Do any of you remember my charming Granddad and his Julie? He's hilarious, for those who are too lazy to click the link, and I love him dearly. Our phone conversations are frequent and far-ranging in topic, though they occasionally veer off into the realm of the ridiculous. Like take today, for example.
Cheasty: Hey Grandad, how are you?
Granddad: Well hey yourself! How's it going? What's new?
Cheasty: Oh I'm fine. Not too much going on, I'm just heading to join a friend for yoga.
Granddad: Oh, yeah? That's great. Yoga's good stuff.
Cheasty: Tell me about it. In the year since I started yoga I've grown half an inch!
Granddad: No kidding! Wow! That's amazing. I wonder why it isn't working that way for my Julie. She's shrinking.
Cheasty: Julie does yoga?
Granddad: Yeah, every day. She loves the stuff!
Cheasty: Wow, I had no idea they had yoga in [small little West Virginia town].
Granddad: Are you kidding? This town isn't that podunk. Now, some of the fancier wines and cheeses I've got to find elsewhere, but we definitely have yoga. Why, Julie's having a yoga in the kitchen right now!
Cheasty: (laughing helplessly)
Granddad: Hey, so why is it you think all this yoga is making you taller?
** For the record, Granddad does know the difference between yoga and yogurt, he just misheard me. And also to set the record straight, it's not cause his hearing's going, it's because "all you young people mutter all the time." He's undoubtedly correct.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
A Second Home in Antarctica
I don't know how much more of this I can take. Yesterday's temperature was 105 degrees, with humidity that ranged between 35 and 70%. I'm not sure that there's even a word for what that makes the heat index, other than "broiler." Ugh. I took my dog Birdie for a walk at 3pm and she made it about 100 feet out the door before she started panting, 150 feet out the door before she stopped dead in her tracks and looked at me with pathetic eyes, and 151 feet before she made an executive decision and beelined it for a nearby tree to lie down in the shade.
This is ridiculous. I'm moving to a place with permafrost and a perpetual snow cover.
This is ridiculous. I'm moving to a place with permafrost and a perpetual snow cover.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
National Day of Hero Worship
Most people, when asked who their heros are, will name someone like their Mom or their Dad, or their Great-Aunt Judy who rode her bike from Austin to Little Rock 45 times in one year just cause somebody told her she couldn't do it. I, also, am a big fan of my parental units (HUGE FAN!), I admire them tremendously, and they are indeed my personal heroes. But when I was a kid, I often looked elsewhere for inspiration, for role-modeling, and for guidance. You want to know who my heros were?
1. Davy Crockett. I dreamed of being a wilderness explorer, and plus his picture on the cover of his biography was CUUUUTE! In my games I often pretended I was Davy Crockett, tramping around the vast unexplored American West with a rifle, a Bowie knife, and a coon-skin cap. No doubt the romanticized version of his life I read as a kid left out the less-than-savory aspects of his character, but to me he was the very spirit of adventure.
2. Amelia Earhart. I know, I'm not the only one. But seriously, this woman was amazing. I read her biography, too, and I read a passage that described her running in to a meeting with "windblown hair." I had no idea that was merely a polite way of saying "messy." I thought that if your hair was in the wind enough it would take on some fantastic qualities that were immediately identifiable as "windblown," and furthermore, it must be extravagantly romantic to have windblown hair. God bless my mother, who never asked why when I spent the next six months hanging my head out the windows of moving cars.
3. Claire Huxtable and Julia Sugarbaker. You know them, right? The mother on the Cosby Show, and the main character on Designing Women? God bless women who know how awesome they are, and aren't afraid to tell it like it is. While I can occasionally approximate eloquence in the written word, when it comes to spontaneously expressing my thoughts verbally I am at a complete and total loss. If one day somebody thinks even in passing that I am one-tenth as cool as either of these fictional characters, I will faint dead away with glee.
The following link will take you to the greatest Julia Sugarbaker moment of all-time, though embedding has been disabled (bummer):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bVl4bmGcn3c
So what about you all? Who were your heroes (non-familial) when you were growing up? Who did you intentionally model yourself after? Why? Tell me all about it, or write a post on your blog and then let me know to go read it!
1. Davy Crockett. I dreamed of being a wilderness explorer, and plus his picture on the cover of his biography was CUUUUTE! In my games I often pretended I was Davy Crockett, tramping around the vast unexplored American West with a rifle, a Bowie knife, and a coon-skin cap. No doubt the romanticized version of his life I read as a kid left out the less-than-savory aspects of his character, but to me he was the very spirit of adventure.
2. Amelia Earhart. I know, I'm not the only one. But seriously, this woman was amazing. I read her biography, too, and I read a passage that described her running in to a meeting with "windblown hair." I had no idea that was merely a polite way of saying "messy." I thought that if your hair was in the wind enough it would take on some fantastic qualities that were immediately identifiable as "windblown," and furthermore, it must be extravagantly romantic to have windblown hair. God bless my mother, who never asked why when I spent the next six months hanging my head out the windows of moving cars.
3. Claire Huxtable and Julia Sugarbaker. You know them, right? The mother on the Cosby Show, and the main character on Designing Women? God bless women who know how awesome they are, and aren't afraid to tell it like it is. While I can occasionally approximate eloquence in the written word, when it comes to spontaneously expressing my thoughts verbally I am at a complete and total loss. If one day somebody thinks even in passing that I am one-tenth as cool as either of these fictional characters, I will faint dead away with glee.
The following link will take you to the greatest Julia Sugarbaker moment of all-time, though embedding has been disabled (bummer):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bVl4bmGcn3c
So what about you all? Who were your heroes (non-familial) when you were growing up? Who did you intentionally model yourself after? Why? Tell me all about it, or write a post on your blog and then let me know to go read it!
