanted a few acres with some sheep. (They are more affordable, among other things. I'd be happy to elaborate, but I doubt that you care.) And while we always wanted plants and chickens, those things became more important. So we visited CollegeTown to look at land, and the thing that we realized is that to buy an affordable plot of less than 10 acres, we are probably going to need to be a bit too far from campus. So we talked and drove around and eventually decided that a house in the vicinity of campus with a relatively large yard for a vegetable garden would be fine, so long as we could have chickens. Shortly after resolving to Google "CollegeTown chicken ordinances" when we got back, we drove by a house and saw two chickens, strutting and pecking and generally looking chicken-y. Sure enough, Google confirmed that chickens are allowed in CollegeTown.

So we're pretty excited. We will be more excited if someone buys our condo and/or I get a job. In my weaker moments, I get entrenched in the more negative, anxiety-ridden aspects of it all. But life is about risk, right? And someone will buy the condo and someone else will hire me. It will work out. And when it does, we will be much closer to our Beautiful Life, in which we are hipster hippies who buy nothing from the Man but implements with which to screw him.

Can You Fire a Dentist?

Why am I posting the horrible tooth photo again? I'm glad you asked. Let me tell you all about it.

On Saturday, my temporary crown fell out again. That is not a huge deal in and of itself; I would abandon my mouth if I could and I don't expect dental implants to show more loyalty than I do. So I called the dental office's emergency line on Saturday evening and left a message, but no one called back. That was strike 1. I called back again and sent a page. No one called back, not that evening and not Sunday. Strike 2. It wasn't causing any pain as long as I kept it from the cold, so I figured I'd wait till Monday. On Monday when I called, which was after the office had been open for 90 minutes (I was in programs most of the morning), no one was even aware that I had called the emrgency line at all. Strike 3 - you're out a patient.

Actually I was upset, but I would have been somewhat mollified if someone had explained or at least apologized when I came in to get it fixed on Tuesday, but no such luck. I am getting my permanent crowns put in there - they're already paid for - but after that I'm done with that office. Of course, that would be a greater statement if certain Major Life Changes weren't going to force me to find a new dentist anyway, but I can say no more about that right now. (I will say that I almost changed that "force me" to a "force us", but screw the husband and his stupid mouth. Mr. 'You Do Have a Cavity But It's So Small We'll Just Fill It Today Without Novocaine' can tag along to whatever dentist I pick.)

Anyway, my mouth is better for the moment, but my mood seems to have been damaged for the week. Probably not the best condition to enter the annual ritual known as Staff Institute Day, but what can you do? At least this library has the decency to close for the whole day, unlike some other libraries I've worked for. Today was all about self-improvement, as we learned about recycling and did yoga. Actually, it wasn't so bad. The absence of mostacholi nearly gave me a heart attack. I was afraid the midwestern food police were going to burst in and give us a citation. Perhaps we got a pizza exemption. Actually the administration's efforts to force us to interact with people who we don't normally see meant that I only had to bite my tongue a few times around the one person at my workplace who drives me batshit crazy. And really, that's a very good thing - until I get my permanent crown, I am trying to avoid biting anything.

Dear god! Is that a tooth in your hand?

Why no, it's not a tooth, but that's an excellent guess. Not even I have reached the level where my teeth just randomly fall out of my mouth. It is, however, a crown. And while I was told that the crown was temporary - never meant to stay in my head for more than a few weeks - I was also told that it would stay in my head until the next time that I went to the dentist. And friends, as you can tell from the picture, I was lied to.

The crown in question is a temporary that had been in my mouth for three weeks when I went to the dentist on Tuesday. Its time with me was supposed to be coming to an end, but there was a problem with the permanent one, so back went the temp. Also entering my mouth on Tuesday was a filling and another temporary crown. I was told not to eat sticky things and not to floss the temporaries, and then I was sent on my merry way after a mere three hours of dental hijinks. (Yes, you read that right -three freaking hours. Also, the hygienist said I have fat cheeks, leaving me with the opening to say "They were a hell of a lot thinner before your incompetent ass stuck the suction thingie to them for an hour and a half," though I didn't. But I digress.) So Wednesday morning, while I was eating oatmeal (oatmeal, a food safe for infants and the elderly, but apparently not for me), my tooth hit something, and it was my crown.

