Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Birdie My Love
This morning at 8:30 am, the little dog whom I have loved with my whole heart, and who, in turn, has trusted and loved me with all of hers, passed away. Birdie my love. I am bereft.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Where Have You Been All My Life, Jane?
Unlike most women of my age and stage, I had, until recently, neither read Pride and Prejudice, nor seen any of its various film iterations. But, Cheastypants, you ask in wonderment, whyever not? Are you not a great fan of romance? Why yes, of course I am, but that, you see, was the problem. At some point in my life, I had formed the entirely mistaken notion that Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy do not end up together at the end of the book. How this happened, I have no idea, but there you have it. So what's the point, I figured. All that heaving and angst and tension, all for nothing in the end? Not for me, thank you.
Well a friend of mine is getting married this weekend, and for her bachelorette bachellorrette bachellorette bachellorette EFF, HOW DO YOU SPELL THAT WORD shindig, she wanted to have a viewing of the 5 hour BBC miniseries of P&P. Good god, I thought. This is a test of loyalty indeed. Luckily for me, another friend was curious enough to inquire why I would rather go to the dentist, and when I told her I didn't see the point in spending 5 hours watching two people melodramatically not get together in the end, she laughed.
"Oh Cheasty, you're hilarious."
"Why is that funny."
"Ummm... wait. What?"
"I wasn't kidding."
"Hang on. You seriously think they don't get together in the end?"
"Yes."
"WHAT?!! How... why.... how... what the heck? How did you come up with that idea?"
"Um... What? Are you telling me they DO get together in the end?"
"YES!"
"Oh. Well, then. All right, I'll watch it."
But I still wasn't convinced. BBC? Five hours? Jane Austen? To paraphrase Joan Rivers, I'm not sure I even want to do something that feels good for that long. But Handsome and I were supposed to do something that evening, too, so I double booked myself and said I'd have to leave early. Whew, I thought. Well done.
Except I didn't plan for one little thing. I LOVED IT. Loved it, loved it, loved it, LOVED. IT. When I finally had to go, I wanted to cry. How on earth would I know what happened after this?
Lucky for me, I was able to borrow the DVDs the next day and watch the hell out of them. Oh, my goodness, I love it. I've spend the past couple of days re-watching my favorite scenes and generally fantasizing about Mr. Darcy.
Oh, sigh. I'm off to buy the book now.
Well a friend of mine is getting married this weekend, and for her bachelorette bachellorrette bachellorette bachellorette EFF, HOW DO YOU SPELL THAT WORD shindig, she wanted to have a viewing of the 5 hour BBC miniseries of P&P. Good god, I thought. This is a test of loyalty indeed. Luckily for me, another friend was curious enough to inquire why I would rather go to the dentist, and when I told her I didn't see the point in spending 5 hours watching two people melodramatically not get together in the end, she laughed.
"Oh Cheasty, you're hilarious."
"Why is that funny."
"Ummm... wait. What?"
"I wasn't kidding."
"Hang on. You seriously think they don't get together in the end?"
"Yes."
"WHAT?!! How... why.... how... what the heck? How did you come up with that idea?"
"Um... What? Are you telling me they DO get together in the end?"
"YES!"
"Oh. Well, then. All right, I'll watch it."
But I still wasn't convinced. BBC? Five hours? Jane Austen? To paraphrase Joan Rivers, I'm not sure I even want to do something that feels good for that long. But Handsome and I were supposed to do something that evening, too, so I double booked myself and said I'd have to leave early. Whew, I thought. Well done.
Except I didn't plan for one little thing. I LOVED IT. Loved it, loved it, loved it, LOVED. IT. When I finally had to go, I wanted to cry. How on earth would I know what happened after this?
Lucky for me, I was able to borrow the DVDs the next day and watch the hell out of them. Oh, my goodness, I love it. I've spend the past couple of days re-watching my favorite scenes and generally fantasizing about Mr. Darcy.
Oh, sigh. I'm off to buy the book now.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
A Boy and His Dog
My little brother Bug is a cutie. Genuine, bona fide adorable. He's six, he's sweet, he's silly, and full of energy. He's got four siblings who positively dote upon him, and parents who believe that the sun rises and sets by his smile. He lives in the country on beautiful land, he frolics in fields and cavorts by the river. He runs his little legs off and swims in the pool. He's a happy kid.
Up until recently, however, in spite of this glorious childhood dreamworld, there was one little problem with Bug's life. Out there in the country he was all alone.
It's not that he wasn't having fun, for he certainly was.
He had buckets of fun. It's just that he had buckets of fun by himself.
But then came this little guy...
And it was love at first sight. Oh, the frolicking.
Oh, the running and gallivanting and hippity-hoppiting!
These two, in the slightly modified words of the deaf people on the elevator in Jerry Maguire, complete each other.
They are funny and sweet and utterly inseparable.
So little Bug is still having one heck of a grand life out there in the country, but now he does it with a friend.
Welcome to the family, Maddox.
Up until recently, however, in spite of this glorious childhood dreamworld, there was one little problem with Bug's life. Out there in the country he was all alone.
It's not that he wasn't having fun, for he certainly was.
He had buckets of fun. It's just that he had buckets of fun by himself.
But then came this little guy...
And it was love at first sight. Oh, the frolicking.
Oh, the running and gallivanting and hippity-hoppiting!
These two, in the slightly modified words of the deaf people on the elevator in Jerry Maguire, complete each other.
They are funny and sweet and utterly inseparable.
