Just Hide it Under the Bed

Random Thought: every time I start a blog post, I type "So," and then I go back and delete it, because if I didn't, every single one of my posts would begin "So," as if this were all some sort of endless conversation.

So, this morning, I got up at 7:30 and planted 100 bulbs in the yard. My lovely sister got me tulips, allium and hyacinths for my birthday and I've been putting off planting them for so long that I was afraid totally laziness would take over and they would all die. I kept telling myself, "You live in North Carolina. It's not too late until the last week of November," but this morning I got a bee in my bonnet and just got it done. I felt very accomplished at 8:30. By 11, we'd cooked breakfast and cleaned the house. Woo! All our tasks were done for today! Then we wondered what the hell to do with ourselves and ended up watching a fair portion of the new Sopranos box set.

Because we don't have cable (I'm not opposed to TV, I just know that if we had it, I would never read, blog, crochet, garden or grade any of my students' work) we see most of our tv shows after they've been released to box set. We hadn't seen the Sopranos in over a year, because the makers of the Sopranos box sets hate me and want me to die. Starting up the first disc, I felt like when your high school friends visit: you're excited, but nervous that you won't have anything in common anymore.

I've pretty much cried my way through every episode so far: the sixth season has started off very heavy. I'm worried, because this is how I stopped watching Six Feet Under, the greatest show ever. By the end of the third season, I was growing noticably depressed, like, time to go back on Paxil depressed. At the end of every episode, I'd stand out on my front porch and look at the sky and wonder why the world is such a horrible, horrible place. Tres dramatic, I know. Sometimes, I have to ask myself why I want to watch beautifully written and portrayed scenes of horror and anguish.

I think maybe TV gets too intense for me because I can't put it down. When I'm reading and I reach something that is just too tense, too loaded, too, too, too, I take the book and stick it under the bed until I feel better. How sad to admit that. But you can't hide your TV shows under the bed. Especially not when someone is watching them with you.

Things I Never Want to Hear

I'm in the bathroom yesterday and I'm brushing my teeth with this new Arm and Hammer toothpaste that we got because it was on sale.

I yell to Thomas, who was in the other room, "I hate this toothpaste!"

He yells back, "I know, it tastes like shrimp!"

Curry is the New Black

Tonight I had a lovely dinner at Double Happiness, a new Chinese place in town. Pricey, but totally worth it, and nice to celebrate my friend Christa's birthday. I had a wonderfully rich and spicy chicken curry, a large portion of which is currently decorating my right boob.

Why?

Apparently, it is totally impossible for me to eat dinner in a restaurant without accessorizing with my food. There is a famous family photo of me, circa 1997, in a Japanese food restaurant. I'm wearing a heather gray shirt, except that, oops, my left boob is charcoal gray because I'm wearing the white sauce.

I swear that I do not do this at home.

Last night I cooked a true fall meal: butternut squash soup, pork tenderloin, asparagus, acorn squash and nests of carrot, onion and kale. It was yummy AND I did not trim my shirt with any portion of it. Which was miraculous, considering I had company and hence an audience.

I like to think that I was blessed with a larger than average rack in order to catch the food I was destined to spill, and therefore to protect my expensive shoes.

Accident Prone

I am the master of ridiculous accidents.

From wrapping my legs around a barstool and then forgetting and standing up to running full-tilt-boogie into clearly visible solid objects, I have spent more than my fair share of time in the emergency room and/or covered in bruises and bandaids of various sizes and shapes.

Yesterday, as I was driving to work, I was fumbling around in my purse for the all-important chapstick when I felt something small and sharp make its way forcefully into my finger.

When I removed my finger from my handbag, an ancient gnome button that a nice old man had given me at the flea market was sticking out of it. I pulled the button out and inspected my finger, which was, seriously, gushing blood. Why doesn't it do that when I prick it for blood sugar tests? The pin part of the button had left a dark, rusty looking area in my finger.

I know for a fact that I have had a tetinus shot in the last ten years...but still, if I die of lockjaw, you'll know why.

Incredible Edible Intro

It's day 14 of NaBloPoMo, and I'm getting hit by the randomizer from all damn over the place, which is awesome. It's slacking off now, as we all get tired of this constant blogging and so, being 5 steps behind the average, as usual, I'm choosing now to do what everyone else did at the beginning:
An intro to me.
I'm going to try to make this interesting so as not to be boring to those of you who know me inside out and backward.

My name is Meg. Don't call me Meaghan. No, seriously. Don't.

I have an MFA in creative writing that has been so useful to me that I teach elementary school in a one room schoolhouse. Ok, it's two rooms, but still. My school is K-12, with elementary and middle school in one room and high school in another. This is not quite as Little House on the Prarie as it sounds. We're more like an alternative private school where kids are encouraged to learn at their own pace. It's the most frustrating and rewarding thing I've ever done. Though I've tried to leave it for more lucrative options (is that McDonald's returning my phone call?) I just can't.

I collect garden gnomes and fake mustaches.

If the house were burning down, in addition to my two dogs, I'd try to save my Steve Madden fuzzy leopard print slippers.

I have the cutest feet ever.

Secretly, I adore karaoke. Give me some beer and dare me NOT to sing Love Shack.

My husband owns a comic book store and yet, I've only read, like, 10 comics in my whole life. But Adrian Tomine rules.

I've lost a grand total of 35 lbs this year.

I have never had cable TV.

My laugh can be heard several states away. In fact, it's possible that my voice can be heard several states away. I once worked in a library and that was a bad, bad scene.

I totally un-ironically use the word "Whatev" in everyday life.

I am deathly afraid of worms.

I want "Graceland" and "Carolina in my Mind" played at my funeral.


This is my dad wearing a fake mustache (in addition to his real one) at my wedding.

Things I Love Most About my Husband

include that he brought this home for me:


I know that you, too, are dying to color Easy E.

Ode to the God of Parking

The God of parking does not like negativity,
So save it.
The God of parking doesn't care if the light is red and that bastard
is about to take your space.
He has bigger fish to fry, my friend.
The God of parking likes good vibes, french fries and freshly lit cigarettes...
Please throw donations out the window. Let him worry about the God of litter.
The God of parking has saved you this perfect space.
The meter is off for the night.
All hail the God of parking.

(for Michelle)

By 30, I'd Hoped to Own a Barbie Pink Beetle

It's been quiet in the blogosphere. Maybe I'm just being boring, or maybe this overposting is taking its toll. I've been a quiet commenter lately, myself. I always have trouble commenting. I know I should--I know it's the right thing to do--but I find it difficult for some reason. I think I'm just a lurker by nature.

Happy 30th birthday to my brother-in-law, Chris. We had a nice time hanging out in Carolina Beach last night, though sadly, there were no oysters to be had. I'm very excited and aware of the fact that I will turn 30 this year. It's such a nice round number.

Though I love to get older, I suffer from the same insecurities as everyone else does: Have I done enough by this point? Am I the person I thought I would be? Most of the time I look around me and feel deeply satisfied by my life: this beautiful house, my incredible husband, the dogs, a job I don't just tolerate but take real pleasure and pride in. Mostly, as my new friend Kathy says, I feel pleased with the calibre of people in my life.

I wish that I had been able to hold it together in enough in my early twenties to secure for myself now the things that I need--more money, health insurance, etc. I wish I were able to have kids in the next couple of years instead of worrying about getting my teeth back in order, replacing the very necessary glasses that I lost in 2001, buying a house.

And yet, I don't feel sorry about the way I've lived my life. I know that I didn't always behave very responsibly during the years I was in graduate school, but I had hell of a good time, even when it was hard and frightening. I met some great people. I figured out a lot about myself and what I need.

Still, I struggle most with being too passive. This has been a difficult week, and what I felt last friday is still very much with me. I think I'll always feel that the price of confrontation is too high. I'm the kind of person who doesn't speak up until it is far too late, until I am too angry, too hurt to go on. I've worried at it all week, until I came to the conclusion that part of what I value most in myself is the ability to suck it up. I don't know. Everyone argues with me on that point, and I value what they say. I just know that I'm resting easier knowing that I don't have to hurt anyone.

It's Friday

Not to be a total walking cliche, but THANK GOD. This is one of those days you don't really count on when signing on for NaBloPoMo. I'd factored in that I would be away for Thanksgiving and would have to blog from my parents' house, but I figured that would just give me an excuse to take pictures of the SEVEN pies my mom makes for Thanksgiving and that would be cool.

But today, I have to go celebrate my brother in law's 30th birthday, so Thomas and I are heading to Carolina Beach in about an hour. Mmmm...first oysters of the year...

Speaking of which, the other day, Thomas and I were in the car, talking about these nice girls we met who are our friend's neighbors. She refers to them as "the gaybors." Anyway, we were talking about how we'd like to have them over for our next party. As fall is approaching, we've been eagerly looking forward to oyster roasts. So I knew what Thomas meant when he turned to me and said, "Do you think they eat oysters?" But I still almost peed myself laughing.

Orange Julius--The Update

So, did I ever mention that Orange Julius (the stray who we were going to adopt) is a girl? We realized it about a week after Thomas had named him with the greatest name ever and by then we were totally attached to the name (perhaps more so than to the cat).

We considered Orange Julia, but we both really like the name Julia. And once you name a pet that...there's no going back. "Mom, why'd you name me after the cat?"

