I know it's almost done, but. . .

I am blogging as a way to further postpone my grading, an act all of you can certainly understand. I know that if I just started working it would all be over soon, but I just can't seem to get enough motivation. I've spent the past few days catching up on Community Writing Center work, so now I'm tired and all I want to do is lay in my bed and read. It doesn't help that it's cold and rainy today.

I left my house, thinking that a change of scenery would help my motivation (and get me away from using housecleaning as an excuse for not grading--you know things are bad when housecleaning seems appealing). But here I am at the Cocoa Cafe, not grading. And I'm grumpy because they put way too much hazelnut syrup in my steamer.

I wish I weren't such a procrastinator. I've never been very good with the logic that if I just finishe a dreaded task it will be done and then I can move on. I think sometimes I really believe that if I wait long enough the dreaded task will go away.

Ok, back to grading.

wherein a housing application reveals my failings

I just spent an hour and a half filling out a housing application. Doing so has made me feel like a total loser. I am not a very good keeper of information and they ask all these questions that I should know but don't. These are things I do not know:

• My license plate number
• The name/ number of my previous landlord
• My savings account number
• The telephone #/ address of several good friends
• The address of my employer
• My gross monthly income

Some of these things I can find out easily, some with more difficulty, some are lost forever. I should have a file or something labeled "Important Information." Alas, even if I did have such a file I would probably forget to file anything in it and the Important Information would be stacked in a pile on my desk somewhere. And it's not that I don't have a system at all. I have a way to get all of this information, but it's not very efficient. I used to call my dad repeatedly for phone numbers of family and friends; he would always tell me that I should get an address book. What he didn't understand is that I did have an address book--him. But I could tell I was annoying him, so I bought a book. And it is handy--when I can find it.

I have visions sometimes of me becoming an organized woman, of knowing where to find information when I need it. But I fear it will never happen. And this is what makes me feel like a loser. I imagine that if I were more organized, then I would be more together in all aspects of life. Luckily there is the Internet and a system that only requires four little numbers to access my money. Otherwise, I would probably be living in a shack with my money shoved under the mattress.

Well, here's hoping that my failure to keep track of all that Important Information will not stop me from getting to live at the swank new apartment.

just so you can save some money in your budget. . .

Jenna Bush is apparently writing a book for children:

“The president's daughter, 25, says the book …is aimed at ‘getting kidsthinking and involved’…’there's so much they can do’ to deal withissues of ‘exclusion’ — from research on HIV discriminationto ‘inviting new kids to sit with them in the cafeteria.’"

I'm a little skeptical about this, but she says she's going to donate the proceeds to UNICEF so I do have to give her some credit for that. You can read more here.

unlucky thirteen?

My four-year-old nephew has no concept of the number 13. He seems to be aware that the number 13 exists, but he has no sense of where it belongs. He also understands that there is a number between 12 and 14, but for him that number is 14. In his world, there are two 14s.

The other day we were playing "Bubblegum, bubblegum in a dish" and I told him that I wanted 13 wishes (just to entertain myself). He counted up: "12, 14, 14, 15, 16" getting all the way to 21 before I stopped him. I told him that he'd missed thirteen. He started over: 12, 14, 14.

on memory

I feel like if I never blog that when I do I have to offer something really worthwhile. But don't get your hopes up, people.

This morning, Will and I were talking about romance novel covers after having been sent this by Sarah of 3 Tarts. Suddenly I had this memory of a Christmas party from when I was a tutor at UVSC. We did white elephant gifts and someone brought a romance novel. A co-worker read the back cover, giving a compelling performance that had all of us on the floor laughing. The thing about the memory was that I had completely forgotten about that co-worker. She was a woman that I liked and respected and until that moment it was as if she hadn't existed. It was a shock to suddenly see her face, hear her voice. I still can't remember her name.