So little Bug is still having one heck of a grand life out there in the country, but now he does it with a friend.
Welcome to the family, Maddox.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Five Days of No Interwebs
Seriously, when was the last time you went five days without internet access of any kind? I'm asking because I just did, and it was awesome. I've been in the North Carolina mountains - Transylvania County, Land of Waterfalls, to be precise - for a college friend's wedding, and oh my lady gaga, have I been having fun. There's a bunch of us from college that are good friends of such long standing that it's really more like we're family. We even have reunions. So while we went to the mountains for this:
And this:
And this:
We stayed around for this:
And this:
And a little bit of this:
And of course we walked about in places that looked like this:
And had fascinating conversations at beautiful waterfalls:
And generally basked in the glow of being with friends who know you well and love you fiercely. Which, for the record, totally rocks.
And this:
And this:
We stayed around for this:
And this:
And a little bit of this:
And of course we walked about in places that looked like this:
And had fascinating conversations at beautiful waterfalls:
And generally basked in the glow of being with friends who know you well and love you fiercely. Which, for the record, totally rocks.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Too Much Awesome
Hello there, my darlings, I'm back from the land of no blogging with a report of dazzling excellence. My mother, the inimitable Captain Mommypants, and my littlest brother Bug were in town. And it was Handsome's birthday. And the weather was spectacular. And we had parties. And we went on excursions. And we rode trains. And we played music. And we had so much fun. How much fun?
This much fun:
("Sunscreen? We don't need no stinkin' sunscreen." My poor little redhead.)
And this much fun:
(It's official. I know more protest songs from the 1960s than any other woman my age.)
And this much fun:
(Bug's favorite thing in the world is a hammock. Actually, not true. His favorite thing in the world is a pig, but hammocks run a close second. Handsome's portable one was a huge hit at the park.)
My mother and my main squeeze cemented their budding love for one another.
While Umulu and I generally reveled in getting both our mother and our Bug all to ourselves.
It was awesome.
This much fun:
("Sunscreen? We don't need no stinkin' sunscreen." My poor little redhead.)
And this much fun:
(It's official. I know more protest songs from the 1960s than any other woman my age.)
And this much fun:
(Bug's favorite thing in the world is a hammock. Actually, not true. His favorite thing in the world is a pig, but hammocks run a close second. Handsome's portable one was a huge hit at the park.)
My mother and my main squeeze cemented their budding love for one another.
While Umulu and I generally reveled in getting both our mother and our Bug all to ourselves.
It was awesome.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Captain Mommypants and Bug Come to Austin
Sorry for the quiet, but it's been an insane-o week. Captain Mommypants and my little brother Bug are in town visiting us this week, and between hanging out, playing music, eating good food, and trying to snatch little bits and pieces of work in the midst of it all, I've had little time to blog. Pictures and stories to follow, I promise, but for now I've got 2 hours to myself, and 52 six-page essays to grade. Go, go, go!
Monday, April 26, 2010
I Can't Title This Post
Friday was one of the worst days. As anybody who's ever spent five minutes talking to me or reading my blog knows, my little dog Birdie is unequivocally the cutest little muppet in the world, but she's also something of a case. She's roughly 12 or 13 years old, mostly blind, almost toothless, nearly deaf, allergic to almost every food that dogs normally eat, and also sort of anorexic. She shivers and shakes as her primary form of communication, and needs a sweater when it's 80 degrees outside. But she's snuggly and adorable and hilarious. She hunts her own shadow and trips over her own extremely long legs and gets her tongue stuck hanging out of her mouth. To say that I am totally in love - perhaps even obsessed - with my little Bird is extremely understating the situation.
Lately, Birdie's been acting a little weird. Weirdly constipated, weirdly shaky, and then last week she went off her food for three full days. She's been sleeping like a maniac. So I took her to the vet and finally ordered the geriatric blood screen vets have been recommending that I do on account of her age. In spite of everything, all the signs, even the fact that a friend who's in vet school told me that Birdie looked like she needed to be on dialysis, I somehow had convinced myself that the blood screen would be totally fine and a complete waste of money.
But on Friday the vet called back and as soon as I heard his voice my stomach dropped clean out of my body. "Birdie's blood screen shows some worrisome elements..." he began in a funeral voice, and I felt my throat start to squeeze up. Birdie, it turns out, has an advanced case of kidney disease. Blood values that are supposed to measure between 7 and 26 in a healthy dog are at 132 in the Bird, and the list goes on. He recommended that I bring in a urine sample so they could eliminate the possibility of a kidney infection. What followed would've been hilarious - me, running around the back yard after Birdie with a tupperware container in my hand trying to catch her pee - if I hadn't been crying the whole time. But it wasn't an infection, it's kidney disease, and a pretty bad case of it. I spent the rest of the day coming to grips with the fact that this marvelous little dog, in whom I've invested every ounce of love and care I have in my spirit, and who, in return, has loved me fiercely, is terminally ill.
I have no idea how much longer Birdie will be with us. The vet gave one of those vague "maybe months, maybe a year..." kind of answers. Given her street-fighter mentality and fiesty spirit, I'm betting on the latter. This is, after all, the 7 pound toothless wondermutt who will take on a pit bull as if it were a mouse. The good news is that if you've got to go of something, kidney failure is about as easy a way to go as there is. Eventually she'll just get extremely lethargic as toxins build up in her system, she won't be able to eat anymore, and one day it'll be too much. But she's not in pain. This is the same thing my mother's dog Sheba died of. So we'll keep her happy, as healthy as we can, and comfortable until the end, and let her sleep in between us in the bed, because she loves nothing more than that. These last months will be the best months of her life.
