So, it seems that summer's here, despite not officially beginning until June 20th (or 21st...I never really can remember.) Jacob and I are weather opposites, in that he hates dreary, overcast days. Just the mere presence of sunshine lifts his mood out from a 3/10 to a 7/10. Bring on the heat, humidity, sweat, and stickiness, so long as there's sunshine.
I, on the other hand, live for what I call "hoodie cuddle-weather" days. These days have very specific criteria: the sky must be overcast, but not raining. Humidity should be at a minimum, as should wind gusts. The temperature may NOT go above 65; 50 to 60 degrees is actually preferable. These, to me, are the kinds of days that make you want to put on a hoodie and cuddle with a warm body and cup of coffee/cocoa. I know that readers are going to break out their "to each his own" speeches long about now, but beyond simple personal preference, I have real, concrete reasons for my opinion:
1) The elderly and homeless don't have to be carefully monitored for possible DEATH on hoodie cuddle-weather days. Indeed, members of these two groups likely sleep best in this weather of non-extemes, and they needn't worry about heat stroke, dehydration, or death. Woot.
2) Pets with either neglectful or exceptionally dense owners needn't worry about death from heat in this weather. If they're chained outside all day because their owners are neglectful and/or busy people, by and large, Fido and Scruffy will (in terms of weather-related causes) still be alive upon their owners' return.
3) Fair-skinned people can venture outside more safely, without being greased up like a McDonald's french fry with sour-smelling SPF 110 sunscreen. Scientifically speaking, while UVA and UVB rays obviously still penetrate the atmosphere and ozone layer (what's left of it--hasn't there been a hole, since like, 2nd grade??) and clouds, these things at least help filter a little. Coupled with the wearing of the long-sleeved hoodie (most likely with pants/jeans, too), skin cancer causing agents aren't reaching bodies like me nearly as readily. As a result, sunburns, sun poisoning (NO FUN!!), and the like are fewer.
What, I ask then, is so freaking great about summer?? I need to move to Seattle, stat, where average lows are in the 50s year round and average highs are in the low 70s year round. And while there, I will do an amazing scientific study on skin cancer rates and summer heat-related death rates of the eldery/homeless THERE versus here. I will report back before I am summoned for my Nobel Prize or whatever they give for scientific crap. Heck if I know. :)
Monday, May 24, 2010
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Long time, no blog
So, I realized my last post was THREE months ago, which is pretty sad. I quit posting because I got a little busy, then had gallbladder surgery, and then spent the last few months recovering/tending to school stuff. So, there you have it. Sorry I've been neglectful. This is why I'm not a parent yet.
I should be working on my midterm right now, but I'm sitting here at the Soulard Bread Co drinking coffee and blogging like a true pretentious academic. And like a truly unpretentious grad student academic-wannabe, I have been job hunting and sending out transcript requests to good old EIU (how I miss you!) and fine-tuning the ol' CV, resume, teaching philosophy, and cover letter.
I've found 4 jobs to apply for, and hopefully one will work out. One is an online position (amazing to be able to work from my office in my PJs!), another is clear up in Springfield and would be a 2 hour round trip commute, but pays a lot. The other two are just temporary teaching positions nearby. Full-time at least, but both are disposable, instructor level jobs at two local universities. I'll take anything, but one of the first two would be amazing.
In other news, I'm super excited about getting to travel this holiday season and just the holidays in general. Lights seem to sparkle more around Christmastime (probably because there are more of them!), and families actually make time for each other. I just love this time of year. I wish it would be September-December year round. Or perhaps I should just move to Alaska, where'd I'd get my wish-equivalent, eh?
Now, onward and upward with this final exam, these applications/application matierals, and the holidays. Merry Christmas everyone! :o)
I should be working on my midterm right now, but I'm sitting here at the Soulard Bread Co drinking coffee and blogging like a true pretentious academic. And like a truly unpretentious grad student academic-wannabe, I have been job hunting and sending out transcript requests to good old EIU (how I miss you!) and fine-tuning the ol' CV, resume, teaching philosophy, and cover letter.