It has me thinking about all the people that come into our lives only to get lost somewhere in our memory. And why our memory brings them back at certain times. I wonder what else or who else I've forgotten.

all hail the sun

I am a sun worshipper. I forget this sometimes, but it's true. I live for sun. I'm surprised I haven't yet made a soltice pilgrimage to the sun tunnels to burn sage and dance in circles (or whatever a proper sun worshipper might do).

When I was making grad school decisions, the clincher was probably reading somewhere that Ft. Collins has 360 days of sunshine a year (and it pretty much did). Once, during an atypical week of cloudy skies a professor remarked that the sun better come out soon or students would start killing themselves. I also briefly considered attending college in Fairbanks, Alaska until I read that it had the highest suicide rate in the nation (along with other extreme responses to cabin fever).

Now I live in the land of smog. It's smog people, not that hopeful " haze." Air so thick and dirty, it coats your car. Sometimes I even forget that there is a sun--a total faith crisis.

But luckily if you drive high enough (maybe those Babel tower building folks lived in an inversion) you can find some evidence for your tenacious faith. Sun. Real sun, not sun that sets behind smog before it retreats behind the real horizon.

Today, Will and I hiked (so little snow you can hike) up to Dog Lake. At the top, the sky was blue and fierce. There was so much sun that I didn't have to wear gloves or a coat or a hat. I was so ecstatic, I even climbed a tree (which didn't go so well, the tree being a wobbly aspen).

This is just to assure all of you Salt Lakers that there is still a sun.

how I spent my christmas vacation

I may not have been to Spain or Scotland, but I did briefly escape from the valley and the smog (which today, thankfully, gloriously has disappeared).

First to a yurt in the Uintas (Lily Lake) for Christmas. This included 5 1/2 miles of cross-country skiing with a backpack which is an impressive feat for a girl who had never put on a pair of skis until this winter (and who desperately hates winter).

Cross-country skiing is pretty fun and winter camping is made tolerable with wood floors, canvas walls, and a stove.

For New Year's, we cruised off to Vegas, but stayed totally out of Vegas (except for a trip to Trader Joe's) . I detest Vegas and have know realized that the only way it is worth seeing is from a Sandstone peak miles away in Red Rocks. We camped, we hiked, we climbed (well, mostly Will climbed. I was kind of in a wimpy mood). On New Year's eve, we fell asleep at 8:30, but we did wake up for three subsequent countdowns (couldn't they have coordinated a little?) in the campground and some ill-advised fireworks. It was, I think, the best New Year's I've ever had.

hey, that new james bond is really good

uh, I mean hot. I don't really like beefy guys with chiseled features, but there's something about this new Bond. Even the boyfriend has a man crush.

I don't particularly like James Bond movies, but there's something about this new one that I really like. Maybe it's that he's not so slick and polished (in the Bond, James Bond way). There's a beautiful moment where he orders a martini; the bartender asks him whether he wants it shaken or stirred and he replies, "Do I look like I give a damn?" It was refreshing seeing Bond not quite so Bond.

Of course, if they make more movies with this guy, he's going to have to become Bond of the shaken martini, and I think I'll like him much less.

Oh well, it's a good flick. I still haven't figured out why, but it's good. Really. Go see it.

stop that blathering

You know how it is. You read your students' papers and you just want to fill up the margins with big red letters asking, "What the fuck?!" You hold back--you don't want to be that mean. But you're certain that they didn't try at all, that they haven't been listening or reading or caring. You try to look for the effort in the work, but you are pretty sure it's all just a lot of blather.


I've had this experience way too many times this semester. Then, the other night, I ran across an old college paper, from my later Brit survey. It was about Hopkins--God's Grandeur, Binsey Poplars, inscape, instress. It was just a short paper, 3 pages. I got a bad grade on it, a big old B-. And my teacher's comments were mean. He told me that I was just using words to impress, without thinking about what they mean. He said that the ideas didn't seem considered at all, just a bunch of blather. He actually said "blather." I remember writing this paper. I was really excited about my idea (I loved Hopkins) and I couldn't exactly work it out. But I tried. I actually wanted to work out my thoughts. I also remember being very disappointed with my teacher's comments (mean old Dr. Best); I was less concerned about the grade then the complete dismissal of my thoughts and efforts.

