News not from my navel.

I've come to terms with the drama I've been dealing with lately. More or less, anyway. It has to do with work, so I won't/can't/ought not to write about it here.

Meanwhile, the world is like one disgusting giant sauna. Except for without that lovely, relaxing, heavy, pulse slowing, heavenly pore-clensing sauna-ness of a sauna. And there is no cold shower during or after. The worst part about humidity is that gross smells hang about in the air for longer. Case in point: my cat's butt. Cecily is tiny and dainty and wee and so much more like a dolly than a real cat that I don't usually don't even think of her as having a butt. I mean, yes, she does that cat thing where she walks back and forth in front of my face while I am lying down reading, but there is no gross factor. usually. In general, I don't see butt, I don't smell butt, there is no butt-ness to her rear parts. But tonight in the humidity, I became distressedly aware of the reality: my cat, she is real. and she has a butt. a cat-butt. with all the stinky butt-ness that is therewith implied. Go away, stupid yucky humid sauna weather. I want my dainty buttless princess flower kitty back.

Of course, it might not be just the humidity that is making Cecily's butt so very butt-like. The worst part of this whole packing thing is the fact that she seems to think that packing peanuts are tasty tasty kitty toys for munching. I think maybe they give her gas.

The Road To Nowhere Leads to a Bar

J and I rode our bikes out to Lake Mills to visit the Tyranena microbrewery today. It would have been a 60 mile round trip. It was kind of a spontaneous thing - I COULD have spent the day attending a conference all about Labor Organizing, and indeed had been planning to do so until J made the tempting suggestion to NOT spend my day in an oxygen-deprived conference center, but out on the open road getting a workout and exploring a new part of Wisconsin instead.

However, in the spontenaity of the moment, we neglected to consider that we were leaving our house at noon. For a 60 mile bike trip. Bike as in bicycle, not as in motorcycle. Had we stopped for about 6 seconds and put 2 and 2 together to get four, we would have tossed our lights into our gear bag. As it was, it got dark when we had about 20 miles to go. Dark, not "dusky" or "twighlighty" or "dim." Full on dark. We locked our bikes to a convenient tree and called some kind friends who came and got us.

Here are the specs of the trip.

Actual distance ridden: maybe 45 miles.
Beers I drank: 1 pint Scurvy IPA and about 1/3 of our tasting flight. The beers that best fitted with my preferences and tastes were the Hefeweizen, the Scurvy IPA (a not-overly-hoppy IPA that is brewed with orange peel) and the Femme Ameins, which is a version of Tyranena's beloved Bitter Woman IPA with kind of a Belgian Farmhouse style twist.

The Amber Alt was good, too, but I was not overly impressed by the Three Beaches Lager or the Rocky's Revenge Burbon Barrel Brown.

Wildlife seen:
Chipmunks: 20 or so. extremely adorable.
Toads: 3; 2 alive, one not so much.
Catapillars: about 20,000 more than I wanted to see. They are all doing that swarming thing, and that dangling from the tree by a thread thing, so I got a lot of catapillars on me as a rode, which I did not like. I like to touch bugs on my terms, not on theirs.
Cranes: 1. J identified it, and even though I called first baby ducks of the season, first goose pups of the season, first chipmunk of the trip AND all of the frogs of the trip, he pretty much just beat me in Animals: Competitive Identification by like a million points FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE. Because seriously, a crane? That's just awesome. I'm not telling him that he won, though.

Interesting people we encountered:
Lesbians riding their bikes from Chicago to Minneapolis: 1
Lesbians who asked me if I was a lesbian: 1*^
Assholes who have no trail ettiquette: 2
Cute dogs: more than 15


*It was actually the same woman.
^It amuses/bemuses me when I scramble people's gay-dar. On one hand, yeay for screwing with binary paradigms of gender and sexuality! On the other hand, I am quite blind to what it is about me that would cause somone to "read" me in this way, and knowing that I have this blind spot with regards to myself makes me uncomfortable.

Tidbits

An older gentleman informed me the other day at St. Vinnie's that a lot of people like to collect old pencils, and that people on the internet pay a lot of money for them.

