repartee

Married Life

2008-09-27T16:13:00.003-05:00

For those of you still playing along at home: this pretty much sums it up. Let's just say when I put in the quarter, it wasn't anything I didn't already know about. On the other hand, I didn't expect to find actually being married to exceed my expectations this much.

Married Love

2008-07-30T16:17:00.002-05:00

As our big day draws near, I seem to be honing in on all the love that's floating around. Today I met with my favorite professor, Brainy Linguistics Prof, and ended up spending two hours in his office. This is not unusual. We usually spend time talking about golf, his daughter, poetry and linguistics--in that order. Today we talked a little about his wife.

You see, I'm equally well acquainted with her, or maybe even more so, as she was my poetry mentor in graduate school. I took about six classes with her, and she's really responsible for my interest in linguistics. Most of my school friends are intimidated by her. Is it possible to be brusque and gregarious at the same time? Well, she is.

But today we talked about them more like a couple. He told me they'd recently vacationed in South America for their 20th wedding anniversary. Everyone I know seems to find it hard to imagine them married; I find it hard not to imagine them married. He's the math of language and she's the music. It fits.

In a lot of ways, they're the couple I imagine Mortgage Partner and I could become--a house full of books and good-natured jokes to feed the soul. While I certainly can't compare our career trajectories to theirs, I see the common thread we share: mutual respect of each other and ongoing curiosity of life. These things keep you together, but more importantly, they keep you engaged.

Technology Schmechnology

2008-07-02T10:31:00.002-05:00

Today's post is brought to you by the word VPN. Yes, I know that's not a word. No, I have no idea what it stands for. All I know is that when I called my tech support guy at Corporate Behemoth, he told me the intermittent tech issues would affect my VPN. And that, in return, affects my bottom line.

See, I need this VPN-thingy in order to log into Corporate Behemoth's proprietary stuff--you know, like my e-mail, SharePoint, the things around which my work life revolves. And as I'm a contractor and get paid hourly, these tech issues mean I can't work, and therefore get no moola.

I am fortunate in that I do have another source of income (summer school), and that there are countless things to do around the house: fold the clothes that have taken over the guest bedroom, run (aka wogging) for 50 minutes on the treadmill, and chase dustbunnies around the house. However, what I want to do right now is make money to pay for our honeymoon. Cause you know, that gas we'll be needing to drive all over California/Oregon? Well, it's expensive.

And so far, blogging isn't making me money. Not that I'm complaining, because I don't do it enough to make money doing it. But, you know, any workweek hour that I'm not actively making money seems a waste to me. I've already done all the grading I can stand for one day (two papers), so I'm looking to use that other part of my brain (the one that enjoys technology and taxes).

In the meantime, I'll add some more laundry to the pile, consider downloading more music to my MP3 to making running more feasible, and slay some dustbunnies with the Swiffer.

Of Rocks and Rings

2008-06-16T17:12:00.003-05:00

So I haven't managed to post any pictures of Florida yet because I don't have any. The ones I took on my phone look ridiculous, and I haven't figured out whether they're photoshopable. I will say though that a fun time was had by all. I look tan for me, but I don't have a tan. The weird burn lines have faded, even though I was still peeling (3 weeks later) last week.

More recently, a few good things are going on around here. My pal R. and I have been running every Saturday since I returned from Florida. I'm slow as hell and have a tendency to turn bright red and make horrible gasping noises, but at least I'm feeling the wind in my hair and the fat on my rear jiggle. She thinks we can run a half marathon, and I'm inclined to fall over laughing about that one, but I'll make an attempt at bumping up the mileage in the name of physical fitness (and swimsuit season). The downside is that the trail we run on has tiny pebbles that always seem to find their way into my shoes. Waah! Ok, not really a crisis, but I'm kind of a princess.

In other news, Mortgage Partner and I have decided to get hitched, and we're slowly spilling the beans around here to friends and family. We are getting married at home and hope to contain the festivities to the smallest possible number. The best part is we're leaving on our honeymoon the next day. Details to follow, because really, we're going to have a kickass honeymoon. We're staying in a treehouse one night! Seriously, that is so awesome. Especially since the treehouse has a toilet.

repartee redux

2008-05-15T09:02:00.003-05:00

So...it's been a long time. I don't really deserve to have any blog devotees, considering my sporadic writing, but I sure hope I can win people back. A few people have commented about missing my posts, so I'll take that to heart and try to be more attentive to writing regularly.

In the meantime, I'm going on vacation with my sister and her brood. At this very moment, she's headed down I-29 toward Kansas City to pick me up. Then we'll drive all night, passing through Missouri, Arkansas, Tennessee, Mississippi, and Alabama on our way to Florida. We're spending the week on the beach of the Gulf Coast.

My sister and I made a similar road trip 19 years ago after she graduated from college. Only then, I was too young to help her drive. It was just the two of us in her electric blue Chevy Cavalier. This time, we're taking the Sherpa (aka a Ford Excursion), because 5 kids don't fit very well into a two-door Cavalier.

I'm looking forward to the sand and the Gulf, hanging out with my nieces and nephews, and an opportunity to have some girl time with my big sister.

If I can, I'll post from the condo. If not, I'll be sure to share some pictures when I return.

More Than a Feelin'

2008-04-02T08:38:00.002-05:00

Not so long ago, I found myself driving in the middle of Iowa. Ok, middle of Iowa isn't really accurate; it was more like the northwest corner of Iowa. In any case, there's nothing but Iowa all around. Doomed to either listening to gospel radio or static, I hunted around my car for a CD and came across the Indigo Girls.

Now for those of you who had your major emo moments in the late 80s and 90s, you should really know every Indigo Girl song by heart. I don't know too many girls my age who didn't hunker down with the song "Ghost" after a particularly bad breakup. As I drove, I sang along with Amy and Emily, singing with particular gusto on "Closer to Fine." Despite the fact that I made it most of the way through the CD, I realized something about myself. I'm no longer that girl. You know the one who found "solace in a bottle or possibly a friend." I spent my late teens and early twenties being that girl, hanging on every word Sarah McLachlan wrote and shaking my fist in agreement with Ani DiFranco. Every poem I wrote in college emulated these singer/songwriter types. Every relationship I had fit into the cupped hand of this uber-emo superwoman.

All of a sudden I felt old. I realized that if I had to pick a musician or band to match my mood, I would rather be Boston. WTF? Am I an aging GenXer guy trapped in a 30-something woman's body?

While I know my latest devotion to Boston might have something to do with the general need to "rock out" every once in a while, I think this says something about how I've changed. This understanding of myself was underscored last night as I talked on the phone to a former student of mine, a precocious 18-year-old in the med school here. I didn't quite feel like her mother, but I definitely felt like her much older, much wiser big sister. She doesn't especially exude angst, but I couldn't help but be grateful I'm not 18 again. Oh sure, it's fun to experience the silliness, the first loves, the anticipation of a whole lifetime of opportunity. But I realized I'd much rather be at home, MY home, with Mortgage Partner, the animals, and a dining room table covered in school papers.

I don't even know that girl I used to be. I'm pretty sure I couldn't be friends with her right now, although there are a lot of things I wouldn't mind telling her, especially with regard to boys, her body image, and career choices.

I guess what this overly emotive post is telling me (as I'm telling you blogworld) is that I'm ok with who I've become. Finally.

Helluva(n) Ikea

2008-03-28T08:49:00.001-05:00

I know, I know. I've been quiet lately. No good reason, really. Sick of myself? Sick of school? Needing of an extreme soul makeover? Ok, I'm not really full of existential angst; I just come across that way sometimes.

I spent some quality time shopping on the IKEA web site this morning. Why oh why don't we have one here?! I spent about $400 in my head, and my house looks better already. Just wait, you big blue and yellow box, my oversized piece of heaven, purveyor of lingonberries and all things Swedish. I am coming for you.

