Piles

Husband has a piling problem.

It all started when we were dating. I noticed when I was in his apartment in college that his life revolved around his coffe table, on which was piled his computer, his books, his iPod, his headphones, his homework, his bag of chips, and various scraps of paper. Foolishly, I imagined that his piling was due to a lack of space in that tiny apartment. I mean, four men lived in that apartment. Four men with shoes and dress shirts and soccer cleats and baseball gloves and kayaks and dvds and XBoxes and other various MAN THINGS. No wonder he had to pile.

However, the piling was not, as I had imagined, a result of his living situation. When we got married and began cohabitation, he began piling on our kitchen table. The pile generally centers on his computer and its power cord. Similar to The College Pile, there are headphones and an iPod, and occasionally, chips. Now, however, there are Big People things like receipts and bills and junk mail and books about mutual funds. That's right, The Pile is expanding.

If only that were the worst of it.

Recently, Husband has developed a habit of territorial piling. He is piling in various locations, presumably because of a need to mark his space. The dresser in the bedroom has been Piled. Its covered in change and papers and dress shirt collar thingies. The coffee table has been Piled. The computer occasionally resides there, but it is currently piled with his Bible and various church-related papers. The end table has been piled. It is now the happy home of a notepad, a pen, and his iPod charging dock.

Do you see what I mean about the piles? The piles are consuming this apartment. Husband has a piling problem. I've started thinking of piles/piled/piling as a state of being. I'm piled. PILED.

I think I will open my class on Wednesday with this

Happy Birthday, Motha!

Today is Motha!'s birthday. Happy Birthday, Motha! In your honor, E! Entertainment Television is playing the E! True Hollywood Story of your idol, Goldie Hawn. I also think the stars aligned this weekend, when I watched Overboard, your favorite Goldie film, on TBS.

In honor of Motha!'s birthday, I present the Top Ten Motha! Moments.

10. Back to school shopping and lunch at The Garden

9. Making chore lists at the beginning of every summer

8. Watching Regis and Kelly

7. "5.95"

6. Making the bed at every new place where any of us kids moved

5. "You don't own me! YOUNG AND FREE, YOUNG AND FREE, YOUNG AND FREE! You don't own me!"

4. Watching Gone With the Wind every Thanksgiving

3. "I have nothing..... nothing..... NOTHING..... DOOOOON'T MAKE ME CLOOOOOOOOOOOSE one more door"

2. Wedding dress shopping together

1. the Motha! daily phone message: "Hey honey, this is your Motha! Just calling to say that I love you and I am praying for you and Graige (!) and I hope you have a great day at school!"

Love you, Motha!

disruption

This morning, our internet died. It died, and momentarily disrupted the peace of life as I know it. I was SO MAD at our internet for dying. I was on the warpath. I called the cable company. I whined. I roared. I demanded an explanation. I can't remember the last time I was that angry about something.

Seriously, what is up with that? It made me realize that I am ridiculously dependent on technology. When my cell phone died once, I was ready to kill someone. I suffer from a little disorder called Technology Entitlement. I feel ENTITLED to a cell phone that calls people. I feel ENTITLED to working, non-dead internet. When did that happen? I know there was a period in my life when I had neither cell phone nor internet, and I was happy as a lark. At what point did I turn into a raving lunatic that can't function without wireless internet?!

This little debacle reminded me of an old entry from Blog 1.0 about this very issue. Enjoy!

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Superficial Intimacy
August 29, 2006

I've been rather troubled lately that the only way I keep up with my friends is through the computer. It seems like such a superficial medium. I mean, I have all of your phone numbers, so why don't I ever call you? In that arena, at least I could hear your voice and picture your expressions in my head and recall a time when we actually met face to face. So, why is it that we only communicate online?

Its not only the lack of human contact that disturbs me. For the most part, modern friendships are based on stalking. We all have webpages, blogs, mySpaces, Facebook pages, etc. where we post information about ourselves as if we are rockstars with fan clubs dying to stay posted on our every whim. And its true! Because any time I get a free moment on the computer, I'm reading your Xanga, I'm posing on your Facebook wall, I'm looking at the photos you've uploaded. I am STALKING you. And its disturbing. We all do it. We treat our friends like they are our fan club members. And we stalk our friends as if we cannot call them up or go to dinner with them when we want to know what is going on in their lives.