So now I'm thinking that I'm turning into the mean old teacher and maybe I need to remember that just because my students don't get it exactly right doesn't mean that they aren't trying or thinking. It's a bit eye-opening. I think maybe I should read those Dr. Best comments before every batch of grading, just to keep perspective.


Side note that may or may not ruin my epiphany: today a student who has been a complete slacker--he submitted a lame review of The Fast and the Furious when he was supposed to do Critical Discourse Analysis--gave me a draft of his final project. Apparently his IQ has gone up about 100 points in the last week. Totally plagiarized. This is a new one for me--submitting a plagiarized draft (and I didn't even ask them for one).

gloomy democracy

During the fall of my senior year of high school, I went out with a couple of friends to steal campaign signs. We gathered them up from various corners around town, stacked them up in the back of the car, and delivered them all to the front lawn of a boy one of us (or all of us) liked. At the time, we thought that our actions were both a) rebellious and b) meaningful. Oh and we also thought we were funny. How wrong we were on all accounts.

So now it's fall again, election time again, and I am older. Today, I drove past dozens of campaign signs. I didn't steal any of them, but I did sort of want to pull down all of the ones for Mr. Orrin (because really wouldn't the world be better off if he could just dedicate all of his time to his music?) I went to my polling station at the Parklane Senior Apartments. I used the fancy new voting machine and made all of my choices; I opted not to do the easy straight ticket option because for some reason I like the act of selecting each candidate. I am more of a citizen than I was back in high school, stealing campaign signs. I can vote; I make choices based on research, thoughtful consideration, and firm hope for change. But I am not certain that my act now is any more meaningful than stealing campaign signs was back in high school. I will watch election returns tonight and I will see that most of what I voted for, hoped for will not go my way. I may get one or two nods that my opinion matters. But most likely, I will have to wait another two years, biting my lip, hoping for change.

Halloween costume, help!

So I have to go to a party on Saturday, one that I didn't know about until yesterday (thanks, w.). I need a costume and I got nothing--except for this hat. So your job, blog reading pals, is to look at this hat (with me in two different moods, so you can consider a range possibilities) and tell me how to build a costume from it. I'm counting on you all, so let's hear those ideas.

I'll take my Pibb straight up, thank you

The other night I went to the movie over at the Hateway and the line for the Prestige was long (who knew it would be so popular?); we were stuck at the back, around two corners, and the usher kept telling us to squish together because they were running out of room for the line. Squish together? Not so long ago I got stuck in an elevator at the Hateway and that was pretty horrific, but being told to squish up with a bunch of movie-goers seemed worse. The only good thing about being stuck in a big line of people while awaiting a movie is getting to listen in on people's conversations and I found a gem:

Wife to Husband: Well, I guess you could get me a Mr. Pibb, but that will keep me buzzing all night. So, if you want that, get me a Mr. Pibb. But the Coke. . . . Tell you what, get me a Mr. Pibb with a lot of ice and if I can't handle it, I'll dump it out before we get into the theater.


Only in Utah, folks. Only in Utah.

a tale of two classes

This semester I'm teaching two sections of the same class and they meet on alternating days. One class makes me feel like a terrible teacher. While there are a few engaged students, most of them look at me like I am doofus with lame ideas. They make me feel like that teacher in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Every time the class ends I think I should probably get a new career.

And then the next day comes and I go to class number two and all of the things that failed miserably yesterday work beautifully. They ask questions, they pay attention, they seem to get it--and better yet, like it. They make me feel like the math teacher in Better Off Dead, where the students anxiously await their opportunity to turn in assignments. I leave the class completely renewed, yet dreading the next day.

What to do? I'm not sure that it's possible for me to change so much from day to day. It must be them. But maybe it is me, and if it is, what's going wrong. Does the one class sense that I dread teaching them? Is it because I wore jeans on the first day of the bad class? Fellow teachers, help!

fall break: in which the desert reminds you that summer is over and you may as well suck it up

The thing about the desert is that it never rains. Unless it does rain and then it really rains.