Ok, so I know too much retail therapy will land me on Oprah and/or Dr. Phil, but it just feels so good. If only I could give myself this kind of makeover: blow a few hundred bucks, go eat some meatballs in the cafeteria, overload the car, spend several hours cursing and sweating as I put some furniture together, and presto/chango new self!

Now I know this seems like I'm crying for a spiritual awakening. Perhaps I should go read that Eckhart Tolle book that Costco has in boxloads. Except that I've never been one for New Age self-improvement. No, in my case I decided to change my blog colors, a la HGTV, to make myself feel better. A little interior decorating if you will. Maybe I'll actually rearrange the furniture one of these days and pick a new format. If Blogger HAD a template that looked like an IKEA store I'd pick it. In the meantime, I'll keep churning these muddled thoughts around in my head and try to be more diligent about sharing them.

When You're So Tired of Yourself, the Only Thing Left to do Is Blog

2008-02-25T17:19:00.002-06:00

I'm in a February funk.

I freaking HATE this time of the year. It's cold. It's dark. And there is not enough good TV or food in the fridge to satisfy my needs. All I want to do is watch Oprah and eat cheesy poofs.

I know, I know. That's not a very healthy attitude. Not to mention SO not figure flattering.

I actually got my sad, tired, ever-expanding ass on the treadmill today and wogged (that's right, only wogging accurately describes the pace at which I move) a little over 3 miles. It should have felt good. When I was finished, all I wanted to do was eat all the carbs in the house and take a nap. Bleh.

I'll pretty much snap out of it when it's finally March (thank gawd), but in the meantime I'm trying to avoid the self-loathing that seems to consume me and cause me to watch daytime television. I tried to watch Dr. Phil save a really, really sick girl with the worst eating disorder I've ever seen. Usually that sort of stuff makes me hate myself a little less, but it didn't work today.

Now that is one bad funk.

I like to think exercise will knock some sense into me, but as I'm really too lazy to do it as often as I should (more than 2-3 times a week), the results are negligible. I'm chasing the elusive runner's high, but I'm pretty sure it's a myth. Runner's delirium? Sure, I get that all the time. You know, like when your legs are so wobbly you fall off the treadmill instead of stepping off?

It may have to do.

Red Hot Love

2008-02-14T08:23:00.007-06:00

In case you haven't noticed, it's Valentine's Day. I haven't been able to traipse through Target without running into heart-shaped love since the Christmas decorations went on sale. Suddenly everything seems to be red or pink, and you can buy Hershey's Kisses, Sweethearts, and High School Musical valentines in bulk. Ok, maybe I made that last one up because I haven't actually seen these, but I suspect they exist. If they make High School Musical panties, they make valentines.

Sweethearts are made for the text message generation. While my friends and I thought it was quaint to read "fax me" on a candy heart, I can only imagine how the youngsters are gaga over "UR Gr8", "I <3 U", "143" or "459" (That's I love you in text message shorthand.) And if you're not sure how you feel, my personal favorite "BTWITIAILW/U" (by the way I think I'm in love with you). Um, yeah.

In the olden days (aka the 80s and 90s), we passed notes: "Check yes or no if you think I'm cute." There was always the nagging fear that you might get caught in study hall, but it made clandestine love all the sweeter. And you really knew who your BFF was, cause she never hesitated to ask the guy you liked if he liked you back or even like-liked you back.

Mortgage Partner and I make lots of V-Day jokes using our 9th grade humor, and yesterday I helped sell raspberry mocha vaginas on sticks at the university. But truth be known, I think Valentine's Day is pretty sweet--even if it involves manufactured love in a box. At least people are taking the time to share their love. I might be a bit of a cynic, but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy pink and red, heart-shaped love once a year.

Happy Valentine's Week...Brought to You by the Pharmaceutical Industry

2008-02-13T08:45:00.002-06:00

Recently I read an article where someone reminisced about the Valentine's Days of her childhood--complete with decorated shoeboxes for the valentines. I remember these days. Now I find it kind of humorous that we dutifully trotted around the classroom dropping our Bugs Bunny or Strawberry Shortcake valentines into people's construction-paper-covered Stride Rite boxes. I'm not sure what these rituals were made for other than an excuse to eat Smarties and chocolate cupcakes covered in pink goo.

As an adult, it seems Valentine's Day choices are less heartfelt. Ha.

I can get Mortgage Partner a card that plays an REO Speedwagon song, and perhaps I should tape a Cialis in it. You know, the pill they're talking about while the couple playfully wrestles the squirting kitchen hose?

Now while I joke all the time that MP is old, he's not that old. Not old enough to need a Cialis (although the couple in the commercial looks about 35).

He might be old enough for REO Speedwagon, but I won't rat him out.

I would like to know where my generation fits into this Valentine's Day commercial package.

Where is my card that plays Pearl Jam? What is our pharmaceutical of choice? When you're too young for Restasis, where do you turn?

Suspension of Disbelief

2008-02-07T12:09:00.000-06:00

Right now, at the very moment I'm typing this, Mitt Romney is suspending his bid for the presidency. Now, I have to ask what that means. To me, it sounds like in this season of perpetual vitriol, he is creating a kind of political purgatory.

He's not dropping out, so in essence he's not really out of the game. CNN's link has a very decent explanation of what a suspension means, so I won't go there. But dang, this just gets weirder and weirder.

I have to give the businessman props for being a businessman--he knows when to hold 'em, knows when to fold 'em, knows when to walk away, knows when to run.

Believe me, he's counting his money.

The talking heads will surely be giving him accolades for truly acting like a conservative and, gulp, not spending money stupidly. If only more conservatives, ahem, recalled this principle.

Don't get me wrong. This guy freaks me out. I'm pretty sure he's a cyborg. But at least he's not beating the dead horse before it ends up in someone else's bed.

My Big Fat Super Tuesday

2008-02-05T07:29:00.000-06:00

In case you haven't heard, you need to get out and vote today. And then you can put your party beads on and do all those bad things you're going to swear off for Lent 'cause it's Mardi Gras.

Here in middle America, the excitement of Super Tuesday is being dampened by our crappy weather. We're supposed to get rain, freezing rain, sleet (not to be confused by freezing rain), wintry mix, and snow. Our polling location is up the street at the neighborhood Catholic church, so I'm not overly concerned about getting out the vote. I could actually walk if I were so inclined, but I probably won't because I'm lazy.

Last night MP and I were discussing whether old people or youngsters would likely be more hindered by bad weather. I say the kids (I know them so well) because the old people like to get up early and do these things, thus they'll miss the worst of it. Since MO is a bellwether state for the Dems in this election, that could be a determining factor how this election will go. I'm not actually sure if I believe that, but I like the word bellwether.

And because it's not enough for the universe to have Super Tuesday and Fat Tuesday on the same day, it's also my friend Dorothy's 34th birthday. She's a little anxious, although I think her birthday has little to do with it. The big green tax machine for which we both work is laying people off today. I've told Dorothy many times that she's responsible for me having real, grown-up jobs in the years since grad school, so I hope her goodness covers both our asses in this situation.

In the meantime, we'll see how the roll of the dice works in this election season.

Laissez les bon temps rouler!

Sweet Old Lady

2008-01-23T15:37:00.000-06:00

Tuesday MP and I said goodbye to Jetta. We knew it was coming--God knows that cat has more than her allotted nine lives--but it was still incredibly difficult. We were able to find a veterinarian who would come to the house and help her (and us) let go. Suffice it to say, she didn't go without a fight. In true Jetta spirit, she had to have the last word.

As an homage to a cat who has brought more light and life to me than I ever thought possible, here are a few of our greatest memories. Nine for every extra life she had and one for good measure.

1. The first night I had Jetta home, I tucked her into bed with me. She was about 6 or 8 weeks old. In the middle of the night, I noticed she'd disappeared. I was convinced our really large tuxedo cat, Ernie, had eaten her. I found her curled into a tiny ball under my bedside table.

