Do sheep bite?
If I were a sheep, I'd totally want to live here.
We don't have sheep in America, do we?
How do you tell the difference between a sheep and a lamb?
I think the lambs are the little ones. Except there are rams, too. I'm not sure how they fit in.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
On a Cliff's Edge
Today three dozen undergraduates and I climbed through torrential rain, gale-force winds, and a steady slamming stream of tiny hail stones to a prehistoric fort perched on a cliff's edge at the very end of the civilized world. Just another typical day in the life of a typical European history professor. Sort of.
It's a good life, all in all. The pay is crummy but the perks are splendid. At least if you like fierce winds and dramatic rain and the icy cold that slices through your skin and settles deep within your bones. Which I do. Always have. It's weather with integrity, sharp-edged, clearcut, purposeful, direct. Not like the miasmic heat of the Deep South, the humidity that envelops you, the heat that first lures you in--"shush now," it whispers, "just slow down, have a rest, why don't you put your feet up and have a nice cold drink?"--and then warmly smiles as you slowly suffocate.
After I made my way down from the cliffs, I sat on the bus, my jeans completely soaked, icy cold against my skin. And just like a certain smell can suddenly catapult you into a memory so vivid, so present, that the lines of time and space collapse, so this physical sensation sent me spinning into Mrs. Wolterstorff's third grade classroom. Eight years old, just in from recess, the windows all fogged up, water beneath my desk puddling up as the snow embedded in my corduroys slowly thawed, the cold and clammy cotton firmly stuck to my thighs, my feet little blocks of ice within wet socks. This is not, actually, a happy memory. I was an extraordinarily grumpy child, and I sat there on my plastic seat, my hands so cold they burned, even my underpants soaked from the snow, and I glowered at Mrs. Wolterstorff. How in the world, thought my indignant eight-year-old self, can I be expected to concentrate on homophones and homonyms while my butt itches and prickles as it thaws?
I imagine many of my students, Deep Southerners born and bred, were asking themselves something along those lines today. But, the thing is, integrity is not comfortable. It cuts and chills and makes your butt prickle. Still, it's rather bracing when you're perched on a cliff's edge at the end of the civilized world.
It's a good life, all in all. The pay is crummy but the perks are splendid. At least if you like fierce winds and dramatic rain and the icy cold that slices through your skin and settles deep within your bones. Which I do. Always have. It's weather with integrity, sharp-edged, clearcut, purposeful, direct. Not like the miasmic heat of the Deep South, the humidity that envelops you, the heat that first lures you in--"shush now," it whispers, "just slow down, have a rest, why don't you put your feet up and have a nice cold drink?"--and then warmly smiles as you slowly suffocate.
After I made my way down from the cliffs, I sat on the bus, my jeans completely soaked, icy cold against my skin. And just like a certain smell can suddenly catapult you into a memory so vivid, so present, that the lines of time and space collapse, so this physical sensation sent me spinning into Mrs. Wolterstorff's third grade classroom. Eight years old, just in from recess, the windows all fogged up, water beneath my desk puddling up as the snow embedded in my corduroys slowly thawed, the cold and clammy cotton firmly stuck to my thighs, my feet little blocks of ice within wet socks. This is not, actually, a happy memory. I was an extraordinarily grumpy child, and I sat there on my plastic seat, my hands so cold they burned, even my underpants soaked from the snow, and I glowered at Mrs. Wolterstorff. How in the world, thought my indignant eight-year-old self, can I be expected to concentrate on homophones and homonyms while my butt itches and prickles as it thaws?
I imagine many of my students, Deep Southerners born and bred, were asking themselves something along those lines today. But, the thing is, integrity is not comfortable. It cuts and chills and makes your butt prickle. Still, it's rather bracing when you're perched on a cliff's edge at the end of the civilized world.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
High Maintenance Chick
Yesterday I turned 51--guess I should re-name this blog something along the lines of "Fumbling thru My 50s." Looking back on this last year, I'm not sure I've learned much to guide me through my next five decades. I have, however, changed. I have become a High Maintenance Chick.
I guess I took my first faltering steps toward high-maintenance chickdom a decade ago, when I first started coloring my hair. So it begins. A moment of impulse, a sudden desire for a bit more vibrancy, and there you are, committed to a lifetime of horrendously high beauty salon bills for roots touch-ups, highlights, lowlights, middle-of-the-road lights, plus of course all the necessary accompaniments like gels and waxes.