And so I refer to him/her as "Orange Julius, the transgendered cat," or OJTTC, which I guess is technically incorrect because he's really more of a transvestite.

Anyway, I think Orange Julius is pregnant. S/he has a certain, shall we say, rotundity. The other day s/he snuck up on me as I was leaving for work and I actually screeched aloud, "Orange Julius! You are pregnant! Get off this porch!" I'm thinking of sending her to a home for wayward girls.

And, Oh Yeah, The Election

Thank you, Vintage, very much for this incredibly succinct and uplifting post, during the reading of which, I actually cried tears of joy:

Ladies and gentlemen, America has spoken. And by “spoken,” what i mean is that “America has kicked the ass of the Republican party into minority status.” Welcome to a new day, a new America, a rejuvinated democracy. Welcome back to an America where checks and balances once again are in place and will be utilized for all they are worth. Hopefuly, I hope we can also be welcomed back to a bipartisan America with far less polarization; only time will tell if we can overcome partisan divides for common good.

Democrats have thus far picked up 28 seats in the House of Representatives. They needed 15 to take control.

Democrats have thus far picked up five Senate seats in Pennsylvania, Ohio, Rhode Island, Missouri and Montana. Democrat Jim Webb is ahead by 8,000 votes in Virginia. Should Virginia go to Webb, the Senate will be controlled by the Democratic Party.

Democrats have picked up 6 state governorships. They now have a majority of governorships for the first time since 1994.

Democrats have won the majority of state legislatures across the country.

The Democratic wave has virtually ensured the first female Speaker of the House of Representatives; Democrats elected the first African-American governor in Massachusetts history and only the second in American history; Democrats have elected the first Muslim to Congress.

In Missouri, a bill advocating and protecting stem cell research has passed

In Arizona, a ban on gay marriage has failed

In South Dakota, a ban on virtually all kinds of abortion has failed

President Bush has accepted the resignation of Donald Rumsfeld, Secretary of Defense.

There have been a lot of tough days, a lot of tough years, a lot of disappointing elections. The loss of 2004 still stings, but this year’s victory has rejuvinated the party and the hope in America that courses will be changed, minds will be opened, and progress will be made. This is a good day for Democrats, for America, and for the world.

In the History of Weeks that Suck

This has been way up there. I don't want to bitch and moan about it endlessly, but dude. Interpersonally, professionally, and in the backyard cat-eating arena, things have been better. Also, for the record, I am currently suffering the second illness of this school year.



I would like to wish a very happy birthday to Miss Gert E. Girl, 14 year old beagle extraordinaire. Gert has consumed an alarming amount of cheese today, and also a gift from one of my students, because oh my god that's cute.



Cheesy school anecdote of the day (please god let no one else compare me to reader's digest): This morning, a bunch of little boys were singing the song that goes "Boys go to college to get more knowledge. Girls go to Jupiter to get more stupider!"

One of the little boys, in some fit of political correctness, said, "You guys are saying that about Miss Meg and Miss JC!" Another little boy looked over and said with great disdain, "Miss Meg and Miss JC are women. They didn't go to Jupiter to get more stupider."

Past Humiliations Revisited

When Thomas and I moved into our first apartment together, I was so excited to show it to my parents that I took a whole bunch of boring pictures of every room before we went home to Maryland to visit.


They looked at all the boring pictures and oohed and aahed over everything, just as good parents should. It wasn't until later, when we had some of their friends in for dinner and I was showing the pictures that I noticed this:




Yeah. Those are the emergency kitchen condoms. Just in case.

Peddling Misinformation to Today's Youth

One of the greatest things about working with the kids all day is the hour before school starts in which I get to talk to them as little people instead of little students. They tell me all about their lives (sometimes alarmingly so) and ask me questions about anything they can think of.

One of my favorite discussions with them in the mornings is the "What have you eaten?" discussion, which usually goes something like this:

"Miss Meg, have you ever eaten brains?"
"Miss Meg, have you ever eaten a squid?"
"Miss Meg, have you ever eaten an alligator?"
"Ewwwwwwwwww!"

A few years back, one of my students started playing little league baseball. One morning, he asked me who the guy was who wore black and white and said, "You're out!"
I told him that was the umpire.

Several days later, I had totally forgotten the conversation and in the midst of fielding 35 other random questions, the kid asked me, "Miss Meg, where do the vampires live?"

This puzzled me, but it was really no different from any of the other weird questions I get asked on a daily basis, so I thought about it for a minute and said, "Well, maybe they live underground."

The kid stared at me for a moment. "Underground?" he asked.

"Yeah, underground."

"The vampires live underground?"

"Well, you know, honey, it's dark down there. And the vampires don't like light."

His eyes got wider. "The vampires don't like light?"

"Well, the light kills them."

His eyes got huge. "The light kills them?"

All of a sudden it dawned on me that he thought we were talking about umpires. UMPIRES!

"Miss Meg is so silly," I said, "Don't listen to what she says. The umpires live at home, just like you and me."

He went back to his desk, still looking vaguely alarmed and I wonder if to this day he looks at the umpires askance.

Sometime the Universe Throws You a Bone

Well, I'm happy to say that after my existential despair on Friday, I was rewarded by the universe with a good cackle and many beers with 3 nice girls who at this time appear neither moody, unmotivated, nor crazy. Many thanks to Michelle, Kathy and Susan for restoring my faith in the goodness of friendship and sorry if I was too loud.

Thomas's website just changed hosts and now has a rather freakishly detailed counter on it. We were looking at it today and it has a section called Robot/Spider Visitors Top Ten. Thomas told me that yesterday when he was going over the site with his web guy, he was like, "WHAT are Robot/Spider Visitors??!!" And I totally stepped into the mind of my comic book reading husband and thought of all the crazy possibilities. Awesome.

Ok, so....onward.

So, I've been doing a little tweaking. I was afraid to host the new background images on photobucket, for fear that I'd run out of usage and the blog would be black with red type. So I had to create a bellsouth homepage and host the images there, but I can see that it's taking longer for some browsers to load them. What is going on at your house? Is it black with ugly red type? Or are you reminded of that lovely peach living room I used to have? Please let me know if it looks crazy. IE (I know!) doesn't always do the best job of letting me know these things.

And now, here is why, at my house, we tend to yell the words cheese and night-night a lot.

When Gonzo-bean was a little boy, I tried to be a responsible parent and take him to dog school. He was only a year old when I got him and he was obviously very bright, so I figured that it would be no problem, shelled out the 60 dollars and started taking him to Petsmart every Tuesday night.

Gonzo did not like the dog school. He did not like the other dogs. He did not like being in such close proximity to great quantities of food that he could neither eat nor pee on. He did NOT like the teacher. In fact, every single time the instructor tried to speak, Gonzo would begin barking as if the teacher were at that moment breaking into his home and harming his family.

The teacher was game, of course. He tried to use Gonzo as an example of excessive barking and demonstrated to the class that when your dog barks at the door or at a passerby, you should shake a tin can full of beans at the dog. This will startle the dog, redirect his attention, and teach him, over time, that barking is not acceptable.

Gonzo took the beans as the greatest possible insult. I think in dog language, the teacher was calling his momma a ho. His barking only increased 10 fold, as if he were trying to drown out the sound of the insulting beans.

After three weeks, the teacher took me aside and indicated that Gonzo was a disruption in the classroom environment. In short, my dog was kicked out of dog school.

I've never had a really big problem with that. If you've met Gonzo, you know that he is crazy-laid back, doesn't bark a lot and is obsessed with the rules. This is not a dog that will eat your underwear or chew up the bathroom trash. He feels bad if he throws up in the house--he's certainly never going to do anything else. He sits only on the furniture on which he is allowed and seems to know instinctively which pieces those are. He is a good dog. And he's small. So if he's doing something I don't like, I can pretty much just pick him up and move him.

His sister Gert is also small. However she is often found on the furniture, eating pencils and pens, and pooping in the corner. I pretty much didn't bother to take Gert to dog school because Gert, God love her, is dumb as a post. It doesn't matter what you say or do, Gert will never follow the rules because Gert cannot remember the rules for more than 25 seconds. She's just a lump of cells in the shape of a beagle, and a better natured dog you will never know. She adores people and turns into a pile of tummy shaped mush in their presence. She almost never barks or makes any kind of sound except to snore. She's amazing. But if you say "come" or "stay" to her, she'll just roll over and show you her tummy again.

In our house, when we want the dogs to come, we yell "Cheese!" Both of them know exactly what cheese is, and woe to the man who tries to substitute carrots at the last minute. We do, in fact, occasionally yell "Carrots!" into the backyard, but we've learned (our education continues, though theirs has ended) that there is a higher success rating with "Cheese!"

When we do not like what the dogs are doing, or if they begging to go outside during dinner or up too early in the morning, we yell "Night-Night!" We can be routinely found yelling "Night-Night!" at 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Night-Night! (tm) means go to your chair and lay down. Both the dogs recognize it as a command and though sometimes they look around like, "really?" They almost always obey it.

Thomas and I were laughing the other day about how we've trained the dogs by accident, though I don't think they could get a diploma for obeying our commands.