2. Jetta in her kittenhood climbed my parents' godawful 1970s-era grass wallpaper. She would climb all the way to the ceiling and then be stuck there, mewing her head off for someone to come get her down. She also managed to climb the Christmas tree and various drapes.

3. Jetta has always had a penchant for carrying toys around. From a young age she has preferred either gold strings (like those found on Godiva boxes) or furry things. She liked to carry these around and howl mournfully. She especially liked to leave her "baby" (it looks like a raccoon tail with eyes) in bed next to me.

4. Jetta's perfect meal--in no particular order--would include bacon, a burrito, Haagen-Dazs, and Butterfingers. Chicken, hamburgers, and pork tenderloin aren't too bad either. She mastered the art of swiping food off a plate, and has more than once tipped a cereal bowl from my hand. She and Lena once tag teamed the perfect food scam: Lena chased her tail like an idiot, and while we howled in laughter over Lena's stupidity, Jetta stole sausage off of MP's plate. I don't think Lena got anything out of this deal, which was probably part of the plan all along.

5. While she was still able to jump up on the bed, Jetta liked to wake me in the morning by standing on my hair and chewing on it. If that didn't work, she'd meow (m'row) until I fed her.

6. Five pound, declawed, snaggle-toothed Jetta bitch-slapping our 70 pound Collie-German Shepherd mix, Mattie, into submission. 'Nuff said.

7. Jetta has always thought she was part monkey. She would ride on anyone's shoulders who bent over long enough for her to walk up. The pads of her feet are like soft little hands, and she liked to pat my face when I'd hold her.

8. One day, when I was especially upset with MP and bawling my eyes out, Jetta walked over to me and bit me. It was like "Ok. I've heard enough. Get over yourself." It cracked me up so much I stopped crying. She told me exactly what I needed to hear in that moment.

9. I could never close a door on Jetta without her having a say in it. Jetta has been known to stand and paw at a bedroom door (in particular) for as long as took someone to give in to her. If you've ever heard a cat paw at a door, you know there's nothing quite like the sound of their paws thumping on wood.

10. No one who has met Jetta could ever resist her. Jetta had the innate skill to locate the non-cat person in the room, and sucker him/her into total admiration. I've seen many self-proclaimed cat-dislikers melt after a few moments of the Jetta treatment.

I am grateful every day that I have spent two-thirds of my life with such an amazing soul.

Hard Times

2008-01-19T21:41:00.000-06:00

Right now in our household we're dealing with the fact that our beloved cat, Jetta, is quickly fading. She is, in fact, 19 1/2 years old. Pretty spectacular for a cat. It's the equivalent of being about 95 if you're a person.

She walks, or rather hobbles, from one rug in the kitchen to a bed under the buffet. And that's about it. I fear it's time to make a judgment call, but it hurts me to do so.

This post isn't about eulogizing Jetta. That'll be for another day. But for now, I'm trying to keep some perspective about how she must be feeling.

The picture above is about 3 years old, and was taken not too long after Jetta scampered out the front door--only to have it close on her tail. This resulting in sewing her tail back together, thus the shaved tail with a pompom at the end of it. She was still quite active as a 16-year-old cat. And really remained so until about the last year or so, when she's gradually grown frail before our eyes. She looks so...plump in the picture, it's hard to believe she was ever that big. She's probably 9 lbs (actually pretty petite for a cat) in that one. If she weighs 4 lbs now I'd be surprised.

My niece has remarked that she can't believe Jetta's not a kitten because she's so tiny. And indeed sometimes I think of her that way too. It's the same way that old people become like babies in the end of their lives too. Yet instead of having that robust quality that kittens keep underneath their baby facades, Jetta is truly delicate. I feel I need to protect her all the time.

My friend Dorothy said she knew it was time for her cat in the end because she stopped purring, but Jetta hasn't reached that point yet. But I'm afraid it will come. I hold my hand to her ribs to feel her heartbeat, and my finger to her throat to feel her purr. They're still there. But the energy that used to emanate from her grows fainter daily.

Noodle

2008-01-15T21:13:00.000-06:00

I love Mortgage Partner, but we cannot really discuss politics. It's not like we're Carville and Matalin, mind you, but I get way too emotional when he beats up on Hillary. And it's not like I even know if I'm going to vote for her. I just don't like confrontation. Those of you who know me know this. I cry in the face of adversity. Unless I'm pissed off. Then I just yell a lot (in a fabulous, articulate way).

Life around here lately has become Indecision 2008. I feel like we eat, sleep, breathe politics. We're even considering letting an Obama staffer sleep here. We don't call it a night without checking up on our friends, Barack, Hillary, and John.

I wonder all the time how I went from being a fairly apathetic Independent to actually giving a damn. When I was in high school, I worked on the newspaper with a guy who's a lot like MP. Opinionated. Pushy. Rabid. (Ok, to be fair, MP is pretty balanced. But he watches political debates like someone else might watch a Packers game, or in fact, how he watches Packers games.) He was in my face all the time about Ralph Nader--a name I can't invoke without smirking, just a little. At the time, I couldn't vote, so I really didn't give two hoots. Two years later, when I could vote, I registered Independent because I figured that's what I was--pragmatic, seeing across party lines, and ultimately, on the fence.

Voting didn't register in my way of life. Not even in 2000 when I attended a Gore rally with my unable-to-vote-in-America German roommate. We took pictures. It was a little like seeing any other celebrity.

Fast forward four years, and my thoughts on politics, and voting, changed dramatically. I saw the error of my apathetic ways. No longer would I worry about someone else to take care of the issues in the country or in my city. Since then, I have voted pretty much every time something comes up. I care about the direction of this country, and being a homeowner in the urban core has made me care even more about my city.

So at this point in the blog, you're all probably wondering why I would call this post "Noodle." Because I'm an English major nerd above all, I'm currently reading Bleak House by Charles Dickens. It's one of the freaking funniest things I've ever read (and I'm not kidding--I think the title is a huge joke on all of us who think the book is going to be dreary).

At one point in the novel, Dickens writes: "What follows? That the country is shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces [...] because you can't provide for Noodle!"

In the notes it says: "Noodle: The name for a fool, especially a political one." And I really think that about sums things up. About me. About how MP and I battle over to Clinton or not to Clinton. And while I wouldn't say that we're Noodles, I think we're both fighting against Noodles.

And that's something we can actually agree on.

You've Come a Long Way, Baby (not so much)

2008-01-10T08:11:00.000-06:00

Enough with the crying already, people. When I wrote the post the other day about people making a big deal of Hillary crying, I had no idea it would continue for several more days. Really, isn't there other news out there? Good grief.

I will say though, the whole issue raises a few points that I have seen reiterated in the blogosphere lately. Let's call it the anti-Virginia Slim phenomenon. Blondie posted her take on the book Don't Be That Girl. I'm not sure how this book stacks up against others in its niche (Amazon suggests comparable titles like Man Magnet and Why You're Still Single), but books like these aren't new--they've just become increasingly better marketed and more flashy. I loved Blondie's take on the book and her own list of types of guys.

I remember when I was about 21 the dating book du jour was The Rules. This book is a creepy reminder of my early 20s when I hated myself enough as it was. What the hell was I thinking? I wasn't trying to land a husband. Even if I was, I'm pretty sure the rules portrayed in the book wouldn't have helped me net the kind of guy I wanted or needed.

Which also reminds me of a post Dorothy wrote the other day. Which pretty much scared the bejeezus out of me. Purity balls aren't a new idea to me, but that Dorothy wrote about them juxtaposed with Hillary crying on TV seemed to bring a couple of ideas up with alarming synchronicity (and I don't mean in a good Police kind of way). What I mean by this is the disturbing double standard that exists for men and women (and yes, there are other double standards out there that are equally disturbing, but those are for another day, Cranial Midget).