Many of us do not even email anymore. Oh no, that would be too personal, too "I care enough about you to spend a few minutes writing a message for your eyes only." Email has become obsolete in the era of message boards. We communicate with our friends by leaving comments on their blogs. These messages become really an advertisement or extension of ourselves because we know that everyone else will be reading our personal correspondence. Look at me! Look at what a clever person I am! I have something HILARIOUS to say to my friend and you are so lucky as to experience it as if it were addressed to you personally! We use these forums to proclaim to the universe our opinions (I really can't believe she said that about me), our status (yeah, we broke up, but I'm really ready to move on), and our comings and goings (we're all headed to the union, you should come). Its like we are all our own publicists. Anything that I want the world to know about me, I can post on a friend's blog. Or my own.

Certainly, there is an incredible usefulness to these kinds of sites. My friend Summer (hi Summer!) is in grad school in Boston, and I love reading her blog to catch up on her life. However, that should not stop me from calling her. Or visiting her. And I think I will.

Call your friends today. Take them to lunch. Then you can post pictures of it on Facebook and we will all enjoy.

afternoon break

On Wednesdays, I have a few hours to kill between teaching/art class in the morning and my graduate course at night. The break is long enough that I came home to eat something and wait.

The problem with being home in the middle of the day is that you are a prime victim for bad teen movies and reruns of trashy reality tv. Yesterday, I indulged in some America's Next Top Model and fell asleep to A Cinderella Story with Hilary Duff and Chad Michael Murray. [I know, right? I am ashamed to even admit that I know the name of that movie and the names of its stars. No self-respecting adult would admit to having watched a Hilary Duff movie, even if just to induce a nap.]

Today, I am catching up on my Top Chef reruns. I am a SUCKER for reality television, but any that involve fashion or cooking especially captivate me. I absolutely love the melodrama involved in Top Chef. "Sandy, we're going to have to send you home because we asked you to make a barbeque dish, and your dish was braised the night before, which obviously [OBVIOUSLY!] isn't barbeque." Dramatic Pause. Low Rumblings of Dramatic Music. "Please pack your knives and go."

What I want to know is who gets to sit around and come up with the "goodbye phrase" for these reality shows? As goodbye phrases go, "please pack your knives and go" is one of the greats. However, doesn't it make you wonder what was on the reject list?

"Turn off your burners. You will sautee no more."
"We're spitting you, and your food, out of our mouths."
"Please wash your pans, dry them, and put them away. You've been demoted to dishwasher."

Right? WHO COMES UP WITH THIS STUFF?

This is what happens when they let me go home in the middle of the day.

lazy bum

I am, at this very moment, enjoying the first of my two days off every week. On Tuesdays and Thursdays this semester, I have NOTHING to do. In about a week, that will change to I HAVE TO GET ALL THIS READING DONE, but for now, it means I am drinking coffee, watching Regis and Kelly, and picking up Husband's pants at the cleaners. Which I should have done about ... oh ... last Friday. Husband likes to point out that, as a student and non-commuter-of-the-soul-destroying-commute, my schedule is much more flexible than his and I should, TECHNICALLY, find the time to do mundane things like fetch pants from the cleaners. Like, what I am doing all day? Just sitting around all day, napping, watching tv, and eating chips?

Ok, the chips part might not be so far off. Or the napping bit.

However, I would like to point out what I DID accomplish today, namely, brushing my teeth, getting dressed, and taking out the trash.

See? I am being WAY productive with these days off.

But I still love you, and here are your pants.

first day of school

Today was the first day of school. I fell out of bed at 6:30 this morning. 6:30 am. BOO. There's not much that even coffee can do at 6:30 in the morning. Luckily, Husband made me some coffee anyway, but only after telling me that the only reason he was out of bed was because I was being loud. Loud? I'll show you loud. Don't challenge me at 6:30 am when I am not yet caffeinated.

