my million dollar idea

Al is always trying to come up with million dollar ideas. Well, I've got one. But since I can't execute it, you're welcome to steal it if you think you can figure this one out.

It's snowing today. Again. And as I take a break from studying (an all-nighter, I'm afraid) there is already another 1/2 inch of snow on the ground. But as I was walking past the business building at my school, I noticed that the flagstones around the entrance were snow-free--and dry, not showing any evidence of being touched by snow. I know that they don't have janitors, grounds workers, or little invisible elves carting that snow away the moment the flakes touch the ground, so I thought, "What is it about this entrance? Do they have snow repellent or something on these stones?"

Now I know there is probably something in the physical composition of those flagstones that cause them to be snow-free when the rest of the world is covered in the stuff, and frankly, I'm not interested in learning it. I'm not a science person and it wouldn't make any sense to me. That's also the reason I can't invent snow repellent, which is my million dollar idea. But wouldn't it be great if someone could invent a snow repellent that made the snow float around--and land off to the side of--pavement and cars? It'd be like an invisible force that surrounded the first few feet above them and the first inch or two around them, a force that only snow couldn't penetrate (okay, maybe ice, too--except at ice rinks). Think of the possibilities: no shoveling, no road crews (sorry for the job loss), no salt ruining our cars and roads, no sand making everything look dirty and muddy, no scraping your car off before driving away, and a lot fewer accidents.

How about it--taking me up on this million dollar idea, anyone?

three birthday celebrations

Three days, three birthday celebrations:

1. Beth and Michelle doing...? at Beth's 30th party

2. Rhonda and Lorraine (yes, it's true) celebrating Matt's birthday at the Whaler's game, and...

Al and Matt celebrating in their own way

3. Julie celebrating her belated birthday and kissing the Buddha at Buddha aka O Zen Lounge, and...

Rhonda singing karaoke at same said lounge. Good times, good times.

vino

I love wine. Especially red wine. In fact, I like it so much that I have it specially made for me at Vine 2 Wine in Northville, Michigan. And although Al's not a wine drinker, he agreed to let me give it away as favors at our wedding. In late December/early January, I ordered two batches of wine for the wedding: Valpolicella and Vieux Chateau du Roi. But when you order wine at Vine 2 Wine, it isn't just waiting for you eight weeks later, bottled, corked, and ready to drink. No; it's ready eight weeks later for you to bottle and cork (and drink, of course).

This past weekend, one of the things I spent hours doing was sanitizing the bottles I will put the wine in when it's ready. Forty-eight bottles: I soaked them in hot water and scrubbed of (or peeled off) the labels; I put them through the dishwasher on a normal wash + a high temp scrub; I took them out of the dishwasher, put a few drops of bleach and scalding hot water in each and let each soak for more than an hour; I ran them through the dishwasher again (again, normal wash + high temp scrub); and when they finally came out, I took a flashlight and inspected each bottle to make sure they were each like new. They turned out beautifully, and when I bottle the wine in a month or so, they'll go through Mark's sanitizing process, as well (Mark and Sherry are the owners). And they'll get something extra special: a custom-made label, that you'll have to wait for the wedding to see. And not to worry; if you don't drink alcohol, we'll have sparkling cranberry juice set aside for you.

save the dates!

Save-the-dates are out!

A week ago Saturday, I mailed the save-the-dates for our wedding. Many people don't know what those are yet, since they are a newish trend for weddings. You send these things well in advance of the wedding date (five months, in our case) so that people can, well, save the date. They're popular for destination weddings, weddings on popular or odd days--anything people would have to plan in advance for. We sent them because (a) we're getting married on a Sunday, and (b) we wanted to warn people that they won't be able to bring their kids. I know, I know--all wedding etiquette says you shouldn't tell people they can't bring their kids, but it can't be helped when you only have room for 120 people, the bride's family members alone make up 60+ people, and you're hoping and praying that some people (the ones you expect to) decline to come so you actually have room for everyone. That, and 30 kids running in circles around a small Irish pub didn't appeal to me. Anyway. The only kids coming belong to immediate family (Al's nephews) and, perhaps, my out-of-town cousins.