In further news of animals learning to associate different stimulus and response, I've found that because the previous tenants of our house had cats that liked to pee into the radiator vent, I've begun to associate the smell of cat pee with winter and Christmas and lovely warm evenings indoors.

Night-Night!

Yuckus

This was supposed to be a funny post about how my dogs do not respond to traditional commands. But, no, you will have to wait for that piece of hilariousness until tomorrow, because right now I am weepy and feeling sorry for myself.

Why is it so hard to be friends? I know I've talked before about how it's easier to be friends with boys and I still (for the most part) think that's true. But I crave female companionship. I'm always up for girls' night. I love the things that makes girl friendships special: that ability to hold hands, tell the other person you love them. The way you can lay yourself wide open to your best girlfriend--tell her exactly where and how it hurts and expect that she'll reciprocate, and that feeling that once she's showed you, you'll protect that wound with your life, crochet a bandage over it, stand between it and the world, love her no matter what. That's what I love about girls. I love being able to say, "Dude, if you find a uterus on the ground, it's mine. Right now I think it's working its way out of my body by force." I love the way girls can laugh and laugh and laugh and didn't even have to be that funny.

But damn, it gets so hard. I think I've spent the better part of this year wrapped in drama after drama, feeling used, feeling manipulated, feeling forgotten, feeling not good enough. And some of that's just the way life is. Because we all hurt each other without meaning to, just by being alive. As a species, we were born to disappoint. But some of it, I have to say, is just so intentional. And I'm not saying that I'm any saint, not by a mile, but I will say that I don't hurt people on purpose. Not ever. Not even when I want to really, really badly. Because I think that's the point of being friends. I think that being a friend is knowing where it hurts the most and never, ever using it.

As I get older, I start to understand how it is that people turn inward and stop trying. I've heard so many people say it: that they've just had enough, that they don't want to be wide open for anyone else. And I've always felt like I could never understand that. I'm a very hopeful person. I don't tend toward despair. I always have this sort of horrible optimism that the next person I meet will be the person with whom I share some kind of terrific bond. But right now I just feel like: I give up. Boys, girls, they're ALL moody, unmotivated, or crazy. And I don't have any more stamina for trying and getting hurt, trying and getting hurt anymore.

In order to ward off the nagging guilt that I always feel after reading other people's unhappy blog posts, I will say this: if you are reading this, it has nothing to do with you. Promise.

The Toms I Know

These are the Toms I know, I know,
These are the Toms I know.
These are the Toms I know, I know,
These are the Toms I know.

This is Thomas Gilbert. He is my spouse. He likes to collect records; We've got two jukeboxes in our house.










These are the Toms I know, I know,
These are the Toms I know.
These are the Toms I know, I know,
These are the Toms I know.

This is Tom Fleming. His art is really cool. At his 40th birthday, he chased some kids into a pool.
















These are the Toms I know, I know,
These are the Toms I know.
These are the Toms I know, I know,
These are the Toms I know.

Some of them are Thomas,
but most of them are Tom.
They all have their own hands
but they come from different moms!

These are the Toms I know, I know,
These are the Toms I know.
These are the Toms I know, I know,
These are the Toms I know.

This is Tom Miller. I met him at the bar. He drinks gin and tonics and there's a bug on top of his car.









These are the Toms I know, I know,
These are the Toms I know.
These are the Toms I know, I know,
These are the Toms I know.

This is Tom Kunz. He has his own blog. Once I gave him my favorite record because he listened to me sob.













These are the Toms I know, I know,
These are the Toms I know.
These are the Toms I know, I know,
These are the Toms I know.

Some of them are Thomas,
but most of them are Tom.
They all have their own hands,
but they come from different moms.

These are the Toms I know, I know.
We are the Toms she knows, she knows.
They are the Toms I know, I know,
They are the TOMS!

La La Blogland

Just spent approximately one hour trying to decide whether or not to try to change over to Wordpress. I don't know why, but there's something just inherently more appealing to me in the layout of wordpress blogs than in blogger blogs. This was something I knew absolutely nothing about when I started blogging. Why I care now is open to debate. However, having read numerous posts about the incredible hassle of trying to convert a blogger blog to a wordpress blog...I surrender. I hope I'll like Blogger Beta when I finally get around to upgrading.

I came so late into the blogging world that I'm only just now getting around to reading the "staple-blogs," my absolute favorite of which is definitely Dooce. I think Thomas would be really happy if I stopped sitting slack-jawed in front of the computer for hours, trying to inhale the last 4 years of Heather's blog in one week. But I think reading her has really moved me as far as what I would like to be able to do. I mean, I sit about, berating myself all the time for not writing--but I consider what she does as writing, for sure. So am I really writing all the time? Maybe I can't take it to Writers' Group, but I'm writing. Maybe I wish I hadn't spent an astounding amount of money on graduate school so that I could keep this blog...but still. I am writing.

I've been pondering whether or not to reveal that I'm trying to participate in NaBloPoMo, in which the goal is to blog every day for a month. I guess I've wanted to keep it to myself because I don't want my posts to come across as forced or required. But I'm definitely coming to realize how much this little bit of webspace, this little bit of writing, means to me and I'm trying to encourage and foster that in myself wherever possible.

Today I had planned for you a lovely little ditty that I have composed in honor of the Kids in the Hall, which I have recently discovered. Thomas and I were discussing my woeful lack of sketch-comedy references...so we've been netflixing SNL, SCTV and Kids in the Hall. I've wandered around with The Dave Song in my head for a week. But damn blogger won't upload my pictures today. More tomorrow.

Attention: I Won a Costume Contest!

Most Original Costume: Spy vs. Spy
So I'm not actually delighted with this picture, but I'm waiting for further images to show up from friends. If all else fails, I will force Thomas back into the costume and invite people over to capture our glory on film. But I will say this: I won a costume contest. I'm so excited about this! I WON A COSTUME CONTEST!

When I was little, my mom fashioned the absolute best and most amazing costumes for us, year after year. We would begin making requests a year in advance, and believe me, we gave her doozies. Mom, I want to be a dragon. A caterpillar. A lion. I'm sure she was thinking, wtf is wrong with these girls? Why don't they want to be a nice princess? My mom's costumes won contests. Easily. So easily, our neighborhood stopped having a costume contest because my mom's costumes always won. But this I did all by myself. I love to dress up, and I think I've always made nice costumes, but this is the first time I've done something prize-worthy all by myself. Now, I know that it can't compare technically to my Mom's seamstressery, but still. I did this, and I am proud.

Here is what we won (the devilish one on the left):









What I love about this arrangement is that you can't really tell what it is the little guy wants. Is is the kids, or the mom? And who wouldn't want such a tableau in their bathroom to contemplate whilst pooping?

Canine Epilepsy and Other Woes

Following an absolutely blissful half hour in which Gonzo-bean slept on my stomach and left a large drool patch on my right boob, he launched into a nearly 10 minute long seizure.

Gonzo is 9 years old now, an astounding number, particularly when I consider that I have only started to adequately care for myself in the last 4 years, and this has been a part of our lives together since the first week that I owned him.

The struggle of having a dog with epilepsy is the incredible agony of loving something so much that you would cheerfully throw yourself in front of a moving vehicle to protect him, and finding that there is something that attacks him from within, something you have no power to stop, let alone to understand.

I know I should be very grateful that he is doing as well as he is. Two year ago, we started seeing a holistic vet, as Gonzo's seizures were becoming more frequent and debilitating. I've always resisted the traditional epilepsy medications because they come with such high risks. Phenobarbitol, the common drug, does great damage to dogs' livers, in addition to the fact that it is a rather whopping sedative. My bean--you should see him--is such a bundle of life and personality; I can't imagine sedating him for, well, ever. And I've been lucky, too, in that his seizures, while much, much longer than average, only come about once or twice a month, and so I haven't been forced to choose that option.

Brad Kerr, my unbelievable, understanding, talented and absolutely irreplaceable vet, tried acupuncture on Gonzo for a while, but finally Gonzo's anxiety about it made it seem like a ridiculous option, because Gonzo is an anxious dog to begin with, and we've always considered that part of the problem. So now he takes Chinese herbs at every meal and eats a low carb diet and that seems to be controlling the epilepsy to an enormous degree. This was his first seizure in 3 months and while it was long, he leaped up afterward as if nothing had happened, rather than skulking around, hiding and immediately having another seizure, as is his wont.

As a dog-mommy, I can't help but wonder if this happened because I finally made him stop taking a nap on top of me, or because I marvelled aloud to Thomas yesterday about how well Gonzo's been doing. I have to admit that I superstitiously stopped saying the word seizure about a year ago. That always seemed to bring them on.

When a dog hits one year without a seizure, you're allowed to declare them seizure free. In the last 8 years, we've only ever come close once. Oh, well. Clock starts over.....now.

One Year Ago Today

The weather suddenly turning cold always makes me nostalgic. I read somewhere that people who are grieving often have sudden bouts of acute sadness during season changes. Our memories are so often triggered by feelings and smells that at the season change, we are suddenly bombarded with memories of the year before.

I keep feeling as if this fall is an anomaly--has there ever been fall in Wilmington in the six years I've lived here? Don't we always go directly from flip-flops to winter coats? And yet, last year, when we were moving into this house, I can distinctly remember being cold, in fact wearing my winter coat, while we hauled our stuff around.