My students at 8:30 wore blank stares and bed head. I felt like I was talking to life-size cardboard cut outs. My friend, Katie, suggested that I use a spray bottle in their faces like you would with a disobedient cat. I find the analogy rather compelling. 10:30 was a better situation; at least those students looked alive. I think one of them even smiled.

After my 10:30 class, I knew I had to trudge all the way across campus to the art museum for my art history class. And when I say trudge, I literally mean drag my sad, sweaty self in the oppressive heat to a building I have never seen to find a classroom I have never been in. And then the building was locked.

LOCKED.

Did I mention it was hot outside? And the building was locked? AS IN, I COULD NOT ENTER THE AIR- CONDITIONED BUILDING AND WAS FORCED TO CIRCLE IT IN THE HEAT!?!

Just wanted to make sure I got that across.

All in all, between the sleepy cat students and the pit stains in my new shirt, it was a good first day of school.

breakfast for dinner

Tonight, we were at a loss for dinner. Nothing sounded good. We drove home from church considering our fast-food options, but finally decided to go home. For sandwiches. You know there was nothing to eat when we were considering sandwiches.

Then, Husband had a brilliant idea: breakfast for dinner! It wasn't the first time in human history that someone had this idea. I remember Motha! making us breakfast for dinner when we were kids, and we thought it was the coolest, most rebellious thing EVER. Those Christians, they are CRAZY! Waffles?! AT NIGHT?! MADNESS!

However, there was a small kink to be worked out. Husband's idea of breakfast and my idea of breakfast are a bit different. Husband's idea of breakfast includes waffles; mine includes cheese scrambled eggs. Ironically, we are each the designated chef of the other's favorite. On the weekends, I make waffles if we decide on waffles, and he makes the eggs if we decide on eggs. After a momentary silence, Husband said, "I'll make you eggs...............and you can make me waffles!"

And that, folks, is why I married him.

MOTHA!

Sorry I totally dropped the ball yesterday on posting. My mom, Motha! to you, is in town visiting before Brother Robby and I start classes on Monday. We spent the day watching that new Jane Austen movie, grocery shopping, and making the most fabulous salmon ever. It was really fun to cook for Motha! because she understands the pain of being young and married and afraid of accidentally starving or poisoning Husband due to sheer ignorance. We ate. She raved. It was a good night all around.

This morning we've already watched another Jane Austen movie (I know, right?) and now we're visiting campus so I can pick up some handouts and Brother Robby can buy books. Motha! has been giggling all day. She wants to go to the library and the Student Union. She wants to take pictures.

When we were kids, every year for the first day of school we had to take The Backpack Picture. The three of us had to pose in front of the fireplace with our backpacks in our first day of school outfits. Little Scotty is still subjected to this every year. Motha! showed me the pictures she took of him on his first day of school last week as he was getting in his car and DRIVING AWAY. He's half-way down the block and she's still snapping the pics. That's love, friends.

So, we're off now to tour the library and buy books. Then, I think, Motha! wants to clean Brother Robby's apartment "so it will be ready for school." He, understandably, is milking this for all its worth.

summer roundup

11

days spent in Europe

$400

surprise cost of train tickets from Morley to London

1

number of coats Husband purchased in Paris-- in June

2

times I viewed Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix in theatres

3

days spent in St. Louis with Summer eating scones

2.5

times I read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

3

number of Jane Austen novels I re-read this summer for about the 300th time

at least 3

weeks during which I almost died driving to work in near monsoon conditions

2

rides Little Scotty took me for in his Jeep, the Butch

3

times I have had a "last day" at this job, including today  [no more commute!  NO MORE.  Did I mention I don't have to drive 45 minutes both ways every day ANY MORE?!]

victory in our time!

Proof positive that Husband is finally starting to understand my childlike need for constant validation

Scene: the environment-saving Honda, speeding toward Husband's place of employment

While channel hopping, we hear a Keith Urban song on the radio [note: Keith Urban is married to Nicole Kidman, Husband's acknowledged celebrity crush].

Husband: "That Keith Urban married a fine-looking woman."

