I'm a matchmaker

One of my children's lit students told me today that she'd be missing class the rest of the week because she's getting married. I realize that this is not particularly interesting information, but wait. . .

The real news is that she is marrying someone she met in the writing class she took from me last year (they were always chatty, but I didn't know they'd been courting). I realize that I can't really take credit for their meeting and marrying, but I like to think that I teach writing in a way that encourages love. If you know anyone who needs my services, let me know.

The best part is that no matter how much they may want to forget me or English 1010, the can't. I am a permanent part of their life history.

in the church of johnny cash

Today, I was listening to a CD of Johnny Cash spirituals (the God cd of the Love, God, Murder box set which I borrowed from a friend--ok, ex-boyfriend--and don't want to give back, but I gave it to him, so it doesn't matter, right?) Anyway, while I would rather listen to Johnny Cash sing murder ballads than sing about god, the cd got me to thinking that if religion were just about Johnny Cash singing about sin and salvation I would go to church every damn Sunday.

You're a Goop!

One of my children's lit students brought this book to class this week:

The Gloop Encycopedia (ca. 1916) details all of the bad habits that children have, such as:

Beginning, Not Finishing
Fidgety Dressing
Clothes Snobbery
Silliness and Giggling
Yawning

the list goes one.
The bad habits are presented with little rhymes. Here's a sampling:

"When you are waiting in a shop,
Don't handle things like Sandy Mopp;
He nibbles and he tastes and takes
Such things as crackers, nuts, and cakes.
The Grocery Man, when Sandy's near,
Says, "You're a Goop! Don't Come in here!"

The Gloops are big-headed featureless folks:



I'm so glad children's lit has evolved. Although, maybe I needed something like this when I was a kid because I think I had at least 60% of the bad habits listed.

conscious dreaming

This morning, I woke up early. I read a bit and then I fell back to sleep. And then this happened:

I watched an episode of I Love Lucy , but it was in color. And Ricky was wearing a pink suit. And he was doing the laundry. And Fred Mertz wasn't Fred Mertz, but George Costanza.

And then I decided to make my bed. But when I pulled back the covers there was a pile of squirming black creatures that sort of looked like earthworms and sort of looked like centipedes. And I tried to vacuum them up, but they moved really fast and crawled under my floor boards and into the walls.

And then I was listening to RadioWest and the lights went out. And none of the lights in the house would turn on, but the radio was still playing. And it was dark outside. And then I realized I had forgotten to lock my door. And suddenly someone was trying to get in, I could hear him breathing outside, and I was trying to hold the door closed.

And then I woke up. And I started thinking about dreams, how convincing they can be, and how waking up after a bad dream is the most exhausing thing in the world. It's a curious thing how convincing they can be when they are so improbable. Why, when I am dreaming, can my rational brain not recognize that:

1. If the lights won't turn on, the radio won't be playing.
2. George Costanza is not Fred Mertz
3. Ricky Ricardo does not wear pink suits
4. Ricky Ricardo does not do the laundry
5. I do not make my bed

If I could realize these things, I would not have to wake up exhausted thinking that someone was trying to get into my house or that I Love Lucy had been remastered in color. Someone told me recently how he had taught himself how to dream consciously and how he had knocked out someone in a dream who was trying to harm him. I wish I could learn to do this.

I don't have to know stuff. I've just got to legislate

Today, the news from our favorite state legislature was that a bill for massive new water projects moved successfully out of committee. The proposed water projects will end up costing $1 billion (conveniently, $1 billion is also the amount of the budget surplus). In the report on the bill's progress, various folks questioned the wisdom of moving forward on such expensive (and environmentally damaging) projects without focusing first on conservation. (Why should we get rid of our lawns if we can build a billion dollar damn?)One legislator (can't remember his name and can't get the story to replay on my computer) said that we should pursue these water projects or "stop drinking water." Jackie Bikupski asked whether the state has ever spent so much on a water project. And Mr. Legislator said, "I don't know. I don't know the history of water in this state." Oh yes, this is what we are blessed with. How can you possibly make a decision about water in the state if you don't know the history of water in the state? Especially when you live in a state that has such a complicated and contested history of water rights and usage.

as if you didn't already know, let me tell you: people are strange

Today, I rode the bus to and from Orem to spend time with my family (who complain that I don't visit them enough). I'm not sure why I rode the bus. Partly because the prescription on my lenses desperately needs to be adjusted and my already bad night vision has become horrific and me on the freeway at night with the very bad vision is not the best idea. Partly because I drive too much and occasionally the guilt gets to me. Anyway, I rode the bus. And riding the bus always provides insight into how odd people can be. Tonight's example: A guy had some sort of pink liquid (it looked like lemonade) in a plastic bottle. He shook the bottle vigorously as one might to mix up the pulp in juice. Then, he looked at the bottom of the bottle. Apparently he wasn't successful in mixing up whatever he intended to, because he started shaking the bottle again. Still no luck. He did this over and over--literally for 1/2 hour. It was baffling.