Over the weekend, I went on a much-anticipated paddling trip on the Green River, through Labyrinth Canyon, a 68-mile stretch of flatwater between Green River and Moab. I've been wanting to make the trip for years and trying to plan a trip for at least a year and finally all of my fellow paddlers figured out a weekend that would fit our schedules.

I anticipated that the trip would give me a final dose of hot sun before the inevitable winter blues set in. I expected to be wearing shorts and tank tops and relaxing. I even bought a new cooler to fill up with ice and beer.

Ha, ha, ha.

What I needed was a constantly brewing coffee pot.

It rained at least three inches over two days. The river gained four feet of depth, maybe more. Waterfalls cascaded all around us. The river was full of floating logs, garbage (and we're pretty certain, sewage). We had to make an early morning canoe rescue because the shore had disappeared over night. We did jumping jacks to keep warm on a one foot wide stretch of sand where we stopped to eat lunch. We paddled thirty-four miles in one day and paddled well beyond sunset because all of the campsites were under water. Not exactly what I had expected.

The rain that we experienced flooded Hanksville, a hundred year flood apparently. The trip was wet and soggy and cold, but it was damn amazing. I've always wanted to see a flash flood, but not be in it and I think I got pretty close. Watching the rain tumble down the canyon walls, watching streams form and surge and disappear in a matter of hours, watching pounds of silt shift and collect, I felt like all of the desert's secrets were being revealed.

a fine piece of reporting

That Salt Lake Tribune. Thank god we have them to really help us understand the complexities of gender and incarceration:

Women in Prison: Even Jailed, Girls Can Be Girls


Let me just offer up the article's opening paragraphs:

"In prison, lipstick is more than a concoction of wax and oil that glides on a woman's full, shapely lips.
Ruby Rush, Latte Lush and Cocoa Delicious are shades of feminism, a woman's link to her inner self. Lipstick distinguishes her in a place that is otherwise drab and gray, making her feel human, even sexy, while she bides her time before she can rejoin the outside world."

Which leads me to the question of what shade of feminist am I? Plum Brulee*, since I am the sort of feminist who likes to sport an apron--a third wave kind of girl? Earth Rose, since we're all connected: earth mother, mother, woman, ecofeminism, it's all about the womb, you know what I mean? Beyond Pink, because don't we really just need to get beyond these constructions of gender? First wave, second wave, third wave--whatever. It's all about the lipstick.


*(these lipstick colors courtesy of L'Oreal)

it's not that the music is so loud, it's that the music really sucks

My neighbor listens to his music really loud. . .really, really loud. Every neighbor (including me) has knocked on his door to ask him to please turn down the music. And he does (for an hour or two). The crazy landlord even came by one day and pulled out his cable connection because he was so disturbed by the loud music and the complaints. But it never stops. And here I am, trying to grade papers, and trying to listen to This American Life. And this is what I have to listen to in the background:

Kelly Clarkson
Prince (ok, Prince can be good, but he's listening to "Purple Rain")
Christina Aguilera
and it goes on. . .

Really, it's terrible.

all the things I should have said about zach braff

sometimes someone gets it all right, says all the right things:

"Why I hate Zach Braff." A perfectly accurate and beautifully articulated assessment of that paragon of twenty-something lameness. by Josh Levin.

Read it.

Bollywood is Beautiful

The other night my sis and I watched a Bollywood film that I had randomly selected from Blockbuster's shelves: Pyaar Diwana Hota Hai (I loved the Blockbuster computer's efforts to pronounce this when it called to remind me of its overdue status). Well, we sort of watched it. We fast-forwarded through most of the dialogue and primarily focused our attention on the song and dance numbers (the movie was 2 1/2 hours long and we just couldn't bear it).