Why don't we care when Mitt Romney cries? (other than that he's a creepy dude we'd rather not think about) Why do we feel the need to "preserve" our girls for marriage? The whole idea of having an intact hymen freaks me out so much I can't even go there. But I will. I think one of the weirdest things I heard when I was a self-loathing adolescent was from one of my friends who said her mom wouldn't let her use tampons because "those are for married women." Huh?!

I guess my point here about Hillary and dating rules and purity balls is that despite all the progress women have made, we still haven't figured out what to do with them. Are we feeble or are we strong, because by God, no one (including some women) knows what to do with us if we show both faces.

Hillary Cried

2008-01-07T17:08:00.000-06:00

I have to blog about the attention being paid to Hillary Clinton tearing up on the campaign trail today. I know there are plenty of people who have full-on animosity toward her (and one lives in my house), as well as others who are passionate about her running for president. Me, I'm on the fence about the whole deal. I have to say that a female candidate is extremely appealing to me, but I do have doubts about whether Hillary is the person we need right now.

But back to the crying.

The fact that anyone thinks this is news isn't surprising. The presidential campaigners can hardly breathe under the watchful scrutiny of voters and the media. And that's as it should be. But that one of the candidates has a *human* moment during this scrutiny is apparently newsworthy. I feel for Hillary here. You know she has to be tired and frustrated, and no doubt, just a little mad too. Good lord, people, she really does have feelings!

My worry is that her breakdown (which is not exactly what I would call it) will be misconstrued as her "working" the crowd. I suppose that's possible. She is savvy to political maneuvering. Political candidates can't eat a piece of cherry pie without the act pointing at their patriotism.

On the other hand, maybe she cried because she was moved to do so. How very girly of her! How weak, how pathetic. How typical! The naysayers will have a field day with this one.

As many woman know, crying in moments of duress is part of the hormonal package. I have been accused (more than once) of crying to manipulate something in a situation. Yet, that's rarely the case. More often than not, I've had to fight the tears back, to look strong, to NOT act like a girl. When the tears have flowed it's because I couldn't hold myself together enough to keep them in.

This is probably the situation Hillary found herself in earlier today. Call her calculating or even false (a lot of people do), but I sincerely believe her tears were not a theatrical production today. And while it's refreshing to know that a politician might have a moment of vulnerability, I suspect Hillary will be accused of being weak. (That is, if she's not accused of faking it.)

We Love "The Wire"...and That Ain't No Bunk

2008-01-06T12:02:00.000-06:00

Mortgage Partner (aka Cranial Midget) and I are hurriedly catching up on season 4 of "The Wire" so we can hop into bed with the latest and final season that begins tonight. If you're not familiar with the show, go rent the first season and prepare to cringe. A lot. As with many other HBO shows, this stuff is not for the faint of heart.

What it will give you is a glimpse into the world of cops, gangsters, and politicians. As someone who lives in one KC's more historic hoods, I treat "The Wire" as a lesson in living in the big city. This scares me just a little, but I'd rather know what's out there than live in an ivory tower (or a beige box in a 'burb) and not consider what goes on in the rest of the world.

There is something just a little strange about finding reality in scripted television, but I know the little piece of heaven MP and I have scraped together isn't the only way people live. I guess you could call it roadkill fascination--like a mess so bad you can't help but look at it. Which is probably why most of us watch reality TV if you think about it.

Only "The Wire" is better than that. People are nastier, funnier, and more believable than they are in real life. And you will find yourself loving them--even the gun-toting thugs--because you realize even they have a little humanity in them. Most def.

A Caucus Race

2008-01-03T09:26:00.000-06:00

I'm so happy to know I'm not the only one who thinks of Lewis Carroll when I see the word caucus. I've included a handy link here for those of you who aren't up on your Alice in Wonderland. Indeed, as it is the day of the Iowa Caucus, there are other bloggers out in the universe making this reference. However, I'm not sure how many of them are considering the etymology of the word.

On this news this morning, the announcer suggested the word has roots in Native American language (Algonquin--I had to look this up). The suggestion is that it comes from caucauasu--one who advises.

However, the dictionaries generally credit Latin caucus or Greek kaukus (hey, if you use a k, it makes it Greek, right?). Both these suggest a cup or vessel and might relate to what the caucus-goers are doing, namely drinking. In Alice in Wonderland, the caucus is used to dry off. And everyone knows that drinkers need an opportunity to dry off, or dry out.

Frankly, I kind of prefer this meaning. I'm not sure how much advising goes on in a caucus. Methinks there is more running around in circles. If the Republicans weren't so worried about turning off their base, they would be cracking more jokes about the Democrats running around in circles a la Lewis Carroll. But that would be WAY too liberal literati. Apparently the Republican caucus is more organized, more 6th-grade class election-like. Everyone places a piece of paper in a box. Democrats run around a room and pile up under signs designating their choice. To me, that is much more in the spirit of a caucus.

In other news, I promise to be a more faithful blog contributer this year. My life is slightly less frantic than it was. And I know you've been waiting with baited breath to read up on word meanings and other random musings.

Is a Month Long Enough?

2007-12-06T16:54:00.000-06:00

I need to try to regain my sanity. Seems like this may not be the week. I've not blogged in so long that all three of my readers have probably stopped reading me. It's been a bit of a trying time lately. Between writing papers for Brainy Linguistics Prof and Brilliant Irish Studies Prof, teaching, freelancing, and navigating the murky waters of my personal life, I'm freaking tired.

My mom may end up being committed to a hospital--if we're lucky. In the meantime she's causing obscene amounts of stress for my saintly sister and moderately obscene amounts for me. I feel guilty every day. Not for my mom--she's burned too many bridges for us to feel bad about her situation. I just wish I could help my sister more. She's in the moment all the time, and I have the luxury of long distance keeping Mommie Dearest at bay. Seriously, our mom makes Joan Crawford look pretty good sometimes. Wire hangers be damned!

I don't know how things will come together, but I know that my sister deserves the little spare time she has to spend it with her family rather than being at the beck and call for the tyrant next door. I'll do what I can, but at this moment I'm not sure what that is.

In the meantime, I'll be looking for some holiday cheer. The snow is beautiful outside, and for now, it's making the world a little bit more sparkly. This is something I can be grateful for.

Why I Love Garth (and Trisha too)

2007-11-09T16:30:00.000-06:00

Last night, Mortgage Partner and I benefited from my friend Dorothy's illness and hit the new Sprint Center for a Garth Brooks concert. MP was a willing accomplice; although, I must say he wasn't nearly as excited as I was about the event. The truth is, I secretly (well, it's not a secret any more) know all the words to a heck of a lot of Garth Brooks songs. Don't ask me why. Maybe it's because I grew up in South Dakota and had country cousins, or because I spent two miserable summers in southeastern Kansas where there isn't anything else on the radio.

Last night I had the opportunity to share my, er, skill with MP and thousands of others. It was a whole hell of a lot of fun.

Trisha Yearwood, Garth's talented and voluptuous wife (and as tabloid legend would have it long-term lover while he was married to another) opened the show. I was surprised to discover (cause Lord knows I didn't really think about it) that I knew most of the words to the songs she sang as well. She even had me tearing up when she sang "How Do I Live." Well, shucks.

Garth's portion of the show (he rocked out--or would it be country-ed out? for over two hours) was an energetic collaboration with some incredible bandmates (loved the fiddle and steel guitar in particular). It started with a guy playing what looked like a white baby grand piano, and then the fiddler came out of the piano. Garth apparently jumped out of the stage (it looked like he came out of nowhere) in his western shirt, tight Wranglers, boots, and cowboy hat. Well, yeehaw!

He was all about the audience sing-along, and he even signed his guitar (?!) for someone in the audience named Jane who had a birthday yesterday. I have to hand it to the dude--he's really engaged with his fans. Both he and Trisha made serious eye contact with the audience. Man, I just melted (because he does have kinda dreamy eyes--who knew?)

