Oh, the tongue
Does it GET any cuter than that girl with the tongue wrapped up to her nose? This, too, is from Christmas Day. She's licking her chops staring at that plate of ham. Yum!
Distraction number one from other more scholarly pursuits.
After I wrote that last post, I went to the doggie park with the girl. Run, run, run, Belly.
...is realizing that when you have nothing to say, nothing going on, nothing new and exciting, nothing bad, no complaints, it's obvious not only to all three of your readers, but to you, the blogger.
I have only this to say: Never in a million years would I have guessed that a boxing movie would haunt me. Not since Lost in Translation have I been so touched--and I don't mean that in the schmaltzy, sentimental sense--by a movie.
If you read the last post and did the math, $129--price of the green coat--minus $59--price of the new "brickstone" coat--you might be wondering why I received a check for $77 rather than $70. Those Beaners, they've outdone themselves AGAIN. The extra $7 is the postage I paid to send my green coat to them.
I've had my green Bean barn coat for at least five years, and the cuffs were all frayed and one of the buttons fell off a while back; it had become my ratty coat, perfect for walking the dog. It occurred to me a couple weeks ago that L.L. Bean has a 100% lifetime guarantee on all of their products, so I called them. Sheepishly, because I felt like I was trying to get away with something, I asked if I could exchange my beloved barn coat for a new one. Turns out they don't make 'em quite the same as they did back then, but there's a mighty comparable Adirondack barn coat that would be just fine. So I shipped it off and waited.
What, I ask, is cuter than a doggie play group? I dropped Annabelle off at "school" today and the young guy who works there (young= somewhere in his early 20s) said to her, "Let's go see your friends." So I asked who her friends are, since a good doggie owner should know. Well, she plays with Maggie, Buddy, Lily, and Jangles pretty regularly. And sometimes Freddie.
This one's not about Annabelle....
My dear friend Jen was wonderful enough to send me lots and lots of Brach's candy hearts a few days ago. She sent me three HUGE bags of the goods. I opened one, ate a whole bunch of green and purple ones, put the rest in a big ziploc bag, and left for dinner with a job candidate tonight. When I came home, I found a doggie water bowl nearly empty and an empty ziploc bag with a big hole in it. Annabelle apparently doesn't have patience for the ziploc zipper itself.
I am one lucky person. No, I didn't win the lottery. Sorry, folks, but if I do, I promise to share. It occurred to me last night as I was in my grad course in authorship just how damn lucky I am. I'm at a great school in an excellent department with people who get along and do fun things together and I'm teaching what I want to teach in my very first year. I had so much fun last night talking about authorship with students who are not 100% disciplined--it's such a generative process. I realized this morning that I can't really plan anything for Tuesday mornings. After class last night, I took a long walk with the Belly girl and then watched L&O SVU and then read and didn't get to sleep until after midnight (late for me).
is this piece from the Globe. Deborah Blum, a Pulitzer-Prize winning SCIENCE WRITER, suggests that perhaps Summers' remark is a result of the fact that the male brain suffers from "an innate failure of ability," which would explain Summers' inability to "grasp the complex interaction between nature and nurture."
I've been wanting to give students this assignment since probably my second year at Syracuse, and I finally found both time and reason to do so in my junior/senior level rhetorical theory course. It's the bullshit assignment. How it works: on day one, I asked students to go home and write 2-3 pages of bullshit on "fear" (the course is focused on the rhetoric of fear). Some initial responses:
There WAS content on that last message, but it didn't make it. Oh well, you get the message from the subject line.
My good friend Susan and I are currently playing eScrabble, and I love it. It makes me happy to read my email and see that It's MY turn! And I gotta say here publicly that Susan (aka Schmoozin) has improved her game tremendously online. She stinks in person.
Holy wind. I'm in my little house (on the prairie, yes I am) and I feel like we might blow away any minute. Soon I'm gonna look out my window and see cows and pigs flying by.
Classes begin tomorrow. Only 2 this semester: an upper-level rhetorical theory course and a grad special topics course in authorship.
Today's Get Fuzzy has me a) concerned that Satchel's spelling is getting worse (this could mean he's making leaps ahead in his thinking, of course), and b) pleased to know that Rob Wilco is also a client of good ol' Supercuts (I bet he didn't have to wait an hour for that 'do).
Bitter cold these days in Normal, IL, so we've gotten Belly's boots out. Little purple things with velcro and buckles.* She stops traffic, she's so cute in them. And when she walks on pavement in them, the sound is something like clop clop clop clop. She's a little horse, my girl.