I might, however, have confined my maintenance to the region above my neck had it not been for my niece. It's all her fault. It was Anne who lured me on to the fast lanes of the high maintenance road by convincing me to join her for a spa pedicure. Pedicures are the crack of Chickdom. Once you've looked down and caught sight of your toes winking colorfully back up at you, callouses all filed away, heels glowing softly, you're done for, caught, addicted. From regular pedicures to weekly manicures is hardly a jump, more of a quick hop, really. Your toes look so good, it dawns on you that the time has come to stop gnawing on your nails and nibbling on your cuticles; you long to present to the world a hand not adorned with bleeding stumps.
It was also Anne who convinced me of the delights of bikini waxing. Once you've endured the hot waxing of Down There, slapping some more of the hot stuff on the brows and chin just seems, well, required. And what's the point of sporting shapely brows if they're so blonde no one can admire them? One must book a brow tint. And as long as one is having one's brows tinted, well, why not dye those long, thick, but blonde eyelashes as well? Suddenly, freedom from mascara seems a right rather than a luxury.
And that's it. If you're having your eyelashes tinted, that's it. You are officially a High Maintenance Chick.
Or at least, I am. Somehow, much to my surprise and discomfort, I find that I'm a 51-year-old HMC. This was not in The Plan. But the thing is, so many things have happened that were not in The Plan--some of them terrific, but many of them Decidedly Not--despite my best efforts to be Very Very Good. So now I'm not being good. Instead, I'm just feeling good. No plan. Just a lot of maintenance.
I guess I took my first faltering steps toward high-maintenance chickdom a decade ago, when I first started coloring my hair. So it begins. A moment of impulse, a sudden desire for a bit more vibrancy, and there you are, committed to a lifetime of horrendously high beauty salon bills for roots touch-ups, highlights, lowlights, middle-of-the-road lights, plus of course all the necessary accompaniments like gels and waxes.
I might, however, have confined my maintenance to the region above my neck had it not been for my niece. It's all her fault. It was Anne who lured me on to the fast lanes of the high maintenance road by convincing me to join her for a spa pedicure. Pedicures are the crack of Chickdom. Once you've looked down and caught sight of your toes winking colorfully back up at you, callouses all filed away, heels glowing softly, you're done for, caught, addicted. From regular pedicures to weekly manicures is hardly a jump, more of a quick hop, really. Your toes look so good, it dawns on you that the time has come to stop gnawing on your nails and nibbling on your cuticles; you long to present to the world a hand not adorned with bleeding stumps.
It was also Anne who convinced me of the delights of bikini waxing. Once you've endured the hot waxing of Down There, slapping some more of the hot stuff on the brows and chin just seems, well, required. And what's the point of sporting shapely brows if they're so blonde no one can admire them? One must book a brow tint. And as long as one is having one's brows tinted, well, why not dye those long, thick, but blonde eyelashes as well? Suddenly, freedom from mascara seems a right rather than a luxury.
And that's it. If you're having your eyelashes tinted, that's it. You are officially a High Maintenance Chick.
Or at least, I am. Somehow, much to my surprise and discomfort, I find that I'm a 51-year-old HMC. This was not in The Plan. But the thing is, so many things have happened that were not in The Plan--some of them terrific, but many of them Decidedly Not--despite my best efforts to be Very Very Good. So now I'm not being good. Instead, I'm just feeling good. No plan. Just a lot of maintenance.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Looking for My Eyeglasses
Last week, I arrived at the Marriott, where I was staying courtesy of the publishers of the textbook I co-author. Tired, I popped out my contact lenses and reached for my glasses' case. Opened it up--horrors, no glasses. Arriving home several days later, I hunted high and low. No glasses. Contacted my mom, sister, and niece, all of whom had hosted me in the week before the Marriott trip. No glasses.
Damn. Am leaving in a couple of days for five weeks in Europe. Need glasses. Glasses are expensive, as they sport "graduated" lenses--no telltale bifocal line and the promise of clear near, medium, and far vision. (Point of fact: they only actually work for distance, and then only kinda, but if I lose a contact lens in the bogs of Ireland, the glasses are all that stand between me and utter fuzziness.) Am panicking.
Am about to give up, call up eye doctor folks for prescription, and fork up hundreds of dollars for new glasses. But happen to say to Hugh, "Hey, you haven't seen my glasses, you know, my real glasses, not my reading glasses, have you?"
Hugh says, "Just a sec." A minute later, he appears, my glasses in his hand. I'm delighted. I'd kiss him if he'd only let me. Instead, I gush and gloop. "Oh honey, you're my hero. Thank you thank you thank you. I can't believe you found them. What a relief. . . " and on and on. Hugh smiles and nods, like he's on the podium at the Oscars.
Then I think to ask, "Where were they? I thought I looked everywhere. How did you find them?"