I've found 4 jobs to apply for, and hopefully one will work out. One is an online position (amazing to be able to work from my office in my PJs!), another is clear up in Springfield and would be a 2 hour round trip commute, but pays a lot. The other two are just temporary teaching positions nearby. Full-time at least, but both are disposable, instructor level jobs at two local universities. I'll take anything, but one of the first two would be amazing.
In other news, I'm super excited about getting to travel this holiday season and just the holidays in general. Lights seem to sparkle more around Christmastime (probably because there are more of them!), and families actually make time for each other. I just love this time of year. I wish it would be September-December year round. Or perhaps I should just move to Alaska, where'd I'd get my wish-equivalent, eh?
Now, onward and upward with this final exam, these applications/application matierals, and the holidays. Merry Christmas everyone! :o)
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Here's a peeve, for you!
I absolutely despise Hardee's commercials. I hate these commercials so much so that I refuse to eat at Hardee's. In high school, I went to Hardee's all the time--I love their food. It's just the freaking commercials that infuriate me.
About 6 or 7 years ago, Hardee's decided that it needed to revamp its image. The company was apparently tired of being a 'jack of all and master of none' (a description which I have often applied to my graduate education and me, but that's another blog or fifty). Anyway, Hardee's revamped itself by introducing the Thickburger and, subsequently, an entire line of massively unhealthy and oversized sandwiches. It isn't the food that bothers me. After all, who doesn't love a 1,200 calorie hunk of cow on a bun? Certainly not me!
I am, however, no longer Hardee's intended demographic. Their exceptionally narrow demographic is now men, ages roughly 18-45. Hardee's is losing over 1/2 the population by failing to market to women AT ALL. And not only do they fail to market to women, but in virtually every commercial, the women are simply commodities or identitiy-less sexed up bodies in the background of these commercials to please the men. Yes, guys. A few of those "tough guy" thickburgers, and you'll be exactly what those 'hot' women want.
Lest I make these claims with no evidence, please see exhibits A and B:
Lovely.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Dynasties are great.
I absolutely love my car. It's a 1988 Dodge Dynasty, and I will be the saddest girl alive when ol' girl finally dies. She's not pretty, and she's what Jacob refers to as "rode hard and put away wet". She also celebrated her 21st birthday this year--we're both products of the 80s, and call me old or deluded or whatever, but cars AND kids were made better back then. In terms of reliability, I'd put her up against any new car today.
Slowly but surely, non-essential components of the car have gone out. I fried the electrical system once trying to jump a dead battery (dumb me), and the radio and odometer haven't worked since. She's perpetually stuck at 98,231 miles, although now I'm sure it's about 110K. The old freon a/c quit working one summer and started shooting white powder out of the vents at me. The back left window doesn't roll down, and the fabulous 80s fake wood grain that decorate the insides are beginning to come unglued. The ceiling fabric began hanging down one summer, and I spent 2 hours one day pinning it with straight pins to give it the effect of a mattress. (Someone once commented that it looked like something on Pimp My Ride... I wouldn't go that far, but I pinned it in '04 and it's still intact in '09. Just sayin'.)
Despite all her imperfections, this is the same vehicle whose good condition always makes mechanics marvel. Her transmission is purring along perfectly, and has been since I was 6 years old. Our other car, an '02, needed a brand new transmission in '07. Just this year, her 21yr old muffler developed a hole. Our 7yr old car needed a new one at the same time. The same window is also broken on our '02 that broke on my car, in addition to the '02s sun roof. The radio in our '02 also quit working, and its electrical system was never fried by its stupid owner.
Dodge Dynasties were only made from '88-'93. So sad. My car makes me think of the old Aaron Tippin country song:
"The older she gets the slower we go
But there ain't nothin' wrong with the radio
She needs a carburetor, a set of plug wires
She's ridin' me around on four bald tires
The wipers don't work and the horn don't blow
But there ain't nothin' wrong with the radio..."