I went to Supercuts this afternoon to get the ol' hair chopped off, and there was an hour wait. So I went to a local place in Normal that says "walk-ins welcome" and there was a three-day wait. Went home, got out the hair-cutting scissors and did it myself. Saved a few bucks and, I gotta say, it looks pretty good. Different. Short. Sassy. A little bit crazy, what with the unevenness and all.
Belly's not getting a cat. I don't want a cat.
So, I slept on it, "it" being this idea of getting a cat for Belly. This after she escaped from the car last night--I was carrying grocery bags, didn't have a good grip on her leash--in order to chase the stray cats in the neighborhood. I'm now thinking this ain't such a bright idea. It'd be great if I could administer some sort of personality test before taking the cat home. If I could get a cat like Hillary's Sid Monster, I'd go for it. But what if I get a cat who just runs and hides and does not perform his function--that being, to play with Belly? I don't want a wussy cat.
I've been thinking about getting Annabelle a cat. I worry that she gets lonely/bored being the only four-legged creature in the house. I could be projecting my own feelings of loneliness onto the dog, and a cat could be the unwitting victim in all of this, but still. I'm thinking about it. It would have to be a cat with a strong personality, one who could stand up to Belly's antics and shenanigans*--kinda like Get Fuzzy reversed.
--you're taking the dog for 4 walks a day
I'm a New Englander, and because of that I will probably never develop any real sense of North, South, East, West when it comes to giving local directions. This is not to say that I have no sense of direction, just that I don't have a sense of NSEW directions. I can find my way to and from just about anywhere after having been in a new place for five minutes. But that ain't the point here.
Couple weeks ago, I had a feeling Hillary was going to cut off all her hair. Sunday morning at 7:30 she leaves me a telephone message saying she decided to cut off all her hair.
On a walk yesterday with my dear friend Julia and our 3 dogs, Annabelle, Hudson, and Tucker (he being the boyfriend of Belly), I was blabbing on about my blog and just how funny I think I am sometimes (all the time). She said something funny in response, and I said, "you funneeeee."
Dunkin' Donuts wants to expand westward. A diehard Dunkin' Donuts fan, I got excited a couple years ago when Krispy Kreme came to Syracuse because I'd heard so much hype about their donuts. And hype it was. They're waaaaaaaaaaay too sweet, even for a girl with a major sweet tooth. And their coffee just stinks.
Okay, not really. But it's bright red with scratches from a certain little girl's paw. It was an accident, we were playing, I know she didn't mean to make me look like a freakish version of Rudolph. But still. That's what I look like.
Duh. The reason I've never seen individual blades of grass frozen until now is that every other time I've experienced an ice storm, the grass was already covered by SNOW.
The title really says it all. On my walk with Belle this afternoon, we were both marvelling at how cool the grass looks after an ice storm. Each individual blade of grass is covered in ice so that the overall effect is like...is like...oh, if only I were better with metaphors. Let's just say it's pretty darn cool. How'd they do that? I've lived in wintry climes before, of course, but I gotta say, I've never seen anything quite like this. Belly doesn't like it, though, cuz those spiky blades of grass hurt her paws.
I know I said the climate here didn't exactly compare to Southern California. And I know that just last week I was rah-rahing about the 60-degree weather. But that's because it was something different. I now feel as though I've relocated to Seattle. So my question of the day is, does it ever stop raining in Normal, Illinois?
Okay, so I'm poor this month, really poor. One way I decided to be frugal was to prepare big meals at the beginning of each week and live on the leftovers for the rest of the week. Nice thing about this is that is also cuts out lots o' cooking time. So, this week's plan was beef stew. For someone who's not really a cook, this is quite an undertaking. There's beef to brown, there're carrots and potatoes to peel, there's a dog to watch while beef is browning and grease is splattering. But I did it relatively successfully, ate it on Sunday night (Belly did get a tiny bowl full 'cuz she's so cute), packed the leftovers in a tupperware container and put it in the fridge.
Susan Sontag has died at age 71.
When I was a kid, we called it "Holysmoke" because of all the fires.
Toward the beginning of every semester since I began teaching in 1998, I've had teaching anxiety dreams. There are a few well-established themes:
Strangely enough, I had none of these teaching anxiety dreams before teaching my first semester at ISU. One would think, wouldn't one, that coming to a completely new place where I don't, in fact, know where the classrooms are, might engender even more, not less, anxiety. I guess I had a newcomers' exemption last semester.
Classes don't begin for two more weeks at ISU, and the dreams have begun. Last night's dream had me completely unprepared to teach my grad course in authorship theory. No syllabus, no plans, no assignments, no nothing for the first day of a 3-hour class.
Guess this means I should get going on that syllabus....