***

When I was a child, I took great pleasure in a new box of crayons or colored pencils- each piece of uniform length and pointiness, the colors arranged in that highly-pleasing just-from-the-factory order. As an adult, I find the same kind of pleasure in simple luxuries: a fresh card of bobby pins or hair clips; a new package of purse-tissues; an unopened pack of gum.

***

I always want to know the strangest things about people: are you finicky about your Grilled Cheese Sandwich, and if so, how do you like it? When you walk into a bay of empty bathroom stalls, do you have a preference for which stall you'd like to use? (ie, one closest to the wall, the one on the far end...) What kinds of systems do you have for organizing things or making choices? Do you feel strongly about chewy cookies, squeezing toothpaste, and the direction from which the toilet paper falls? What foods do you absolutely hate? Do details like these provide any information about a person's character or personality? Does knowing these little factoids help a person "know" an other person?

***

Today I planned to buy a paper from the homeless guy on the corner. I had some cash in small bills, I made sure to put it in my pocket ('cause I'm paranoid about whipping out my wallet in public - as a child it was drilled into me that this is a good way to get your whole wallet stolen when you are intending to only give a modest donation), and then when I exited Walgreens after purchasing a new deoderant and some cotton balls, the usually Street News vendor spot was vacant, and there was an eerie sense of emptiness on the uncrowded sidewalks.

***

There have been signs of spring. I've seen the pussy willow budding, and the house finches are returning. We put the winter coats and scarves/hats/gloves collection back into basement storage. In every other season except for winter, I know and feel that the other seasons exist and will come around. I can remember what it feels like to be in a different season. In winter, I only know, feel, and experience winter.

accomplishments and creativity

ok, now that I've performed some Internet Magic and gotten my standard blog-writing window back, I have some Very Important News to share with all of you.

...wait for it...

(1) I taught myself how to splice a rope (line in the parlance of People Who Like Boats) this weekend.

(2) Also, I aced the Online Census Taker Qualification Practice Test.

Since I do not live in an 18th century fishing village and my parents no longer own a sailboat, I don't think item 1 will significantly affect my life in any way. However, in view of my current badnewsbears employment situation for next term, item 2 could prove to be a potent catalyst of change. And by change, I mean both the kind you put in your pocket and the kind that makes a difference.... awww....

But basically, adding 1 + 2 in this case makes me reconsider my self-conception. Both accomplishments involved skills, logical thinking, and puzzle solving. Both were somehow immensely satisfying. But even though item 1 resulted in the creation of something that did not exist before, it is not really a creative act, the splicing of lines. Neither is needlepoint- something I've been spending a lot of time on lately and finding (oddly) satisfying. My hands like to be busy. I like to make new things out of other things. The sense of satisfaction is higher when the original things are things that might otherwise be thrown away, like concocting a yummy dinner out of odds and ends, or re-purposing the material in old clothes to make new clothes, but even the basically skill-less process of needle-pointing a (kind of stupid and pointless) needlepoint thingy which will eventually be turned into a throw pillow (which is kind of a stupid and pointless item of home furnishing in and of itself) has been pleasurable, soothing and rewarding of late.

While I'm proud of myself for taking the initiative and attempting the Census Exam, the skills that the exam is designed to test are very basic. So it really is ridiculous to have this sense of accomplishment for totally owning that sucka'. But I do. I feel proud of myself. My brain liked the exercize of being faced with those 28 tiny challenges and solving those problems. None of which required ANY creative or truly critical thinking at all.

Basically, I guess I'm saying that I used to always think of myself as a creative person, but it turns out that I just really like busy work.

Identifying The Roadblocks and Progressing

I'm in this class. It's an interesting class, but I kind of don't care. I haven't actually learned that much new stuff in this class. And the new stuff that I've learned is peripheral to what the actual focus of the class is supposed to be. So I've procrastinated a lot this term, and done Stuff That Is Important to me. Really Important Stuff. Like knitting and watching all of the back episodes of Grey's Anatomy and snuggling the kitties.