All of that about kids is beside the point. The point is, my save-the-dates are out! They're postcards that I had printed for about $0.25 apiece--not bad. And they're pictured below:


What's next? Cake plans; figuring out what to do for invitations; lining up flowers with Log's dad (Log, aka Greg, is a friend of ours, and his dad is a florist); music (Al's responsibility); hotel reservations for the honeymoon (also Al); and, when it gets closer, finalizing the menu; guest book (do I need one?) and something for the cards; registering; doing a seating chart; and getting fitted for my dress--oh, and getting jewelry, shoes, finding someone to do my hair, and figuring out how to keep makeup on my face. It sounds like a lot when it's listed like that, but it's been pretty easy so far and I'm not anicipating much stress since I have a month of before the wedding. It's mostly been fun! Stay tuned for more...

rhonda to the rescue

I finally saw Danny and Marlon yesterday. I sat, talked, and watched as they bowled and Danny became exceedingly jealous of the bowling skills of the three adults and young teenager in the next lane. The jealousy was well-deserved; even the teenager, who had the lowest score of the group, was bowling about 150+, while Danny averaged between 60 and 70 points. Poor Danny.

We had said our goodbyes and I had started Al's truck when I noticed two dogs running together down a sidewalk. Without thinking, I got out of the truck and called to them, hoping to be able to bring them back to their owner. One of them came to me, and when I opened the door of the truck, jumped right in. The other one ran.

I decided the first thing to do was to call the owner; luckily, the one that had jumped into the truck had a tag and phone number on its collar--the other one, probably known as shy by its owners--did not. I called the number and asked, "Do you own two dogs?"

"Yes," the woman replied.

"They're running around on Michigan Avenue," I said. "One of them came to me and is in my truck, but the other one won't come to me."

The woman sounded a little--annoyed? irritated? She had an I-don't-have-time-for-this attitude as she said, "Well, I'm at my mother-in-law's. I live on X and X," which was about three miles away. She sounded like she wanted me to offer to drive them over, which was a problem since I only had one dog. "My husband's closer than I am," she started to say.

I was barely listening. "Your dog just ran across Michigan Avenue," I said. It is a very busy street with four lanes of traffic each way and a patch of grass in between. "What's the white one's name?"

"Toby," I thought she said.

I started yelling. "Toby, Toby, come here boy!" The dog looked at me, unsure of what to do. After a few harrowing moments, it darted back across the street, and then back into traffic. Cars were slamming on their brakes and honking. The woman on the other end of the line heard the panic in my voice, and she must have heard the car horns, too.

"I'm on my way," she said. I hung up the phone and tried walking towards the dog, now safely back on the sidewalk on my side of the street, but the more I walked towards it, the farther away it went.

Soon, animal control pulled up. He was closer to the dog than I was, and I had an idea that I should tell him the owners were on the way. But he motioned for me to walk away. I did so, and noticed that the dog started following me. He was about ten feet behind me, the closest he had been since I had first seen him, when a guy showed up in front of me and started yelling. "Sobie, come here boy," he started yelling, whistling and clapping his hands together. And my phone rang. And the dog took off running in the other direction, where no one could catch him.

It was the owner. "What does your car look like?" She asked. And I told her, and in the confusion learned that the person yelling at the dog was not her husband. Then her husband (the owner) did show up and started going after the loose dog. Meanwhile, Danny and Marlon, who had been watching my truck, reasoned, "Maybe the white dog will come when it sees the other dog," and let it out of my truck. Wrong. Instead, the dog I had coaxed into my truck--Jada--zoomed past all of us, and the owner just barely caught her collar and held on.

Animal control approached the owners, who seemed very unconcerned about the still-loose dog. "I'm sure he's just headed back home," the owner said.

"I don't think so," said animal control. "That's not what dogs that are scared normally do. And your dog was scared." As I walked off, I had mixed emotions. I was upset that the owners were obviously not upset about their dogs, and I was worried about the loose one, praying that he didn't end up getting hit on Michigan Avenue or one of the other busy streets in the area. And I was a little perturbed that they barely looked at me, and only the first guy that arrived on the scene--the one that ended up not being an owner--said thanks. From what I can determine by looking at pictures on the internet, they may have been American Pit Bull Terriers, which would explain the timidity in the one. I was never afraid of them, though, and I don't think I had any reason to be. The one that did come up to me was a sweetie.