Lately, Birdie's been acting a little weird. Weirdly constipated, weirdly shaky, and then last week she went off her food for three full days. She's been sleeping like a maniac. So I took her to the vet and finally ordered the geriatric blood screen vets have been recommending that I do on account of her age. In spite of everything, all the signs, even the fact that a friend who's in vet school told me that Birdie looked like she needed to be on dialysis, I somehow had convinced myself that the blood screen would be totally fine and a complete waste of money.
But on Friday the vet called back and as soon as I heard his voice my stomach dropped clean out of my body. "Birdie's blood screen shows some worrisome elements..." he began in a funeral voice, and I felt my throat start to squeeze up. Birdie, it turns out, has an advanced case of kidney disease. Blood values that are supposed to measure between 7 and 26 in a healthy dog are at 132 in the Bird, and the list goes on. He recommended that I bring in a urine sample so they could eliminate the possibility of a kidney infection. What followed would've been hilarious - me, running around the back yard after Birdie with a tupperware container in my hand trying to catch her pee - if I hadn't been crying the whole time. But it wasn't an infection, it's kidney disease, and a pretty bad case of it. I spent the rest of the day coming to grips with the fact that this marvelous little dog, in whom I've invested every ounce of love and care I have in my spirit, and who, in return, has loved me fiercely, is terminally ill.
I have no idea how much longer Birdie will be with us. The vet gave one of those vague "maybe months, maybe a year..." kind of answers. Given her street-fighter mentality and fiesty spirit, I'm betting on the latter. This is, after all, the 7 pound toothless wondermutt who will take on a pit bull as if it were a mouse. The good news is that if you've got to go of something, kidney failure is about as easy a way to go as there is. Eventually she'll just get extremely lethargic as toxins build up in her system, she won't be able to eat anymore, and one day it'll be too much. But she's not in pain. This is the same thing my mother's dog Sheba died of. So we'll keep her happy, as healthy as we can, and comfortable until the end, and let her sleep in between us in the bed, because she loves nothing more than that. These last months will be the best months of her life.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The Nerds of Nerdville
A few months ago, Handsome and I went to meet up with Penata and her boyfriend, The World's Greatest Carolina Fan (TWGCF) at a local bar. In the midst of drinks and merriment, I spilled a little (oops!) and reached for the nearest napkin, a decision that happened to change my life for the subsequent future. You're dying to know why, aren't you. Well. It changed my life because scribbled on that napkin were the names of 17 African countries.
"What's this?" I inquired, holding the napkin scrap up.
"Oh, just a game," said Penata. "We were testing each other to see who could name the most African countries in 60 seconds."
Instantly (and completely predictably), I was hooked. How many could I name? Seventeen seemed a paltry number, surely I could best it by a wide margin! No. It turns out I could not. I got 18, and one of them I only remembered because I had just seen it written on the napkin 45 seconds earlier. I was humiliated. What kind of educated person am I? I'm supposed to be earning a doctorate here, and I can't name even half of the African nations? That's just downright embarrassing.
So there you have it - thus began my latest obsession. Within a month we had a world map shower curtain, and another world map hanging in our bedroom. I have been steadily studying these maps a bit at a time, and I think I'm ready. Eventually my goal is to name all 47 in geographic order, but for now, my goal is to get most. Not all, just most. I think that's as much as I'm ready to commit to.
Before I begin, I would like to invite you to challenge yourself before reading the following. Close your laptop, grab a spare sheet of paper, and see what you can do from memory. Unless you don't think deliberate exercises in self-humiliation have a positive effect in your life, in which case, go ahead and study up first.
Now. Ready? I am on the couch, not a map in sight. I haven't looked at the map since yesterday, so this is as close to my natural state as I get. I have a timer, and I'm holding myself strictly to the honor code.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is a test. This is only a test.
Egypt
Lybia
Djibouti
Ethiopia
Eritrea
Sudan
Algeria
Morocco
Western Sahara (occupied Morocco)
Mauritania
Chad
Mali
Burkina Faso
Benin
Togo
Cote d'Ivoire
Ghana
Senegal
Guinea
Guinea Bissau
Congo
Democratic Republic of Congo
Central African Republic
Zaire
Zambia
Angola
Namibia
South Africa
Lesotho
Swaziland
Zimbabwe
Madagascar
Uganda
Rwanda
Kenya
Niger
Nigeria
Liberia
Sierra Leone
TIME.
Shit. I don't think that was even close to 47. Hang on, let me count. OK, 39. Unless I accidentally repeated some, and I know I got out of geographic order a couple times in there. What the heck did I forget. Dang.
Oh, well. There is always room and time for improvement. Let me know how you all do, if you take the test!
"What's this?" I inquired, holding the napkin scrap up.
"Oh, just a game," said Penata. "We were testing each other to see who could name the most African countries in 60 seconds."
Instantly (and completely predictably), I was hooked. How many could I name? Seventeen seemed a paltry number, surely I could best it by a wide margin! No. It turns out I could not. I got 18, and one of them I only remembered because I had just seen it written on the napkin 45 seconds earlier. I was humiliated. What kind of educated person am I? I'm supposed to be earning a doctorate here, and I can't name even half of the African nations? That's just downright embarrassing.
So there you have it - thus began my latest obsession. Within a month we had a world map shower curtain, and another world map hanging in our bedroom. I have been steadily studying these maps a bit at a time, and I think I'm ready. Eventually my goal is to name all 47 in geographic order, but for now, my goal is to get most. Not all, just most. I think that's as much as I'm ready to commit to.