After I spent a moment feeling with my tongue to see which of my many dental implants I had lost and establishing that I was not in pain, and after crying the type of hysterical weeping that comes naturally upon realizing that somebody up there really does hate you, I finished my breakfast and called the dentist's office. And after another hour spent there (that makes four hours there this week, for those of you keeping score), all of my teeth, real and fake, are back where they belong. But seriously. Do any of you out there have anywhere near this degree of tooth problems? Because at this point, when I tell people at work, they just say (or at least I can see them thinking), "You had to go to the dentist again? Do you ever brush your teeth?" And even though I know for a fact that I brush and floss twice a day, and even though I have cried plenty of real, honest-to-goodness tears about the genetic curse that is my mouth, it makes me want to cry some more.

Lighting the corners of my mind...

Children today all seem to have their television rationed, and as good of an idea as that is, I kind of pity them. As a child, my television consumption wasn't really limited all that much (or at all, really). A co-worker and I were comparing notes on our childhood viewing though, and we realized exactly how weird and disturbing these shows were. It also made me realize that I have always had the sense that nobody else watched these shows. Clearly that's not the case. So here we go. Do you remember the 80s?

Pinwheel Honestly, I don't remember much about this show except that it was like Sesame Street, only instead of an American street, it took place in a Canadian house (most of Nickelodeon was recycled Canadian tv at that point). More important is the fact that, in my head at least, it's the first show I watched when my grandma introduced me to cable. Ah, memories.

Today's Special A mannequin (Jeff, I think his name was) would come to life every night (I think his hat was somehow involved) and engage in hijinks with a store employee, who was human; Sam the night watchman, who was a puppet made to look like a human; and Muffy, a puppet mouse who, I think, talked largely in rhyme. What was the fascination with living mannequins in the 80s? Mannequin was weird enough, but I feel that the addition of creepy humanoid puppets takes it to an entirely new level of disturbing.

Zoobilee Zoo Technically, I was too old for this show when it was aired on PBS, but my brother was right at its target age. It starred Ben Vereen (I think - but if I googled each of these shows, I'd end up on a downward spiral of nostalgia-induced marathon YouTube viewing) and other humans dressed as animals. My brother, showing remarkable insight for one so young, was absolutely terrified of this show. The mere sight of the credits would bring him to tears. In fact, if I did it right, I could sing a bit of the theme song ("Zoobilee Zoo, Zoobilee Zoo. Magic and wonder are waiting for you") and he would cry like a baby. And this, friends, is why siblings should really never be left alone together.

Clarissa Explains It All Technically from the early 90s, but oh my God, I still think this is one of the best shows ever (based solely on my disturbingly detailed memory of it). Remember how Clarissa loved Johnny Depp? Remember Sam and Ferguson? Remember how she would create computer games? Remember when she and Sam wrote their school song ("Thomas Tupper Hii-igh" - why oh why do my brain cells cling to these stupid songs?). I loved this show so much that I was willing to believe for at least the first season or two that Sabrina the Teenage Witch was a good show for a 15-year old to watch.

You Can't Do That on Television This show was so twisted. It was one of the few kid shows that my parents enjoyed as much as I did. There was one episode where communists took over and the green slime was turned red. (The slime was dumped on anyone who said 'I don't know'. Why? I don't know, but why question greatness?) The intro credits referenced Pink Floyd's The Wall. Crazy shit, people. And yeah, yeah, everyone talks about how Alanis Morissette was on it, but that show was all about Lisa and Christine. (On a weird note, at about the same time, Dave Coulier, supposed inspiration for the song "You Oughtta Know" was on a show called Out of Control, in which he was already in his late 20s, at least. Both were originally produced for the small world of Canadian children's television. Do you think that's how they met? Ew! In my own remarkable show of insight, I thought he was a total tool when they showed the reruns on Nickelodeon.)