I just have to say this: love your dogs, people. They are precious, and loving them includes being concerned about them and knowing when they are gone. I wish I could take care of those dogs, because I don't think their owners loved them enough. From someone who desperately wants a dog to those that have them, take care of your dogs!

remind me to never do that again (or, beth's 30th birthday)

Yesterday was Beth's 30th birthday (happy birthday, Beth)! Of course, I didn't want to miss my little sister's 30th birthday party, so I flew in to make it. Remind me never to do that again. At least via the route I took yesterday.

Two weeks ago, I was online looking to see if I could get a good deal from my college town to my hometown for Dennis & Cathy's wedding (which was a blast, by the way). They were quoting me $600 and up, and it just wasn't worth it. But the deal for two weeks wasn't bad--$250 with fees and taxes. But there were two catches: (1) it wasn't from my college town--it was from an international airport three hours away; and (2) there was a connecting flight. I figured it was worth it, because the hours spent on the plane were hours that I could spend studying or grading vs. driving and driving and driving (and not studying and grading and not studying and grading and...well, you get the picture). I booked the flight.

The drive to the airport was delightful. I passed a huge wind farm, which was a sight to see. I looked for a landmark after it so I wouldn't forget to look for the windfarm again on the way back, and there was a dinky little water tower with a neon sign pointing to a dinking little building. The sign said "C-A-S-I-N-O." (Each letter blinked on one at a time until the entire word was lit up, then the entire sign went dark and the process started again.) That, I will remember. Things were going swimmingly (hee hee, I can't believe I just used that word) until my exit, when I got a little mixed up and ended up getting back on the freeway going the wrong way. "Oh well," I thought, "I'll just get off at the first exit, turn around, and get back on again." Let me just say that, by this time, my YOU NEED GAS light was on in my car. Since it was (is) supposed to only be zero degrees the next day (today) I thought I better get some before leaving my car parked in a parking garage.

I got off the freeway on the first exit. Just as I started to turn onto the entrance ramp for the direction I should have been going (back to the parking garage), I saw a cop on a motorcycle with his lights flashing at the end of the ramp. He wasn't letting anyone onto the freeway. I went straight instead, figuring I would just turn left and "follow" the freeway the mile or two back to where I should be. But there wasn't anywhere you could "just turn left" and there wasn't a road that followed the freeway. I had to turn around and head back toward the freeway. The entire time, I was looking for a gas station, but there wasn't a one in sight--just office parks and empty fields. At least by the time I got back to the freeway, the cop was gone and I was able to get on. And I didn't make the same mistake on the exit, either, heading for the parking garage instead.

Now you'd think that by the freeway exit for a major international airport there'd be gas stations galore with prices $0.50 more/gallon than anywhere else. That's how it is in my hometown, and that's how I expected it to be here. But there wasn't a gas station in sight. Since I only had an hour until my flight took off, I went ahead and parked--on the top floor of a four-tier parking garage--for $44 for four days. They even have a free shuttle to the airport, and off we went.

I got my boarding pass from one of those machine thing-a-ma-jiggies. Then I stood in line for the security checkpoint. You'd think none of these people have ever flown before. They were waiting until the last minute (i.e., "Oh, it's my turn!") to take off their coats, belts, and shoes and to pull their ziploc baggie full of toiletries out of their bags. I stood in line for nearly half an hour (I guess not bad, but aggravating) wishing they would go through the line and say, "You--you're ready--come on up and pass all of these nitwits who don't realize that if you were all ready when you got to the head of the line it would go much faster," but they didn't. And as I hurriedly walked through the airport and turned the corner onto my gate, I heard, "Last call for Rhonda (okay, they used my last name, but whatever), Jones, and Smith for flight whatever-number-it-was." I walked on board and made two people move so I could get to my window seat, finally settled in. "Whew," I thought. It won't be so close in Chicago." Wrong.

Sitting on the runway, waiting to take off, the engines suddenly went dead. "I'm sorry, folks," the captain's voice said, "but the airport we're flying into has cancelled all incoming flights due to high winds. We'll update you in twenty minutes or so." I knew it. At that moment, I knew I should have just made the nine-hour drive home. We sat on the runway (or just off of it, since we had to move to let other planes go) for an hour before leaving. The one advantage: on that flight I got a lot of grading done. But when we touched down...