[beat]

[beat]

[raised eyebrow from me]

Husband: "ME TOO!!"

in which I digress

Today marks the beginning of the countdown to the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing, China. HOORAY! I LOVE the Olympics in a traditionally girly way. I love the gymnasts and the figure skaters. I love to see them twist and fling their little bodies across various surfaces. Love it.

In fact, I love the Olympics so much that once my mom used my love against me. She once grounded me FROM THE OLYMPICS. That's right. I was grounded from the finals of the women's all around in gymnastics the year that Dominique Moceanu ended up winning gold (1996, I think). I don't know that I had ever been that upset in my young life. [Granted, I had not yet started driving and had my keys taken away from me for a month for a WARNING. Not a ticket, a warning. But I digress.]

[Actually, I digresss further. What kind of idiot tells their parents that they were pulled over and the policeman let them go with a warning? A VALIDATION-SEEKING, FIRST-BORN idiot, that's who. WHAT. A. MORON. Little Scotty, if you're reading this, don't tell mom and dad if you get a warning. I mean, I know you don't speed and you also don't talk bad about people and you drink enough "special water" that you don't even stink, but if the worst happens, DON'T TELL THEM. LEARN FROM MY MISTAKES. Slow yourself down and keep your keys.]

What was I even talking about?

Oh, Olympics. Yes. I love the Olympics. And mom, I'm sorry for whatever I did that made you ground me from them. And please don't hate me for the above.

where the grass is always greener

Lately, I have been thinking about how ready I am to get back into school mode. Working a normal, 9 to 5 job only makes me appreciate the academic life in all its caffeinated, frantic splendor. I LOVE being in school, which is convenient considering I will be there for the next million years.

Still, graduate school has its moments. Terrifying, soul-destroying, claw-your-own-eyes-out (Oedipus-style) moments. While I'm not thinking about those moments right now, come back around October and you'll experience them first hand. So, in honor of graduate school angst, I give you the latest installment from Blog 1.0. Enjoy.

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It's That Time of Year...
November 15, 2006

...and I'm not talking about the holiday season. I'm referring to that point in the academic semester where students begin to slowly, painfully lose their minds. I'm starting to recognize the symptoms in my students. They are perpetually 3 to 5 minutes late to class. They don't have their homework. They are wearing last night's eyeliner. I'm thinking of instituting yoga as the first 10 minutes of every class.

I'm also recognizing the symptoms in myself and my fellow graduate students. The desperation is starting to stink. The graduate computer lab is full 24 hours a day as we print out articles and search for inspiration. The papers are piling up as we decide if tonight we want to stress about teaching or our own classes. I feel a pang of guilt even writing this instead of working on my paper or reading for class or responding to student's topic proposals.

My solution to all this pain? Domesticity.

Not kidding. My favorite activity of late is take off my Grad Student hat (and by "take off," I mean "snatch from my scalp in my vicious talons and fling mercilessly across the room, my only regret that it's not solid enough to make a satisfying thump when it strikes the wall") and joyfully adorn myself, ritualistically, with my Wife apron. Today, I baked cookies. I've never baked cookies before in my life. Still, I found myself armed with all my new fun baking gadgets (thank you, wedding showers!), television tuned to the Food Network, and elbow deep in butter and brown sugar. As they baked, I did laundry. I dusted my living room. I made a grocery list. I reveled in my alternative existence where Frederic Jameson can't hurt me and the rhetorical triangle doesn't matter nearly as much as my new Christmas tree.

My dear friend and fellow graduate school maven, Summer, informed me that the best medicine for grad school angst includes chick flicks and baked goods. Never has a wiser word been spoken. There must be something about reinscribing myself into the patriarchal system of Wifery that my studies force me to criticize that makes me feel better about the world. That's right, I'll say it. I love being married. I love keeping house. And I love cookies. And cupcakes with sprinkles.

I can put off my work no longer (which means I will shortly be going to bed, only to dream of discourse communities and flunking out of school). At least I have cookies.