But the moment that Garth chuckled, swept his cowboy hat off his wispy, graying hair and said, "You guys are great. You're singing along to all my songs, and here I am up here just trying to hold in my gut..." Well, that's the moment I decided I don't feel so bad about my illicit affair with the cowboy and his songs.

Up With Sheeple!

2007-11-08T08:08:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, Mortgage Partner had a great blog about philanthropy. Or rather, he linked to a blog about philanthropy. Whatever. Same thing. Also yesterday, while I was grading reading responses from my students, one of them commented that it seems charities really ramp things up during the cold months but seem to stagnate when it's warm. That got me thinking about the connection between giving and the so-called holiday season. I admit I'm prone to charitable acts this time of year--you know, the whole Sharing is Caring thing. And yes, the Salvation Army does some stuff that's a little too fundy for my liking, but the organization's heart is in the right place. I'd rather give to the red kettle than the panhandler asking for a downpayment on a cheeseburger.

But why is it that we open our hearts up so much this time of year and seem to want to forget that people are starving/needing medical treatment or shelter the rest of the year? What is this connection between the "holiday spirit" and philanthropy?

After all my family-related stress this fall, I'm planning to keep this Christmas low key in the gift-giving department. And for that matter, I'm kind of thinking that's how it should be year-round. I look at my own house and life and realize I don't need anything, and in fact, I have plenty to give. Not money really, because we're squeezing by as it is. But I have things to spare, and if I look hard enough, I even have time.

Now I know that my readership isn't tremendous, but those of you faithful readers who do come by here occasionally, I'd like your feedback on the whole philanthropy-holiday connection. I know most of you personally, and I also know I'm preaching to the choir here. But maybe you know of some people whose ears could stand to be bent a little. As I noted on Mortgage Partner's blog, we need to be thinking about Phil Anthropy and not Phil Entropy.

Boo frickin' hoo!

2007-10-31T08:59:00.000-05:00

Well, thanks to the overwhelming response regarding my new blog persona...ok, not really. Seriously, despite the fact that I know I'm writing for myself, I'd like to think there's someone out there who'd be willing to help me out with my name (besides CM who I know will always persist in suggesting cunninglinguist--I did like Lingenie, but I'm still thinking about it).

Whatever. I'm not here to grouse (ok, who are we kidding?), mainly I'm here to pose the following question:

What do we do when we need to parent our parents?

My sister and I have been going through a ridiculous amount of stress and drama with our parents (mainly our mother) in the last year--longer really, but we're ok with letting some of those things be bygones. I'm heading up to the homestead this weekend to help my sister deal with our mother's crap. I know I've written about this before, but it pretty much consumes my thoughts (that is when I'm not thinking about school, work, how much work it is to keep my own house clean, and the fact that I'm able to gain weight just thinking about food).

My mom buys things/collects things/refuses to donate or throw away things because things make her feel better. Granted, I sort of get this. I like going to Target because it makes me feel happy to buy new pillows or even air fresheners. But I don't do this on a regular basis, and I don't buy so much stuff that it swallows up my whole house. Yesterday, my sister came across a pile of clothes in our mom's secret lair (they covered an entire sofa) that for the most part had never been worn--the tags were still on them. Now, I try not to air my family's dirty laundry too much, but my mom is constantly complaining how she has no money, no one ever helps her, and she shouldn't be forced to live the way she does.

We know she has problems--I've seen these people on TV before on Oprah or Dr. Phil. But how do you even begin to do an intervention on someone like this? I think this goes beyond Suze Orman territory; she needs a psychiatric evaluation because this is getting into what resembles manic.

The thing that just kills us though is how she complains to us, to anyone who will listen, that we're such ungrateful wretches to let her life get this way. Are we? From her point of view, she thinks we should be regularly toting that barge and lifting that bale over at Momtown. I''m not so sure that she didn't have kids just to put them to work. From our point of view, we worry that maybe we're enabling her when we do bail her out (which seems to happen on a very regular basis).

Where do you find the happy medium? I know this woman needs some serious tough love, but we're not sure how to start. It's easier when you're the parents because you do have authority over your children. But when you're the kids...well, the channels are a lot more obscure.

One thing I've noticed as an adult is that I tend to surround myself with friends who are stable. I don't have time for drama (although in the past I have often stepped in to be the voice of reason in many situations--I'm seriously old beyond my years). Additionally, my stable posse seems to have pretty freakin' stable parents themselves. Indeed, many of my friends have parents I covet. You know, happily married, frugal, healthy, and sane enough to travel and spend time doing fun things with their adult children. I have no idea what this might be like, but it always looks pretty awesome to me. Perhaps this is just another case of the grass being greener--this case in someone else's family tree (weird, weird mixed metaphor there).

You can't pick your families, it's true (although God knows I'd pick my sister if I had a choice because she rocks). But how do you deal with the fact that you can't exactly write them off either?

Define Me!

2007-10-23T16:45:00.000-05:00

Hey blog-reading friends! I've never been overly attached to my blog persona (moniker? not sure--you know, the thing I call myself), and I'd love to hear your suggestions for a new one. No offense (in fact much praise is owed) to David Bowie for the creation of JeanGenie, but I think I can do better and be more original. Remember, it should be creative, original, and not my "real" name. I'm not sure what I can offer, other than fame on this here blog for helping me out, but I'll try to think of something.

Always the Babysitter...

2007-10-23T16:16:00.000-05:00

Oh hell! Dorothy just gave me a fab shoutout, so I thought I'd write a blog seeing as how what I should really do is edit, grade papers, work on my presentation for tomorrow, or write up a research proposal. I'd much rather blog. It's so cathartic.

Dorothy's post about finding a good babysitter gave me so many ideas, I pert near don't know where to begin. I've been babysitting since I was 11, so I guess that gives me 20 years' experience. Now I don't know why I was trusted with another child (though in her parents' defense mine were just across the street and said child was a very demure 7). I've seen it all--angels, hellraisers, whiners, pukers--but my favorite babysitting story comes from a time when I was a nanny.

I spent my first stint in grad school being REALLY poor, and I was a part-time nanny for a delightful family to supplement my puny teaching award. One night when I was babysitting, the oldest child, N. did something that merited a timeout in his room. Now, he was probably 6 or 7 at the time, so a timeout in his room really meant playing with Legos and Bionicles. But, he was still pretty pissed. At some point I walked by his room and spied him doing various ninja poses in his room. This itself isn't weird, except that they were accompanied by him giving the bird (to whom or to what I don't know). As a seasoned babysitter, I decided to let it go. Mainly it was funny.

Later, when his parents came home, I told them the story and asked them what they thought. His mom noted he had seen a driver giving another the bird one day, and N. asked what it meant. His mom told him that the bird-giving driver was angry at the other, and that the finger gesture was a rude one that shouldn't be done to other people. I liked her logic here--it sort of fits with those things that kids will do (flashing, touching themselves) that aren't inherently bad, but certainly aren't meant for polite company. So, N. interpreted this to mean you just don't give others the bird (but hell, no one said anything about the privacy of your own room!).

I have to say that I've found myself re-telling this story over the years. It's a great tidbit of parenting, and my demonstration of ninja moves with the bird is pretty hilarious.

Being able to share this has been good for me today. I'm overstressed, overworked, and generally hating of all things relating to my doctoral program (hello! Chomsky! I need to have a word with you!). I think I'll go in my room, channel my inner ninja, and give him the bird.

A Little Piece of Om

2007-10-17T09:00:00.000-05:00

Over the weekend my sister and I engaged in a bit of housecleaning. Well, actually it was cleaning our mother's garage. There was a lot of crap in there. But amongst the crap, I found things that I treasure too, like my baby book. Damn, I was cute. Mortgage Partner commented that I looked like a fat Asian baby. Now, for those of you who know me, I'm as Anglo as they come, so this is pretty funny.