And I've just NOW realized that I do not have to feel guilty about this. This is something that normal people do all the time- they make choices about what is important, about how they are going to spend their time, and sometimes, school isn't their number one priority, and even if they are capable of getting an A in a class, they just plain don't want to jump through all of the A hoops and do all of the A work, and they would be happy with an AB or even a B. And they know that when they choose to do this, the world will not end.

Draw from this little anecdote what lesson ye will. I'm going to go make out with my own mediocrity, and maybe paint my nails or something.

Juxtaposition

It's Sunday, and I'm heading to a downtown coffeeshop generally populated by quiet folk getting work done. I, too, need to get some work done. The sun is bright and the wind is brisk, and it's Sunday, so there is free on-street parking, which is a nice variation from the dungeon-ality of the public garage so I emerge from the car directly into light, walk through light, and try to simultaneously absorb the beautiful day and prepare my mind for the darker diligence of the cafe and the lecture I need to write.

An older woman, slight, stands on the sidewalk. Her head is bent, she's wearing all black, and a few wisps of iron grey hair dance outside of the sheer black scarf she's got over her head. She's all alone, and facing the building on my left in some sort of quiet contemplation. Drawing closer, I see it's the cathedral rectory. Is she praying? She appears to be praying. Why is she outside the rectory and not in a church, or inside the rectory talking to a priest or something? I think about how, if this were Bavaria, there'd be a church open for her to reflect in and she wouldn't have to stand out here in the cold. I wonder if she's praying for forgiveness, or if she's praying for the well-being of the local bishop.

The sight of her apparently steeped in some sort of unidentifiable ritual appeals to my sense Romantic fancy, but she's also an anachronistic, geographically-displaced mystery to me here in the pragmatic Midwest, where I've yet to uncover any sort of mystical local lore or myth, apart from an almost-rabid devotion to sports and the fact that People Actually Do Stuff On Easter.

I feel a strong desire to murmur some comment of acknowledgement of benediction as a pass her. Completely innappropriate, as I don't believe in Catholic God, and I'm just assuming that she's even involved in some kind of spiritual act - I mean, she COULD just be looking at the architecture, or studying a certain configuration of light upon the blades of grass in the lawn.

But the moment makes me wish for a world less devoid of ritual and contemplation, a world where it would be possible to expand one's own positive and healing energy towards complete strangers who seemed in need of it... in a way that was sheerly compassionate and humane.

It makes me sad that in becoming part of Middle-Class White America, my ancestors relenquished rituals and other aspects of their specific ethnicities. I wish for peculiarity and a sense of belonging.

I cross the street, and the sun glints on a shard of a green Heiniken bottle. It's like an emerald, like a sign of Shangri-La, like a glimpse of innocent whimsy. I think of the tales of America that circulated amongst potential immigrants in the Old Country- riches abound- all you have to do is stoop and scoop and put them in your pockets. Why is paradise always imagined in terms of precious jewels and wealth? The colored glass in the sun is vibrant, glorious, an intense speck of color against the detrius in the sidewalk crack. I don't stoop to pick it up, but somehow it's the perfect compliment to the pathos and mystery of the old praying woman. Not opposite, not simile or metaphor for, not synonomous symbol, just... compliment.

The Morning After...

It's not that I'm having regret about my decision, exactly, it's more that I don't really know what to do with myself and can feel the depression and inertia gnawing at the cracks of my being. So I slept in until 9, picked a passive-aggressive fight with J about how he has The Disgusting Sniffles And Is Not Taking Care Of Them And Now I Am Getting Sick And It's His Fault because I am really just that kind of winner (read: terrible) person and spouse. It's true though, that after only 2 contact days with the kiddoes I've got a hoarse throat and sinus issues and I am not pleased. Time to break out the Neti Pot and the Airborne. And to stop picking on J for not liking to take medicine for his allergies, I begrudgingly concede, but in all honesty, is there any sound less sonorous and soothing than the ssnnnoourrrrrwwaaakkk!!!!! snorking of snot from the sinuses to the glottal chamber of the upper esophagus? ew.