Okay, so it has fuel injection and the radio DID get fried. But there 'ain't nothing wrong' with parts that matter. She keeps trucking along, past the young cars of my friends and family as they sit in repair shops. Jokes about her looks are fine--she's beautiful in the inside--which is ultimately what counts for cars. :o)
Slowly but surely, non-essential components of the car have gone out. I fried the electrical system once trying to jump a dead battery (dumb me), and the radio and odometer haven't worked since. She's perpetually stuck at 98,231 miles, although now I'm sure it's about 110K. The old freon a/c quit working one summer and started shooting white powder out of the vents at me. The back left window doesn't roll down, and the fabulous 80s fake wood grain that decorate the insides are beginning to come unglued. The ceiling fabric began hanging down one summer, and I spent 2 hours one day pinning it with straight pins to give it the effect of a mattress. (Someone once commented that it looked like something on Pimp My Ride... I wouldn't go that far, but I pinned it in '04 and it's still intact in '09. Just sayin'.)
Despite all her imperfections, this is the same vehicle whose good condition always makes mechanics marvel. Her transmission is purring along perfectly, and has been since I was 6 years old. Our other car, an '02, needed a brand new transmission in '07. Just this year, her 21yr old muffler developed a hole. Our 7yr old car needed a new one at the same time. The same window is also broken on our '02 that broke on my car, in addition to the '02s sun roof. The radio in our '02 also quit working, and its electrical system was never fried by its stupid owner.
Dodge Dynasties were only made from '88-'93. So sad. My car makes me think of the old Aaron Tippin country song:
"The older she gets the slower we go
But there ain't nothin' wrong with the radio
She needs a carburetor, a set of plug wires
She's ridin' me around on four bald tires
The wipers don't work and the horn don't blow
But there ain't nothin' wrong with the radio..."
Okay, so it has fuel injection and the radio DID get fried. But there 'ain't nothing wrong' with parts that matter. She keeps trucking along, past the young cars of my friends and family as they sit in repair shops. Jokes about her looks are fine--she's beautiful in the inside--which is ultimately what counts for cars. :o)
Friday, September 4, 2009
Missing a gene?
I have steadily come to the realization in my old age (of 26, soon to be 27) that I am missing the so-called "maternal, feminine gene" that so many of my female friends and family have. The gene that makes one giddy and not horrified at the prospect of having children. The gene that makes one coo and drool and gush over the children of others. The gene that almost magnetically draws the women to the kitchen at Thanksgiving and the gene that similarly draws the men to the TV set on turkey day. The gene that makes one love to scrapbook and brunch and discuss men, mortgages, and marriages. (I do, however, have a great alliterative gene...Heh.) There's nothing wrong at all with this gene, and certainly it's not always specific to women. With my family, though, it is. And that's my disclaimer for the rest:
I wonder if I'll ever develop this gene. Even as a child, I avoided the kitchen like the plague at family gatherings. This was like a deep black hole of old school estrogen and activities that drove me crazy. How can you ladies be sitting in here chatting about the best recipe you discovered in Ladies Home Journal, when the guys are sitting out there watching Westerns and drinking Coke? Could you be more boring? These are not the thoughts of a 26 year old or even an angsty adolescent. I'm talking about being 5 or 6 years old and being completely baffled by this. Who wants to learn to baste a turkey (an extremely useful skill, no doubt) when there's soda and The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly out in the living room? My mother was scared for my husband when we got engaged. Apparently if I'm not skilled at the domestic arts, we might starve to death and begin to resemble Pig Pen from the Peanuts comics. To paraphrase an old college friend, 1950 called, and they want their ideas back. But I digress...
My stepbrother-in-law and his wife just had a baby after getting pregnant on their honeymoon (on purpose, might I add!!) This, of course, brought on the inevitable comments inquiring when we're having children and "oh, don't you look CUTE holding him!" Ugh, let me gouge out an eye now. Creating life is beautiful and necessary to continuing life on Earth. Kids are adorable and innocent and true blessings--I'm not a complete grinch! I applaud (and, to be quite honest, almost envy) those who have this above mentioned gene that makes them want to be mothers (or fathers--I guess I should clarify that I'm generalizing in this post about my own family--obviously not all women are like this!) I believe I have perpetual aunt syndrome. Rather than "always a bridesmaid, never a bride", my take on it is "always an aunt, never a mother".
