Image via the NASA Goddard Photo and Video Flickr stream under a Creative Commons license.
“Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.”
OK, it’s a lame quote. And it doesn’t make any real sense, because the moon is like, millions of miles closer to us than the nearest star, the sun, so, if we shot for the moon and missed we’d be…somewhere between the earth and the moon, and nowhere near a star.
Still, it reminded me of when I literally wanted to shoot for the moon. For a few years of my childhood, I really wanted to be an astronaut. REALLY. I read all kinds of books about space. I even read Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time over and over again, until it stopped feeling like it was melting my brain and I started understanding it (I was in middle school). I begged my parents to let me go to NASA Space Camp.
But it turns out real space camp is friggin’ expensive.
Instead, one summer, I got sent to some science daycamp at a local elementary school. We made space suits out of tinfoil and Saran Wrap and learned about planets and space shuttles.
But we did not get to pull any G forces or play in any simulators. There was no freeze-dried astronaut ice cream. They might have served us TANG.
What a letdown.
Next time my science-loving dad gives me grief about being a grad student in English Literature, I’m going to say: “Maybe if you let me go to real space camp, I’d be an astrophysicist or something right about now.”
This pig looks a lot like Porky, except Porky was much fatter. Image via Flickr user sarniebill1 under a Creative Commons license.
The other day, my friend shared a link to a story about dogs who help children learn to read, just by being passive, non-judgmental, non-correcting, patient listeners. When I saw it, my first thought was, maybe my mom wasn’t so crazy after all.
You see, when I was a kid, I was made to read to a pig.
Somehow, my family wound up with an oversized supposed pot-bellied pig someone had bought as a pet, but which outgrew their expectations. The pig came to live with us because we lived outside the city, on four acres, and already had quite a menagerie, including chickens, ducks, a parrot, sometimes other birds, fish, and dogs. At other points in my childhood, we also had a tarantula named Terry, a wounded woodpecker, and a chicken who thought he was a dog (a story I’ll have to tell another time). The pig was named Porky.
At the time, my mom told me that she was worried Porky was lonely. Pigs are very intelligent creatures, and can get a little crazy when they’re not happy (much like me). So my sister and I were dispatched with books and lawn chairs, told to sit outside Porky’s pen and read him stories. Now I’m beginning to suspect it wasn’t so much for Porky’s benefit, but ours.
Personally, I think this bodes well for my future career as an English professor, because I doubt any of my students could possibly be less engaged than a pig.
Porky later displayed a tendency to escape the pen and run amok in the garden, and was eventually turned into sausage. I refused to eat him, though, on the grounds that you just don’t eat someone you’ve shared stories with. I think it’s a good policy, in general.
Waiting out the tornado sirens with Bessie, who is thinking of puking on me. Apparently this is a very pensive-looking affair.
It was all of a week and a half ago that we had snow on the ground, but since then, we’ve already had to hunker down in the hallway as tornado sirens went off all around us, and that means spring has come to Arkansas.
Side note: there is perhaps no better way to up the ante on the anxiety of waiting out a tornadic storm than being hunkered in your hallway with a dog who just vomited that morning, whose stomach is still audibly gurgling from across the room. It’s like a game of Russian Roulette, where you’re just wondering which will go off first, the puking dog or Mother Nature’s whirling fury. (Speaking of: Mother Nature’s Whirling Fury is so my next band name.)
Neighbor's daffodils. Image edited with Instagram.
With spring, er, springing, my snot production has ramped into high gear. I am allergic to springtime. Tree pollen is apparently already floating through the air, and daffodils are poking their little yellow heads out of our neighbors’ flower beds. Our flower beds are bare, not because I am some sort of anti-flower allergic crazy person, but because our entire yard is shaded by a giant tree, and what isn’t shaded has been dug to pieces or destroyed by our dogs, who literally wallered our cana plants to death, because they are apparently soft to lie on. Anyway, back to the snot, I estimate that I’ve used a box of Kleenex in the last 24 hours. An entire box. It makes the little Al Gore environmentalist on my shoulder want to weep, but really, a hankie can’t handle this level of mucus production. And neither can my delicate flower of a nose.
I also apparently have a delicate flower of a psyche. I can’t take Claritin. It makes me MEAN. In fact, I had the following conversation with Jon last night, as he researched possible allergy meds for me on some doctor app on his phone:
Jon: Claritin’s the cheapest.