My favorite aspect of my baby book is the signed letter from George McGovern congratulating my parents on my birth. Yay for me! My mom's best guess is that it was a political connection of my father's (and not that South Dakota had so few kids born that year he sent letters to us all).

I like to think that I was a positive addition to 1976. Maybe there was a whole bicentennial baby campaign I'm not aware of, but maybe ol' George was just being optimistic about the future.

Finding this tidbit has gotten me thinking about the things we save and the things we pitch. I'm somewhat of a packrat, but dealing with my mom's stuff has definitely made me think about the stuff I'm willing to hold on to (or not). I'm astounded that I have everything I need (and more) already. I mean, seriously. I am a mere 31 (heh heh), and there really isn't a damn thing I need anymore. Forever. It has all become about things I/we want. We could live in this house for the rest of our lives, and other than taking care of our little piece of history (e.g. replacing old tile, refinishing the floors, winterizing the basement), we don't really NEED to do anything or buy anything. It's all about taking care of what you have and hoping that it will last awhile.

I see this in the ancient furniture that we have--Grandma's buffet, the 19th century dining room table, my mother's boudoir chair circa 1950, great-Grandma's iron bedframe...don't get me wrong, we are not posh people, but we have nice stuff. And we're lucky that it's been passed down to us. But there's stuff we don't need, either. You know, like old magazines and lotion circa 1998.

Being a saver, one has to think about these things. New is not necessarily better (Mortgage Partner's La-Z-Boy in teal is a testament to this--future generations will NOT be begging for this to be left to them). These things tend to fall to pieces, as Dorothy has noted. The bookcase you buy at Wal-Mart will have to be re-bought in a few years. And so it goes.

So I'm evaluating the things we have with a new eye. What stuff will my kids (or chimps, as MP wishes) want to have from me? What does all my stuff add up to, anyway?

Mouse on a Wheel

2007-10-08T15:07:00.000-05:00

So, I seem to have an obsession about mice. Sorry, but this metaphor occurred to me as I was deliberating about what's interesting enough in my life to blog about. Nottalotta, but I did buy a treadmill this weekend. I'm not super thrilled about running in my basement since it's dark, dank, dingy, and depressing. I'll even take a cue from my friend, Dorothy, here and say it's a little like Silence of the Lambs--you know, the scene where Clarice goes into the basement and it's all dark and scary and the killer guy is wearing nightvision goggles? Dorothy used to say her basement at This Old House was the Silence of the Lambs basement. Now that they don't live there anymore, I feel the torch has passed so to speak, and now we have the basement with the crumbly walls and musty horribleness.

But, if running on a treadmill will help me be buff and ubersexy, then so be it. I might lie and say it's because it's good for my health to get some aerobic exercise, but the truth is I've always wanted to be a hot, athletic-looking person. So I'll run a little to make the insides of my thighs hurt, and I'll do the laundry while I'm down there. Double the pleasure.

Back to the mouse metaphor, the whole thought of running in place is, of course, much like a mouse on a wheel. I used to have pet mice when I was in junior high, and they would run for what seemed like hours on end. And the wheel would screech. And they'd jump off and chug some water from their water bottle. And they'd get back on and run and run and run. Sometimes they'd wear out a little and stop, but the wheel would keep going, and the mouse would be clinging to the wheel as it finished a revolution or two. And sometimes another mouse would be on the outside of the wheel while one was running, and it would inevitably roll to the bottom and then climb back up on top for one more round. My cat, Jetta, who is now a very elderly 19-year-old, could watch the mice for hours. And she'd sit there and hit at their cage, trying to figure out a way in. She never did, but it was highly entertaining to watch her.

Ever since I started running on treadmills a few years ago, I've worried that I would fall down and the treadmill would keep going. It's not a pretty mental image, but I'm a huge klutz, so anything is possible. Since we have basement windows, it's not impossible to think that the neighbors might watch me on the treadmill. I hope to God they don't tap on them while I'm running, because that would scare the shit out of me.

Camp Cushycanoe

2007-10-05T13:28:00.000-05:00

So Mortgage Partner and his dear friend Dr. Doolittle are off for a weekend of canoeing in Bum F*ck Missouri. They just departed in Doolittle's efficient little truck with the camper top, their packs filled with goodies, for a weekend of manly adventure. Note: that's what Jon Voight and Burt Reynolds thought they were getting too.

Mortgage Partner and Doolittle will be staying in a lovely two-person cabin with a kitchen. The canoeing outfitter will deposit them at Chicken Farm Runoff River. They will leisurely canoe down said river with snacks in hand and time enough for a jaunt in the woods o' Missouri. The canoeing outfitter will then pick them up, and the lads can return to their cabin and watch Fight Club on Doolittle's laptop. (The distant sound of men beating on chests and growling...)

Ok, I mock too much.

I think they'll have fun. It's good for the guys to get together and have man time.

When I graduated from college, my 5 best female friends and I canoed in the Boundary Waters of northern Minnesota. Our experience was a bit different. Rascal (don't ask, that's her nickname) packed just enough food for the week, and we schlepped all our supplies with us, which meant that 4 people carried the canoes and 2 people carried the packs when we had to portage. We also had to tie our food up in a tree at night so the bears wouldn't eat it. It rained every day were there, and it was in the 40s most nights (despite being June). I was definitely the most inexperienced of the bunch, being somewhat of a dainty princess, but we had fun. I look back on it as a character-building exercise and a final chapter of college before we all had to become grownups. Truth be known, I haven't camped since, but I don't think it has anything to do with being wet for a week, smelling constantly of campfire (and worse), and being worried about getting bitten in the ass every time I had to potty.

I'm sure there's another reason, but I can't think of what it is right now.

Nest

2007-09-27T07:54:00.000-05:00

I am not a neat person. Right now our dining room table is piled with my linguistics books and articles, as well as my teaching materials. The dust bunnies are jackelope-sized, and there's probably at least 6 loads of laundry to do. These are all reasons to be unhappy as far as I'm concerned.

I watch the shows on TV where people are literally walking on crap that covers the floor and think "hey, at least I'm not that bad!" And it's true, I'm not. Those people need professional intervention, and boy do I love watching them have to give away/throw away their shit. It makes me feel pretty awesome. I'm not sure if that's schadenfreude, but it might be a close relative.

I bought a book a couple of years ago written by a woman with a cult following of people like me. She has a fantastic site, and my sister receives e-mails from it with tips on how to stay tidy (which I think must be working for her because you'd never know she has 5 kids when you visit her house--I'd definitely eat off the floor there). I admit the clean guru's style isn't really my bag, baby, but I think underneath it all she has a point. I try to follow her advice, but I get the sense I'm resistant to help. Am I self-sabotaging my abilities to have a clean house?

Keeping the house clean is the silent but ongoing battle between me and Mortgage Partner. If I'm messy, he's a downright slob. He calls it Pigpen-ism. Seriously, if you know the guy, you'll know this to be true. Our so-called master bedroom is currently the source of my disgust with our house. I don't even like sleeping in there. (See, I sound like the people on those shows.)

Every so often we'll force ourselves to clean it (we call it triage around here), and it'll look good on the surface. However, there's still the matter that I haven't finished painting it yet. And I want to remove the carpet. And the adjoining sunporch needs a total renovation. Ugh.

So, lest you think my (our) messiness is the source of the aforementioned mice, we're not dirty (although dust bunnies are in a gray area in that respect). We just seem to find other (better?) ways to spend our time than tidying the house. You know, like blogging.

Die Fledermaus

2007-09-20T08:02:00.000-05:00

Ok, so Die Fledermaus is really an opera by Johann Strauss about a bat, well, it's not really about a bat, but that's how it translates. In any case, it literally means "flying mouse," which I suppose is another way of looking at a bat. This is all really just a preamble to the actual news of the day, which is that mice really do fly.