I got off, expecting to see signs to show me where to go. But I didn't, so I asked the first idle airport security worker I saw. "American Airlines? You need terminal three. We're in terminal one." He told me how to get there, and I took off--with only forty minutes until my next flight was to leave. I went up and down stairs, onto a train, and finally found the ticketing area (he failed to tell me that I could get a boarding pass/check in for the flight at the gate, thereby bypassing the security checkpoint, but at this airport there was not a wait--thank God). I got to a little machine thing-a-ma-jiggy and--it said I was too late to check in for my on-time flight and wouldn't give me a boarding pass or get a seat on a later flight. The attendant told me to go to the first class line and ask for one, and finally I got a woman to help me. By this time, my flight was to leave in fifteen minutes. I didn't even bother putting my shoes back on. Instead, I ran through the airport, embarrassed about how ridiculous I must look and how slow my "running" pace is, only to arrive at the gate with the desk darkened and the door closed. I dramatically asked a pilot coming out of a door next to it, "Do you know how I get on that plane?" He looked at me like I was nuts. Then a woman standing behind me said, "For your hometown (naming it, of course)?" "Yes," I replied. "We haven't boarded yet," she said. "It was supposed to start boarding a while ago, but they haven't told us anything yet." I went red in the face, thanked her, and found a restroom to use. I was shaking. There was so much adrenaline pumping through my body that I felt sick, and I was angry at how sweaty and ridiculous I must look (and have sounded) and all for nothing. They could have updated the records and said it, too, was delayed for an hour.

So that's the part that I want you to remind me never to do again. Just let me, please, pay the extra money and fly out of my college town straight to my hometown if there is ever a need to fly again. No more connecting flights. I was so stressed, hungry, and tired by the time I was walking outside waiting for Al to pick me up, that I started yelling when I saw him drive right by me toward the upper level of the arrivals instead of the lower, which I had forgotten about and not specified. He was just following the signs, and I was mean, and I feel horrible still (although he did accept my apologies).

Beth's party was fun, though, and after four hours, I was finally relaxed. That's what you see in this photo of Michelle, Beth and I at the party. Happy birthday, Beth! I'd do your party again, just not the flying part!

a week in the life of rhonda

There's a reason I usually post on Tuesdays, Thursdays, or weekends: my schedule is crazy. Today, I thought I'd give you a glimpse into my life.

This Sunday, I actually slept in until 10:00, something rare for me. I watched a couple of episodes of La Femme Nikita, one of my favorite television shows (Netflix dvds = wonderful). But by 12:30, I was working. Now, work for me these days is reading, writing, and preparing to teach class. So I read The Discourse on Language by Michel Foucault, Rethinking Genre and Society: An Activity Theory Analysis by David R. Russell, and some information on interview techniques by Wendy Bishop. Except for the Bishop, this is not light reading--Foucault is a bunch of postmodern theory, and Russell was combining theories from several different fields and applying them to writing. Next, I spent several hours responding to my student's first assignment of the semester. By the time I got done, it was about 9:00 or 10:00 pm--I don't remember which.

Monday, I was up by 7:30, and started the cycle again. You can substitute other readings, just as heavy, and eliminate the responses to student work--I didn't get through the entire cycle that day. I went to dinner by myself at Dublin Bay, the local Irish pub, but I brought a reading with me. I finished working at 7:30 pm when Stephanie showed up for our weekly tv night. Dana arrived shortly afterward, and we watched Heroes. They left by 9:15 because we were all exhausted, and I managed to watch half of a foreign movie (Like Water for Chocolate, which was interesting, but disappointing in the end) while waiting for Al to call so I could go to sleep.

Tuesday I was up by 4:30. That's normal for Tuesdays and Thursdays this semester, because I'm best at working in the morning and want to get in a couple of hours' work before Dana and I work out at 7:00. (We do cardio on T/Th in the "gym" here at my apartments.) Let's see, what did I do? I got a reading done and did my lesson plans for that afternoon's classes, and after we worked out, I...hmm. It's all blending together now. More work, though, until my 11:00 research methods class (taking). From 12:30 - 2:00 I held my office hours--no one visted me, as usual, so I responded to student writing--and from 2:10 to 5:00 I taught my two technical communication courses. And then I went home and crashed. Oh, and watched the rest of Like Water for Chocolate and then watched another foreign movie, Life According to Muriel, which drove technical-communicator me insane because the subtitles were in white type and unreadable for about one-third of the movie because they were over light footage on the screen. Don't these movie people think about readability? Not a bad movie, though.