My mom always said I'd be this way till I got married and had a kid. Well, 1 out of 2 has come and gone, and I still prefer drinks and Man Vs. Wild (last Easter) to perusing Martha Stewart's cupcake cookbooks and discussing snotty noses (also last Easter). I think my mom and I both know I'm a lost cause. I ruined 3 consecutive bowls of instant Malt-O-Meal yesterday (Jacob finally helped me an then fixed me some dinner). My 15 year old brother can bake better cookies than me. From scratch. I can't sew or knit and can only very poorly crochet (Jacob, however, can knit scarves that look store bought--they're beautiful!). I'm lightyears away from wanting kids (Jacob wants a "little red-haired girl" circa Charlie Brown's perpetual love interest in Peanuts). At holiday gatherings, Jacob goes to the kitchen, braves its contents--people and otherwise-- and gets me a Coke to have while we watch John Wayne movies (to which I introduced him). All of this makes me feel a little better, and I suspect is why we complement each other so well: Maybe I don't need to find my "missing" gene--I married someone with it. :o)
What a random string of thoughts here. I didn't sleep well last night. I'm blaming that.
I wonder if I'll ever develop this gene. Even as a child, I avoided the kitchen like the plague at family gatherings. This was like a deep black hole of old school estrogen and activities that drove me crazy. How can you ladies be sitting in here chatting about the best recipe you discovered in Ladies Home Journal, when the guys are sitting out there watching Westerns and drinking Coke? Could you be more boring? These are not the thoughts of a 26 year old or even an angsty adolescent. I'm talking about being 5 or 6 years old and being completely baffled by this. Who wants to learn to baste a turkey (an extremely useful skill, no doubt) when there's soda and The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly out in the living room? My mother was scared for my husband when we got engaged. Apparently if I'm not skilled at the domestic arts, we might starve to death and begin to resemble Pig Pen from the Peanuts comics. To paraphrase an old college friend, 1950 called, and they want their ideas back. But I digress...
My stepbrother-in-law and his wife just had a baby after getting pregnant on their honeymoon (on purpose, might I add!!) This, of course, brought on the inevitable comments inquiring when we're having children and "oh, don't you look CUTE holding him!" Ugh, let me gouge out an eye now. Creating life is beautiful and necessary to continuing life on Earth. Kids are adorable and innocent and true blessings--I'm not a complete grinch! I applaud (and, to be quite honest, almost envy) those who have this above mentioned gene that makes them want to be mothers (or fathers--I guess I should clarify that I'm generalizing in this post about my own family--obviously not all women are like this!) I believe I have perpetual aunt syndrome. Rather than "always a bridesmaid, never a bride", my take on it is "always an aunt, never a mother".
My mom always said I'd be this way till I got married and had a kid. Well, 1 out of 2 has come and gone, and I still prefer drinks and Man Vs. Wild (last Easter) to perusing Martha Stewart's cupcake cookbooks and discussing snotty noses (also last Easter). I think my mom and I both know I'm a lost cause. I ruined 3 consecutive bowls of instant Malt-O-Meal yesterday (Jacob finally helped me an then fixed me some dinner). My 15 year old brother can bake better cookies than me. From scratch. I can't sew or knit and can only very poorly crochet (Jacob, however, can knit scarves that look store bought--they're beautiful!). I'm lightyears away from wanting kids (Jacob wants a "little red-haired girl" circa Charlie Brown's perpetual love interest in Peanuts). At holiday gatherings, Jacob goes to the kitchen, braves its contents--people and otherwise-- and gets me a Coke to have while we watch John Wayne movies (to which I introduced him). All of this makes me feel a little better, and I suspect is why we complement each other so well: Maybe I don't need to find my "missing" gene--I married someone with it. :o)
What a random string of thoughts here. I didn't sleep well last night. I'm blaming that.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Recent frustrations
So, as many people know, I'm in the middle of lots of glorious drama revolving around my attempt to get my gallbladder removed. I've been super healthy my entire life--except for a broken foot in 8th grade from tripping over a fake hurdle in P.E... don't ask--so I am not used to being "sick". Apparently, after doctors told me I had indigestion or bad heartburn (if one more doctor hands me Maalox in a patronizing fashion, I will hurt him/her. I promise), they finally discovered I have a gallbladder full of stones and sludge (medical term there, sludge) and a gall bladder that takes about a day and a half to empty, rather than the normal 30 minutes or so. When it does try to empty, stones and sludge block some duct and causes pain others have likened to being worse than labor. Gallbladder attacks mimic a heart attack, and so far there have been 2 delightful ER visits (and yes, since I know you're dying of curiosity, I got Maalox there, too). "Hello, I can't breathe, my upper left abdomen hurts to press on, I am nauseous, and I am 26 and have never, ever, ever had heartburn. By all means, bring on the freaking Maalox." Idiots.