As you can see, once my parents got cable, I embraced it wholeheartedly and never looked back. And there is my childhood in a nutshell. Probably I also spent some time outside or socializing with family and friends, but sometimes the brain has to prioritize and decide what to let go. Apparently Clarissa and Ferguson acting like babies because they think their mother is pregnant outranks the first time I rode a bike. Go figure.

Ode to a Weiner-Licking Dog

Valentine's Day is just not that big of a day in this house. The husband is all "I don't need to be told what day to tell you I love you." That's fairly valid, since he's pretty good about being sweet and romantic, and also he is in the process of preparing a vegetable lasagne for tomorrow, the noodles of which he made with his own hands, which pretty much excuses anything. However, it means that much as I love him, he is not my valentine. You want to know who is? Here's a hint:

That's right, my valentine is Beckett the dog. Beckett, also known as Mr. Puppy and The Boy, was given to me by my parents when I got my undergraduate degree. Little did they know they were buying their only grandchild. Though the now-husband, then boyfriend, did not approve of him at first (he thought he only liked big dogs, but we showed him), he soon realized that Beckett is the son he didn't know he wanted.

Beckett is the weiner-licking dog mentioned in my profile. I know what you're going to say - aren't all dogs, or half of them anyway, weiner-licking dogs? That's true, but my dog licks his weiner on command. It's his own fault, really, that he was taught to do this. He learned that oftentimes when we would say 'oops,' it meant there was food on the floor, and now whenever he hears the word, he comes running. This caused us to realize that it is relatively easy to get him to do on command those things that he already wants to do anyway. So, the husband had an idea, and a week later, if you said "Lick your weiner," the dog would obey. The husband's only regret is that he didn't teach him to do it on the command "Go to town".

This is not his only talent. He can identify and retrieve most of his toys by name (as in, "Get your moose.") He lets us know when there are people in our yard. (We've chosen not to tell him that the "yard" is actually the softball field for the elementary school across the street.) He protects us from such dangers as the paper shredder and any and all other dogs that we happen to encounter as we tred life's path. He does an awesome Princess Di impression:

And he is skilled at camouflage:

And finally, thanks to his dislocating his shoulder when he was 2, he can, when forced, poop while balanced on three legs. (Think of that as you view his pain):

So happy Valentine's Day, Beckett. You are the best dog we could ask for.

Pissing in the wind

So I lied about telling about the dog. That will happen (with pictures and everything - you'll even get to see his Princess Di impression!) but today I want to talk about the elections. You see, I've got something to tell you. I'm feeling guilty for hiding things from you, my invisible blog friends, and I've decided to share my dirty little secret. So here goes... in a primary year where I had a choice between a woman and an African-American, I really wanted to vote for a white male. Dennis Kucinich won my heart in college, and even though I'm a different person than I was back then, he still has it.

You see, I want to vote for a candidate who isn't afraid to say that gay marriage is okay. I want to vote for a candidate who talks with candor about poverty and the hellish mess that is our education system. In short, I want to vote for a candidate who says what he thinks - and, let's face it, who thinks what I do. I am fully aware that the only reason Kucinich's ideas get any respect whatsoever is that he's a white male. (Not that anyone in the mainstream will publicly admit to him being anything more than a crackpot, but he would most likely not have any voice at all were he female or a minority.)

So that's what I think of when I'm in my happy place. In practice, I think that my prime wish is for a president who can say what s/he thinks without dividing the country. And that is why Obama was my candidate. He did vote against invading Iraq, way back when it was a political risk to be against taking immediate, albeit poorly thought out, action. He gives speeches that make people excited about hope and change. Most of the high school students who registered at the library last month were talking about him. I want that kind of integrity and inspiration in the White House. Unfortunately, the reality of his campaign has left a lot to be desired. All that idealism needs to have some ideas to back it up. More ideas than "Hilary is so totally establishment".

Actually, after all that, you know what I really want? I want not to be pissed off every single time I listen to the news. I'm not sure that anyone could really provide that (I have some anger management issues to work through), but I don't know that anyone could be much worse than Bush. So that's really all I'm asking. (Oh, and please, please, please, no Huckabee!)