Also, the milk I poured into my coffee this morning curdled, and the heel end of the loaf of home-made bread is nasty and stale.

The energy that filled me as I made this decision was fire; scary and freeing, like skydiving (which I know I still have to write about), like getting on the night train to travel solo to Prague when you are 20 and don't know a single word of Czech. That energy is sapped now. I seem to have used up my quota of brave. Can I borrow some of yours?

Or will you at least come and sit with me and hold my hand while I figure out who I am behind the looking glass?

Two Roads Diverged...

...and I had no clue which one to travel by.

What am I going to do with my life? I do not like research. I would like to feel that there is a point to what I do, and right now I feel like there isn't. I would like to feel that my daily activities help others in some way, and right now, I feel like they don't. I am disillusioned and dissatisfied with our education system.

Also, I recently watched the movie "The Freedom Writers" which is another story about a extrordinary teacher who works with disadvantaged pupils and turns their lives around. Basically, it was the same story as "To Sir, With Love" and "Dangerous Minds" except for that in this particular version, the female teacher is so incredibly driven and dedicated that she works 2 extra jobs to purchase classroom supplies, and becomes alienated from her husband, who eventually leaves her. The only other two teachers that the movie depicts are racist, classist snobs, who are more concerned with maintaining the hierarchy of seniority within the department than with actually educating the pupils.

Somehow I found this movie to be really unsettling. I dislike the implied message that if you are to make a difference in your job, or in the lives of others, you must be completely self-sacrificing. I also thought that the film did not place enough criticism on the system that denied the students educational materials, and made the choice of the teacher to supply the materials herself too simple. As if that is what we should expect of all teachers - that if the system doesn't provide them with the tools they need to do their job, they will provide the tools themselves, instead of insisting that that the system be modified or improved.

To write about...

-skydiving.
-innocence and experience.
-revolutionary road and your own personal paris.
-how having heat rash is a crappy way to spend the last week of summer before prepping for the semester becomes an absolute necessity.
-preserving fruit and other Hannah Housewife adventures.
-a weekend of weddings and sitting in the car (or, How I Went to Minnesota And Ate A Lot Of Food And Hugged A Lot Of Friends).
-evoking "place" and finding "home".

All in a bowl of blueberries

I am back from a glorious visit home, but not done processing all the things I learned and experienced while there. I feel reconnected to my extended families again, after years of feeling like the inconvenient and unwanted wierdo relative. I am mourning the fact that I still live so far away from them and that this flush of emotion and bonding will likely pass all too quickly. My desires to move back to the NW have been intensified, at the expense of my desire to do other things... I'm hoping to energize myself with a local adventure sometime in the very near future.

J is coming back from St. Louis this afternoon. I'm trying to tidy the house a bit before he gets here in the hopes that if I tame my clutter a bit, my crazy alarm won't go off when his clutter gets plopped down on the floor. It's amazing how my chaos expanded to fill the void.

I had blueberries, greek yoghurt honey and sliced almonds for breakfast. What is it about berries that makes them such a soulful and decadent meal? One of the things I did while on vacation was read a copy of the children's book Jamberry to my two-year-old cousin. I love that book. If you know any two or three year olds, please make sure that they own copies of this book.

Two things:

1) When Jesus promises that there is a place at his father's table for all true believers, does he mean like at a dinner party? And will there be quesadillas?

1.5) Is hell a plate of cucumbers that continuously refills itself, combined with the inability to spit back out what you've already eaten?

2) When Niel Diamond calls Cracklin' Rose "a store bought woman" does that mean that she's a prostitute or just that she had a boob job and wears a lot of makeup?

2.5) Apparently Paul Giamatti is in this new movie about characterizing and anthropomorphizing people's souls. Read all about it in the New Yorker. Willie Nelson's soul is an ear of corn. Dolly Parton's soul is a humming bird. Paul Giamatti says his soul is a slightly ugly painted porcelein frog. What is your soul like? What do you think my soul is like?

Inarticulate Rage and Frustration

My sleep schedule is off-kilter, meaning that instead of being productive, I am sleeping late and being slothful, but that is only part of what is bothering me.