Monday, June 22, 2009
FAME!! I'm Gonna Live Forever!!
Oh, just guess what I got in the mail this morning. A package with 4 copies of an academic journal, The U.S. Catholic Historian!! I know, not normally the sort of thing that sends me into trills of upper-octave exuberance, but LOOK!!
Left column, third one down. Open to page 45.
I'm published! IN PRINT! I've had other stuff published on-line before, but this feels unbelievably cool.
Left column, third one down. Open to page 45.
I'm published! IN PRINT! I've had other stuff published on-line before, but this feels unbelievably cool.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
In Which Our Heroine Seduces Frank Irwin
Dear Matter of Fact Mommy and other lovers of Frank Irwin. I'm sorry. I know you all love him. I know you all dream of the day in which he will be yours. I am sensitive to those feelings, and I truly regret having to break your collective heart, but what's done is done, and I have to let you know. Frank Irwin is mine. He's the yin to my yang, the bi to my cycle. My apologies, but it was written in the stars.
Frank and I both live in Austin, I discovered recently, and being that I'd already broken the seal by meeting MOFM back in April, it seemed like a good idea to meet this dapper fellow, especially given that he likes bikes. Cause I likes bikes, too! So when he floated the idea of meeting up sometime, I said "Okay, Frank Irwin. Meet me at Quack's Bakery at 3pm on Friday. I'll be the unbearably attractive brunette in the corner. You'll recognize me by my acres and acres of bouncy beautiful hair, and also the fact that the air around me seems to be sparkling, though you can't exactly figure out why." But how was I to know which of the many good looking men who come through Quack's would be Frank Irwin? I wrote to him with instructions. "Will you please bring a book of poetry and a pink carnation so I can recognize you when you come in?" In all honesty, I was joking, but guess what Frank showed up with this afternoon:
What, can't you see the title of that charming little book? Here's a closer look:
Yes, that would be a book of dirty limericks, and it's a good thing he brought it with him, because before Frank Irwin showed up I was sitting there wondering which guy would be Frank Irwin. What on earth would Frank Irwin look like? I started to get nervous when a deeply creepy gentleman in a muu-muu and ladies' slacks came in and started looking about him as if he were looking for somebody. Oh, no! I thought. That must be Frank Irwin and he's so creepy! Keep your head down, Cheasty, maybe he won't see you! After a few moments of dead panic, I was relieved to see Deeply Creepy moving on out. Oh, sigh of relief. Frank, it turns out, is not deeply creepy. Rather, he is very nice, beardedly handsome, and charming, though his taste in poetry is decidedly low-brow. Here's a sample:
There was a young vampire named Mabel,
Whose periods were long and unstable.
On the night of the full moon
With a rusty old spoon,
She would drink herself under the table.
Or how about this?
There once was a woman named Alice
Who used a dynamite stick as a phallus;
They found her vagina
Up in North Carolina
And the rest of poor Alice in Dallas.
This is one of my favorites:
There once was a dentist named Stone
Who saw all his patients alone.
In a fit of depravity
He filled the wrong cavity,
And my! How his practice has grown!
I laughed my ass off when I sat down to read them just now, and these limericks, plus the fact that Frank Irwin bought me a chocolate cupcake, have cemented my deep and abiding love for Frank Irwin. Ah, that Frank Irwin. He sure does know how to win a girl's heart. :)
Frank and I both live in Austin, I discovered recently, and being that I'd already broken the seal by meeting MOFM back in April, it seemed like a good idea to meet this dapper fellow, especially given that he likes bikes. Cause I likes bikes, too! So when he floated the idea of meeting up sometime, I said "Okay, Frank Irwin. Meet me at Quack's Bakery at 3pm on Friday. I'll be the unbearably attractive brunette in the corner. You'll recognize me by my acres and acres of bouncy beautiful hair, and also the fact that the air around me seems to be sparkling, though you can't exactly figure out why." But how was I to know which of the many good looking men who come through Quack's would be Frank Irwin? I wrote to him with instructions. "Will you please bring a book of poetry and a pink carnation so I can recognize you when you come in?" In all honesty, I was joking, but guess what Frank showed up with this afternoon:
What, can't you see the title of that charming little book? Here's a closer look:
Yes, that would be a book of dirty limericks, and it's a good thing he brought it with him, because before Frank Irwin showed up I was sitting there wondering which guy would be Frank Irwin. What on earth would Frank Irwin look like? I started to get nervous when a deeply creepy gentleman in a muu-muu and ladies' slacks came in and started looking about him as if he were looking for somebody. Oh, no! I thought. That must be Frank Irwin and he's so creepy! Keep your head down, Cheasty, maybe he won't see you! After a few moments of dead panic, I was relieved to see Deeply Creepy moving on out. Oh, sigh of relief. Frank, it turns out, is not deeply creepy. Rather, he is very nice, beardedly handsome, and charming, though his taste in poetry is decidedly low-brow. Here's a sample:
There was a young vampire named Mabel,
Whose periods were long and unstable.
On the night of the full moon
With a rusty old spoon,
She would drink herself under the table.
Or how about this?
There once was a woman named Alice
Who used a dynamite stick as a phallus;
They found her vagina
Up in North Carolina
And the rest of poor Alice in Dallas.
This is one of my favorites:
There once was a dentist named Stone
Who saw all his patients alone.
In a fit of depravity
He filled the wrong cavity,
And my! How his practice has grown!
I laughed my ass off when I sat down to read them just now, and these limericks, plus the fact that Frank Irwin bought me a chocolate cupcake, have cemented my deep and abiding love for Frank Irwin. Ah, that Frank Irwin. He sure does know how to win a girl's heart. :)
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Scary Movies
I'll just say it right out front: I am a complete and total clucking molting chicken when it comes to scary movies. So much so that I've rarely watched any all the way through. I saw The Sixth Sense and may or may not have almost peed myself and flipped the couch over when I tried to climb over the back because I got so scared. And The Sixth Sense wasn't even the scariest movie I've ever seen. No, that honor belongs to a movie called (da da daaaaa) The Watcher In the Woods.