Let me just back up a few years to 2004. I was still horribly poor, post grad school, working for the man, but not actually making real money. I lived in 3rd-floor walkup brownstone, which was oozing with potential, except in reality it was a craphole. Over the first few months of the year, I had been besieged by mice. Apparently Owl Man, my reclusive, nocturnal neighbor below me, kept birds and thus had quite a lot of bird seed, which had attracted mice. The mice were well known to me, as I heard them scrabbling in the walls and causing my cat, Lena, to sit and stare at the wall for hours. But for the most part, I hadn't really had to deal with them. Then came the month of many mice. I can't remember the time line precisely any more, but I think over the course of several weeks, Lena presented me with about 8 mice. Sometimes whole, sometimes in parts. Sometimes dead, but usually alive. One day I was talking to my mom on the phone, (and I may actually have been aware with Lena playing with a mouse but was so desensitized at that point I decided to ignore it), and I saw the mouse go flying through the air. It probably flew about 5 feet. It landed on a dining room chair and kept running. I call that mouse The One That Got Away.

Fastforward to two days ago. I came home from school and saw all the usual signs--cats transfixed by something that no human can see or hear. This time, it was Lena and Oliver staring at the space below our Craftsman bench (no, not the kind you buy at Sears). Thank God Brave Mortgage Partner came home before they actually made contact. We were able to rescue that one. Sort of. It wasn't so bad.

Yesterday, suffice it to say, I spent some quality time standing on a footstool hovering with a metal colander in my hands and screaming. That mouse spent the day under the colander, which was weighted down by my 18th century art history book, which was covered by a tub, which was weighted down by my big f*cking art history book. Then there was the mouse who got to play with the kitties while I hid upstairs; he eventually ended up rolled in the living room rug.

So I called the exterminator. I just couldn't take it anymore. I hope Jesus forgives me for killing the little creatures. My druthers would be that the meeces would go live in our shed in the backyard. But they seem to like our house better.

My cats are good mousers, but that doesn't actually mean they kill them and dispose of them properly. They're well fed. Oliver weighs 16 pounds for pete's sake. He could go a week without eating. He just lays there with a giant paw holding down a teeny mouse. Awful.

As of this morning, we've been mouse-free since yesterday afternoon. Mortgage Partner always says nature ain't no Disney movie. If it were, I'm sure I'd have a coach and six white horses by now. Bibbideebobbideef*ckingboo!

Optimal Relevance

2007-09-18T09:38:00.000-05:00

So, I'm going to steal some words from my linguistics book, but I'm going to use them in a completely irrelevant way. Cause that's what I do.

The fine sisters over at She Doesn't Get It have a forum on, well, lots of things. Mostly about being childful and childless, which seems to be my reality these days also. Everyone I know (and their little dogs too) seems to be having babies these days. Kinda like in years past when I everyone I knew was getting married. I guess these things usually work this way. I have to admit I feel a certain twinge in my ovaries at the thought of zee leetle bebe, because I think that's part of being 30-something.

Society (whatever that is) does seem to judge people on whether they're married and having kids, and so I totally relate to the singletons who bemoan their friends' inability to discuss anything other than their marriage or their kids. At the same time, I understand the marrieds-with-kids desire to discuss their reality, which is to say being married and having kids.

Yes, there are perhaps bigger things in the world to worry about--you know, global warming and world peace, etc. I do think these bigger concerns are implicit in people's discussions about themselves; it's just not always as apparent. I read an article the other day that suggested one way to minimize global warming was for people to procreate less. Well, I can see that as a reasonable argument. I'm also one of those people who believes that raising responsible kids is another way to contribute positively to the world. That said, I know that's just me putting on my rose-tinted glasses because there are plenty of loopholes in that argument.

I don't think the argument for/against kids is one we can empirically hash out. We are, after all, people who can't entirely be ordered by reason. Mortgage partner says he can't come up with a good reason for wanting the new car he slobbers over (which he isn't getting--I get the next new car). It's much more concrete to defend the argument for/against marriage--that's a contract with potential financial pros/cons, in addition to the obvious emotional ones.

Me, I'm on the fence about kids, admittedly with one leg dangling further over on one side than the other. And while I'm not even going to TRY to equate having kids with the choice to buy a new car (I'm not that shallow, people), there is a certain parallel between the wants (unless you happen to be driving a complete piece of shit in which case the need certainly overrides the want). We don't need kids to perform manual labor like in ye olde days of yore; we can shop at Wal-f*ck instead. We also don't need them to prove the viability of the marriage contract (unless you're Michael Jackson, but that's another blog for another day).

Perhaps because I'm a poet, I equate having children with the urge to create something beautiful that can one day stand on its own--much like a poem, a painting, or whatever it is that one creates for art's sake. We want things because they can contribute to happiness (Note: I did not say they will make you happy). They please us. And unlike those things we love because they're aesthetically pleasing, children love us back.

Ode to Dorothy

2007-09-11T17:32:00.000-05:00

Ok, so I just had to post a blog about my friend Dorothy over at Surrender, Dorothy, who has (gasp!) snapped up a book deal. I'm so proud of her and so thankful that she said I can be more angstful in my own blog posts. She writes about being a mommy and has put a collection together of mommybloggers. While I'm a nonmommy (in terms of human children at least--we have oodles of the furry kind), I find that I relate more to Dorothy than to other bloggers who might be termed as "my kind." You know, us unmarried, childless, career-driven folks.

Oh yeah, and since I titled this an ode, I guess I better throw some ode-like lines in here so I won't be deemed full of empty promises.

Ode to Dorothy (with apologies to Keats)

Woman of wit and thoughtful childfulness,

Close bosom-friend of fine literature;

Conspiring with mommies how to raise and dress

The young child who grows to resemble her.

Ok, so this is really only a small part of an ode, but I couldn't come up with 33 lines (which is also apropos for Dorothy) in such haste. Maybe another day.

All the best, Dorothy! I'm so thrilled for you and that I can say I knew you back before you were famous.

Procrastination Epistemology

2007-09-04T17:23:00.000-05:00

There are at least three things I should be doing right now: 1) Working 2) Reading 3) Writing.

I wish I could consider blogging as falling under the writing category, but that would just be wishful thinking. Maybe writing would better be restated as "homework."

Since I have a lot of each to do, I have decided not to do any of them. I shall, instead, ruminate. Today's ruminations (and yes, I'm chewing as I write this), will consist of my thoughts on Descartes, anomalies of English, and what I should cook for dinner.

First, about Descartes. He came up a lot in my class with Brainy Linguistics Professor today. So I thought I'd dig out my copy of Discourse on Method circa 1995 (complete with my inane comments in the margins). As Descartes ponderously describes what will become known as Cartesianism, my comments note he is "not much of a risk-taker." Ok, so I was a little shallow, but I think it would be fun to evaluate philosophers on what their philosophies seem to say about their personalities. You know, that Rousseau, "he's a bit of an ass," or that Mill, "he sure does like his freedom," and that kind of thing.

The next topic comes courtesy of e-e baby, who asked me to consider the phrase (or if you really want to be linguistic about it, utterance) "a whole nother." I see her point. I mean, really, if you have another, you should be able to have any number of nothers you want, especially a whole nother or maybe even a half-nother. As in, that's a half-nother thing altogether. Because it's really not fair to say it's another thing (that would imply it's something else), and it's especially unfair to say it's a whole other thing (because that would directly place it in the realm of things not even related to what you're talking about). But, if we could have half-nothers, well, then you could give credit to something while simultaneously detracting from it.

As for the last topic, nobody really cares about what Dear Mortgage Partner and I are having for dinner. I do, however, have an idea about how to begin my homework.

Vigilante Librarians

2007-08-28T10:13:00.000-05:00

Best advice I've received from a professor in a long time: If you're not nice to librarians, you're an idiot!

One of my dearest friends is a librarian, and I'm sure she'd concur.