Blame it on the Plague

It's no excuse for my extended blog absence, but I have been struck down for most of this week with a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad cold. The type of cold where on the first day, when I came home from work after a drive home spent shivering violently with what I later found to be a 103.3 fever, I was pretty sure I had the flu. The real flu, not the thing that people call the flu but is really just some random virus. But then the next day I was able to get off the couch and eat something, which does not happen when you have the real flu, as I know from when the husband had it two years ago. I did, however, run a borderline fever for so long that I became convinced that the thermometer was broken, but no. Apparently my bronchial tubes and sinuses were under attack, and I was burning from the heat of battle. I am feeling better, though - good enough to go to work tomorrow and face the toddlers, at any rate. Even though it was probably one of them that got me sick. And even though this is the second time I've been sick this winter, and I should really get some extra days, because that's not fair.

Anyway, onto other things. I am knitting socks for someone. Never fear, non-knitting friends, I am not about to turn all knitting-blog on your asses, mostly because I knit so slowly that I would post even more rarely than I do now. But I want to say that this has been the most frustrating project I have worked on since I started knitting. Perhaps it's because I still had a high temperature yesterday when I started on them, but I have had to backtrack over and over and over again. They are a present for someone, and the husband suggested that when they're finished (he was being optimistic), I should present them along with a soundtrack of me making them so they could identify the techniques. ("Oh, so that's a goddamn stupid motherfucking short row. How lovely.") They are toe-up, which is the trickier way to knit socks, for me at least, since you have to use a weird cast-on. And then, I was online double-checking something about the stitch pattern I was using, and saw someone refer to it as a pretty easy four-row pattern. Which was a problem, because what I was doing only had three rows. So I had to undo the whole thing.

And if that whole paragraph sounded like "And then I had to put flibbety-flabber in the diddly-doo," then I'm sorry. Join me next time, when I'll share the Tale of the Weiner-Licking Dog. And unless they cause me a great deal more hardship, I won't mention the socks again except to maybe post a picture of them when they are finally all done.

People let me tell you 'bout my best friend...

If one determines one's best friends based on the amount of time spent with them, then surely my dentist ranks right after the husband and the dog. Last year, I got a crown, two onlays, two fillings and a root canal. There would have been more, but at a certain point even the generous benefits plan from the husband's soul-sucking job begins to buckle at the seams.

The problems began... well, at my conception, really. Sometimes I feel cursed genetically. If there is a medical issue on either side of my family, I seem to have gotten it. I have a sneaking suspicion that somewhere within me lurks a renegade prostate, waiting to cause bewildering problems in my middle age.

One of my genetic blessings was apparently crappy teeth. My husband will attest that I take good care of my teeth. I floss regularly. Yes, I have a sweet tooth, but I also have mouthwash in my desk at work, so shouldn't the two balance out? Apparently not - just ask my dentists, of which there are many.

The absolute worst was the first dentist that I picked out myself, in the town where we currently reside. The husband and I had moved for my job, and he was still unemployed. I stupidly thought that since I had no mouth pain, I must have no mouth problems, and I didn't sign up for the expensive dental insurance I was offered. But this dentist not only informed me that I was on the verge of a mouth apocalypse, but would also tell me that any pain she inflicted on me was "good for getting ready for childbirth" or "nothing compared to childbirth". I got some fillings and one very expensive crown from her, and vowed never to say no to dental and never to go to a dentist who was openly thinking about my womb.

After her came my current dentist, the aforementioned best friend. I feel confident about his ongoing plans for fixing all my mouth problems, though I will say that he insanely slow. And he seems to think that I see him so often because I want to be there, like he works at the corner pub or something. He'll tell me about new equipment that the office gets, or talk to me about the town library, or whatever, when honestly, stepping into the door of that place makes me grumpy and irrational and generally unfit for conversation. They have tvs in each of the dental cubicles, and my usual appointment time is during the Gilmore Girls on ABC Family. And all I want to do is seethe silently about how I never remember to put lip chap on even though I always need it after the first hour of holding my mouth open and how lame all of Rory's boyfriends are, and he's all "So what percentage of the town library's budget do you think comes from fines?"