A fine day, our moving day last year. Rainy and freezing. Thomas and I were shuttling things that we really wanted to move by hand from house to house in his truck: the records, some glassware, etc. Around 6 o'clock, both of us exhausted from working a full day and then moving, and sick of driving around in the rain, we decided to give up for the night. I went inside to call my friend Jenn (we were going to borrow her truck that evening) to let her know that we were going to quit after all, when suddenly, the most deafening boom I have ever heard shook the house. My first thought was: earthquake. My second thought was: terrorist attack. Everything was moving. I screamed, "What the FUCK was that?!" into Jenn's voicemail and hung up.

I looked at Thomas. He looked grave. He said, "I know exactly what that was," turned and walked out the front door. "What?" I said. "What???"

I walked out to see that his truck had rolled down the hill and smashed into the side of our (soon-to-be-ex) rental house.

It's times like these when you really get a good sense of whether or not your marriage is going to make it in the long term. These are the moments you didn't count on when you said, "for better or for worse," and this was the first moment of real disaster since we'd been together.

I don't know if I've ever mentioned it before, but Thomas is a total neat-freak. He can't leave the house without wiping down the counters and doing some last minute vaccumming. And he's particularly particular about the car. So although I could tell that the car probably wasn't totalled, I knew immediately that his brain was about to explode. DAMAGE!! TO THE CAR!! AND THE HOUSE!! AT ONCE!!

I didn't know what to do or say. I knew that if it were me, I probably would not want to be touched or consolled, so I sprang into "let's get the car off the house" mode. Together we pushed it up the hill and began to survey the damage.

Damn, were we lucky. The car came within an inch of shearing the electrical box right off the side of the house. As it was, the cover was torn off, but we were able to replace that easily. Thomas's truck lost a headlight and part of the front bumper and had a pretty hefty gouge running down the whole right side of the car. Also, some minor crunching.

At that point, our kindly neighbor Doug came over to see what happened. Thomas hissed at me through his clenched teeth, "Not now. NOT now."
"Okay," I said. "Okay, okay," and summarily led Doug away.

We stood out in the rain for about 45 minutes until Thomas could speak again. Then I was able to put my arms around him and we stood there for a while longer, holding each other beside the wreckage, and I knew my marriage had legs.

Chapstick Addiction Sweeps the Nation

Remember in the early 80's when there was that big fuss about women becoming addicted to Oil of Olay moisturizer, so much so that their skin stopped making its own moisture? This would have been about the same time as the nasal spray addiction phenomenon. I don't know why I remember it, but I have a distinct memory of being over at my friend Larissa's house and her mom telling us about it.

After I noticed that I have cherry chapstick (never strawberry--o no!) in my purse, at my desk at school, in the bathroom, on my bedside table, in the car and generally in my coat pocket, I made the natural assumption that I have a
chapstick problem.

I did a google on it, looking for funny images and found this rather amusing site. So clearly, this topic has been exhausted and needs no further comment from me, except to say that while thinking of this as a blog topic, I considered writing an ode to my cherry chapstick.

***insano topic change***

Have you ever noticed that whenever you have some sort of friend-group drama at hand that is constantly addressed and discussed among you and generally flogged within an inch of its life, it's hard to remember that the whole world isn't tuning in to every installment with the same rabid attention that you are? Like, how come this incident isn't on Oprah? Shouldn't I be able to google it and see how other people are feeling? Isn't there some forum devoted to this?

Kangaroo Crossing

Last year, my friend Mick saw a kangaroo over on Orange Street.

It was about 4 am on Tuesday night. Mick and Thomas had been out drinking together; I had to stay home because I had to teach in the morning. They had closed down the bar and come back to our house, then around 4, Mick decided to walk home. Thomas and I were asleep in bed when the phone rang. It was Mick, yelling that there was a Kangaroo in his yard. A smallish kangaroo.

I rolled over. "That's a wallaby," I said.

"Very funny, Mick," said Thomas and hung up.

"Do you think there's really a kangaroo over there?" I asked.

"No. Mick's just drunk."

"But if there were a kangaroo, and I didn't get out bed to see it, I would be seriously pissed," I said.

Thomas assured me that there was no kangaroo and I went back to sleep.

In the morning, Mick told us that when he was walking home, two thuggish guys ahead of him kept talking about a kangaroo. Mick said they had spent the evening chasing it from yard to yard. He said he saw it in the alley beside his house. He also said that the kangaroo was wearing a collar and had a huge erection.

Now, Mick has a history of saying and believing some crazy stuff, so we didn't know what to think. But we kept telling the story and making him tell it, because we thought it was funny. A few weeks later, Mick claimed to have seen the kangaroo in the neighborhood again. This time, he said, it was trapped under a laundry basket and a crackhead tried to sell it to him for 25 dollars.

This was just getting too outlandish. But then Mick's wife stepped in, a very reliable person, and said that although she did not go outside to see the kangaroo on the first night, she could hear people in the alley talking about it through her open bedroom window.

Huh. Was everyone playing an elaborate joke? Was this a funny story that just got out of hand?

Then our friend Steve Vernon said that he talked to Mick's neighbors who said that, in fact, some girl who lived in the neighborhood was a model and had a wallaby that she had gotten from some foreign photo shoot. The neighbors said further that it had escaped several times.

1.Wouldn't it be illegal to keep that kind of exotic pet? Don't you need some kind of license for that?

2. If a crackhead offered to sell you a kangaroo for 25 dollars, wouldn't you buy it?

Tragically Unhip

Last year, Fred (who owns a record store downtown) had a yard sale. We were excited because, as you may have guessed, we are huge record collectors and were looking forward to raiding his collection.

We arrived at his place, which basically consisted of a huge studio-type room filled with various cameras, instruments, recording equipment, posters, records, magazines and other hipster "vintage" things. Thomas and I delved in, each taking down a box and going through it, pulling out selections for the other person to accept or veto later. We got some great 45's at Fred's sale, including some Depeche Mode and some Housemartins I never thought I'd see. After we were done sorting 45s and 33s, my work was done and I wandered around while Thomas sorted the 78s as they are his passion and I couldn't really care less about them.

I wasn't bored; there was a lot to see and look at...we found an original Evil Dead poster for our friend Bryan's collection...I was wandering around when Fred approached me and told me that if I was bored, he thought he had some old women's magazines somewhere that I could look at.

Um, what? Rarely, if ever before, have I been so offended. But if I'm honest, the total reason that I was so upset about it is that what he said just confirms something I've known about myself all along. I am just tragically unhip. It doesn't matter what music I listen to, or what I collect. It doesn't matter where I hang out or what my degree is in. There's something about me that just never quite fits in.

Partly, I think the problem is that I don't fit into any "type" of person. I am not a hippie, I'm not indie, I'm not a fashionista. I like to think I'm not a geek. I'm not artsy, I'm not beautiful, I'm smart but not exceptionally so. Whenever I think of polls or Neilson ratings, I think, those people should be asking me the questions, because I'm so...average. I know just enough.

Also, I think the problem stems from being raised (and I'm not questioning this at all, I'm just saying that it's so) not to think it was necessary to own to designer clothing. I grew up without cable (and thus without MTV, which, while a cliche, was totally a huge delivery system for pop culture in my generation) and so there are references that are lost on me. Things that other people consider needs or just a part of life, are things that I don't have now and will probably never have. Again, I'm neither knocking or promoting these things. I just don't know about them.

I'm sure that if I really wanted to, I could pretend to be a type of person. (And I always wonder about this: is everyone pretending?) But to me, to dress like a type of person feels like a costume. I want it desperately--I want people to look at me and know something beyond the fact that I clearly buy my clothes at Target--but to put on certain things feels like an affectation.

For instance:


I love these glasses. But I totally can't wear them. Who does this chick think she is?

I'm never going to be able to drink in some of the downtown "hotspots"--they give me the willies. I'd rather buy my CDs online than have to deal with walking into a record store. When I eat at Nikki's, I don't order sushi. I don't even know where Bella Festa (sp?) is. Help!

I like to pretend that I don't care about my negative hip-ness factor, but I obviously do, since the whole Fred-women's magazine-incident still makes me cry, and since I compulsively try on my glasses to see if somehow this shirt or this haircut will make them look...normal.

It's OK, We Can Fast Forward Through the Sad Parts

I know that you all have been waiting all day, like, WHEN is Meg going to tell the story of the time she went on the blind date with hearing aid guy?

Well, relax, the time is now.

A good long time ago now, when I was newly single and sort of deeply confused about how to proceed, I agreed to go on a blind date with the nephew of a woman I worked with. He called me and we agreed to meet at Bennigans on a Friday night.

I arrived early, as I am wont to do, and was standing in the lobby looking for someone with blond hair and a goatee, wearing a white shirt. Shortly thereafter a small guy who looked freakishly like Lars Ulrich approached. I thought, that guy is much too young to be the person I am waiting for. Then he sort of turned and I saw that he had a large hearing aid in one ear and my heart sort of sank. Because it seemed to me that if someone was going to go on a blind date with me, it was totally going to be a guy with a great big hearing aid. Then he looked the other way to cross the street and I saw that he also had a big hearing aid in the other ear and I just knew that this was going to be the rest of my night.