Before I begin, I would like to invite you to challenge yourself before reading the following. Close your laptop, grab a spare sheet of paper, and see what you can do from memory. Unless you don't think deliberate exercises in self-humiliation have a positive effect in your life, in which case, go ahead and study up first.
Now. Ready? I am on the couch, not a map in sight. I haven't looked at the map since yesterday, so this is as close to my natural state as I get. I have a timer, and I'm holding myself strictly to the honor code.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is a test. This is only a test.
Egypt
Lybia
Djibouti
Ethiopia
Eritrea
Sudan
Algeria
Morocco
Western Sahara (occupied Morocco)
Mauritania
Chad
Mali
Burkina Faso
Benin
Togo
Cote d'Ivoire
Ghana
Senegal
Guinea
Guinea Bissau
Congo
Democratic Republic of Congo
Central African Republic
Zaire
Zambia
Angola
Namibia
South Africa
Lesotho
Swaziland
Zimbabwe
Madagascar
Uganda
Rwanda
Kenya
Niger
Nigeria
Liberia
Sierra Leone
TIME.
Shit. I don't think that was even close to 47. Hang on, let me count. OK, 39. Unless I accidentally repeated some, and I know I got out of geographic order a couple times in there. What the heck did I forget. Dang.
Oh, well. There is always room and time for improvement. Let me know how you all do, if you take the test!
Monday, April 19, 2010
A Few Random Thoughts
1. My fingers hurt from practicing the guitar. This makes typing a little more painful than normal, but only on my left hand. I will take this opportunity to not write my dissertation today.
2. It is April 19th in Austin, which normally is quite hot. I should be at Barton Springs in a bikini, lazily considering whether I should put on another coat of sunscreen (yes). Instead, I am inside wearing sweatpants and a sweater. I have a blanket on my lap, a pot of tea to keep me warm on the inside, and a green chile beef stew on the stovetop. I looked at the thermostat and it was 61 degrees in my house. I know all the folk in northern climes will either gasp, laugh, or keel over dead when they read this next thing, but I just turned on the heat. Surely in the history of Austin, this is an unusual day.
3. Just for the record, that last was not a complaint. The longer winter lasts, the shorter summer will be. Right now, I'm looking at only 6 months instead of the normal 7 or 8. Rejoice!
4. Birdie got a mani-pedi today. Absurd dog.
5. Handsome is so good looking and wicked smart. I am one lucky gal.
6. I have been floating on a tide of happiness since last Wednesday, after I lectured for a professor of mine and she said I'd done a "really excellent job." Considering this woman's life motto is "Tough but Fair," and the superlative form is entirely foreign to her, I practically floated home from school that day. I loved getting to teach a class - to design the syllabus for that section, select the readings, deliver the lecture, answer questions, engage their minds... After years of slaving away at one paper or article or project after another, it was a wonderful reminder of why I got into this field in the first place.
7. Every now and then I squeeze my eyes closed for a little bit. Then when I open them I look around me real quick to make sure this really is my life, and I really am this happy. Each time I do it, I am reassured. Yes, this really is my life, and yes, I really am this happy. I'd like to say thank you to whatever karmic fairy gods are out there sprinkling their magic dust upon me these last months.
2. It is April 19th in Austin, which normally is quite hot. I should be at Barton Springs in a bikini, lazily considering whether I should put on another coat of sunscreen (yes). Instead, I am inside wearing sweatpants and a sweater. I have a blanket on my lap, a pot of tea to keep me warm on the inside, and a green chile beef stew on the stovetop. I looked at the thermostat and it was 61 degrees in my house. I know all the folk in northern climes will either gasp, laugh, or keel over dead when they read this next thing, but I just turned on the heat. Surely in the history of Austin, this is an unusual day.
3. Just for the record, that last was not a complaint. The longer winter lasts, the shorter summer will be. Right now, I'm looking at only 6 months instead of the normal 7 or 8. Rejoice!
4. Birdie got a mani-pedi today. Absurd dog.
5. Handsome is so good looking and wicked smart. I am one lucky gal.
6. I have been floating on a tide of happiness since last Wednesday, after I lectured for a professor of mine and she said I'd done a "really excellent job." Considering this woman's life motto is "Tough but Fair," and the superlative form is entirely foreign to her, I practically floated home from school that day. I loved getting to teach a class - to design the syllabus for that section, select the readings, deliver the lecture, answer questions, engage their minds... After years of slaving away at one paper or article or project after another, it was a wonderful reminder of why I got into this field in the first place.
7. Every now and then I squeeze my eyes closed for a little bit. Then when I open them I look around me real quick to make sure this really is my life, and I really am this happy. Each time I do it, I am reassured. Yes, this really is my life, and yes, I really am this happy. I'd like to say thank you to whatever karmic fairy gods are out there sprinkling their magic dust upon me these last months.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Contrary to Public Opinion...
I am still alive. Not posting, true, but alive and well. Sorry for the prolonged silence, but the Friday deadline for a chapter turned into a Monday deadline, and then Tuesday I had to lecture for one of my professors, and then the Wednesday for another one of them, and then by the time it was Thursday I was so tired (and blessedly without prior commitments) that I ran a hot bath at 10 am, and soaked in it for an embarrassingly long time while reading a frivolous novel. I followed that ridiculous exercise in self-indulgence with a 2 hour nap, after which I sat on the front porch and drank a glass of wine. To say the least, as a result of my indolence, the following few days were also on the far side of nutsville. So there you have it. More to follow, but it's Sunday and I'm not writing any more. Mostly because Handsome is making pancakes.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Naked Bike Guy
There is a man in Austin who rides everywhere on his bike completely ass naked, except for a bright blue g-string banana hammock. I've seen him around before, and am past the point where I'm shocked, or even surprised anew each time I see him.