After being pumped full of Demerol, and feeling quite drunk (or high, possibly--don't know, because DARE worked for me), I was sent home. This was July 18th. It is now September, and I am still trying to get an appointment for surgery. An appointment--just a plan for future surgery. If I can't get in till next March or something, fine. Peachy. Just let me know! I actually had an appointment today for surgery with Dr. X. I called to confirm the appointment, and after confusing all the secretaries in Dr. X's office, I was finally forwarded to a random Dr. Y's office. Evidently, I had an appointment with this random doctor whom I'd never heard of and who specializes in trauma surgeries. Yes, trauma. The cherry on top of this screwed up sundae is that the appointment with him wasn't even for surgery. And, alas, I find myself waiting not only for surgery, but also waiting to even be able to make the appointment for surgery, as Dr. X "will be out sick for two weeks starting on Wednesday." Wtf. That's not being sick. That's a secret trip to Cabo, dummies in Human Resources.
But in the meantime, I've got prescriptions for Vicodin, some sort of anti-nausea medication, and a self-imposed 0-2grams of fat per day diet (since the gallbladder is a holding cell for the liver to break down alcohol and fat, it should follow logically that the gallbladder is removed from the equation if there's no fat with which the liver needs assistance.) So, I should be golden until the horribly inefficient hospital bureaucracy finally squeezes me in somewhere. And if not, at least I know where to go to feed my newfound Maalox habit...
After being pumped full of Demerol, and feeling quite drunk (or high, possibly--don't know, because DARE worked for me), I was sent home. This was July 18th. It is now September, and I am still trying to get an appointment for surgery. An appointment--just a plan for future surgery. If I can't get in till next March or something, fine. Peachy. Just let me know! I actually had an appointment today for surgery with Dr. X. I called to confirm the appointment, and after confusing all the secretaries in Dr. X's office, I was finally forwarded to a random Dr. Y's office. Evidently, I had an appointment with this random doctor whom I'd never heard of and who specializes in trauma surgeries. Yes, trauma. The cherry on top of this screwed up sundae is that the appointment with him wasn't even for surgery. And, alas, I find myself waiting not only for surgery, but also waiting to even be able to make the appointment for surgery, as Dr. X "will be out sick for two weeks starting on Wednesday." Wtf. That's not being sick. That's a secret trip to Cabo, dummies in Human Resources.
But in the meantime, I've got prescriptions for Vicodin, some sort of anti-nausea medication, and a self-imposed 0-2grams of fat per day diet (since the gallbladder is a holding cell for the liver to break down alcohol and fat, it should follow logically that the gallbladder is removed from the equation if there's no fat with which the liver needs assistance.) So, I should be golden until the horribly inefficient hospital bureaucracy finally squeezes me in somewhere. And if not, at least I know where to go to feed my newfound Maalox habit...
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Startin' It Up, No Prince Included...
Just created the ol' blog today, and I thought I'd clarify the name of the blog with a little bit of back story...
In my senior English class, waaaaaay back in 1999, we were required to buy a standard 70 page, college ruled notebook, and simply fill it. No requirements. The words written on the pages didn't even have to be our own--a lot of lazies simply filled in song lyrics they copied from CD liners or copied pages out of books. The idea was to just get kids writing (because, as we all know, high school English classes are often pathetic in terms of the knowledge of writing and grammar transferred to students).