Which, of course, it was. The guy introduced himself and we were led to a table, where, as I perused the menu, he told me in this sort of tough guy way about all the people he was going to give an ass-kicking and various other grievances about people that he had recently dated. I ate my meal politely, making small talk and trying to be friendly, yet non-committal. I paid my half of the check and felt relieved that dinner was over. He seemed to feel, as I did, that nothing worth persuing had taken place and we were walking toward our seperate cars in the parking lot. Suddenly, he said, "So what are we doing now?"

Now? I had no feeling up to that point that we would be doing ANYTHING now. I was planning to go home, get in bed and cry. But I felt like I should be nice to this person since he was related to someone I worked with. "Let's watch a movie," he said. "I just got a DVD player."

So, for Lord knows what reason, I agreed to return (in my own car, thank God) to his apartment to watch a movie. He showed me his fairly extensive DVD collection, told me to pick something and excused himself to go to the bathroom. I looked vaguely at his movies and picked out the recently re-released Exorcist. (Someone I'd had a crush on had been talking a lot about it, and I felt like if I had to be there, at least I could generate talking points for this other guy.) He kind of hemmed and hawed and finally said that he didn't know how to hook up the DVD player so why didn't we just watch Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory because that's his favorite movie.

Fine, I said. Willy Wonka it is.

"But," he said, "would you mind if we fast-forward through the sad parts?"

"The sad parts?"

"Yeah, you know. Like when Charlie isn't finding the ticket... and there's that song?"

Ok....

So as we're watching the movie sans sad parts, I'm strategically angling myself away from this guy on the couch and he's strategically angling himself toward me.

Finally he makes his move and kisses me. I'm polite but obviously not into it. He starts trying to feel me up as I'm backing away. I say, "Look, I just don't do this on a first date." He says, "What, are you some kind of freakish prude?"

Yes. I am in fact some kind of freakish prude.

Bad Blogs Bad Blogs Watcha Gonna Do?

I've been thinking about the questions raised by Pen and M all day, and I just want to say that this response is postponing more serious blogging, such as telling you all about the time I went on the blind date with the hearing aid guy.

But seriously, though I don't consider my blog in a state of demise, I've been thinking about what a good blog is and does and why I bother, etc. I keep coming back to something that Mendacious (I think) raised about putting up a wall, and also the commonly realized problem of blogging, which is of course, who is reading it. I mean, I think we all do this because someone's reading. I think that generally we pretend not to care, but I don't think I could do it if no one were reading. I don't mean that in a narcissistic way, like I think my blog matters and really needs to reach people. I mean it in the way that I needed to go to school for writing in order to write. I'm not one of those special people who is just born to write and would die if they weren't writing. I write because there is a deadline, because someone is expecting something of me. I'm plagued by guilt if I let the blog go for a couple of days because it's readers that keep me going. If they wandered off...well, I think I would, too.

And yet, it's totally a double edged sword. I want the readers but then...I don't want some readers. I think I've been lucky in that my bosses and co-workers are very likely NOT reading this. My bosses for sure. If the other two teachers read it, I would feel odd, but ok with it I suppose. Also, I feel confident that my husband's family is not reading the blog. I'm pretty sure that my mom is reading this, though I asked her not to so that I would feel free to swear and blog about how EVERYONE knows what that filet of fish sandwich commercial is about. But even so, I feel like she got her caveat about it, and if she wants to read it, so be it.

But if there is a wall in my blog, a time when I'm not telling you what I'm really thinking about, it has to do with the 7 years before I arrived in Wilmington. And I don't blog about that because I am afraid of who will read it.

I think that in general, I am a pretty wide open person and that those of you who know me would agree that reading the blog is often like talking to me. I'm kind of loud and when I get nervous I make fun of myself. I think too hard about certain things and not enough about others. If there's a part of me that's not here, it's the part that is wide-open emotionally, always willing to talk about anything.

I left a lot behind in Greensboro. A lot of people I care about very much. And I have a great deal of unresolved feelings about that time. Lately that's been very much with me. And I wonder if it's fine that I don't talk about that here. Like Daisy said, it's personal. And that doesn't mean that some of my readers aren't my closest friends, but some of these things maybe aren't for general consumption. But should they be? Would I feel better if I got to say some of the things I've only been thinking inside? Would the possibility that they'd ever know any of those things feel freeing instead of terrifying?

I don't blog about my first marriage because I want to protect my husband, who does read this, from knowing more than he feels comfortable knowing. I don't blog about it because my first husband has an extremely uncommon first name, and if I wrote it and he googled himself (as we all do) he'd see it. I don't blog about it because it hurts and I'm scared (even though some part of me thinks that maybe I was always meant to write about it) and I don't blog about it because I'm afraid that the people who stayed friends with him will read it and judge me. But lately I've felt this great emptiness inside me that has to do with never speaking of anything from that time. It's as if by never writing about it, I've erased it from my personal history. Every time I say, "I used to know this guy who..." or "When I lived in the Greensboro we..." I feel this great sadness that I cannot name my old friends and family by name, that slowly, I'm forgetting them. Which is dangerous, because I was one of them. I can't afford to forget myself.

I don't know what I thought I would do with this blog when I started it. It doesn't do much but represent me as I see me. I haven't decided yet how fully that will be.

Bad Boys Bad Boys Watcha Gonna Do?

So, today was my little sister-in-law's 14th birthday. As Thomas and I were driving to Southport, laden with Harry Potter posters and prop reproductions, we were talking about the kinds of things we did when we were 14 and how frightening it is to us that this is Jessica's age now. Jessica is homeschooled, and at heart, she is much younger than 14. She has lived in Southport (and Boiling Spring Lakes) her whole life, and many of her world views are (quite understandably) drawn from living in a small town with no influence on her outside the family.

Now, I definitely do NOT want to think about Jessica even considering some of the things that Thomas and I did at 14, but we're growing more aware that in 4 years, Jessica will graduate from high school and that it's time to start preparing her a little more for the real world. Also, we'd like to see her exposed to more different kinds of people and ideas, so that when she's in a position to make choices about who she is and what she believes, she'll have more than one idea to choose from.

So, we've been thinking about inviting her down for the weekend a couple of times a year. We thought about music we think she should hear, CDs of our we'd like to burn for her, movies we'd like to watch with her. And naturally, I thought of the movies I watched and loved at 14 (and still love): The Breakfast Club, Dirty Dancing and Stand by Me. Still 3 of my all time favorite and, I think, the only movies that I actually own independantly of Thomas's sprawling DVD collection.


And then I started thinking about how likely it is that my ideas about who is attractive and what is desirable came from these movies. I saw all of these when I was very young and nursed huge and lasting crushes on John Bender, Johnny Castle and Chris Chambers. I started thinking about the stereotype that "girls don't like nice guys," which has actually always been true in my case and has led to disastrous situations right and left until I met and married the only guy I've ever dated who wasn't moody, unmotivated or crazy.


I don't know where that came from in me, as my dad was and is a very straight-laced nice guy who I have always idolized, yet there it is. And today I thought, isn't it just possible that these movies are where this came from? I mean, in each one we have the sort of "boy from the wrong side of the tracks," but he's not really so bad, is he? He's sort of...wounded. And sort of...sweet. And definitely hot.

I know that I can't protect Jessica from the stereotypes of the world and that she'll encounter all this stuff anyway whether I want her too or not. And probably she should see these things with people who've thought about them and can talk to her about them... but still, who wants that? When I was 13 and saw The Breakfast Club for the first time, I didn't want anyone sitting around and analyzing with me why bad boys are hot and why we shouldn't pursue them. I just wanted to marry John Bender and save him and make him love me.

When I think about all the atrocities I've committed toward myself and others in the name of saving someone and making him love me, I want to ban these movies forever. Still, isn't it time she thought someone other than Harry Potter was cute?

Updates

Well, seemingly thanks to some strange anti-hangover pill that I was given yesterday at Lula's, I'm getting over the cold. Yes, I know. What was I doing at the bar with a cold? What was I doing taking strange herbal supplements given to me by people I only know from drinking? But hey, I feel good. And it's been a while.

In sad news, Thomas's aunt Mickie passed away yesterday morning. I'm just thankful that she didn't have to suffer indefinitely on life-support and that her husband was spared the pain of those kinds of choices.

Thomas and I are planning our very exciting halloween costumes. I won't tell you what it is yet, but I'll post pictures as soon as they are complete.

Who is dressing up this year? What as?

First Flu of the New School Year

Ah, it so sucks to be me right now. It happens every year--at least this year I got a month in before I was struck down. This is the drawback of teaching 24 little petri dishes every day...letting them count on my fingers, holding their grimy little hands...knowing they are picking their noses all day and probably wiping on the folders that I take home every night. Guh.

Thomas's aunt had a heart attack yesterday...we're still waiting for news. I was surprised last night to find how strongly I react to hospitals these days. I mean, I'm sure everyone dislikes them, but they make me feel tiny and wretched.

This is not quite the week I was hoping for...hope you all are doing better...

Side of the Road Antics

What is up with political picketing?
As I'm sure many Wilmingtonians noticed today, pretty much the entirety of College Road between UNCW and Wrightsville was blanketed with pro-life people holding signs.