When my sister Umulu and I were little kids (maybe 8 and 6, or 9 and 7 years old, something like that) we got invited to our next door neighbor's overnight slumber party birthday party. Oooh, thrills! It was an evening of high excitement - pizza! cake! ice cream! games! pop corn! MOVIES!! That night as we 15 little girls snuggled down in our sleeping bags, our friend's mom put on The Watcher in the Woods, and Umulu and I have borne the scars ever since. We completely wigged out. A watcher in the woods? Oh my God, WE HAVE WOOOOOOOODS!! Eventually our friend's mother called our mother to come and get us, cause we were evidently raising quite a ruckus in our panic, crying and shrieking.
For years, The Watcher in the Woods has been the high-water mark for both of us in sheer terror. In high school Umulu, in a bold show of bravado, managed to sit through a movie called The Children of the Corn, which I had heard on good authority was the scariest movie ever made. Afterward, she was telling me all about its horrors in somewhat gory detail, and I asked her. "Was it as scary as The Watcher in the Woods?" She paused and considered. "No, not even close," she assured me.
We also used Watcher as a litmus test for bad parenting. So-and-so has a horrible mom, we would hear. She beats her kids! Or what's-his-face leaves his kids home alone with piles of cocaine on the kitchen table. Yeah, we'd scoff. But answer me this: do they make their kids watch The Watcher in the Woods? Cause that's baaaaaaad.
Well guess what Umulu and I did this week. [Oh, God, I can't even say it. It's too, too horrible and scary for words!! Pull yourself together Cheasty - this attitude is completely unbecoming an adult. Oh, sniffle, hiccup, sob. Ok. I can do this.] We, um.... we, [gulp]... we rented... The Watcher in the Woods. Aaiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!
To be fair, we'd googled it previously. Turns out, it's a Disney movie. And only rated PG! Ha, we'd marveled. Who knew?! I bet it's not really that scary, huh huh. So I Neflixed it, and this Monday Ums brought over a pizza and we popped it in the DVD player and cued it up. "Should I press play?" I asked. "Um, well..." Umulu replied. "Yeah," I said, and started to laugh. "I'm completely terrified to watch this." "Me too!" cried Umulu, and we gave in to a good fit of nervous giggles. Finally we agreed that if it got scary, we'd just turn it off. No use scaring ourselves silly, right?
You want to know how long we lasted? Eight minutes and 14 seconds.
When my sister Umulu and I were little kids (maybe 8 and 6, or 9 and 7 years old, something like that) we got invited to our next door neighbor's overnight slumber party birthday party. Oooh, thrills! It was an evening of high excitement - pizza! cake! ice cream! games! pop corn! MOVIES!! That night as we 15 little girls snuggled down in our sleeping bags, our friend's mom put on The Watcher in the Woods, and Umulu and I have borne the scars ever since. We completely wigged out. A watcher in the woods? Oh my God, WE HAVE WOOOOOOOODS!! Eventually our friend's mother called our mother to come and get us, cause we were evidently raising quite a ruckus in our panic, crying and shrieking.
For years, The Watcher in the Woods has been the high-water mark for both of us in sheer terror. In high school Umulu, in a bold show of bravado, managed to sit through a movie called The Children of the Corn, which I had heard on good authority was the scariest movie ever made. Afterward, she was telling me all about its horrors in somewhat gory detail, and I asked her. "Was it as scary as The Watcher in the Woods?" She paused and considered. "No, not even close," she assured me.
We also used Watcher as a litmus test for bad parenting. So-and-so has a horrible mom, we would hear. She beats her kids! Or what's-his-face leaves his kids home alone with piles of cocaine on the kitchen table. Yeah, we'd scoff. But answer me this: do they make their kids watch The Watcher in the Woods? Cause that's baaaaaaad.
Well guess what Umulu and I did this week. [Oh, God, I can't even say it. It's too, too horrible and scary for words!! Pull yourself together Cheasty - this attitude is completely unbecoming an adult. Oh, sniffle, hiccup, sob. Ok. I can do this.] We, um.... we, [gulp]... we rented... The Watcher in the Woods. Aaiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!
To be fair, we'd googled it previously. Turns out, it's a Disney movie. And only rated PG! Ha, we'd marveled. Who knew?! I bet it's not really that scary, huh huh. So I Neflixed it, and this Monday Ums brought over a pizza and we popped it in the DVD player and cued it up. "Should I press play?" I asked. "Um, well..." Umulu replied. "Yeah," I said, and started to laugh. "I'm completely terrified to watch this." "Me too!" cried Umulu, and we gave in to a good fit of nervous giggles. Finally we agreed that if it got scary, we'd just turn it off. No use scaring ourselves silly, right?
You want to know how long we lasted? Eight minutes and 14 seconds.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Meet Lucky
Hey, blog, I'd like you meet a little dog named Lucky. Technically, I have to admit that Lucky isn't actually his name yet, but I'm pushing hard and I feel strongly that Captain Mommypants will eventually cave in - er, I meant to say agree. Yes, agree. So Lucky it is, until further notice. Why Lucky?
Mom has two dogs, you see, both standard poodles. Zoe and Obie. Obie (the black and white one) is a boy, Zoe (the black one) is a girl. And as you know, birds will be birds and bees will be bees. One thing lead to another and before we knew it, Zoe was having puppies. Oh, the excitement! We were all so thrilled, because Zoe is the nicest dog alive, so cuddly and loving. She's got a favorite toy - an egg-sized stuffed animal of a black-and-white dog - that she carries around in her mouth everywhere, always being so gentle with it, keeping an eye on it. And Obie is as sweet and handsome as ever a dog was sweet and handsome, gallant and strong and full of energy. I don't have any good pictures of either of them, but here's one I snapped recently. Coincidentally, I took this picture on the same day I looked at Zoe and said to my parents, "Hey, I think Zoe is pregnant!"