I am so overwhelmed by my situation right now. I had so many plans for productivity this summer, so many fun little projects I wanted to do around the house to surprise J when he got back from St. Louis. My wheels have gotten bogged down in a mud patch, and they keep sinking deeper and I'm tired of spinning them. I am so mad at myself because I can't even keep up with the chores required to keep the house tidy when I am the only one living in it. I am mad at J for being in St. Louis (even though I know intellectually that this is completely irrational and unfair, I'm not going to lie about my emotions...). I'm mad at the cats, because they need my care when I am too disgruntled to even care for myself. I'm mad at everyone who ever told me that it would be a great experience to be on my own for a summer. I'm mad at myself for not having a great experience being on my own. I'm mad at myself for being a Person Who Is Dependent On Her Partner. This is not the person I used to think that I was, or the person I used to think that I wanted to be. What the fuck happened to the me I used to be?

I moved around a lot when I was a kid, so "home" has always been more about the people than the place to me. I cringe at the sentimental thought that "J is my home now," but I guess it's true, if not an exclusive condition.

I'm trying to get back to the NW to visit my family. To hug my mom. To see the ocean, mountains, desert and river that I love. I am mad that I don't get to go to the NW very often. I am mad that I live so far away from my family. I am mad at the world because the tickets are expensive. I want to go- it's my grandparents' 60th wedding anniversary! I haven't seen the Pacific Ocean in 3 years (waaaayyyy too long!) But I feel like in order to make it worth the cost and the inconvenience my parents will go through to host me, and to schlepp me back and forth across the state. I should go for a week, and not just a weekend. But I don't really want to go for a whole week. I don't have so very many close friends in the NW anymore (yet another thing to be mad about, although I know I haven't done the best job of maintaining these friendships over time).

A week is a long time to spend just with family. What will I do? Will I be more lonely there than I am here? Who will watch my cats? Will I get any more or less work done there than here? I don't really want to go for that long.... Or maybe I do? I don't know what I want right now, and it's making me cranky and crazy.

Random Wish

It would be cool to live in Russia or some other Slavic-speaking language, because those languages have the BEST nick-name forming diminutive suffixes. EVER. And in general, that language family has lots and lots of different slide-y silibants and different kinds of c/ch/ck sounds that are fascinating and fun, and tickle the inside of my mouth when I try to say them.

For example, how awesome is the name "Katyushka"?
Very, very awesome. Far more awesome than the rather-less-spit-inducing English equivalent "Katie." No offense intended to all the Katies out there. You have a perfectly lovely name. But I think that everyone should have something in their lives named Katyushka. I think I'll name my iPod Katyushka, or perhaps I'll just hang onto the name until I convince a certain someone that I absolutely need a baby hamster. I think that Katyushka would be a great name for a hamster.

Do you name your inanimate objects? I do. My laptop is Eloise and my bike is Maude. What do you think the best name ever is?

Psychopharmacuticals, I love you!

I'm currently trying out a new combination of medicine to help me combat my depression. Yes, at the behest of my doctor. Yes, under the supervision and advice of a professional psychotherapist person. So far, I LOVE the newest ingredient in my "sanity cocktail"! I have felt so focused, so determined, so confident ALL DAY LONG. My thoughts have not been this clear since I-don't-know-when. I am superwoman. I am Maniac-Brainiac McGee. I am on the ball, on top of the tallest tree in the forest, balancing serenely. Got any shit, world? Just throw it at me, and watch me cope with it in an efficient and competent manner!

Don't worry, I will only use my newfound superpowers for good. I will leap tall trees, write coherent and intelligent papers, save puppies from drowning and dance my booty off in the privacy of my living room every night from now until the end of time.

(I am totally going to regret this public jubulation, aren't I?)

If you could be the patron saint of something, or of some group of people, what would you be? For example, St. Jude is the patron saint of Lost Causes, but there are also specific patron saints for blacksmiths, sailors, actors, and television.