What are these people trying to accomplish? Do they think that holding a sign that says "Abortion kills Children" up to the side of the road is going to make me say to myself, "Hmm. Maybe abortion does kill children?" Because otherwise, I see no point. If your feelings are strong, spend all day writing your representatives. Open an adoption counselling center. Talk to at-risk teenagers. But don't stand by the side of the road looking smug and doing NOTHING except making me want to run my car off the road and see how many of you I can take out before the car gives out. Because at least that would be DOING something.

Just after we (finally) got off College, we saw two young girls hanging out with the cow on Wrightsville Avenue. I love that cow, but I always wonder how it manages to survive the attentions of its fans. My brother in law has a picture of himself riding the cow and holding a 40, as I'm sure many of us do. These girls were taking off their shirts and riding the cow. Who does this at 3 on a Sunday afternoon? They were flashing the cow!!

I told Thomas that the way you know we're too old to mess with the cow is that we'd have to take a cab to it, because neither one of us will drive if we've been drinking. "Yes, I need a taxi to the cow on Wrightsville Avenue, please." But then, just that phone call sounds like fun.

What the Hell is Wrong with Me?

Today on my way home from work, I started thinking about how, in the seventh grade, I didn't do this really big French project for class. We were given our instructions and the due date on the first day of class because it was a big project and we were to be working on it for a really long time.

I didn't tell my parents because I didn't want to be hounded about it all the time and I figured I'd pull something together in the last week, as was my custom.

Well anyway, I didn't do it. I don't know why I didn't do it; there wasn't any real reason. By the time I was a week away, I couldn't figure out how to ask my parents for help, seeing as I'd never told them about this big old thing. So I just sort of made a pile of papers that looked like it could be a French project and handed that in, sort of thinking that I could still pull it together and by the time my teacher noticed I could have something real...but still, I didn't do anything.

So, naturally, my teacher made me call my mom and tell her what I had done. I'll never forget how when she heard my voice in the middle of the day, she sounded so kind and worried. I think she must have thought I was sick or that something bad had happened. And then I had to tell her that I'd gone and done this idiot thing (and believe me, this was not the only time) and dissapoint her.

So I was thinking about this on my way home from work today and I just
started crying. I kept hearing her voice and feeling terrible and wishing I could apologize.

Of course, this was 18 years ago.

I used to have a similar memory of my dad when I was little. I had learned at school how to carefully peel a leaf from a clover and hold it together with another clover to make it look like a four leaf clover. I did it out in the yard and told my dad it was a four leaf clover. He was so happy for me. I felt terrible when I had to show him it was fake. Up until a few years ago, that could still make me cry.

Once for Christmas or something, I wrote letters to my parents, each with a list of things they'd done in my life that I wanted to say thank you for. Sometimes I wish I could send a similar apology letter, for fake four leaf clovers and French projects left undone. But then I think, maybe they don't need a list of reasons why I suck.

Further Fuel for my Hatred of Bob Dylan

It gives me great pleasure to learn that Bob Dylan is a PLAGIARIST.

100th Post: Dino-riffic!

So yay for blogging landmarks.

While in the DC area, we went to the outlet malls in Leesburg, VA, where I procured dinosaur cookie cutters at Williams Sonoma. Usually there is a 10 dollar charge just for breathing in Williams Sonoma, but on this day air was free and these most excellent cookie cutters were 4 dollars.

Here are the fruits of our labor: (expert cookie rolling by mom, decoration by Thomas, Meg and my cousin Mina)

Oh, yeah. We also saw these real, actual dinosaurs:






But whatev.

All About Me

On my trip home this weekend, my mom gave me a box of papers from my old bedroom to take home. I was really excited to look in there and see what I might find, so pretty much the second we got home I tore into it. There were notes and letters that I remembered vividly from childhood--one I had even mentioned this weekend--a letter written on crayola stationary by my childhood best friend, informing me that the duck egg that we found and had been saving in her back yard broke when she sat on it and made a terrible smell and that she was in big trouble about it. Also, letters from camp friends, including some from Nikki, who I was lucky enough to get back in touch with this year...old pictures, and a ton of elementary school work. My favorite by far was this:


a book I made in the 2nd grade. It was many pages long, but I chose these to show you.



This is totally hilarious to me. My favorite subjects, it seems, were PE, art and math. PE, art and math? Is this me we're talking about? I spent the better part of the last 10 years figuring out how never to perform PE or math again. I also listed reading and music as my two least favorite subjects. Anyone who knows me should know why that is absurd. I do like, though, that I described schoolwork as "sinchy," as in, it's a cinch!

Here is a list of my favorite things circa 1984:


A side by side comparison, if you will:

Favorites 1984

1. number: 8
2. color: pink
3. subject: math
4. animal: dog
5. flower: rose
6. song: Beat It
7. tv show: WKRP in Cinncinati (sp?)
8. time of day: 3:00 noon (when the hell is 3:00 noon?)
9. day of the week: Friday
10. month: June
11. game: Clue
12. place to visit: New Jersey
13. sport: fishing
14. friends: Larissa, Ann, Sneha, Laura
15. holiday: Christmas
16. section of newspaper: comics
17. movie: Gremlins
18. car: Corvette
19. restaurant: Roy Rogers
20. recording group: beetles (sic)
21. actor/actress: Bill Cosbee (sic)
22. athlete: Mary Luo Reton (sic)
23. teacher: Mrs. Varesco
24. comic strip character: Ziggy
25. thing to wear: Mical Jakson seat sheart (Michael Jackson sweat shirt)

Favorites 2006

1. number: 8
2. color: red
3. school subject: English
4. animal: dog
5. flower: gerbera daisy
6. song: U2 With or Without You
7. tv show: Freaks and Geeks
8. time of day: I'll stick with 3:00--for me, that's still when school gets out.
9. day of the week: Friday
10. month: June
11. game: Taboo
12. place to visit: where ever Kasey is
13. sport: fishing
14. friends: (still friends with Larissa and Ann) Kasey, Michelle, Jennifer, Andrea
15. holiday: Christmas
16. section of the newspaper: classifieds?
17. movie: depends. film? Magnolia. movie? Dirty Dancing or the Breakfast Club
18. car: classic Beetle
19. restaurant: Circa
20. recording group: The Beatles
21. actor/actress: Ed Norton/Laura Linney
22. athlete: Keri Strugg
23. teacher: too many to list.
24. comic strip character: ?
25. thing to wear: platform flip flops

I'm actually amazed to see that I am pretty much exactly the same person in 2006 as I was in 1984.

Not to Brag

but gas station attendants totally love me.

Take today, for instance. Thomas and I went in to a small mom-and-pop style gas station/convenience store halfway between work and home. We wanted to exchange our propane tank.

Gas station attendant: What does your shirt mean?

(My shirt--gift from bff Kasey--says, "Note to self: I'm rad").

Me: I'm rad? It means I'm cool.

Gas station attendant, apropos of nothing, to Thomas: You're lucky man. You're with the cutest girl in town.


Now, before I get too full of myself, this same man accidentally charged me for 300 dollars worth of gas a few months ago. There's no way to pay at the pump there, so I went in to charge $15 dollars to my debit card before pumping. The man ran my card and accidentally typed in $150 dollars. He told me of his mistake and asked if I would like the change in cash. I about fainted and told him I didn't have $150 in my account, so he told me he would quick reverse the charges.

And accidentally charged me $150 again.

It was a huge ordeal; the bank wouldn't forgive the overages and told me I'd have to ask him to pay them...blah, blah, blah; the upshot is, he probably still feels like he has to be nice to me. But it was still nice.

However, it put me in the mind of a few years ago. I wasn't, shall we say, having the best luck with men and this was probably due to the fact that I was drinking my fair share of beer and theirs too. But in any case, near my house there was a Shell station manned by a lovely, if somewhat mouse faced, man named Ralph who took a shine to my drunk ass self. On the day he finally got up the nerve to ask me out (which he did in a very sweet and bumbling way), he was beat to the punch by a homeless guy outside of Lula's. Yep, that's right. I was asked out by a homeless man and a gas station attendant in the same day.

People love me, I'm telling you.

Homeward Bound

Just got home from work...if this isn't the nicest weather we've had all year, I don't know what. I'm feeling that pleasant sense of satisfaction that comes from being very slightly too busy---not a panicked sense of schedule, but of order: first I go here, then here, then here. Never have to think too hard--just get it done.

Part of what's making me busy is that Thomas and I are going home this week--it will be Thomas's first time in MD since we got married. My parents have put an addition on the house since then! I'm looking forward to getting to spend some time with them. Lately all our visits have been 2 days long. Rush in, peform desired activities, rush out. I am very excited about the possibility of visiting the Washington zoo. I love zoos. If I had been more...I don't know, scientific?...I would have wanted to be an exotic animal vet. Sometimes at school I feel like an exotic animal vet.

Still feeling happy with my job decision, though.

Alarmed and Freaked out about Blogger Beta

Ok, so I'm just minding my business, checking out Kim's blog.

What the hell is going on?????

I don't want to switch to Beta! Why can't I comment?????

When I went to dashboard, there was a little box that advertised beta. I clicked on it and it said I would need a google account, so I made one. Now the google account seems to override my login to my blogger account, causing me to freakishly comment as meaghanwgilbert, which is so not me, even if it is, technically, me. I do not like this. Plus, I am ridiculously committed to my archives and if anything were to go wrong...well, I just don't know if I could go on.