Me: I can’t take that stuff. It makes me a raging psycho bitch, and yes, I know, you’re about to interrupt and tell me that ain’t nuthin’ you haven’t seen before outta me, to which I reply, YOU DO NOT EVEN KNOW THE DEPTHS OF THE CRAZY POSSIBLE WHEN I’M TAKING THAT DRUG. It is NOT worth the price difference, I promise.
Jon: OK, not Claritin, then.
My favorite allergy med cocktail is a combination of Allegra D, a nasal steroid, and Pataday eyedrops for really bad days. But Allegra D is friggety freakin’ expensive. (Anyone wanna give me a bag full of samples?) So I take Zyrtec, which is available both OTC and as a prescription generic, the nasal steroid, and keep the eye drops on hand for when I really really need them.When things are really REALLY bad, I knock myself unconscious with Benadryl and hope to wake up when spring is over.
Now, I’m sure you may have noticed my hippie dippy tendencies in the past, such as the compost bucket I keep in my kitchen. Why not use a Neti Pot, you might ask? And yes, everyone asks that, all the time, when faced with my snotty springtime misery. To which I say, no, thank you, I will not use a nose teapot, and also, I will point out that a nose teapot only provides temporary relief. It rinses out the snot and pollen for about 1o minutes, before my sensitive respiratory tract again encounters pollen and commences to freaking out and ramping up snot production. I do not wish to use a nose teapot every 10 minutes. And so I use prescription drugs. Better living through science.
Despite my own deep hatred of the Neti Pot (seriously, water up the nose is the worst feeling ever), I find them endlessly amusing. Especially when some bearded guy puts coffee and whiskey up his nose with one of them:
Enjoy.
In the meantime, I could use any other allergy tips, and also, tips for a good waterproof mascara that’s also not impossible to get off at the end of the day, because these are the times that try my makeup, when my body decides to be as oozy as possible. Thanks pollen! Thanks, crazy body that thinks pollen is trying to kill me!
This story is sorta like “The Gift of the Magi” if those characters had been sorta jerkish instead of altruistic and self-sacrificing.
Some time before our first Valentine’s Day together (at which point we’d been dating like 8 months), I was hanging out at Jon’s house watching TV when a Hallmark commercial came on. It was advertising whatever their cute plush Valentine stuffed animal was that year. I think I said something like, “Why would a dude EVER get an adult woman a stuffed animal for Valentine’s Day?” Jon’s face fell a little and he said, “You better be careful what you say!”
A few days later, on Valentine’s Day, Jon presented me with the gift he’d already bought *before* we saw that ad: a stuffed animal that looked like a chocolate lab puppy. He reminded me what I’d said, and of course I felt like a jerk. The truth is, I thought the stuffed dog was adorable. I named him Jack, I spritzed him with Jon’s cologne, and I slept with him every night because he smelled like Jon, who at the time was going to school 100 miles from where I was going to school. I still have him and sometimes sleep with him when Jon’s working the night shift.
Maybe a year after that, a few weeks before Valentine’s Day, I noticed that Jon’s wallet was totally falling apart, so I bought him a new one. A few days before V-Day, we were walking through the mall when we passed a special Valentine’s Day wallet display. Jon said something about how wallets are intensely personal and how they get better with age as they conform to the perfect fit for a man’s pocket. My face fell a little.
On Valentine’s Day, a few days later, I presented him with the already purchased wallet and reminded him of what he’d said. I bet he felt a little like a jerk. But the thing is, he liked the wallet. Years later, he’s still carrying it.
These days we don’t give each other gifts at all. It works out better that way.
Friday I spent the entire day in the kitchen preparing food to serve to our homeless neighbors under the Broadway Bridge. While I was cooking, Jon picked up McKinley and took him to get his CDL renewed, FINALLY! Glory, hallelujah, what a hassle, but now he can finally find a job.
That night we served delicious Italian food to a robust crowd, and I also contributed cupcakes as it was our friend John’s birthday. I discovered (by way of the blogosphere), the best way ever to top a cupcake: toasted marshmallows. Way less hassle than frosting. Just pop a marshmallow on top of each of your baked cupcakes and put them back in the 350 degree oven for about 5 minutes. Then pull them out and gently smoosh each marshmallow down over the cupcakes. If you really want the toasty marshmallow flavor, broil them, but keep an eye out not to burn them.
Saturday was GLORIOUS. We went for a little bike ride around the neighborhood to enjoy the cloudless, 70 degree day. It was my first ride with the new panniers I got for my birthday. I call them my “bike trunk.”
"Campfire" image via flickr user gmmail, Greg Morgan, under a Creative Commons license.
The night I met my husband, we sat around a campfire and talked late into the night. We saw shooting stars (or were they fireflies?), were startled by a tail-less cat, and started the fall into love.