For example, I coud be St. Regina, patron saint of Tone-Deaf People Who Sing Kareoke, or St. Regina, patron saint of Thrift-Store Shoppers.... or, or, or... The possibilities are endless and endlessly amusing. So, what or whom would you be patron saint of? Choose carefully, because this is something that could totally make or break your resume!

Stuff Going On In My Life...

1) We went camping again last weekend up on the Door County Peninsula - the little strip of land that separates Green Bay from Lake Michigan. It was so amazing to look out across water so big that I could not see the other side, and to feel wind in my hair, and to hear the rhythmic crash and roll of the waves. At the same time, however, it reminded me of how much I miss the ocean, which I have not seen in 3 years. I am so excited to go home in August and smell the salt water and go tide-pool exploring.

1.5) There are pictures from camping, but as of yet, I have been too lazy to get them developed/post them on the Interweb. This should not surprise you.

2) I wish I had a dog. There is a beautiful collie waiting outside the coffee shop where I am typing and I really want to pet its soft fur and get some puppy kisses on my hands. Too bad I live in The World's Smallest 2-Bedroom Apartment and thus would need to get a miniaturized dog, were I to get a dog at all. There are never any "good" kinds of miniaturized dogs at the local animal shelter (I am not really a terrier kind of person). Wah wah wah wah, etc.

3) The CSA has blessed us with an over-abundance of jerusalem artichokes lately, and so we are having a fancy-restaruant-style Artichoke Festival at my house tonight. 3 courses, 3 different preparations of sunchokes. If I am feeling ambitious (or perhaps just stupid) I may even try to make an artichoke-based dessert. This sound gross, but my brain has been popping with possibilities- what about shredded artichoke in the coating of a Fried Ice Cream? What about timbales of sweetened artichoke puree, flavored with warm spices and served with plum sauce?It's gonna be a full-out night of Iron Chef at chez moi!

Affirmations:

Ideas Come From Writing. The More You Write The More They Will Flow.

Write First, Edit Later.

Get The Content Out Of Your Head And Onto The Page.

This Is Possible And I Am Capable.

I Am Doing This For Me.


...wash, rinse, repeat as needed...

There and back again

County roads through the Wisconsin Driftless Area are windy and make me nauseous.

Our campsite was isolated and overlooked a lake. Raccoons visited nightly and each time I was terrifically torn between the emotional desire to snorggle their cuteness and the knowledge that Wild Animals Are Not For Petting And Probably Have Rabies. (Raccoons are less scary than Possums.)

I couldn't find the sunscreen the first day, despite knowing that I'd packed it. My burn will fade to a tan, and that pleases me. When I think of myself in my mind-mirror, I am tan, and I like it. It's good when the mirror me and the me-mirror match. My shoulders feel a bit leathery and every time I get a new freckle-mole, I think thoughts about skin cancer. Much aloe vera is in order. Next time I'll pack my straw hat.

If it were not so cliche and hyperbolic, I'd say I have a sore gut muscle from laughing so hard. Instead I'll say the truth, which is that I laughed a lot, but that my sore gut muscle is probably from eating so much delicious food cooked over a fire.


I know I'm the overly emotive, touchy-feely one of the bunch, so please don't laugh when I say that I wish we had ended the long weekend with a group hug. I will try to convince myself that our round of beers at the Grumpy Troll was an equivalent in the parlance of the collective.

My apartment still seems oddly eerie and foreign. What is this thing called a ceiling, and why do I hear exhaust fans and not birdsong? My bed, however, is divine.

My coffee this morning was acrid and strong. I tempered it with cream leftover from the adventure. I'll probably cry a little when that bottle is empty.

Let's go camping again, and soon!