This past weekend she went into labor, and the family was all a'twitter. But Sunday morning I called home for a status update, and found out that Mom had just rushed Zoe into the vet hospital because the first puppy was stillborn, she wasn't pushing, and her amniotic fluid was coming out a disturbing blackish color. A surgeon did an emergency C-section, but they were only able to save one of the five puppies, the runt. He weighs 6 oz., and survived only because of the dedicated surgical staff who gave him oxygen, rubbed his little body, and gave him sugar-water to get him going. We've got him at home now. Captain Mommypants is feeding him from a bottle every hour or two, keeping him warm, and snuggling him up because Zoe is so exhausted and in so much pain that she sniffed Lucky when Mom held her out to him, licked him once in a half-hearted way, and turned her head away.
My heart breaks for Zoe, and for the four little puppies that didn't make it, but oh, thank the Lord this little guy made it. Good luck, Lucky. I'm rooting for you.
Mom has two dogs, you see, both standard poodles. Zoe and Obie. Obie (the black and white one) is a boy, Zoe (the black one) is a girl. And as you know, birds will be birds and bees will be bees. One thing lead to another and before we knew it, Zoe was having puppies. Oh, the excitement! We were all so thrilled, because Zoe is the nicest dog alive, so cuddly and loving. She's got a favorite toy - an egg-sized stuffed animal of a black-and-white dog - that she carries around in her mouth everywhere, always being so gentle with it, keeping an eye on it. And Obie is as sweet and handsome as ever a dog was sweet and handsome, gallant and strong and full of energy. I don't have any good pictures of either of them, but here's one I snapped recently. Coincidentally, I took this picture on the same day I looked at Zoe and said to my parents, "Hey, I think Zoe is pregnant!"
This past weekend she went into labor, and the family was all a'twitter. But Sunday morning I called home for a status update, and found out that Mom had just rushed Zoe into the vet hospital because the first puppy was stillborn, she wasn't pushing, and her amniotic fluid was coming out a disturbing blackish color. A surgeon did an emergency C-section, but they were only able to save one of the five puppies, the runt. He weighs 6 oz., and survived only because of the dedicated surgical staff who gave him oxygen, rubbed his little body, and gave him sugar-water to get him going. We've got him at home now. Captain Mommypants is feeding him from a bottle every hour or two, keeping him warm, and snuggling him up because Zoe is so exhausted and in so much pain that she sniffed Lucky when Mom held her out to him, licked him once in a half-hearted way, and turned her head away.
My heart breaks for Zoe, and for the four little puppies that didn't make it, but oh, thank the Lord this little guy made it. Good luck, Lucky. I'm rooting for you.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
The Great Tornado Watch, 2009
I have now surpassed any and all of my prior claims to absolute idiocy. Deleting all my research notes on my computer? Yup, that's dumb. Eating moldy food because I'm too cheap to turn on the lights and too lazy to check why the tabouleh tastes so weird? Yes, that's asinine. Running downstairs naked to fend off an intruder with a filing cabinet as my only weapon? Perhaps not my brightest plan. All in all, I think I have what any random observer would agree is a well-established track record of doing embarrassingly dumb things, so it is with a healthy dose of a mixed cocktail of emotions that I am about to tell you the following story.
Picture it: it's a Friday night, and because both my sister Umulu and I are unutterably gorgeous and extremely popular with boys, we're spending the evening making dinner and watching a documentary at Umulu's house. The previous evening, an enormous storm with two-inch hail and four tornados had passed through town, so among the many charming topics of conversation was a jolly recounting of many childhood traumas involving hurricanes and tornados in North Carolina. Also, we reminisced fondly about the storm last year that had all our friends apologizing for calling us pansies. Ah, that was fun, and isn't it nice that last night's storm didn't do anywhere near that level of damage? Oh, yes, chortle, chortle, let's watch the movie now.
So there we are, totally engaged in the movie, when all the sudden we hear some freaking loud thunder. Umulu pauses the movie. "What was that?" she asks. "Um, thunder?" I answer. But I answer with less than total confidence because while it certainly does sound like thunder, it's REALLY LOUD THUNDER, and what's more, it appears to quickly be drawing closer to our house. Louder and louder, closer and closer, and then Umulu's face goes pale. "Oh, shit, Cheasty, that's not thunder. That's a tornado."
And BOOM! Just like that, our old training kicked in. Out of the room with all the windows, grab some pillows and blankets as we run, slam shut all bedroom and bathroom doors, and the next thing I know we're kneeling in tornado-drill position, arms over our heads, facing the corner of the interior hallway to her house, holding hands and trying quietly not to panic as the sound gets even louder.
Then the sound gets marginally quieter. And then even quieter. And soon we can still hear it rumbling in the distance, but the danger seemed to have passed. "I'm going to go look outside and see what's happening out there," I whisper to Umulu, and, squeezing her hand, I crawl off through the darkened house for the front door. Which I open onto a perfectly normal street scene. A car drives by. A girl walks down the street with her dog. A band is practicing a screaming guitar solo a few houses down. True, the sky is weirdly leaden looking, but there's not so much as a leaf on the ground, nor is there the slightest hint of a breeze. Umulu creeps out behind me. "Umulu, there's not even any wind," I say, and we stare at the world outside the door in total mystification for a few moments longer. Then a lightbulb goes on over Umulu's head and she slaps her hand to her forehead.
"Oh, God, Cheasty," she laughs. "The Texas Biker Rally is this weekend."