Anyway, for my project, I decided I would fill the notebook with pet peeves. I entered 681 things that annoyed me. No duplicates, and no spaces between lines. 70 solid pages of annoyances, some self-explanatory, others requiring explanation. Above all else, it was theraputic. This notebook came with me everywhere: my soccer games, dates with Jacob, family vacations, work as a Subway Sandwich Artist... There are great pics of Mother's Day 1999 spent out at Carlyle Lake, with everyone else cooking out and playing, and me fervishly venting in this notebook. Ninety-seven cents has never been so rewarding or so well spent.
There is a sad and somewhat ironic twist to this story. The last day of school, after having finished said English class with a 104% (no bragging here, just fact), I stopped to use the bathroom before driving myself home from high school for the last time. I sat my peeves notebook, backpack, and gym bag on the lid of a large flat-top trash can outside the restroom. I went in, did my business, and was back out in 2 minutes, tops. My backpack and gym bag were on the ground, and my notebook was nowhere to be found. Apparently, in that two minutes, a janitor desperately needed that particular trash can and hauled away both the can and my pet peeves list. Totally deflated and not knowing where to even begin to find the trash can (and still riding the high of having just finished high school), I didn't pursue the notebook and went home. I wish I would have searched every can for that notebook--if for no other reason than to add peeve #682 to my notebook: overzealous janitors who throw away items that are clearly not trash.
And my sad story ends there. I like to think that I was blogging before blogging was cool. (Or, well, existed.) Somewhere between the "dear diarys" of my parent's generation and the megablogging of trendy 13 year olds falls my pet peeve notebook. From this experience from 10 years ago, I got the urge to create this blog. In the interest of not being a downer or boring, I will definitely stray from writing about annoyances. But for now... On to blogging like it's 1999, in 2009... :) Enjoy!
In my senior English class, waaaaaay back in 1999, we were required to buy a standard 70 page, college ruled notebook, and simply fill it. No requirements. The words written on the pages didn't even have to be our own--a lot of lazies simply filled in song lyrics they copied from CD liners or copied pages out of books. The idea was to just get kids writing (because, as we all know, high school English classes are often pathetic in terms of the knowledge of writing and grammar transferred to students).
Anyway, for my project, I decided I would fill the notebook with pet peeves. I entered 681 things that annoyed me. No duplicates, and no spaces between lines. 70 solid pages of annoyances, some self-explanatory, others requiring explanation. Above all else, it was theraputic. This notebook came with me everywhere: my soccer games, dates with Jacob, family vacations, work as a Subway Sandwich Artist... There are great pics of Mother's Day 1999 spent out at Carlyle Lake, with everyone else cooking out and playing, and me fervishly venting in this notebook. Ninety-seven cents has never been so rewarding or so well spent.
There is a sad and somewhat ironic twist to this story. The last day of school, after having finished said English class with a 104% (no bragging here, just fact), I stopped to use the bathroom before driving myself home from high school for the last time. I sat my peeves notebook, backpack, and gym bag on the lid of a large flat-top trash can outside the restroom. I went in, did my business, and was back out in 2 minutes, tops. My backpack and gym bag were on the ground, and my notebook was nowhere to be found. Apparently, in that two minutes, a janitor desperately needed that particular trash can and hauled away both the can and my pet peeves list. Totally deflated and not knowing where to even begin to find the trash can (and still riding the high of having just finished high school), I didn't pursue the notebook and went home. I wish I would have searched every can for that notebook--if for no other reason than to add peeve #682 to my notebook: overzealous janitors who throw away items that are clearly not trash.
And my sad story ends there. I like to think that I was blogging before blogging was cool. (Or, well, existed.) Somewhere between the "dear diarys" of my parent's generation and the megablogging of trendy 13 year olds falls my pet peeve notebook. From this experience from 10 years ago, I got the urge to create this blog. In the interest of not being a downer or boring, I will definitely stray from writing about annoyances. But for now... On to blogging like it's 1999, in 2009... :) Enjoy!
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