The movie pleased us in all the ways Bollywood should: ridiculous dialogue, spontaneous musical numbers with multiple scene and costume changes. The movie also had some seriously bad fashion. But what I really loved about this movie was its unapologetic mixing of genres. It began as a comedy, with the hero trying to catch a train. While the scenery around him remained static, his movements were sped up, frantic. In the love numbers, the hero and herione danced around in snow. So, we have the requisite water scene, but rendered more playfully in snow rather than the oh-so-erotic water of oceans, fountains, or rain. The characters were absurd, the premise was absurd (the charming couple meet with the pretense that both are mute).

But then, the tone shifted dramatically (more so perhaps because we fast-forwarded). By the end of the film, it was a grand tragedy. The movie ended in the moonlight, by the Taj Mahal. We learn that Sundar, our hero, in a fit of guilt over lying to his love about being mute (he perpetuated the myth because he felt that if Payal knew the truth she would no longer love him) has cut off his tongue. So now, even though Payal has declared her love despite the betrayal, will never hear the words she so longs to hear: "Tell me you love me Sundar. Say it: 'Payal, I love you.'" The movie ends with Payal sobbing against Sundar's chest.

Oh it was fantastic. I was laughing for ages. There should be more movies like this, that begin so wholly in one genre and flip unapologetically to another.

i love the dance (movie, that is)

So this should settle with some finality the lingering question of whether or not I am really unhip: the other night I went to see Step Up, a movie that many teenage Yahoo users have declared the BEST MOVIE EVERRRRRRRR!!!!!! And I didn't go to this movie because someone coerced me. No, I saw this movie because I wanted to. You hear that? I wanted to.

I love dance movies and luckily I have two sisters who also love them, so we go to every one. Ok, we missed Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights.

Why do I love the dance movie?

1. The plot. Boy dances. Girl dances. Boy and/or girl feels uncertain about life and self. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl dance. Boy and girl find new certainty. Boy disappoints girl (or vice versa). Boy and girl no longer dance. Uncertainty returns. Boy dances, girl dances--alone (but what about the dance, all the steps they were learning together?). Camera moves from girl dancing, to boy dancing, to some climatic plot device, the camera moves faster, the music crescendos. Boy and girl realize they need each other. They dance. There is joy.

2. At the end of dance movies, people in the theater dance. They dance badly. And no one cares.

3. The one thing that I really wish I could do but cannot is dance. In my dreams, I am a tap dancer, break dancer, ballerina, fly girl. It all sounds good to me.

4. Because I watched Breakin' too many times when I was a kid. I think this is where it all started. We watched it all night once at a slumber party, so many times that by the morning I had every line memorized. I can still remember the pivotal scene Kelly and Ozone on the beach. The drama! (I never did see, however, Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo)

a usage puzzle

You know those times when a certain word or phrase keeps popping up, as if the phrase wants to get noticed, has been feeling a little neglected, underappreciated. Recently, that phrase for me has been, strangely enough,"salty dog."

Usage #1: Recently I was listening to American Routes and Spitzer played a version of "The Salty Dog Blues," noting that "salty dog" was slang for a certain--ahem--oral activity.

Usage #2: Then, while visiting Friday Harbor, W. referred to some students returning from a seabound research trip as "salty dogs."

A few usages I don't want to think about: This led us to look for a defininitive defintion, including a trip to urbandictionary.com which provided some disturbing, yet amusing, alternative definitions. Not exactly what Spitzer was suggesting (far, far dirtier), but in the same direction.

It's not just me who wonders what this phrase means: Yesterday, while waiting for my iced coffee, one of the baristas referred to a customer as a "salty dog." Then she asked, "What does that mean? Is that dirty?" Someone suggested the sea-worn and ragged connotation, but there was still the lingering question.

So, you smarties, what's your take on "salty dog"? If we take "Salty Dog Blues," there's clear evidence for usage #2: "Standin on the corner with the low down blues/
Great big hole in the bottom of my shoes/ Honey let me be your Salty Dog." But with a bit of imagination, you can understand the logic of usage #1.

Anxiously waiting for your guesses, arguments and usage examples.