But he hasn't mentioned childbirth once, so my teeth and I will continue our visits until the benefits run dry or my mouth is fixed, whichever comes first.

And I'm proud to be an American...

So I was going to talk about my dental adventures, but then I spent an hour trying to figure out what's wrong with the dog (either nothing that a little honey couldn't fix or HE'S GOING TO DIE!!!! depending on which crazy internet person I choose to listen to) and then I spent another hour looking at shoes on Zappos, and then ordering the ones I had put in my cart yesterday. So you are spared for today.

Anyway, I'm actually more inspired to talk about the wonders of being a voting registrar anyway. (Choosing something positive over useless kvetching?!?! Weird, I know.)

I am a registrar for the county I work in, and today was the last day to register to vote before the Illinois primaries, as well as the day of my evening shift. I was a little worried going in, given that my training consisted of this exchange with the head of adult services (HAS):

HAS: Hey, Rachel, are you a registrar?

Me: No.

HAS: You wanna be one?

Me: Sure.

HAS: Sign this.

Me: Okay.

HAS: Read this sacred oath out loud.

Me: Okay.

HAS: Congratulations! You're a registrar.

And that was a year ago. But it turned out well. It turns out that all it takes to be a good registrar is decent penmanship and an ability to fill in forms. And it was so exciting! All these high school kids came in, and several people who had been naturalized recently. It made me all teary-eyed on the way home. I heard on the radio that several New Hampshire polling places ran out of ballots and had to rush to get more, and that record numbers were expected. And apparently we had to get more registration forms today, because we were taken by surprise by the onslaught. So as divided and angry as the country feels politically right now, at least it has brought forth this desire for involvement and participation, and a desire to get off our asses and do something. It's really a beautiful thing. Even if it is sprung from a collected desire to cancel out the votes of everyone we disagree with. So, for today at least, I am very proud to be an American.

(So proud that I'm not even going to discuss how irritated I was by the media discussion of Hilary's 'display of emotion'. She's not my candidate, but for the love of all that's holy, are we still at a point as a nation when a single unfallen tear from an established female politician can get us all talking about women and their hormones being dangerous for international affairs? It's enough to... no, wait, I'm not discussing this.)

And I'm sorry if that song is in your head, but it's in mine too, so there.

Happy New Year!

One of the best things about the end of the year is the constant stream of top ten and top 100 lists. In that spirit, here is a link to the 10 Best Animated Movies for (Traumatizing) Kids. Now, I read the whole list, because I am a dork from the 80s, but all I ask of you is that you read #1.

http://www.cracked.com/article_15070_10-best-animated-movies-traumatizing-kids.html

Crazy disturbing, right? But the little blurb doesn't even tell you how disturbing it is. My friend Jessie lived in Japan for a few years, and is currently working in the anime industry. I told her about this, thinking she would say, "Oh yes, what an odd little bit of cultural flotsam." Instead she said, "Oh yeah, the tanuki. Those are real animals. Raccoon dogs. They really do have giant testicles, and supposedly they fight with them." (And if you didn't follow the link before, you totally are now, aren't you?) So apparently, they are a wild animal that has a whole mythology behind them in Japanese culture largely because of their giant testicles. And if all of that isn't testicle-tastic enough for you, check this it out from the Wikipedia article about tanuki:

A common schoolyard song in Japan (the tune of which can be heard in the
arcade game Ponpoko and a variation of which
is sung in the Studio Ghibli film Pom Poko) makes explicit
reference to the tanuki's anatomy:
Tan Tan Tanuki no kintama wa,
Kaze mo
nai no ni,
Bura bura
(Roughly translated, this means
"Tan-tan-tanuki's/Raccoon-raccoon-raccoon dog's testicles, there isn't even any wind but still go swing-swing-swing".[1] It then proceeds to continue for several verses, with many regional variations. It is sung to the melody of an American Baptist hymn called Shall We Gather At The River?.[2])

They sing about tanuki testicles to the tune of Shall We Gather at the River!!!! My childhood was empty!

On that note, happy new year! This is a crap holiday, if you ask me, but enjoy it anyway. Especially if you like football, a character flaw for which I will forgive you, just this once.