The day my husband proposed, he took me back to the site of that campfire and asked me to marry him, and then we sat there and talked about our life together.
Not too long ago, we hit a bit of a rough patch. Trust was damaged, hearts were hurt, and things got hard.
This weekend, we went camping with a group of new friends. We sat around a campfire, talking into the night. We debated the influence of the Beatles (why anyone would dispute their status as the single most influential band ever is beyond me), we laughed at the puppy snoring in my lap, and we got to know each other. I caught glimpses of my beloved in the firelight, looking just as sexy as he did that night we met. I smiled when, asked about his top 3 favorite movies, I guessed every one. We walked through the dark to our tent, where we snuggled for warmth, heads under the sleeping bag, exhaling deep, hot breaths to heat the air inside. He wrapped his arms around me and told me how thankful he is, how lucky he feels that we have each other. That we get each other. That we love each other. I think that spark of gratitude might just be what we needed to get back into full flame.
Today’s post is inspired by the lovely Kyran Pittman’s question on her brand new blog, Planting Dandelions.
Side note: I’m in the middle of writing an epic paper on 14th century mystic Julian of Norwich, and it’s taking up a lot of my time. Please excuse my sparse posting as of late.
Thursday: A bit of an unfamiliar coolness in the air as we, clad in the nicest clothes we’ve worn in weeks, stroll hand in hand through a trendy neighborhood in the midst of it’s monthly neighborhood street fest. We pause to listen to a live band soundchecking on a porch, smile at babies in strollers, and laugh at large, fluffy white puppy dogs. We sit across from each other at a candle-lit table, eating fancy food subsidized with a Groupon, drinking pinot gris, and having the best talk we’ve had in weeks. We come home, change out of our fancy clothes into our pjs, and sit on the couch, sipping whiskey and continuing our great conversation, until, full on food and booze and life, we fall happily asleep.
Friday: Meet up with an old friend and a new one for a drink and end up on a lovely patio in the cool night air, Christmas lights strung in the trees. We regale the new friend with old college stories, and I realize that some friendships will always just pick right back up where they left off. Just a tiny reminder of why I’m glad to be home. The night ends with all of us yelling cuss words and chasing my dog Olive down the street after she escapes past the new friend at the front door. A real bonding experience.
Saturday: Forced to read Lolita for a class, I decide that perhaps the glorious weather and our front porch swing will make the novel less nausea-inducing. As I read, a gorgeous calico cat comes meow-ing up to me and hops right into my lap. As I pet her and she purrs and I turn pages in the novel I so desperately wish I could stop reading, we observe the neighbors. He: bearded and manly attempts to fix the flat tire of the family van. She: stands beside, nervously “helping,” cell phone in hand, seemingly ready to call in a professional. A small boy brandishing a large stick chases a chicken across two front yards while his tiny sister zooms across the yard, dressed as Batman, cape flying behind her. Eventually my new kitty friend decides she’d rather go play with Batman and heads across the street, while I take my icky pedophile novel inside.
Sunday: We gather in a backyard with a crowd of all our new favorite people from Eikon Church for a cookout. Grass fed beef burgers cook alongside vegan black bean patties. The smoke of some folks’ hand-rolled cigarettes hangs in the air. Children are everywhere, falling down the stairs, pretending to be the ice cream man, ramping off curbs on tricycles. We sit in the grass and talk for hours as the night grows cooler and dark.
Monday: We meet up with some Eikon Church friends, our vintage bikes in tow, at the Big Dam Bridge (thank you Little Rock for that lovely name) for the longest bike ride I’ve ever attempted along the River Trail. We weave from civilization to nature and back again, emerging from thick forests pierced by shafts of golden evening light to see the same beams radiating from the shining gilded top of the state capitol building. At one point we pause to watch a mother doe and her two fawns tiptoe through the trees. Later, a cotton-tailed rabbit scampers across our path. The boys speed away from me, and I pedal on, slow and steady like. They double back and catch up with me, before zooming off again. I don’t mind. I enjoy the quiet of the trail, so close to the city and yet so remote all at the same time. I smile at every person I pass.
I often tell people that I have one perfect dog and one very sweet but very crazy dog.
And then yesterday, I had the following exchange on Twitter:
Still thinking about this exchange as Jon and I went to bed, I said, “My friend says that people project their own personalities and issues on their pets. But we have two very different pets! And he says that one of them is probably me, and one of them is probably you. But which is which?”
Very quickly, Jon replied, “I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m the chilled out, obedient one.”
