Is a Month Long Enough?

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

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

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

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

Why I Love Garth (and Trisha too)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Up With Sheeple!

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

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

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

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

Boo frickin' hoo!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Define Me!

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

Always the Babysitter...

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Little Piece of Om

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mouse on a Wheel

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

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

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

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

Camp Cushycanoe

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

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

Ok, I mock too much.

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

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

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

Nest

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

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

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

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

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

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

Die Fledermaus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Optimal Relevance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ode to Dorothy

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

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

Ode to Dorothy (with apologies to Keats)

Woman of wit and thoughtful childfulness,

Close bosom-friend of fine literature;

Conspiring with mommies how to raise and dress

The young child who grows to resemble her.

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

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

Procrastination Epistemology

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vigilante Librarians

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

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

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

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

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

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

Death by Grad School

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

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

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

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

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

Itchiness

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leos of the World Unite!

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

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

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

Happy Chompo Bar to Me!

Becoming

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

redundancy

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

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

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

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

Bring it on!

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