Spring and Fevers and Other Cliches

It's difficult to tell if my self-diagnosis is correct- I've been feeling blah and discontent with my self and my life for the past couple of months. Yet as the weather grows warmer and it becomes ever more evident that despite my best intentions, I will have to buy new and larger shorts yet again this year, my delight at the soft green buds on the maple trees and the soft yellow feathers of blooming forsythia that grace Other People's Gardens is not as absolute and transporting as it has been in years past. It does not displace my malcontent entirely. That still sits bleakly in my heart like a bald-headed vulture or a flaccid leftover parsnip discovered at the bottom of the vegetable drawer. Ugh. There is, however, a new and restless quality to my grumbly and petty unhappiness. Instead of wanting to roll up into a little hedgehog ball of prickly misery, I want to grow wings and escape, to get the hell out of this situation called adulthood where responsibility and decision-making lie heavy on my shoulders, and I am paralyzed by the knowledge that I must soon take a step and by the anxiety that any false step could seriously jeopardize my future well-being.

Do you think that if I followed the second star to the right and went straight on 'til morning I'd really find Never-Never Land?

Well, if I can't, the next best thing is surely a weekend spent camping in the woods with friends! I wasn't able to participate in the last two adventures, due to medical issues and school, but I am so excited about this one. I really, really need a change of scene and a chance to reconnect with friends and get inspired by their energy and bouyant hopes. (I promise to try not to be too much of a Debbie Downer.) I wish we were going this weekend... well, actually no, I don't because then I would miss the Super Awesome Sale at my favorite yarn store and the opening weekend of the new X-Men movie, but still!

I love planning for adventures almost as much as I love the adventures themselves. Not that I don't like spontaneous adventures, but there is something thrilling about making a list of the gear you will need to pack, assembling said gear into (many) tidy little bundles and then leaving everything else at home and heading off into the blue. Yes, I am that sick, sick person who loves to organize the first aid kit, brings a lot of gear, and gets mad at her husband when he doesn't want to get ready for the trip 3 days in advance, but just wants to thow some stuff into a paper bag and head off camping without a water bottle, sunscrean, bug repellent, or a rain coat. What can I say, once a Girl Scout, always a Girl Scout. Don't worry. I won't lecutre you about knife safety rules and if you forget your flashlight and are scared to go to the outhouse in the dark, you can borrow mine, and I won't even say 'I told you so'.

Recuperating

So, over the weekend I saw 7 feature-length films at the festival, worked an exam, finished a dull novel that I'd been tying to read for years, read a fascinating novel, and graded some student papers.

It felt good to be inundated with narrative, to think intensely about art, passion, love and humanity, but I think I over did it. I'm exhausted. My brain keeps on going, like a hamster on a wheel (except for not that furry and cute!)... I'm questioning everything- the value of education, the different branches of critical thinking, my role as a teacher and a scholar, if it's even possible to teach foreign language in a classroom. Meanwhile, my wrists are shaky and I just want to turn off my brain and take a nap for a month.

Yesterday we went for a bird walk and identified 2 new-to-us species: Cedar Waxwings and the (female) Golden-Crowned Kinglets. It was the first time we'd remembered to take both our (new!) binoculars and our bird book with us. Birdwatching with binoculars is much more rewarding than without, and I am excited to add more species to our list as the weather gets warmer and we spend more time outdoors.

In his training runs, J has seen loons several times. This area is generally too far south for loons, so he must have just seen some stopping over on their way further north. I am jealous that he saw any at all. I miss the Bemidji loons.

It's rain-snowing outside, and to keep the melancholy at bay I've got a pot of spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove. Instead of melancholy, nostalgia comes rushing into my heart as the house fills with the smell of garlic, tomatoes, roasty olive oil and black pepper. I've been eating this same spaghetti since before I can remember - the picture from my first birthday party show me wearing it on my face. We ate spaghetti once a week growing up, if at all possible, then on a Thursday, we eat it for Christmas Eve, and now every time I go home to visit, my mom makes spaghetti to welcome me.

It's one of those organic family recipies - I couldn't tell you how to make it if I tried, because I don't measure anything - I just add this and that until "it looks right." Which is how my mom makes it. Which is how her mom made it. Which is probably also how her mother-in-law made it. It cooks on the stove all day, simmering, simmering and covering the countertops in about sixty gazillion little crimson splatters which will piss me off tomorrow, but today don't bother me a bit because they're a part of the game, and the spaghetti wouldn't taste right if I covered it with a screen while it cooked.

What do you cook when you miss home?