Yes, folks, it's true. What we thought was a tornado was really just a whole hell of a lot of motorcycles making their way downtown. Sigh.
Picture it: it's a Friday night, and because both my sister Umulu and I are unutterably gorgeous and extremely popular with boys, we're spending the evening making dinner and watching a documentary at Umulu's house. The previous evening, an enormous storm with two-inch hail and four tornados had passed through town, so among the many charming topics of conversation was a jolly recounting of many childhood traumas involving hurricanes and tornados in North Carolina. Also, we reminisced fondly about the storm last year that had all our friends apologizing for calling us pansies. Ah, that was fun, and isn't it nice that last night's storm didn't do anywhere near that level of damage? Oh, yes, chortle, chortle, let's watch the movie now.
So there we are, totally engaged in the movie, when all the sudden we hear some freaking loud thunder. Umulu pauses the movie. "What was that?" she asks. "Um, thunder?" I answer. But I answer with less than total confidence because while it certainly does sound like thunder, it's REALLY LOUD THUNDER, and what's more, it appears to quickly be drawing closer to our house. Louder and louder, closer and closer, and then Umulu's face goes pale. "Oh, shit, Cheasty, that's not thunder. That's a tornado."
And BOOM! Just like that, our old training kicked in. Out of the room with all the windows, grab some pillows and blankets as we run, slam shut all bedroom and bathroom doors, and the next thing I know we're kneeling in tornado-drill position, arms over our heads, facing the corner of the interior hallway to her house, holding hands and trying quietly not to panic as the sound gets even louder.
Then the sound gets marginally quieter. And then even quieter. And soon we can still hear it rumbling in the distance, but the danger seemed to have passed. "I'm going to go look outside and see what's happening out there," I whisper to Umulu, and, squeezing her hand, I crawl off through the darkened house for the front door. Which I open onto a perfectly normal street scene. A car drives by. A girl walks down the street with her dog. A band is practicing a screaming guitar solo a few houses down. True, the sky is weirdly leaden looking, but there's not so much as a leaf on the ground, nor is there the slightest hint of a breeze. Umulu creeps out behind me. "Umulu, there's not even any wind," I say, and we stare at the world outside the door in total mystification for a few moments longer. Then a lightbulb goes on over Umulu's head and she slaps her hand to her forehead.
"Oh, God, Cheasty," she laughs. "The Texas Biker Rally is this weekend."
Yes, folks, it's true. What we thought was a tornado was really just a whole hell of a lot of motorcycles making their way downtown. Sigh.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
These Are The Things That Keep Me Awake At Night
So here's my impression of me last night at 4:21am. "Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. (snore, sniffle, roll over) Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."
Now here's my impression of me last night at 4:22am. "Oh my god I just heard dishes clank downstairs. Oh, my god, is there somebody in my house? Oh my god, I did I forget to lock the door last night? Oh my god, why did I get a deaf dog, you stupid useless mutt WOULD YOU PLEASE WAKE UP AND GROWL IF THERE IS SOMEBODY ACTUALLY IN MY HOUSE." All of this was in my head of course, because even at 4:22am I am not stupid enough to make noise when I am awakened by the sound of a potential intruder knocking over one of my cups into the sink. I made an effort to calm myself down and evaluate the situation.
Option A: there is nobody in the house, it was just one of those gravity things that made the noise. Or maybe a mouse. I could have mice, I suppose. Yes, I'm sure it was just a mouse.
Option B: there is an intruder in the house, it is likely a strung-out crackhead, he is likely armed, will most probably rape me if he knows I'm here, after which I will be lucky if he doesn't shoot me in the face when he's done. I am upstairs, I have no clothes on, nor is there anything I can use as a weapon up here. No baseball bat, golf club. Not even a pocket knife or a flashlight. And my cell phone is downstairs, too. Great. It would be best to be silent, all things considered, and allow the junkie to steal what he wants to steal and get out.
So I laid there for a while. As I laid there I remembered the time I was camping out in Utah and had set my sleeping bag beneath a scrubby pine tree. In the middle of the night I woke up and saw coyotes in our campsite going through our food, and realized that there was some sort of large animal in the tree right above me. I laid there and debated my options for a while, then decided there was nothing I could do about it, so I rolled over and went back to sleep. The fact that I could do that amazes me when I think about it now, cause there was NO WAY I was going back to sleep last night, though the thought did cross my mind to try.
Then I heard a sound. A sound that sounded like the door opening. Or closing. I have no idea. I might even have just made it up in my head, but whatever it was, it shook me out of my frozen state. "Oh, that is just enough!" I roared in my head. "If I'm going down, I'm gonna go down fighting." I leapt out of bed and turned on the lights. I grabbed a blanket with the vague idea of throwing it over the asshole's head, and then picked up a nearby metal filing cabinet (empty) and ran down the stairs with it up over my head, ready to brain the shit out of whoever was downstairs.
Naturally, there was nobody, though checking behind the shower curtain was about the scariest thing I've ever done. Ugh. And I HAD left the door unlocked, moron that I am. Anyway, I'm going to buy some mace. And maybe a dog that isn't deaf, because little old Birdie slept through the whole thing except the part where I ran down the stairs naked, holding a filing cabinet over my head. Because of course there had to be a witness to that piece of excess idiocy.
Now here's my impression of me last night at 4:22am. "Oh my god I just heard dishes clank downstairs. Oh, my god, is there somebody in my house? Oh my god, I did I forget to lock the door last night? Oh my god, why did I get a deaf dog, you stupid useless mutt WOULD YOU PLEASE WAKE UP AND GROWL IF THERE IS SOMEBODY ACTUALLY IN MY HOUSE." All of this was in my head of course, because even at 4:22am I am not stupid enough to make noise when I am awakened by the sound of a potential intruder knocking over one of my cups into the sink. I made an effort to calm myself down and evaluate the situation.