And he says, "Oh, I knocked them off the end table by the tv a couple of weeks ago and then kicked them under the couch."
As one does.
If one is 16.
And male.
Evidently.
Damn. Am leaving in a couple of days for five weeks in Europe. Need glasses. Glasses are expensive, as they sport "graduated" lenses--no telltale bifocal line and the promise of clear near, medium, and far vision. (Point of fact: they only actually work for distance, and then only kinda, but if I lose a contact lens in the bogs of Ireland, the glasses are all that stand between me and utter fuzziness.) Am panicking.
Am about to give up, call up eye doctor folks for prescription, and fork up hundreds of dollars for new glasses. But happen to say to Hugh, "Hey, you haven't seen my glasses, you know, my real glasses, not my reading glasses, have you?"
Hugh says, "Just a sec." A minute later, he appears, my glasses in his hand. I'm delighted. I'd kiss him if he'd only let me. Instead, I gush and gloop. "Oh honey, you're my hero. Thank you thank you thank you. I can't believe you found them. What a relief. . . " and on and on. Hugh smiles and nods, like he's on the podium at the Oscars.
Then I think to ask, "Where were they? I thought I looked everywhere. How did you find them?"
And he says, "Oh, I knocked them off the end table by the tv a couple of weeks ago and then kicked them under the couch."
As one does.
If one is 16.
And male.
Evidently.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Bicycling in Central Park
I bicycled in Central Park on Saturday.
I realize that all over New York and New Jersey there are hundreds, no, certainly thousands, tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands or even millions of people who would respond to that statement with something along the lines of, "Oh, how nice. Isn't that a pleasant outing?" Because, of course, they live there. And because thee live there, They Don't Get It.
Bicycling in Central Park is not just nice. It is not just pleasant. It's totally amazing, utterly cool, friggin' mind-blowing, fucking unreal.
Normal people do not get to bicycle in Central Park. We normal people, we live our normal lives in normal places like Paducah, Kentucky, or Lombard, Illinois, or Grand Rapids, Michigan or Lima, Ohio or Cedar Rapids, Iowa or Jenks, Oklahoma or Walnut Hills, California--or Baton Rouge, Louisiana. We, the people of Paducah and Lombard and Grand Rapids and Lima and Cedar Rapids and Jenks and Walnut Hills and Baton Rouge, we see people bicycling in Central Park in movies or on tv, and they look normal and ordinary like us, but we know they're not. We are not fooled. We are not fools. We see the difference. There is New York. And there is Us. We're prose, they're poetry. We plod in polyester, they soar in silk. We intone dirges, they belt out Broadway melodies. They eat food we've yet to hear of and get their hair cut in styles we 've not yet dreamt of and they laugh loudly at jokes we do not get and they swear with words we do not understand. Even the taxi drivers and doormen and waitresses and subway attendants bear the traces of fairy dust, that New Yorkyness.
So now I'm back in Baton Rouge. Normal. Ordinary. OK. But on Saturday I bicycled in Central Park. And life is just that bit more magical.
I realize that all over New York and New Jersey there are hundreds, no, certainly thousands, tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands or even millions of people who would respond to that statement with something along the lines of, "Oh, how nice. Isn't that a pleasant outing?" Because, of course, they live there. And because thee live there, They Don't Get It.
Bicycling in Central Park is not just nice. It is not just pleasant. It's totally amazing, utterly cool, friggin' mind-blowing, fucking unreal.
Normal people do not get to bicycle in Central Park. We normal people, we live our normal lives in normal places like Paducah, Kentucky, or Lombard, Illinois, or Grand Rapids, Michigan or Lima, Ohio or Cedar Rapids, Iowa or Jenks, Oklahoma or Walnut Hills, California--or Baton Rouge, Louisiana. We, the people of Paducah and Lombard and Grand Rapids and Lima and Cedar Rapids and Jenks and Walnut Hills and Baton Rouge, we see people bicycling in Central Park in movies or on tv, and they look normal and ordinary like us, but we know they're not. We are not fooled. We are not fools. We see the difference. There is New York. And there is Us. We're prose, they're poetry. We plod in polyester, they soar in silk. We intone dirges, they belt out Broadway melodies. They eat food we've yet to hear of and get their hair cut in styles we 've not yet dreamt of and they laugh loudly at jokes we do not get and they swear with words we do not understand. Even the taxi drivers and doormen and waitresses and subway attendants bear the traces of fairy dust, that New Yorkyness.
So now I'm back in Baton Rouge. Normal. Ordinary. OK. But on Saturday I bicycled in Central Park. And life is just that bit more magical.
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