Tuesday night dream: My brother, Erik, dies. I don't know why or how, I just know he does. And me, Beth, Ryan, and Rachel gather at my parents' house (with them, of course) to mourn him. Beth calls Meaghan, but gets her voice mail; a few minutes later, Meaghan's mother calls and says that Meaghan's not coming over and only Beth is allowed to visit her. She is too distraught with grief and can't bear to see all of us. This dream, which lasts all night, was (I'm sure) an anxiety/much too busy/stress dream. It leaves me sad most of the day on Wednesday, and makes me realize how much I love my brother and would miss him if he were gone.

Wednesday was a "sleep-in" day--I think I got up about 7:30. I was checking my email five minutes after I woke up, and was reading theory (again) by 8:15. I read all day, even into my office hours between 4:30 and 5:30. Then I went to my research theory class (Ethics in Representation), which lasted until 9:00. Again, home/crash to La Femme Nikita (the last two episodes of the last season). There's a theme of dvds before bed, and that isn't a mistake: I have to wind down or I can't stop thinking and I can't sleep. I already have a hard time sleeping (see "to sleep, perchance to itch" from earlier this month) and don't need to lie awake about everything I didn't get done during the day.

Wednesday night dream: My sister, Beth, is getting married. It is the morning of her wedding and she is in her wedding dress and black leather boots. She is worried that her Harley Davidson won't be ready (cleaned? gassed up? decorated with "just married" signs?) for her to ride off on after the reception. She spends all morning making sure it will be. I have no idea who she is marrying, because he wasn't in the dream.

Today, I was caught up enough to sleep until just before working out (yippee!), but worked from 9:00 - 5:00 (it almost sounds like I'm normal!). Tomorrow I will fly home, but I'll be reading on the plane--and all day Saturday, and all day Sunday, with breaks for writing. So that's the boring life that many of you ask me about when I see you, and now (I'm sure) you understand why, when you ask, "How's Iowa?" I reply, "It's Iowa." And this probably wins the MOST BORING POST EVER award.

losers can have fun, too

In my last post ("the loser"), I promised a follow-up post regarding game night. I was right; I am a loser--only three people came (thanks Dana, Stephanie, and Scott!). And although I don't have any pics to prove it, losers can have fun, too. I had a good time eating trail mix, drinking vodka tonics, and playing Uno and Catchphrase with them. I'm posting this follow-up in the midst of studying, so back to work I go. More later!

the loser

Nobody likes me, everybody hates me,
Guess I'll go eat worms,
Long, thin, slimy ones; Short, fat, juicy ones,
Itsy, bitsy, fuzzy, wuzzy worms

Down goes the first one, down goes the second one,
Oh how they wiggle and squirm
Up comes the first one, up comes the second one,
Oh how they wiggle and squirm

I learned this song when I was in elementary school. I am in my thirties now, and unlike the "Miss Suzie" songs that I used to jump rope to, I still sing this song to myself frequently. Especially on days like today. Because on days like today I am reminded that I am still the loser I always was; I'm the girl in the corner watching everyone, liking everyone, thinking that saying "hi" and talking about school, work, dogs, cats, etc. constitutes a "friendship." Or at least a friendly acquaintance. I am the girl that gets invited to, and goes to, parties, not realizing that the only parties I am actually invited to are always put on by the same two people. And I am that girl who talks to people at those parties, at school, or at work, and doesn't realize that most of them are probably looking for their opportunity to slip away: to "get a drink," to "talk to someone else," to "use the restroom," but really, just to get away from me.


You probably think I am blowing this way out of proportion, especially if you're one of those people that actually likes (perhaps even loves) me. I do have a tendency to do that. And don't get me wrong; I'm so grateful for the very good, very close friends I have (Julie, Danny, Ruthie, Nikki, Dana: I love you!). But rejection so blatant as that which I'm experiencing this weekend makes me feel a little un-loved. Loserly. Nerdy. "I like other people, why don't they like me?" type of thing.