Option A: there is nobody in the house, it was just one of those gravity things that made the noise. Or maybe a mouse. I could have mice, I suppose. Yes, I'm sure it was just a mouse.
Option B: there is an intruder in the house, it is likely a strung-out crackhead, he is likely armed, will most probably rape me if he knows I'm here, after which I will be lucky if he doesn't shoot me in the face when he's done. I am upstairs, I have no clothes on, nor is there anything I can use as a weapon up here. No baseball bat, golf club. Not even a pocket knife or a flashlight. And my cell phone is downstairs, too. Great. It would be best to be silent, all things considered, and allow the junkie to steal what he wants to steal and get out.
So I laid there for a while. As I laid there I remembered the time I was camping out in Utah and had set my sleeping bag beneath a scrubby pine tree. In the middle of the night I woke up and saw coyotes in our campsite going through our food, and realized that there was some sort of large animal in the tree right above me. I laid there and debated my options for a while, then decided there was nothing I could do about it, so I rolled over and went back to sleep. The fact that I could do that amazes me when I think about it now, cause there was NO WAY I was going back to sleep last night, though the thought did cross my mind to try.
Then I heard a sound. A sound that sounded like the door opening. Or closing. I have no idea. I might even have just made it up in my head, but whatever it was, it shook me out of my frozen state. "Oh, that is just enough!" I roared in my head. "If I'm going down, I'm gonna go down fighting." I leapt out of bed and turned on the lights. I grabbed a blanket with the vague idea of throwing it over the asshole's head, and then picked up a nearby metal filing cabinet (empty) and ran down the stairs with it up over my head, ready to brain the shit out of whoever was downstairs.
Naturally, there was nobody, though checking behind the shower curtain was about the scariest thing I've ever done. Ugh. And I HAD left the door unlocked, moron that I am. Anyway, I'm going to buy some mace. And maybe a dog that isn't deaf, because little old Birdie slept through the whole thing except the part where I ran down the stairs naked, holding a filing cabinet over my head. Because of course there had to be a witness to that piece of excess idiocy.
Monday, June 8, 2009
You Can Call Me "Buckets."
I went to see that new Disney/Pixar movie "Up!" last night, and if you haven't seen it yet, a) stop what you are doing and go watch it, and b) stop reading if you don't want to know anything about it before you go see it. It was wonderful. Surpassingly lovely, sweet and funny; it made me laugh, and it made me cry. In fact, for quite a while I couldn't stop crying, even though the movie was making an effort to make me laugh after the crying was supposed to be over. I cried buckets.
Hi, my name is Amazing Cheastypants and I cry at movies. While I don't exactly hide this information from people, neither do I go about broadcasting it (current moment excepted) because of exactly what happened last night.
There I am, totally wrapped in the moment when Carl loses Ellie, tears running down my face, throat aching, nose stuffing up, and thoroughly enjoying it. Not that I love crying, it's just that I love seeing a movie that so totally pulls me in that I can actually feel what the characters must be feeling. And then my date leans over and starts laughing and teasing me. "Hey, it's just a movie!" "What's wrong with you?" "Ha ha, I can't take you anywhere," and so on. I gamely laughed along with him, but here's what I think, world.
WHAT'S WRONG WITH CRYING AT MOVIES?! What's so funny and mockable about feelings?
I know that whole women's studies schtick about how we live in a patriarchal world, how men's skills are more valued than women's, etc. And, well, I guess it's true. I mean, why is crying at movies embarrassing? If we valued women's abilities more than men's, we'd all be sitting around bragging about how much we cried when we saw Beaches for the 45th time, not sheepishly admitting it. Our men would proclaim with pride that they choked up with tears of outrage when it looked like Brett Favre was about to sign with the Vikings. Well, I say enough. It's time to claim it. I am a crier. I emote, I empathize, I well up with tears. I cry at movies, and WHAT'S MORE, I love crying at movies. In fact, I challenge the world to a cry-off. Go ahead, let 'er rip, but I doubt you can defeat me. They don't call me "Buckets" for nothin'.
Hi, my name is Amazing Cheastypants and I cry at movies. While I don't exactly hide this information from people, neither do I go about broadcasting it (current moment excepted) because of exactly what happened last night.
There I am, totally wrapped in the moment when Carl loses Ellie, tears running down my face, throat aching, nose stuffing up, and thoroughly enjoying it. Not that I love crying, it's just that I love seeing a movie that so totally pulls me in that I can actually feel what the characters must be feeling. And then my date leans over and starts laughing and teasing me. "Hey, it's just a movie!" "What's wrong with you?" "Ha ha, I can't take you anywhere," and so on. I gamely laughed along with him, but here's what I think, world.
WHAT'S WRONG WITH CRYING AT MOVIES?! What's so funny and mockable about feelings?
I know that whole women's studies schtick about how we live in a patriarchal world, how men's skills are more valued than women's, etc. And, well, I guess it's true. I mean, why is crying at movies embarrassing? If we valued women's abilities more than men's, we'd all be sitting around bragging about how much we cried when we saw Beaches for the 45th time, not sheepishly admitting it. Our men would proclaim with pride that they choked up with tears of outrage when it looked like Brett Favre was about to sign with the Vikings. Well, I say enough. It's time to claim it. I am a crier. I emote, I empathize, I well up with tears. I cry at movies, and WHAT'S MORE, I love crying at movies. In fact, I challenge the world to a cry-off. Go ahead, let 'er rip, but I doubt you can defeat me. They don't call me "Buckets" for nothin'.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Oom-chica-oom-chica
Wow. Further proof that everybody in the 1980s was snorting cocaine.
So really, I have two questions. One, why God? And two, where can I get a bathing suit like this?
So really, I have two questions. One, why God? And two, where can I get a bathing suit like this?