Project I Know Nothing About This

This weekend, I was reminded once again that Husband's personal style and taste in clothing are far superior to my own. Before we started dating, Husband scared me a little bit because he was so well-dressed and pretty. I almost thought of him as a celebrity that was unattainable-- people that pretty don't interact with people who only buy clothes once a year and consider a coffee cup a fashion accessory. Once we started dating, I would obsess for hours over what I should wear on our dates. [I know, me? Obsess about something?] I was very aware and a bit uncomfortable about being the less stylish person in our relationship.

Post wedding day, Husband became the fashion authority in my life. I always ask him about what I'm wearing. I think the most dreaded question in his life is "do these shoes go with this?". I bow to his opinion on all things sartorial.

At home with my familiy this weekend, Little Scotty showed me all of his new school clothes. For his first day of school debut, he asked me which shirt he should wear with his new navy and white striped shorts. Being the minimalist that I am, I automatically went for his solid white polo shirt. Gotta balance your stripes and solids, no? Too many stripes = bad. Except that Little Scotty really wanted to wear a new navy, royal blue, and white striped shirt. Alarm bells were going off in my head. STRIPES! STRIPES! TOO MANY STRIPES! FOR THE LOVE, ENOUGH WITH THE STRIPES.

Then, I realized. Coffee cups are my fashion accessories. Little Scotty is hip and cool and drives a Jeep.

So I deferred to Husband. Little Scotty presented his case. I presented mine. And, naturally, Husband told Little Scotty that the striped shirt was clearly the superior choice.

[REALLY?!?! STRIPES ON STRIPES?! CAN YOU DO THAT?!]

All of which reminds me that I should stick to old books and big words and let Husband make any and all fashion choices affecting me or my loved ones.

Husband, don't freak out when you read this

I am currently experiencing a very dramatic baby/puppy/cute things in general phase. The slightest provocation of cuteness can set me off. I met a friend's puppy the other day and nearly swallowed its cuteness whole. I literally had to restrain myself from burying my face in its fur. In the same five minutes that I met the puppy, my friend's two year old niece plopped herself into my lap and handed me a picture book to read to her. People, there was a spontaneous combustion of cuteness. The cuteness threatened to mushroom cloud and cover us all in pink bows and candy sprinkles. I wanted to grab them both and run away to Mexico, where would we would laugh and roll and kiss and read picture books for the next 20 years.

Given my propensity to cuteness, I was completely taken in by the number of babies at Panera today during lunch. Apparently, Panera is Cute Baby Central. I wanted to gather all the cute babies on one of the couches and pinch their adorable arm fat one by one. Several of the cute babies were screaming and wailing, but it didn't really phase me. I could hear other diners complaining about the screaming and wailing over their soup and sandwiches, but I found myself mesmerized by the cuteness of the screaming and wailing. Like, what a cute little baby scream! That cute little baby just needs me to roll it around on the floor, smooshing its baby fat like pizza dough, then we'll run away to Mexico, laughing and rolling and kissing and reading picture books.

That's how you know that you are NOT ready to have children. Sane people just don't respond to screaming infants with pizza dough similies.

Lonesome Road

This summer, Husband and I have been carpooling to work about 40 minutes from where we live. Husband works there year-round, and I am temporarily supplementing our income during the summer. [Again, WHY?! Why am I not allowed to lay on the couch all day?] About 4 of the 5 week days, we drive one car. I like to think of it as our personal attempt to save the environment. Cameron Diaz bought a Prius, Al Gore makes documentaries, and we carpool.

Sadly, my time in the far-away workforce is about to come to an end. [Or NOT sadly! HAHAHAHA!] I have mentioned how blessed I am to have my job, but the commute? The commute nearly destroys my soul each and every day. I now have a new-found appreciation for Husband, who makes this soul-destroying drive every day regardless of the season. Soon, I will be free to stay within 2 miles of my apartment, blissfully driving to and from campus and NOTHING MORE.

This morning, as we were saving the environment, I asked Husband how he would BEAR facing that drive every morning WITHOUT ME?! Obviously, I am the factor holding it all together. "Will you be sad?" I asked. "Will you sigh loudly every few minutes, thinking, 'if only my wife was here to ease my suffering. If only the radiance of her presence could expel the darkness facing me as I fling my vehicle recklessly down I-35' ?"

His response?

"I couldn't have said it any better myself."

Obviously.