Okay, so here's the situation. Yesterday, I decided to have a "game night" at my house, scheduled for tonight at 7:00 pm. Late notice, you say? Not where I'm at, in a college town of about 30,000 people and nothing but farms (or smaller towns) within a 30-mile circumference. My friends Dana, Stephanie, and Kate can plan shindigs two hours ahead of time and get a crowd of at least ten. So I talked to Dana, sent out evites to twelve people (whom I encouraged to invite more people), and prepared for a small gathering. I assumed I'd have at least the same people come out as are always at the parties I go to. Now, two hours before the gathering, I'm realizing what a loser I was to think that people would actually come out. Although people have viewed the evites, the only ones that have confirmed are Dana and Stephanie. Kate already had plans (she wasn't included in the twelve, since I knew this already) and two people declined. The others haven't bothered to answer. Keeping their options open, I guess. I have a feeling I'll have five people here, including me, if I'm lucky. The other two may be Stephanie's boyfriend and Scott.


This isn't the first time this has happened to me. I thought I had friends (more than mere "Hey, how you doing?" acquaintances) during my master's program, too. Or at least people interested in becoming my friends. When I started my master's program, I invited about 15-20 people from school and a few more--mostly Al's friends--to a party at my house. My sister invited some of her friends, too, and they drove two hours to get there. As far as I can recall, two of my fellow masters students came and four of Al's friends came. Total. Of the people I invited.


However, this pic, from that party, makes it look like I was having a little bit of a good time. Maybe it was the quarter keg that we got (and ended up having to finish throughout the next week, finally finishing during the big blackout). But I'm going to try to have fun and not be down tonight, even if it is just three of us. And I'll post a follow-up blog, possibly with pictures, to let you know if my worst fears came true. Or Al's fantasies. He's convinced himself that if I don't answer the phone later, it's because the three of us are busy having a pillow fight. Men.

thanks, katie

Yesterday, my student Katie and I were talking about our upcoming weddings. She said, "I'm getting so stressed out trying to get wedding planning done!" She's getting married in August, two months later than I am.

I replied, "Mine's going surprisingly easy. I'll probably find out how much I didn't do when May comes around, though."

And then the dreams came...

It is the day before my wedding and I am freaking out. How could I have forgotten to do so much? I'm crying, worrying, hysterical. The person(s) I am talking to is unclear, since this is one of the rare dreams that I actually appear in instead of watching like a movie or television show. "I don't have jewelry! I don't have shoes! I forgot to schedule a manicure and pedicure and facial! I don't know what I'm doing with my hair!"

Then I hear a voice: "What time are you meeting Tony tonight?" Tony is my "big brother." He's also my minister.

If it is possible, I start freaking out even more. "I forgot that we were supposed to get together and go through the wedding and have dinner! How could I forget that? I don't have time to get everything done. What am I going to do? My wedding's going to be a disaster!" And then someone (or something) tells me that Tony is there.

"Where?"

"I'm right here," a voice says. A voice that sounds nothing like Tony. I turn around and stare at a man who is about 300 pounds, has white hair, and very pale skin. If you knew Tony, you'd find this quite humorous. He's nowhere near 300 pounds and is a dark-skinned (compared to me, the albino), black haired (okay, maybe salt-n-pepper now) Italian. This man cannot be Tony. And then he comes over and gives me a huge hug and starts comforting me.

"Tony!" I say, starting to feel a little better. The only reason I think it is him is because of the hug. (Although the real Tony would probably make fun of me instead of comfort me at a time like that...and he'd get away with it without making me feel worse, too.) And as I start to feel better, I think, "He's going to look awful in my wedding pictures."

Nightmare? Not quite. But perhaps it will make me remember not to be a procrastinator bride. Till next time...

passport to paradise

Okay, maybe not many people think of Ireland as "paradise," but Americans still need a passport to get there!

Al and I will be going to Ireland on our honeymoon--June 11 through the 22nd. In preparation of this, I decided to go to the post office today to get a passport. I've had one before, but I got it when I was seventeen--still a minor--so it expired after five years. I just assumed that I'd have to pay for a new one. But I was in luck. My old passport was issued on January 28, 1992 (okay, I've just dated myself) and apparently the deadline for renewing a passport is fifteen years. The postal worker noticed this, and saved me $30 and (possibly) a couple of weeks!