sometimes it's hard to be a woman

Disclaimer: Before I begin this post, I want to assert that while I have watched a couple of seasons of the Bachelor, I do not watch the show on a regular basis (this is for lynn, who thinks I'm addicted to all of the tv shows. While I don't watch the Bachelor regularly, I do very much like to watch the very end of the first episode because there is always one unstable woman who freaks out about being rejected by this man who she's only spoken to for 10 minutes. This week, there was a doozy. This season's spectacle was horrifyingly delicious in the way that only really bad reality tv can be. Apparently, in her brief conversation with the Bachelor (full of cliched desirability, this one--a doctor, and blond!) the crazy woman declared that she was in her reproductive stage. As you can imagine, this was a bit startling to the handsome doctor (the woman is a doctor, as well). When this woman was rejected, she started yelling at all the rejected bachelorettes: "What's wrong with men?! Why are all men such shitheads!" And then she yelled at the Bachelor: "What's wrong with me? Am I too short? Are my breasts too small? Why are you on this show if you don't want to reproduce?" Then she yelled at a member of the filming crew; "Do you know what's wrong with him? What's his problem? I guess I shouldn't have talked about reproducing." And then she started sobbing about how she tries to help people and how she gets nothing in return. And about how she's tried every kind of dating (online, dating service, and now this!) and nothing has worked. Oh, the poor woman.

Woman over a certain age have this reputation--that they only care about making babies, that they are only looking for men to be partners in reproduction. This woman was the stereotype taken to the extreme. Watching her, I thought how crazy she is, how she might want to relax--just a little.

Then, I read a blog posting by a food blogger who is also a gynecologist. She was taking a break from food blogging to write about her practice and women's reproductive health (a strange departure, and she actually took the post down later in the week); anyway, in the post, she had a chart that showed how women's reproductive ability plummets dramatically at a certain age. There is, in fact, a "reproductive stage" for women and if you miss it, you miss it. Men, on the other hand, don't face such limitations.

I've always been rather ambivalent about having kids, so it's hard for me to understand the urgency that some women feel. It's hard for me to understand how a woman can declare without any introduction that she is ready to reproduce and then curse her fate when a man doesn't immediately respond. But maybe I don't understand because I haven't yet reached the edge of that plummet into infertility.

This biological reality puts women in a tough position, I think. You're not supposed to care, you're not supposed to advertise your desire for children, you're not supposed to pursue relationships primarily to reproduce. And yet one's body can assert some pretty persuasive imperatives. And we are, after all, just animals.

euphemisms for death

This morning, the local news guy on KUER mentioned Ariel Sharon's stroke and his critical condition. He mentioned that the Israeli government was making various plans to respond to the crisis in that "Sharon won't be returning to politics." What a strange euphemism for what's actually going on--a critical illness, a hovering death. And my sister the other day referred to a really tragic death that dramatically affected her family as an "unforseen circumstance." I hate these euphemisms for death. I know why we do it--to protect ourselves from the realities of death, to not temp the fates, etc. But I think we should talk about death, look at the thing, call it by name. I'm curious--what euphemisms for death have you heard/ used?

On the topic of death, I have to say how dismayed I am to find out that Six Feet Under has five seasons, not four. I only recently started watching the show and I have a serious addiction. I won't tell you how quickly and dedicatedly I've watched each season--far too embarrassing. I recently finished season three and I felt a sense of relief that at least I only have one more season. And then the addiction can wrap up and I can move on. But no, there are five. Which means that once I finish season four, I have to wait anxiously for season five, which isn't yet on DVD, all caught up in wondering what happens to this fictional family in their fictional funeral parlor.

christmas tree deaths

I was out running today and the air smelled strongly of pine. At first, I thought it was just because of the recent warm weather waking up the sap or something. But then I realized it was abandoned Christmas trees, tossed out into the gutter. It seemed like every other house on my route had a tree outside. It's such a strange ritual, this chopping down of trees for a temporary decorative purpose. And I can't say that I don't understand the appeal. Growing up, I was mildly outraged when my parents stopped buying a natural tree and opted for the synthetic and reusable. The first year I lived in Illinois, I made my then-boyfriend help me tote a tree home and help me string cranberries and make ornaments out of cinnamon and applesauce. Something about the smell of pine in my living room made me feel less homesick, calmer. The abandoned trees reminded me of Hans Christian Anderson's sentimental tale of the little fir tree that desperately wants to leave the forest to become the mast on a sailing ship or, better yet, a Christmas tree. But it all turns out very sad, the once happy tree abandoned in an attic and then burned up in a big fire--all the while regretting how he didn't appreciate his life in the woods. The story is maudlin and asserts an obvious moral, but it always kills me. Maybe it's because when I was in kindergarten, they showed us a film version of the story. And I can still see the image of the fir tree being thrown haphazardly on the ground, the flames wrapping around its branches.