But.
He just rode right by my front window, and I have to report that while, due to this habit of excessive undress, he is normally a very tanned individual, he now looks like somebody basted him with butter and stuck him under the broiler for 50 minutes at 425 degrees. Not lobster red, just a very crispy and unnatural brown color, rather like burnt sienna with a dash of turmeric. I hope Naked Bike Guy is ok.
But.
He just rode right by my front window, and I have to report that while, due to this habit of excessive undress, he is normally a very tanned individual, he now looks like somebody basted him with butter and stuck him under the broiler for 50 minutes at 425 degrees. Not lobster red, just a very crispy and unnatural brown color, rather like burnt sienna with a dash of turmeric. I hope Naked Bike Guy is ok.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Nothing New, I'm Afraid
Sorry to bum out this week on blog posting, but I've got a chapter due on Friday and no time for shilly-shallying. Or dilly-dallying, come to think of it. Wish me luck, and while you're at it, you might also do a dance of joy on my behalf, as I just learned that I've gotten enough funding for the summer that I can travel to Cuba and Nicaragua for brief research trips and still have enough left over that, if I live monastically, I don't have to TA for a summer course. WHICH MEANS. I am six weeks closer to being totally done with this beast of a burden. Huzzah!
Monday, April 5, 2010
A Little Visitor
One of the nicest things about our cute and delightful little Casita Sonrisa is the office. An office, I say! A room for working and books and sitting down to do things for work that keep me out of sight of my bed, the refrigerator, and the back yard. It's marvelous. When I was living in Matagalpa doing research, a guy I became friends with drew me a picture of the city, nestled in among the mountains. I taped that picture to the door of the office and now when I need to do work, I simply announce to myself (and Birdie, because she needs to know as well), "I am going to Nicaragua!" Then I walk in the office, close the door, sit at my desk, and work. This is excellent. No distractions. Except...
Sometimes I get riveted by what goes on right outside the window I sit in front of. The other day, I watched a red-headed woodpecker feed her nest of peckerlings in the tree across the street. Last week a cat sat upon my porch and groomed herself in highly entertaining detail. And then just two days ago, a little teeny tiny baby opossum ("the other white meat," as we say back in North Carolina) climbed up on the porch and started sniffing around. Naturally, I grabbed my hunting rifle. Er, no, that's wrong. Camera. I meant to say camera. Yes.
As I was saying, I grabbed my camera and sprinted out to the front porch to take pictures. By the time I got there, however, something had startled the baby possum, and it was nowhere to be found. Undeterred, I looked about, certain it couldn't have gotten far. "Here, little possumy-wossumy! Where aaaarrreee youuuuuuu?" I heard a little hissing sound coming from the corner, and approached with caution. Are you in the box? No. Are you under the chair? No. Are you...
In the map? Yes.
There she was, inside the rolled up map of the world. She stared me down, swaying her head back and forth, hissing at me incessantly. You know that rule that applies to all of nature, how no matter how ugly an adult version of something is, the baby is always cute? Not true. Not true at all, when it comes to possum. Can you see her? I tried to get my camera to focus on the bottom, but was thwarted at every turn, so this is as good as it gets:
I think I'll call her Carmen Sandiego.
Sometimes I get riveted by what goes on right outside the window I sit in front of. The other day, I watched a red-headed woodpecker feed her nest of peckerlings in the tree across the street. Last week a cat sat upon my porch and groomed herself in highly entertaining detail. And then just two days ago, a little teeny tiny baby opossum ("the other white meat," as we say back in North Carolina) climbed up on the porch and started sniffing around. Naturally, I grabbed my hunting rifle. Er, no, that's wrong. Camera. I meant to say camera. Yes.
As I was saying, I grabbed my camera and sprinted out to the front porch to take pictures. By the time I got there, however, something had startled the baby possum, and it was nowhere to be found. Undeterred, I looked about, certain it couldn't have gotten far. "Here, little possumy-wossumy! Where aaaarrreee youuuuuuu?" I heard a little hissing sound coming from the corner, and approached with caution. Are you in the box? No. Are you under the chair? No. Are you...
In the map? Yes.
There she was, inside the rolled up map of the world. She stared me down, swaying her head back and forth, hissing at me incessantly. You know that rule that applies to all of nature, how no matter how ugly an adult version of something is, the baby is always cute? Not true. Not true at all, when it comes to possum. Can you see her? I tried to get my camera to focus on the bottom, but was thwarted at every turn, so this is as good as it gets:
I think I'll call her Carmen Sandiego.