As the wedding draws closer, I'm getting more and more excited, and this is just one step closer to being ready! Ireland, here we come!

strange hair in my bed

There is one thing I loathe, perhaps more than anything else (well, almost): human hair not attached to a head. Or, more precisely, human hair detached from a body. (Body hair, as long as it's still attached to the person it belongs to, doesn't bother me--although I'm definitely not the want-a-guy-with-a-hairy-chest-and-back kind of girl.)

The other day I was sitting just where I am now, on my futon in my living room and doing some homework. I looked down on the dark blue futon cover and, lo and behold, there was a curly, blond human hair about six inches long. My own hair bothers me when it ends up on the shower walls or floor, but this--this was not my hair. For those of you that don't know me, I'm a redhead, and not one of the hairs on my head is six inches long. And curly? It's been more than a decade since I've had enough hair to curl.

I looked at the hair, not wanting to touch it. Whose was it? How did it get in my apartment? The only person who has been here besides me for the last month has been Dana, so I tell myself it must be hers, pick it up, and dispose of it. I have to tell myself it's Dana's, although her hair is straight and much longer than this one. The alternative is too disgusting. Maybe I sat in a chair at school that had a lose hair on it. Maybe that hair attached itself to my clothing, and I had been walking around all day with a stranger's hair on my clothing. Maybe, like today, my coat brushed against the floor and picked up a few snarled pieces of hair that had been floating with the dust on the dirty floor in my classroom and I didn't notice right away. No. It's better to think it was Dana's, because at least I know her.

I'm fixating on hair because I spent a lot of time in hotels in December, none of which was very nice. In each one of them, I found at least one or two stray hairs that escaped the maids and occupied the room or bathroom when I entered it. I tried to ignore them, tried to avoid them, but I'm still thinking about them. They obviously left an impression.

Oh, well. At least I've never found strange hair in my bed.

my secret super powers

The year: 2002. The scene: Brand-new graduate assistants (me + fourteen?) in a masters program. Eight hours a day, five days a week in a windowless room reading, talking, writing, drawing, theorizing (this was before the semester began). About eight days into it: brain overload. And a discussion about minor super powers.

Huh?

There is a danger to putting fifteen wanna-be academics into a room and letting them talk and think all day. That danger is that, eventually, their talking (and thinking) will get so far afield that it will be nonsensical, other-worldly (this danger is especially preeminent in the humanities, and we were all English majors--go figure). For us, brain overload = discussion on minor super powers.

Josh, a blond cutie with a happy-feel-good outlook on life whom all of his female students (and probably some of the males, too) promptly developed crushes on later in the semester, came up with the concept. He decided that each of us had special qualities that the rest of us just didn't possess. These special qualities were our minor super powers. During that break (probably our lunch, because the discussion lasted for quite a while), we determined what each of our minor super powers were. Mine? The minor super power of accessorizing. I was deemed a near-expert at it, from my necklaces and earrings to my hats, belts, and boots. I was an accessorizer.

My minor super power, I hate to admit, has since become latent. This is partly because that year I gained forty pounds (which I'm still trying to get rid of) and started to dislike drawing attention to myself (which, I must admit, I usually love). But lately I've been accessorizing again, and each time I pick up a bracelet, put on earrings or a necklace, or wear that houndstooth newsboy hat I bought two months ago, I think of Josh, my friends from my masters program, and minor super powers. Because our minor super powers weren't just a one-time conversation, forget about it the next day type of thing. No. References to our minor super powers lasted for the next two years, and are something that I love to look back on. So thanks to Josh, Erin, Jacquie, Erin (there were two of them!), and everyone else that made my masters program--and minor super powers--memorable.