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Thoughts on Universal Health Care -UPDATE.
Oh my ever-loving shitballs, enough is enough. Obama, at this point I almost don't care what you do, how you do it, or how many people you need to kill in order to get it done. Just give us some universal health care options before I go out of my freaking mind. This was my day today. And by "today," really I mean "the last three days."
One. In which Amazing Cheastypants, being once more employed by the University of Texas, realizes that she is once again eligible for real-live, honest-to-God health care benefits, including dental (oh joy!) and vision (oh, bliss!).
Two. In which Amazing Cheastypants realizes that nobody knows how this transition is supposed to take place. She calls the office called "Insurance Office" and asks. "Oh, I don't know how to get the insurance going," says a very nice woman who really was trying to be helpful. "But what I can do is refund your money for the [unbelievably shitty] student health care coverage you'd purchased to cover you through the summer." Sweet! At least one part of this job is easy. "So what do I do to make that happen," I ask. "Is there an on-line form?" Oh, heavenly peals of laughter! No, of course not. No. What I had to do was submit two written letters IN PERSON, one from me, and one from my department stating that I was an employee in good standing and therefore eligible for benefits. So I called around, found the appropriate person to get the letter from the department, wrote one myself, and trotted over this morning to get 'er done. Excellent! Now I just have to wait for mysterious bureaucratic wheels to crank, and at some point in the next 6 months I should get a refund, but nobody knows whether it'll be credited to my credit card or issued as a check. And if it's issued as a check, who knows whether it'll be mailed to my home, or my mailbox on campus? Only The Shadow knows...
Three. In which Amazing Cheastypants decided to commit hari kari in a very public fashion, as clearly the fates are conspiring against her. After flailing about uselessly on-line and on the phone, I still didn't know where to go to get my insurance kicked in again, so I resorted to calling my old insurance provider where finally somebody knew that I was supposed to go to HR. No, not the office called "Insurance Office," interestingly enough. HR. Whatever, fine. Why the two aren't just part of the same office, God only knows. And why the left hand knoweth not what the right hand does... well, that's one of the great mysteries of life, I suppose. I am but a speck in a mysterious universe, and so on. So I walk into HR with the printed out forms I had to fill out - because they couldn't just reactivate my old account WHICH THEY STILL HAVE ON FILE. No. I had to do all the paperwork again, and they're starting a NEW file for me, not to be confused with the OLD file on me. But whatever. At this point I'm feeling pretty good. I have penetrated the unpenetrable, discerned the undiscernable. I have the right forms, I am in the right office, I AM THE CHAMPION!!
Four. In which Amazing Cheastypants figures out that she is NOT the champion, and in fact, will never be a champion. "Oh, I'm sorry," says the lady at HR. "Your appointment isn't for four and a half months, therefore you are not eligible for health benefits." Oh, no no no no no. "Wait, I don't understand," I say. "I have a letter right here in my hand from my department saying that I am eligible. In the past when I have been a TA, I have been eligible. TAing is a benefits-eligible position. What am I missing?" "Well, it's the four and a half months thing, you see..." she begins to explain, at which point all I'm hearing is "wa wa wa wa wa wa," like Charlie Brown's teacher. I interrupt. "Please." I say. "I have a TAship now. I will have a TAship in the fall. I will have a TAship in the spring. When I have TAed in the past I've been covered throughout the summer even though I wasn't working at all. Now, why am I not eligible when I AM WORKING IN A BENEFITS-ELIGIBLE POSITION?" I waved the letter from my department around my head rather dramatically, just for good measure. She hemmed and hawed for a bit. "Well, maybe you could have your department code you for eligibility and then we could do it?" GREAT! I ask her for explicit instructions as to how to do that. "Oh, don't worry," she says, "they do stuff like that all the time. They'll know exactly how to do it."
Five. In which, naturally, my department does not know how to do what she wanted them to do. "Code you?" asks my department. "She wants us to code you? What does that mean?"
Six. In which, despite my absolute best efforts to make sure that I have the best insurance options available to me, the best insurance to which I AM ENTITLED as an employee of the University of Texas, I somehow at the end of the day find myself completely uninsured.
Gah.
UPDATE, June 6. Oh crap. June 6th is somebody's birthday and I can't for the life of me remember who. Oh, well, moving right along.
Seven. In which the University wins, and I have to buy back that student insurance. Red tape is not to be messed with.
One. In which Amazing Cheastypants, being once more employed by the University of Texas, realizes that she is once again eligible for real-live, honest-to-God health care benefits, including dental (oh joy!) and vision (oh, bliss!).
Two. In which Amazing Cheastypants realizes that nobody knows how this transition is supposed to take place. She calls the office called "Insurance Office" and asks. "Oh, I don't know how to get the insurance going," says a very nice woman who really was trying to be helpful. "But what I can do is refund your money for the [unbelievably shitty] student health care coverage you'd purchased to cover you through the summer." Sweet! At least one part of this job is easy. "So what do I do to make that happen," I ask. "Is there an on-line form?" Oh, heavenly peals of laughter! No, of course not. No. What I had to do was submit two written letters IN PERSON, one from me, and one from my department stating that I was an employee in good standing and therefore eligible for benefits. So I called around, found the appropriate person to get the letter from the department, wrote one myself, and trotted over this morning to get 'er done. Excellent! Now I just have to wait for mysterious bureaucratic wheels to crank, and at some point in the next 6 months I should get a refund, but nobody knows whether it'll be credited to my credit card or issued as a check. And if it's issued as a check, who knows whether it'll be mailed to my home, or my mailbox on campus? Only The Shadow knows...