Friday, April 2, 2010
A Very Hard Worker
I just wanted to issue a brief assurance, for any who might be curious, that I have not in any way been distracted by the glories of spring as it bursts forth all around me. I remain impervious to the blossoming flowers and budding trees, blind to the warm breezes and gentle sunshine of these long afternoons, and deaf to the chirps and twitters of birds as they celebrate the coming warmth. Instead, I remain steadfast at my desk, bent to my work with the seriousness of purpose befitting a graduate student hard at work on her dissertation. Rest assured, for work is my life. I shall not falter along this path.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
In Which The Internets Show Me Strange Things
So my amazing brother The Fairy King googled my name the other day while bored at work. Actually, he works in Australia, so technically, I believe it was "whilst" he was bored at work, but I digress. Anyway, I can't believe what he found. Back in 1987, my mother was interviewed and quoted in Working Mother Magazine in a curiously-titled little article called "Should We Tell Our Kids The Truth About Santa?" I mean, really. KIDS CAN READ. Don't put that on the cover and then mail it to some harried woman's house. She's trying to keep the shit storms under control, and this? This probably won't help.
The whole magazine seemed a little funny, come to think of it. They perhaps might better have called the magazine "Alarmist Parenting," or "Did You Know How Many Secret Horrors Lurk Out There Magazine." Then the articles entitled "Down With Office Parties," "Crying: Why It's a Career Crusher," and "Compassion: Are Children Really Capable Of It?" would seem more appropriate.
The story about my mother and me, and our little Santa anecdote? Cute as hell. Apparently, I was something of a winker back then. And yes, now my real first name is on the website, technically, and no, nobody but my family calls me that, so don't start.
http://books.google.com.au/books?id=aGEEAAAAMBAJ&pg=PA103&lpg=PA103&dq=Cheasty+Miller&source=bl&ots=sX0JBlvCuC&sig=DHg3Gho2NCLB30k0whnBUoY9uH4&hl=en&ei=5S60S4LsC9CHkQWojIyXDQ&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=7&ved=0CBoQ6AEwBjgK#v=onepage&q=Cheasty%20Miller&f=false
The whole magazine seemed a little funny, come to think of it. They perhaps might better have called the magazine "Alarmist Parenting," or "Did You Know How Many Secret Horrors Lurk Out There Magazine." Then the articles entitled "Down With Office Parties," "Crying: Why It's a Career Crusher," and "Compassion: Are Children Really Capable Of It?" would seem more appropriate.
The story about my mother and me, and our little Santa anecdote? Cute as hell. Apparently, I was something of a winker back then. And yes, now my real first name is on the website, technically, and no, nobody but my family calls me that, so don't start.
http://books.google.com.au/books?id=aGEEAAAAMBAJ&pg=PA103&lpg=PA103&dq=Cheasty+Miller&source=bl&ots=sX0JBlvCuC&sig=DHg3Gho2NCLB30k0whnBUoY9uH4&hl=en&ei=5S60S4LsC9CHkQWojIyXDQ&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=7&ved=0CBoQ6AEwBjgK#v=onepage&q=Cheasty%20Miller&f=false
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Miz Birdie Hunts Her Own Shadow
Hmmm, I'm thirsty. I think I'll go in the bathroom to drink out of my special purple cup of water that Mom keeps in the corner for me. Doh-dee-doh-dee-doh. Oh, hey! Look at this puddle of bright white light. It's so beauuuutiful. I'm going to look inside it. Hmmm, what's that dark thing in the corner of the puddle?
Oh my gosh, it looks like me. Hello? Who are you? What's your name? What are you doing in my bathroom?
Helloooooo? Can you hear me? Why won't you talk to me? Hey! Where are you going?
Hey, Mr. Shadowpants, I'm talking to you! Come back here!
Hmph. Where did you go, Mr. Shadowpants? Are you under the bath mat? You can't fool me, I'll just keep on looking. I know you're in here somewhere!
Oh, Mom! Nothing. I mean, no. I mean, why, hello there. My, that's a fetching sweater vest you're wearing.
What do you mean, what am I up to. I was just leaving, is what. Sheesh. You're always asking questions.
Oh my gosh, it looks like me. Hello? Who are you? What's your name? What are you doing in my bathroom?
Helloooooo? Can you hear me? Why won't you talk to me? Hey! Where are you going?
Hey, Mr. Shadowpants, I'm talking to you! Come back here!
Hmph. Where did you go, Mr. Shadowpants? Are you under the bath mat? You can't fool me, I'll just keep on looking. I know you're in here somewhere!
Oh, Mom! Nothing. I mean, no. I mean, why, hello there. My, that's a fetching sweater vest you're wearing.
What do you mean, what am I up to. I was just leaving, is what. Sheesh. You're always asking questions.
Monday, March 29, 2010
In Loco Parentis
Hello blog, this is Birdie. Cheasty wanted to write today, but she has too much work. Given that she takes such excellent and tender care of me, I thought that writing to you on her behalf was the least I could do. I'm not sure what else to say now, as I've used up most of my words. I still have a few left, such as: treat! Nap! Walk? Treat! TREAT! Rub my ears.
Treat?
Treat?
Friday, March 26, 2010
Trifecta
So here's the marketing scheme for any business in New Orleans. First, make a list of all the things people know and love about Louisiana and Cajun culture. Second, write down the name of your business. Third, pick a few of those words on your lists and smoosh them together. Presto: business name! This is the way (I can only assume) that you get places named "Jambalaya Guitar," "Cajun Nail 'n Hair," and "Zydeco Snack Bar."
But this is America folks, where more is better. So in my imagination, this is the way it happened: some clever dude must've sat up straight in bed one night, hand clapped to his forehead, and cried, "Eureka! Why stop at ONE traditional Louisiana thing? In fact, why add any single true identifier in the name at all?" And presto, before you knew it, businesses abounded that said nothing but the words: alligator, jazz, jambalaya, gumbo, cajun, creole, French, etc, all in combination with each other.