Who besides Kim has switched? Please calm my fears.

Can Pee For

Dude, someone got to this blog by searching google for "can pee for."

I think I'm really, really proud about that.

Amusingly, I am one of the very few people I know who "can pee for" as I partake in no illegal activities. I was once recruited in that capacity (though it is probably illegal to admit such) and got someone a much higher paying job than I myself currently have.

Sugar Free Chocolate is the Devil

This is true. It may be that I just haven't tasted real chocolate in so long that I can't remember what it actually tastes like, but this Russell Stover stuff tastes exactly right to me. So naturally, I want to consume it in vast quantities, but it makes me seriously ill. I'm struggling right now to eat only one serving of M and M's...but dude. What if I just ate the whole package, and got sick all at once?
Sometimes I think these weird foods will cause a whole new kind of eating disorder.

It's Friday, the sun is out, and I was treated to the unspeakably cute sight of one of my dogs waiting impatiently on the porch for the other one to finish his meal. She won't go downstairs unless he comes too. I'm home from work...don't have to grade til Sunday...there's some beer in my future and I'm hoping my sister will let me come over and raid her library. Got a small raise. Today, everything seems in its right place.

Hoo-rah!

Random Stuff

So, other than a previously mentioned drinking binge--which, in its highlight, included a fine meeting with all my favorite bloggers and, in its lowlight, involved me drinking keg bud lite--nothing much is going on.

Please note that I linked to Fanboy--you should all be reading Thomas's newsletter which is high-larious, truly, even though I am is wife and I have to say that. Also, each week includes Bryan Sandala's head in various strange photoshops, so you really must see it.

Gerber daisies, freshly planted: still alive. (miracle).
Beer in fridge: none.
Plants planted with small children in classroom setting: 6.

Just finished: Life of Pi, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, The Time Traveller's Wife. Faith in Fiction: restored.

Beer Consumption at All Time High

This is how the Gilbert family prepares for hurricanes. I also have an amusing picture of Thomas holding up batteries and beef jerky. Because apparently everything you need for a hurricane begins with the letter B. (Now I am thinking of the Sesame Street song "Letter B" sung to the tune of "Let it Be." Get that out of your head, I dare you.)

However, none of our B named supplies were necessary during fauxicane Ernesto, and so I feel it is my duty to begin ridding our fridge of these extraneous items.



Needless to say, I'm not feeling so well this morning.

Off Work Tomorrow!

Whoot!

1st, let me say, Kim Shable, do not let Ernesto stop you!! This is a big fat pile of nothing that has been exaggerated (and you lived here, so you know they ALWAYS do). This morning at 6 am, as it drizzled, WWAY news channel 3 had a reporter standing on the beach in a raincoat saying, "Well, Jim, it's raining significantly harder than it was a few minutes ago." Yeah, that's because it wasn't raining at all a few minutes ago. Yes, it is raining right now, as I'm sure it will continue to do until tomorrow, but seriously, we've had worse flash floods this summer.

2nd, I hope all this does not enrage Ernesto and cause him to be my first real hurricane. Ernesto, listen up. You are big and bad. I am not messing with you.

3rd, let me say that for the first time EVER! I am out of work tomorrow for weather related causes. We accidentally sheduled 2 more school days than we needed this year, so my boss said to just take it and forget about it. I am so excited! Yet slightly worried about being trapped in Lula's incase the above message did not appease Ernesto.

Does anyone know a song about Ernesto? Cause I want to sing one. Maybe I can just substitute Ernesto for Fernando.

Happy First Day of School

Tra-la-la, it's the first day of school. Or, I should say, the first day of school is over. Hence, the singing. Nothing is ever as bad as the first day back...the chaos, the parents milling around, the inability of anyone under the age of 7 to sit in his or her seat, the bathroom emergencies, the tears, the vomit...we had it all today. But it is over and tomorrow begins the real school year.

Saw Barry Corbin again today but refrained from embarrassing myself. Soon, I feel like, we'll be hanging out.

Geeky Boy Radio Stations

So has anyone else noticed that new radio station called "Will"? I think it's 98.7. The premise is that it's run by this guy named Will who has a million CDs and doesn't care about formatting--i.e. there's music from all decades, all kinds.

This would be ok, but the whole station in actuality seems like a study in mediocrity. It's not quite any kind of radio station and the things they play always seem like 2nd rate songs that you're not trying to hear every day. They'd be good every once in a while. Like GNI's 80's weekend--why must we hear the same 60 songs from the 80's! There were, in fact, other songs. And Will plays those other songs...except for that's all he plays.

Anyway, while we were away in Raleigh, we heard 98.7 there. It's called "Simon." I'm not sure what Simon's excuse for being is, like maybe he's an old man with a hoarding problem who has too many cds or something, but basically it was the same. This made me wonder--is this, like, sweeping the nation? Does every city now have a radio station with no djs and no formatting and a fake posterboy with an emo name?

Is Quentin out there? or Spencer? Nigel?

Hey, right now my counter is at 2222. And it's friday. :)

Quit yo...etc

Good Lord, This Rain

Will it never end? I'm happy not to have to water the miles of garden I decided to plant in the spring when it was bearable out, but still.

In happy news for today, I HAVE A JACUZZI! Yes, it's true. I am now so spoiled by technology that it is a wonder I even have to feed myself.
On Sunday, when we returned from GSO, it was a humid jungle inside the house. Wha-huh? We said. How can this be, as Thomas keeps the house sub-zero no matter the weather outside. My sister was taking care of the dogs (Thank you!) so we thought maybe she had turned the AC off to conserve. But no, it was just not working.

We called the landlord, who offered various solutions by phone. Did you turn it off and on again? yes. Did you check the fuse box? yes, but it is full of pre-war inexplicable fuses. But they seem ok. None are brown or melted. Is it frozen over? no. Finally he came out. We checked all those things again. Status: the same. My landlord somehow managed to get an AC guy to the house at 9 on Sunday night, because he is a genius in all things. The AC guy found a hidden fuse box under the house that none of us, including the landlord, knew was there. The breaker marked AC was thrown.

Hey, he said. There are two more thrown. One for the kitchen and one marked "Jacuzzi." We threw them all back. Suddenly, I have AC, outlets in the kitchen and a working Jacuzzi tub. Yeeee haw. I took a bath in it yesterday and it was delish.

In further good news, school was very good today. I am happy to say that the school has hired a second elementary school teacher and we seem to be getting along well and they painted my room this year in lovely yellows and blues. It felt great to get home at 3:30 today.

Quit yo jibba jabba!

Defining Moments

So this weekend, Thomas and I went home to Greensboro. Since 1995, from the first hour that I set foot on the Guilford College campus, I've considered Greensboro my home. I was the first person I knew to begin to refer to her dorm as home; my calendars showing breaks showed entries like, "home to MD" and then, "home to NC". I've always considered myself not a transplant to North Carolina, but someone who was just born in the wrong place. I am North Carolinian. But more than that, I've always thought of myself as a native of Greensboro.

When I first moved to Wilmington, I was so crushingly homesick that I didn't think I'd make it a year. I seriously considered dropping out of school to return home; in fact, the only reason I ever made it here in the first place was that UNCG didn't take me. Everything that seemed to make me who I considered myself to be was there, as well as everyone I loved. It didn't help that my marriage was falling apart and that our best and happiest times were there. My desire to return was metaphorical as well as literal. I remember my first husband asking me angrily one night why I insisted on treating Greensboro like Xanadu. But to me, Greensboro was Xanadu. I felt very much in control of my world there. I couldn't drive yet, but I could walk to the grocery store, school, a movie theater, my favorite bar. I worked and lived among like-minded, liberal Quakers. I belonged.

Going home this weekend, I was finally forced to admit that I am more at home in Wilmington than I ever was in Greensboro. Partly that's because I can drive now and so have a kind of interior map of Wilmington that I never had of Greensboro. But partly it's being older; that more of the choices I've made here have made an ultimate difference to my life; that my job and my friends and my husband are here; that Wilmington is smaller and more manageable than the insane sprawl of Greensboro; and that, although I refused to see it for the longest time, this really is a beautiful town.

I felt sad driving out of Greensboro yesterday. I thought, that might be the last time I ever go home.

But, I did eat in the best restaurant in the whole world. REARN THAI! Thomas and I have been known to drive 150 miles out of our way to eat in this restaurant. It's nothing fancy, just a hole in the wall Thai restaurant with the best damn Thai food ever. So much better than our fancy "gourmet" Indochine or Rim Wang--this is real stuff, made by real Thai people, meant to be eaten, day in day out, not just for special occasions when you've saved up enough damn money. When I was in school, for 3.75 at lunch you got a drink, a spring roll and an entree. So, naturally, I ate there almost every day.

It's one of the few things I can always find my way to in Greensboro, even if I don't know the names of the stupid roads. Seeing this sign, I was so excited. But then we pulled up and saw this:

I seriously thought I would perish. Rearn Thai, closed? It was bad enough when I found out that my favorite GSO bar, Dolley's, had closed. But not Rearn. It couldn't be. But then I read the sign more closely. It advised me to turn around. And I saw this:


Rearn! In a nice new home! It was very exciting. I actually left a love note to Rearn on the back of our check, stating that this would always be my favorite restaurant, no matter where I lived and Congratulations on the beautiful new building, etc. Thomas might have been a little embarrassed of me, but I was happy. I made him swear that no matter where I am when I am dying, I want Rearn Thai food flown in. We ordered 2 appetizers and 3 entrees and I nearly died of happiness, though I did eat rice which is shameful and wrong.