Brilliant Irish Studies Professor (BISP) also told us that if we were mean to librarians, we should consider going into hiding. Now, I've taken some time to mull that one over. It sounds like there could be a network of vigilante librarians out there. I'm a little worried. Armed with encyclopedic knowledge and the mysteries of the Dewey decimal system, who knows what could happen?

While my dream of librarians riding cardfiles into the sunset isn't realistic, the truth is we need some vigilante librarians around here. We need some card-stamping, metadata-slinging, librarians to hit some people over the head with the books they're not reading. While some argue that reading online (eegads, you're reading this schlock aren't you?) IS reading, it's not like reading books. What we miss when we move away from books is the ability to sustain an interest in a topic. I see this inability on a daily basis. We are a generation of very short-term attention spans, people. Hold on, I'm getting IMd here, ok, so where was I?

Oh yeah. We can't pay attention to things.

As much as the book snobs disparage Oprah's Book Club, at least she's gotten people to read. And that, my friends, is worth something.

Death by Grad School

2007-08-22T07:43:00.000-05:00

The first week of school is one of anticipation for most students. We wonder what our teachers will be like or if we'll like our classmates. And when you get to college, especially beyond baccalaureate work, you wonder how tough the work is going to be.

I had my first class of the new semester, and as a newly minted doctoral student, on Monday. It didn't seem so bad. I might finally learn how one prepares for conferences and gets published--you know, typical tenure-track professor kind of stuff. Just the sort of thing I'd managed to avoid by doing a master's in creative writing. I'm a little stoked because I think it will help me jumpstart my studies and perhaps help me add to my CV along the way.

Yesterday was my first class with Brainy Linguistics Professor. I had an idea of the pain to be when I bought my books last week, but I now know that my life, as I know it, is over. I don't even want to get into it, except that my friend said the first time she took this class (why? why would you take it again for fun?!) she had to leave the room because she had a panic attack. Um, right. Sometimes I can't even get through a night of sleeping because I have panic attacks, so I'm sure that lectures on semiotics, semantics, and symbols (ok, that's redundant) are really going to be panic-inducing.

And I thought being a tortured poet was hard. Jeez.

I have resigned myself to a life of agony, because really, who doesn't like a little pain? Now I'm actually going to have to read Chomsky. I haven't felt like the dumb kid for several years, but there's nothing like the mention of Foucault (or Derrida, or Heidegger, or bleepin' Kant) to jolt you out of a smug existence into the reality that you're a total dumbass.

Itchiness

2007-08-15T09:25:00.000-05:00

The end of summer makes me itch. I often wake myself in the night because it feels as though tiny bugs are crawling all over my stomach and back. Lest you think that I have bedbugs (although I've read they're making a comeback), it's just my seasonal allergies acting up. Just writing this post makes me itch in fact.

And I think the itch is coursing through our household. The dog seems to be plagued with it as well. She's licked her abdomen raw and seems to be in perpetual agony as long as she's awake.

I know this rawness that she feels. In addition to suffering from ragweed, I'm overcome every August by this, well, ennui. Yes, the end of the summer brings me to the beginning of the school year, and God knows I love school. A new school year is a new beginning. New teachers (if you're a student). New students (if you're a teacher). All this newness is great; however, that also reinforces the sense that I'm somehow flailing along in life. You know, it's the whole "why am I here?" thing. As a girl in my 30s (gasp!) there are a few things that come to mind: career, marriage, kids. Probably in that order.

I guess I sort of have the career in control. I have a job I love (when I don't hate it), and I have the lifestyle I've always wanted. I get to be home quite a bit rather than stuck in a cubicle all day, which I hate and always knew I hated despite the 5 years I spent off and on in cubicleland trying to convince myself that I could potentially like it.

And of course, I do have dear mortgage partner. We've been together nearly 7 years now and have owned our lovely house in the hood for 2. Our relationship is great: he's my best friend, my biggest champion, and my own personal source of entertainment. I do, however, go these phases where I think about being more "normal." Like maybe we should get married. Maybe we should want to have kids. And then I get withdrawn and/or angry, and we have "that" conversation.

We haven't had "that" conversation yet, but once he reads this post we probably will. A big part of me doesn't want to want the conventional, but another tiny, and potentially growing, part does. And all I can do is itch it when it wants to wake me in the night.

Leos of the World Unite!

2007-08-09T16:51:00.000-05:00

Today is my birthday, and I'm gonna blog about it. See, that's what we attention-seeking, life-in-the-limelight, royal divas do. (I don't know the masculine version of diva, sorry. I know you're something equally sparkly and fantastic.)

I know no less than 6 other people with this birthday. I also know at least 5 more with birthdays within a week of today. What gives? I personally think it has to do with cold-weather lovin', but I also think the universe has a funny way of putting us Leos together. My stepdad, a Russian teacher, two high school friends, one college boyfriend, and another person I just met have this birthday.

So while my post of yesterday was the introspective Leo, today I'm giving a shout-out to Leos around the world. I guess that makes me sound like more of a Gemini, but whatever.

Happy Chompo Bar to Me!

Becoming

2007-08-08T17:32:00.000-05:00

I like this word. It means turning into something or attractive (related, I imagine, to comely).

Tomorrow, I am becoming more of a 30-something. What this means is that I have to own my 30s--the first dreaded decade for women everywhere.

My sister said turning 30 was a relief. She said that she felt even better about herself upon turning 40. My sister is a freak of nature. She has 5 children, runs marathons, is an EMT (essentially for fun), and bakes like friggin' Martha Stewart. I'm not sure we're related.

I have assumed the outer appearance of someone who is plenty fine with being 30 (tomorrow 31). I know I don't "look my age"--whatever that means. The reality is I'm becoming concerned about my reality. What if I can't lose the last 10 pounds? What if I never finish my dissertation? (I guess I'd have to start it first.) What if I end up just another crazy cat lady whose house smells like tuna?

What I'm becoming is someone who can't use my 20s as an excuse for not eating right, not having a career, and not being married with children. Now that I'm 30--in my 30s--the excuses seem just that, excuses.

Normal people make resolutions on New Years' Day. As it's been previously ascertained, I'm not normal. My birthday has often been the day of reckoning, the day to evaluate or reevalute who I am and what I'm about. This year I've been thinking about what I'm becoming. I'm doing what I love (educating the future of America) and working on my PhD. I own a house with DMP (dear mortgage partner or damned mortgage partner--depends on the day). I have family, friends, and pets that love and nurture me. But sometimes I don't feel any stronger or smarter than the naive 21-year-old who moved here 9 years ago. So where does this leave me?

I'd like to think that we never stop becoming something. So for this year, I'll strive to keep on becoming whatever it is I'm meant to be. And I'll try to be ok with not knowing what that means exactly.

redundancy

2007-08-07T08:25:00.000-05:00

So, since I'm a word person, I thought I'd start this blog off with a little dictionary wisdom.

When thinking about what to name my blog, I wanted something that described me and my love of words. And by extension all things witty. For some reason, repartee came up. I'm thinking it might have to do with all those years of French. And being a linguistics nerd probably adds a little to that interest as well. So why is it that we often see "witty repartee," when in truth, wit is enveloped in the meaning of repartee in the first place?

That brings me to redundant, which the dictionary describes as "superfluous repetition or overlapping." A lot of things are redundant lately. When people are laid off from a job, they are made redundant. When the bridge collapsed in Minneapolis last week, experts in the field of engineering said there weren't enough built-in redundancies in the structure. When people write "at this present time" rather than using "currently" they're being redundant. Or maybe they're just being wordy; that's probably up for debate.

So back to repartee and why I picked this word in the first place: this blog is a place for "a quick, witty reply." Since the root of this word is from fencing, I'll start the conversation, and you can hit me with your best shot.

Bring it on!

2007-08-01T21:50:00.000-05:00

Coming soon! More overly inflated language for overly educated people.