Like, for example, this:
I have no idea what this place of business does, or what "getting your tail bit" is euphemistic for (though I must confess, the mind reels at this world of possibilities), but this, my friends, is the trifecta of Louisiana-themed marketing plans for local businesses. Jazz. Gumbo. Alligator. Stand back and watch the money roll in.
But this is America folks, where more is better. So in my imagination, this is the way it happened: some clever dude must've sat up straight in bed one night, hand clapped to his forehead, and cried, "Eureka! Why stop at ONE traditional Louisiana thing? In fact, why add any single true identifier in the name at all?" And presto, before you knew it, businesses abounded that said nothing but the words: alligator, jazz, jambalaya, gumbo, cajun, creole, French, etc, all in combination with each other.
Like, for example, this:
I have no idea what this place of business does, or what "getting your tail bit" is euphemistic for (though I must confess, the mind reels at this world of possibilities), but this, my friends, is the trifecta of Louisiana-themed marketing plans for local businesses. Jazz. Gumbo. Alligator. Stand back and watch the money roll in.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
The Big Easy, II
Yesterday I talked about some of the fun things we did in New Orleans, but I completely neglected to tell you about Lubini, the Big Fuzz, and Little Cub, friends of mine from college we were visiting down there. Well, Cub isn't a friend of mine, he's the offspring of these friends of mine, and OH MY GOD, did he ever fall in love with Handsome. Fall in love as in, he wouldn't even hold my hand when we took him out to the park. All he would say is "Handsome, Handsome, Handsome, Handsome, Handsome, Handsome," and then he'd stare up at him with an adoring grin on his face. I briefly considered being insulted, but then I remembered behaving similarly when I first met Handsome, so I decided it was a perfectly natural reaction to his animal charisma, and let it go.
Lubini and Fuzz were working nights on the movie they're doing down there, so we didn't get to hang too much Thursday and Friday, but Saturday was a different story. Handsome and I did some walking and driving around the Garden District while they slept in the morning, and then that afternoon they awoke with great news. "Hey, Cheasty, we scored some free box seats to the NCAA tournament games this afternoon. Want to go?"
Ummmm... yes, please?
So off we went, silly grins in hand, to hobnob with the hoi polloi.
Folks, seriously. There's free food and beverage. Much beverage. And an uninterrupted view of the court. I'm not saying I'd want to see a Carolina game from way up here - in that case courtside, please - but for games I'm not passionate about, and with an active toddler in tow, this is the way to go.
Cub introduced himself to popcorn for the first time, and whoa, nelly. Let's just say he was double-fisting it.
So, yay, games. After that, we dropped Cub off with a babysitter and headed out for a late dinner at a divine tapas bar called Baru, which was the best meal we had all week. We had a little conversation, drank a little red wine, caught a little bit of those Cajun girls, dancing to Zydeco. (Are you humming along yet?) All in all, it was grand, but as with all good things, it was destined to come to an end. The next day we hugged our friends, said goodbye, and as Hansen and I headed home, Texas welcomed us back with a Lone Star sized sunset. It was good.
Lubini and Fuzz were working nights on the movie they're doing down there, so we didn't get to hang too much Thursday and Friday, but Saturday was a different story. Handsome and I did some walking and driving around the Garden District while they slept in the morning, and then that afternoon they awoke with great news. "Hey, Cheasty, we scored some free box seats to the NCAA tournament games this afternoon. Want to go?"
Ummmm... yes, please?
So off we went, silly grins in hand, to hobnob with the hoi polloi.
Folks, seriously. There's free food and beverage. Much beverage. And an uninterrupted view of the court. I'm not saying I'd want to see a Carolina game from way up here - in that case courtside, please - but for games I'm not passionate about, and with an active toddler in tow, this is the way to go.
Cub introduced himself to popcorn for the first time, and whoa, nelly. Let's just say he was double-fisting it.
So, yay, games. After that, we dropped Cub off with a babysitter and headed out for a late dinner at a divine tapas bar called Baru, which was the best meal we had all week. We had a little conversation, drank a little red wine, caught a little bit of those Cajun girls, dancing to Zydeco. (Are you humming along yet?) All in all, it was grand, but as with all good things, it was destined to come to an end. The next day we hugged our friends, said goodbye, and as Hansen and I headed home, Texas welcomed us back with a Lone Star sized sunset. It was good.
Monday, March 22, 2010
The Big Easy
Howdy, blog, I'm back from the grandest long weekend in recent memory. How grand, you ask? Very grand. So grand, in fact, that I might have to break this up into a few posts. But I'll start with a quick summation: it rocked. Handsome and I, faced with a few days of Spring Break on my part, and an itch to get out of the office on his, decided to take off for the city with more nicknames than God: the Crescent City, Birthplace of Jazz, The Big Easy, Nawlins, NOLA, am I leaving something out? Oh yeah. New Orleans, Louisiana.
Somehow I had never been there before. I know, crazy. I couldn't believe it either, but it's true. We rocked up on Thursday night, and promptly dove head-first into an enormous plate of Cajun food. After, that is, we bought 20 oz. beers and walked around IN THE STREETS with them. Shocking! I felt so illicity! So yes. Gorgeous food, public alcohol consumption, and dandy music all about. Pretty much I felt like we'd landed in heaven.
These are the fun things we did:
When I asked my mother what we should do in New Orleans, it took her negative three point two seconds to scream BEIGNETS AND COFFEE at the top of her lungs. So okay. We went to the Cafe du Monde, and to be honest, I was a little skeptical on account of EVERYBODY IN NEW ORLEANS was there. Mass production for mass consumption? How good could they be.