To which I replied, “Are you saying I’m the cracked out crazy one in constant need of attention and affection and snuggles?”
His silence said all I needed to know.
Bessie, aka Jon. The chilled out, obedient dog with a voracious appetite who has never met a food she doesn't like. Her dad, on the other hand, has met two foods he doesn't like: olives and corned beef.Olive, aka me. She's prone to run off chasing things that interest her, often lashes out at strangers, and is sometimes too smart for her own good.But let's be honest here, this is how you normally find Olive, because she's a total attention whore.
Friday morning I made a very disappointing and distressing discovery on the kitchen counter: mouse poop. I’m not sure how any mice survive our neighborhood given the army of flea-bitten stray cats prowling around, but apparently they survive by hiding out in my house. I called the World’s Greatest Landlord (no lie) and informed him of the discovery. He told me he’d call the pest control people and asked if I was opposed to kill traps. “Of course not! They’re mice! They have no natural habitat to be released into, as their natural habitat is my kitchen!” He delivered a couple of mousetraps later that day. They looked like this:
Image via Rennet Stowe's Flickr photostream.
Fast forward to about 1:00 am: Jon and I, sleepy and ready for bed, remember that we need to set the mousetraps. We quickly realize we have no IDEA how to set them. In our sleepy state, we fumble around, trying to figure out these tiny death machines. I finally get one set, when, just as I go to show it to Jon, SNAP! Right on my thumb. The dogs jumped a mile. Jon jumped a mile. I immediately burst into tears. It HURT. But then I kept crying. I cried harder. And it wasn’t just because my thumb really really hurt. I couldn’t bear the thought of that SNAP! happening to some little creature’s head. I really lost it just thinking about it. I couldn’t handle the idea that I might be woken up in the night by a SNAP!, knowing what had just happened. We went to bed, having given up on the traps for a while.
I kept crying. Jon started laughing his head off. I started crying harder, thinking he was laughing at me. And, in all honesty, he probably should have been laughing at me, because who gets hysterical over mousetraps? In reality, he was laughing because the SNAP! had really startled him, and for some reason his startle reflex is connected to his giggle box. Eventually I splashed some cold water on my face and blew my very snotty nose. We agreed we’d find some other solution than SNAP! traps. I may or may not be hoping to get a kitty out of this deal. I’m still not sure why the whole SNAP! incident got me so shook up, but all I know is, I can’t handle a SNAP! trap.
Anyone have suggestions for getting mice out of your kitchen without SNAP! traps?
Image: Coiled Notebook, a Creative Commons Attribution (2.0) image from genbug's photostream
In the bio to this blog, I say that I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. Most days I still don’t. My husband has long maintained that I’m destined to be an English professor, whether I accept it or not. These days, I think he’s probably right. In my last job in Charleston, I worked at a college and had the opportunity to take a few English grad classes as a non-degree student. I loved every minute of them. I think there may be nothing I enjoy quite so much as reading, writing about, and talking about literature. So, having still failed to receive a burning bush or singing telegram to tell me my future, I’m taking a step in that direction. Today, I submitted my application to join the English Lit MA program at the University of Central Arkansas, and, if everything works out, I’ll be starting classes this fall. As in, weeks from now. And I actually have some surety that I’m doing the right thing for a change.
How do I know I’m doing the right thing? Well, while entertaining the possibility that I might start grad school this spring, I tried to tally up how much the degree would cost. When my total came up $30,000, I burst into disappointed tears, convinced I’d never get to go. As he attempted to calm down the crazy, Jon pointed out that if I was so sad to think I wouldn’t get to go, it surely must be the thing I need to do. Then, knowing my math skill level, he double checked my calculations and discovered that my total was way off. The real cost is somewhere in the neighborhood of $9,000, provided I could get in-state tuition. This, folks, is why he does the bill paying around here.
At this point, I was still thinking I’d have to start school in the spring, and not sure I’d qualify for in-state tuition. Though I’m from Arkansas, born and raised, I’ve spent the last 3 years in South Carolina. I emailed the graduate school office and was surprised to learn that all they ask for is my current address, which is in Arkansas, so I’m in-state. I was also concerned that I haven’t taken the GRE, but it turns out I don’t need it to start classes this fall– I get a term to submit a score and become a full graduate student eligible for financial aid and assistantships. So, everything seems to be falling into place!
I still need to find a part-time job, and I still need to take the GRE so I can be eligible for teaching assistantships come springtime, but I’m really, really excited. Guess I need to go shopping for some school supplies!
erniebufflo's south & west kitchen 