Three. In which Amazing Cheastypants decided to commit hari kari in a very public fashion, as clearly the fates are conspiring against her. After flailing about uselessly on-line and on the phone, I still didn't know where to go to get my insurance kicked in again, so I resorted to calling my old insurance provider where finally somebody knew that I was supposed to go to HR. No, not the office called "Insurance Office," interestingly enough. HR. Whatever, fine. Why the two aren't just part of the same office, God only knows. And why the left hand knoweth not what the right hand does... well, that's one of the great mysteries of life, I suppose. I am but a speck in a mysterious universe, and so on. So I walk into HR with the printed out forms I had to fill out - because they couldn't just reactivate my old account WHICH THEY STILL HAVE ON FILE. No. I had to do all the paperwork again, and they're starting a NEW file for me, not to be confused with the OLD file on me. But whatever. At this point I'm feeling pretty good. I have penetrated the unpenetrable, discerned the undiscernable. I have the right forms, I am in the right office, I AM THE CHAMPION!!
Four. In which Amazing Cheastypants figures out that she is NOT the champion, and in fact, will never be a champion. "Oh, I'm sorry," says the lady at HR. "Your appointment isn't for four and a half months, therefore you are not eligible for health benefits." Oh, no no no no no. "Wait, I don't understand," I say. "I have a letter right here in my hand from my department saying that I am eligible. In the past when I have been a TA, I have been eligible. TAing is a benefits-eligible position. What am I missing?" "Well, it's the four and a half months thing, you see..." she begins to explain, at which point all I'm hearing is "wa wa wa wa wa wa," like Charlie Brown's teacher. I interrupt. "Please." I say. "I have a TAship now. I will have a TAship in the fall. I will have a TAship in the spring. When I have TAed in the past I've been covered throughout the summer even though I wasn't working at all. Now, why am I not eligible when I AM WORKING IN A BENEFITS-ELIGIBLE POSITION?" I waved the letter from my department around my head rather dramatically, just for good measure. She hemmed and hawed for a bit. "Well, maybe you could have your department code you for eligibility and then we could do it?" GREAT! I ask her for explicit instructions as to how to do that. "Oh, don't worry," she says, "they do stuff like that all the time. They'll know exactly how to do it."
Five. In which, naturally, my department does not know how to do what she wanted them to do. "Code you?" asks my department. "She wants us to code you? What does that mean?"
Six. In which, despite my absolute best efforts to make sure that I have the best insurance options available to me, the best insurance to which I AM ENTITLED as an employee of the University of Texas, I somehow at the end of the day find myself completely uninsured.
Gah.
UPDATE, June 6. Oh crap. June 6th is somebody's birthday and I can't for the life of me remember who. Oh, well, moving right along.
Seven. In which the University wins, and I have to buy back that student insurance. Red tape is not to be messed with.
Monday, June 1, 2009
In Which the Honeymoon Is Over
Um, excuse me, please. Did any of you people out there know that dogs are ungodly expensive creatures to maintain? Well? Did you?
ANSWER MEEEEEEEEE!!!
Oh, dear, hold on, I think I need to put my head between my knees for a moment. I feel faint. (pant, pant, pant.) ONE HUNDRED FORTY FIVE DOLLARS AND NINTEY THREE FREAKIN' CENTS. Oh, my god.
ONEHUNDREDFORTYFIVEDOLLARSANDNINTEYTHREECENTS!!!! Seventeen dollars EACH for some stupid SHAMPOO and, if you can believe it, CREAM RINSE that is supposed to help with the incessant itchies, because not only is my unbearably cute little rescue mutt old, deaf, and toothless, apparently she also has a raging case of allergies. CREAM RINSE?! Seriously?
I just spent more on my new dog's ITCHY SKIN and AVERSION TO NORMAL DOG FOOD than I have on myself in... oh wait. Well, nevermind. There was that recent shopping trip and the very very excessively cute dresses, but still. I'M NOT A DOG.
I was literally on the verge of calling the whole thing quits as we walked to the check out. Fine, you know? Let her scratch. But then she looked at me like, "Sigh. I love you, Mom. Hold me?" and I was toast. I paid, we got in the car, she crawled up in my lap, and promptly fell fast asleep, exhausted by the vet-induced trauma. How can you say no to trust like that? I guess if it gets too expensive I can just stop... um... eating? Yeah, that's it! I'll quit eating. I've been wanting to lose five pounds anyway. Ooh, and then I can get a new dress as my reward! Oh, I like this plan already.
ANSWER MEEEEEEEEE!!!
Oh, dear, hold on, I think I need to put my head between my knees for a moment. I feel faint. (pant, pant, pant.) ONE HUNDRED FORTY FIVE DOLLARS AND NINTEY THREE FREAKIN' CENTS. Oh, my god.
ONEHUNDREDFORTYFIVEDOLLARSANDNINTEYTHREECENTS!!!! Seventeen dollars EACH for some stupid SHAMPOO and, if you can believe it, CREAM RINSE that is supposed to help with the incessant itchies, because not only is my unbearably cute little rescue mutt old, deaf, and toothless, apparently she also has a raging case of allergies. CREAM RINSE?! Seriously?
I just spent more on my new dog's ITCHY SKIN and AVERSION TO NORMAL DOG FOOD than I have on myself in... oh wait. Well, nevermind. There was that recent shopping trip and the very very excessively cute dresses, but still. I'M NOT A DOG.
I was literally on the verge of calling the whole thing quits as we walked to the check out. Fine, you know? Let her scratch. But then she looked at me like, "Sigh. I love you, Mom. Hold me?" and I was toast. I paid, we got in the car, she crawled up in my lap, and promptly fell fast asleep, exhausted by the vet-induced trauma. How can you say no to trust like that? I guess if it gets too expensive I can just stop... um... eating? Yeah, that's it! I'll quit eating. I've been wanting to lose five pounds anyway. Ooh, and then I can get a new dress as my reward! Oh, I like this plan already.
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