Good. They were very good. Now I understand.
What else. Oh! Public transportation. Parking is CRAZY expensive in the French Quarter, so Handsome and I figured out the bus system, and it was so much fun. I know, I'm a nerd, and maybe totally crazy, but in my opinion, learning the public transportation networks in any city is just about the best thing ever. You can put down your tourist map and just saunter aboard. "Hello!" you can greet the driver. "Could you let me know when we get to Oopsie-Daisy Street?" And the driver will nod, and the doors will close, and you can sit there and stare out the window until you arrive. It's awesome.
We also talk a walking historical tour of the city from an older gentleman named Hal. We learned the difference between a gallery, a porch, and a balcony, we learned about the colonial-period yellow fever alert system, and we learned euphemisms for prostitute, courtesan, and concubine so exquisite that Handsome didn't at first realize what sort of "special relationship" Hal was describing. We saw examples of hilarious architecture (look, the marbles don't match!), and while Hal certainly told us that a woman named the Baroness Pontalba existed, thank God I'd stopped in the Cabildo museum earlier and knew this amazing story. Man, that lady was awesome. Ferociously ugly, but awesome. Her father-in-law shot her point blank with dueling pistols, blew off her fingers, and somehow she survived with bullets lodged permanently IN HER CHEST. I tried to wheedle some more salacious historical details out of Hal, but he wasn't having any of it because look - the Mississippi River!
Hal later redeemed himself for the mediocre tour, however, by taking a shine to Handsome and myself and calling in a favor to get us a table at his favorite French Quarter restaurant. Turns out they had one table left, up on the balcony (not the porch or gallery)...
White wine, shrimp etouffé, fried green tomatoes, coffee and creme bruleé. Good heavens. Half drunk and very full, we tottered off to a place whose name I kept mixing up. Eventually I settled on "Hall of Preservation Hall Jazz Hall" but I'm pretty sure I was needlessly complicating the issue. The Preservation Hall Jazz Masters play nightly in a teeny-tiny intimate setting - no mikes! - and it's awesome. They're having fun, we're having fun, it's just great old New Orleans Jazz music. I honestly expected Louis Armstrong to waltz on in the door at any moment.
Drunk on jazz, cajun food, and music, Handsome and I tottered back to the bus station that night, and... Not to leave you on tenterhooks, but I believe I'll continue this later. I've got work to do, people!
Somehow I had never been there before. I know, crazy. I couldn't believe it either, but it's true. We rocked up on Thursday night, and promptly dove head-first into an enormous plate of Cajun food. After, that is, we bought 20 oz. beers and walked around IN THE STREETS with them. Shocking! I felt so illicity! So yes. Gorgeous food, public alcohol consumption, and dandy music all about. Pretty much I felt like we'd landed in heaven.
These are the fun things we did:
When I asked my mother what we should do in New Orleans, it took her negative three point two seconds to scream BEIGNETS AND COFFEE at the top of her lungs. So okay. We went to the Cafe du Monde, and to be honest, I was a little skeptical on account of EVERYBODY IN NEW ORLEANS was there. Mass production for mass consumption? How good could they be.
Good. They were very good. Now I understand.
What else. Oh! Public transportation. Parking is CRAZY expensive in the French Quarter, so Handsome and I figured out the bus system, and it was so much fun. I know, I'm a nerd, and maybe totally crazy, but in my opinion, learning the public transportation networks in any city is just about the best thing ever. You can put down your tourist map and just saunter aboard. "Hello!" you can greet the driver. "Could you let me know when we get to Oopsie-Daisy Street?" And the driver will nod, and the doors will close, and you can sit there and stare out the window until you arrive. It's awesome.
We also talk a walking historical tour of the city from an older gentleman named Hal. We learned the difference between a gallery, a porch, and a balcony, we learned about the colonial-period yellow fever alert system, and we learned euphemisms for prostitute, courtesan, and concubine so exquisite that Handsome didn't at first realize what sort of "special relationship" Hal was describing. We saw examples of hilarious architecture (look, the marbles don't match!), and while Hal certainly told us that a woman named the Baroness Pontalba existed, thank God I'd stopped in the Cabildo museum earlier and knew this amazing story. Man, that lady was awesome. Ferociously ugly, but awesome. Her father-in-law shot her point blank with dueling pistols, blew off her fingers, and somehow she survived with bullets lodged permanently IN HER CHEST. I tried to wheedle some more salacious historical details out of Hal, but he wasn't having any of it because look - the Mississippi River!
Hal later redeemed himself for the mediocre tour, however, by taking a shine to Handsome and myself and calling in a favor to get us a table at his favorite French Quarter restaurant. Turns out they had one table left, up on the balcony (not the porch or gallery)...
White wine, shrimp etouffé, fried green tomatoes, coffee and creme bruleé. Good heavens. Half drunk and very full, we tottered off to a place whose name I kept mixing up. Eventually I settled on "Hall of Preservation Hall Jazz Hall" but I'm pretty sure I was needlessly complicating the issue. The Preservation Hall Jazz Masters play nightly in a teeny-tiny intimate setting - no mikes! - and it's awesome. They're having fun, we're having fun, it's just great old New Orleans Jazz music. I honestly expected Louis Armstrong to waltz on in the door at any moment.
Drunk on jazz, cajun food, and music, Handsome and I tottered back to the bus station that night, and... Not to leave you on tenterhooks, but I believe I'll continue this later. I've got work to do, people!
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