Rearn is one of the four things in the world that I would happily advertise for. The others are Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, The Swiffer Vaccuum and my vet, Brad Kerr.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about things like this: who I would be publicly associated with. It's tied in to my thinking about myspace, about making lists of things that we think define us in some way, about our use of those names of books, bands, people, and products that we represent ourselves with. One of the things I'm interested in is how quickly people who know us could figure out who was meant by a list. For instance, most people list The Beatles on their myspace page. How many words do I have to add before you know unequivocally that it's me we're talking about?

The Beatles
Stephen King
Eminem

I mean, these are very popular things, but I think we think of ourselves as unique combinations of them.

Twin Peaks
80's music
Sue Miller

Oh, P.S., while I'm thinking about it, I saw the coolest thing in Jane Magazine (you can add Jane to my list above) about a website that is selling buttons, not with band names, but with author names!! You could bust out your old jean jacket and cover it with Donna Tartt and Michael Chabon buttons. I'm googling for the website right now but not finding anything. I'll have to go back and look in the magazine.

edited to say: Found it! it's pianoandscene.com

Anyway. My list would have to include Rearn Thai, Donna Tartt, Holistic Veterinary Medicine, Platform flip flops, the word "whatev", dogs of all sorts, etc.

Thomas and I were thinking about phrases that are particular to some people, like my "whatev" and his "are you kidding me?" We have this Mr. T keychain with 6 of his famous phrases:



including: "I pity the Fool" (of course) and "Quit yo jibber jabba!" which is my particular favorite. We imagined making these for our friends and recording their most quintessential phrases.

Mine would have to be:
Crap in a bowl!
How exciting!
Fucksie Ducksie.
Whatev.
Whhhaaaatttttt? (This should be very high pitched and drawn out).
and Dude.

Sorry for the insane length of this post. It's been a while.

Dead Raccoon Road

So here's something you should know about me: I didn't learn to drive until I was 23. I got my license at 19 but never actually drove a car until I was 21 and not with any kind of regularity until I was 23. I don't think I took another human being in my car until I was 24. Driving has always been an issue for me.

When most people are 15, their parents begin to take them out in the family car to learn to drive. Nothing fancy, just some back roads, some parking lots, what have you. That way when the child is 15 and a half and enters drivers ed, he or she knows which one is the gas and which one is the break, and some rudimentary steering techniques, so as not to endanger the instructors or anyone else outside the immediate family. My parents did not do this. The first time I sat in the driver's seat of a car was with a scary old italian man with hairy knuckles who had never encountered a 15 year old who had no idea how to drive. Needless to say, it did not go well and I did not attempt Drivers Ed again until I was 19 and prepared to actually get a license.

My parents attribute my unwillingness to drive as a direct result of having learned to drive the riding lawn mower at an early age. I grew up on almost two acres of flat, grass covered land that had to be mowed frequently, and so my dad taught me to ride the lawnmower, probably when I was 11 or 12. I would get that lawnmower going in 5th gear and ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM. Except that several times, even with the absolute visibility, I hit a tree or the fence. Hard. And they are probably right. It did scare me a bit to think that I could do that in a car. Trees don't sue. At least, not yet.

But all this not driving affected my sense of direction and caused me to never have any idea how to get anywhere. I don't even know the real names of roads. I think of them as that one by Ruby Tuesday or, in a famous incident: Dead Raccoon Road. In Greensboro, where I went to school, there was a road that is much like our New Center Drive, not in that it is clogged with huge discount stores, but that it connected College and Market, also the two main roads of Greensboro. Or at least I think that's true. But anyway, one night I saw a man by the side of the road, cradling a raccoon in his arms and giving it what totally looked like CPR. Subsequently, I have no recollection of what the actual name of this road is, which makes it difficult when we go home to visit.

As we are doing this weekend. Dead Raccoon Road, here I come.

Hrm

well, I quit the job today. I feel all weird and shaky and nervous inside, like you do when you know you're about to be caught doing something bad. I think part of the weirdness is that I'm having trouble getting in touch with my school, which is making me worried that I've been fired in absentia and am now jobless. Will try to just be ok and enjoy the weekend and my whopping two days off this summer.

There is a pain in my right eye, but I'm hoping that's just stress. Have broken the news of my quitting to my dad and received obligatory lecture about health insurance, but all in all, I think it went better than I expected. I just hope he's still proud of me.

I want to be funny and write funny things. I know I had a whole list saved up from when I was blog-less, but now of course I can't think of anything. I'm tired of whining on my blog. When does life get easier? Does anyone know?

Home at Last/Technical Difficulties

Oh, how I missed the blog. I kept feeling really afraid that Pen would move me into the "People Who Should Blog More" catagory.

But, happily, for myriad reasons, I'm coming home to roost. I've decided to go back to teaching. I know, I know. In a month, I'll remember how incredibly stupid that is. But right now I am just so damn unhappy. (Daisy--how are you? We forgot to check in). And I've decided that if I'm going to spend more time at work than I do at home with Thomas and the dogs, it sure as hell better be something I like doing. So I'll be returning home again daily at 3, which sounds incredible. And the plan (though I've never been so good at sticking to them) is to pursue potential ministerial interests in that extra time.

Meanwhile, I am overjoyed at 1. having my blog's password again. 2. Having DSL. 3. Being able to receive phonecalls while online. 4. Knowing I've only got 3 days left in that hellhole. 5. Knowing who is on the phone before I answer it, thereby deflecting any "why on earth are you quitting?" phone calls.

The other night, Thomas and I were watching TV and flipping through our 3 channels (it will be at least 3 more years before I can be talked into cable or a cell phone) when we noticed that FOX had frozen in the midst of an Altel commercial. We sat there and watched frozen FOX for 17 minutes, debating how long this had been going on and placing bets on how long it would continue. Somehow, we had more fun watching this error than watching actual TV. I called my mom and made her turn on FOX to see if it was a local or national problem, but, just like smoking a cigarette while waiting for your food to come, it immediately caused the TV to unfreeze.

Oh! in further exciting TV news, I saw Barry Corbin at Charley Brownz tonight. I know he's there, like, every night, but before I didn't know who he was. This year I inhaled the first three seasons of Northern Exposure, so I was excited about it and I was really hoping to see him again. Unfortunatly, I walked into the bar and loudly said to Thomas, "Where's Maurice?!" Thomas pointed out that he was um, right there. I can only hope he thought I said, "Where's the beef!?"

Damn Lack of Pictures

Hey all. Does anyone have any idea why my new DSL doesn't allow me to see pictures on this here lovely internet? Pen suggested my firewall being too high...it was already on medium so I set it to low. Google suggested that I change my encoding for internet explorer...did that....still nothing. I can't live without my pictures!!

In other technology news, I finally got caller ID. This is a service I think is totally frivolous and I would never voluntarily sign up for it, but it was part of my "bundle" from BellSouth that helped me achieve cheap DSL, so what can you do. I happened to have a phone with a Caller ID display on it, so I plugged it. Let me just tell you how much I LOVE caller ID. It makes me feel very spoiled and well taken care of to have something so unnecessary. I want to thank the phone and pet it and give it a treat.

That's all for this moment.

I'm back!!

in short:

storm blew out modem
decided to get DSL
have been internet-less for days. subsequently freaking out.
back online. DSL totally mysterious. Why can I not see any pictures???
will blog about many stored up things as soon as I figure out this madness.

Games People Play

Last night, my friend Bernie came over for dinner and we all got talking about strange games we played as kids and their rules. This occurred because someone farted. I will not say who, but I will say that it wasn't me, because I'm still the kind of girl who goes to the bathroom to fart like a civilized person.

Anyway, Thomas was telling us that when he was a kid, they all played this game called doorknob. When someone farted, if you yelled "doorknob!" you got to beat the shit out of the farter until they reached a doorknob and touched it. Thomas said that many people began forecasting their farts by drifting toward doorknobs in mid conversation. You could also yell "Safety!" before someone yelled "Doorknob!" if you were the farter to escape a beating, however, I supposed that in doing so, you'd be announcing to the general public that it was you who farted, and not, as is commonly believed, that he who smelt it, delt it.

Bernie and I agreed that this seemed like a Southport game and never made it as far as DC (where I grew up) or Texas (Bernie).

We discussed "Jinx," as Bernie felt that if you were jinxed you had to be silent or buy someone a coke, as was shown on The Office. In our version of jinx, if two people said the same thing at the same time and one yelled "jinx!" the other could not speak until someone said his or her name. You could also yell "Personal Jinx!" and in that case only the jinxer could free you by saying your name.

In further discussion, we debated on whether you had to kiss (me) or punch (Thomas and Bernie) someone when calling a one-headlight "padiddle." We also found discrepancy over whether you had to lift your feet, touch the ceiling of the car and make a wish when: a. going over railroad tracks or b. going through a yellow light.

Can anyone vouch for these games or rules?