Hmm. An entire blog about secret super powers and no mention of my bigger secret, Super Speed Woman. I guess some things are just meant to remain secrets...

the coolest thing(s) in philly

Philadelphia, between Christmas and New Year's. December 29th, to be exact. Sightseeing. Liberty Bell (security's like an airport, and Kim, my soon-to-be-sister-in-law, said, "What are they afraid of? Isn't that thing already cracked?"). Outside of (couldn't get in) Liberty Hall. Christ Church (pic of Al there below). Outside of (didn't want to go in) Betsy Ross's house. Philly cheese steak sandwiches in Sonny's. But here are the coolest things we saw/did in Philly:

1. Silent film with a live organ performance in The Kimmel Center for the Performing Arts. Al had seen it in the editor's picks of things to do in some paper, and it was definitely a great thing to do. The Kimmel Center has a huge pipe organ, and although I'm not a pipe organ enthusiast, I loved the experience. We saw Speedy with Harold Lloyd, which was hilarious. And knowing that the organist (Tom Tenney, a twenty-something guy from Birmingham, Michigan, of all places) was interpreting the movie through music--and playing nonstop for 90 minutes--just added to the experience. I had never done anything like it before, and I loved it. Unfortunately, we weren't allowed to take pictures inside the hall.


2. The Blarney South on South Street. South Street is alive at night. There were people everywhere, thus some good people-watching. There were all kinds of shops (some you'd want to go in, some you wouldn't), quite a few bars (again, some you'd want to go in, some you wouldn't), tattoo parlors, and restaurants. We stopped into an Irish pub called The Blarney South for a couple of beers and sat down at the bar, right next to a couple of off-duty bartenders who were hanging out and eating dinner. I loved just listening to them talk and goof off with our bartender, and I was loving the music--some satellite radio station playing late eighties/early nineties music. After seeing the on and off-duty bartenders eat and watering over their food, we ordered dinner. I had the meatloaf with mashed potatoes. The meatloaf was good, but the mashed potatoes were the best I've ever eaten (sorry, dad). Al had an open-faced turkey sandwich, and he loved it, too. Sorry, no pics of this, either.


3. Elfreth's Alley. It's "the nation's oldest residential street," and we just walked by it (and through it) when we left our hotel. Cute, narrow, colorful, historic, a place I'd love to live in if I ever got to be an urbanite. The first pic in this post is of the alley.

to sleep, perchance to itch

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life

I have a hard time sleeping. I always have. It's not that I have insomnia or anything; I'm just a very light sleeper and seem to wake up after every REM cycle most nights (about every two hours). It gets tiresome, and I always treasure those nights when I actually sleep for four to five hours without waking up.

A couple of months ago, I was watching a movie with my friends Dana and Kate. Kate offered me some vanilla almond tea, and it was absolutely delicious. I drank it, and ended up falling asleep during the movie. I think I left before we even finished it. I've been looking for the tea whenever I've thought of it since then, and finally saw it in the store this Sunday. I bought it and drank a cup right before bed. I slept like a baby (well, one that sleeps the night through).

On Tuesday night, I sat inhaling the wonderful aroma and drinking the tea again right before bed. "I'm going to bed early," I told Al, "but call me anyway. I like to talk to you at night before you go to bed" (we've been having these phone calls for about six years now, so going without one at night is heartbreaking). I was in such a deep sleep when the phone rang that it literally scared and confused me. I couldn't wake up enough to talk to him coherently, and fell right back to sleep when we got off the phone. In the morning, I finally realized, "Aha! The tea helps me sleep!"

There's a catch, though: right before I drank the tea on Tuesday night, I realized that there is soy lechithin in it. Sure enough, my stomach started to itch that evening and has been itching ever since. I'm allergic to soy. When I'm allergic to antibiotics (every one I've tried so far), I can take it for a few days and then I start to get an itchy rash all over my body. Next, I start to swell. Soy has never really bothered me in small amounts; it's just when I start eating/drinking/ingesting it daily that it starts to bother me. I was hoping to make it through the woods since I didn't have a visible rash, but on Friday, when I touched my bare stomach with my hand, it started burning. And last night, non-itchy rashes started popping up. I'm not giving up hope quite yet, though. I'm hoping to make my body adjust to the stuff by taking a little every day (or perhaps every other day, or every two or three days...). You never know--Westley did it!

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha--" (Vizzini sleeps, perchance to dream)

new york adventure

who: al and me

what: trip pics
when: new year's eve day
where: the big apple
why: add-on to a philadelphia business trip
how: train, no plane, automobile (not quite in that order)

new year, new me?

It's that time of year again. The time of year when resolutions are forgotten, mislaid, thrown out the window or trampled on. I didn't make a "resolution," but I did feel that old familiar hope--it's a new year, thus, possibly, a new me?

This year is filled with new-me possibilities, including a new semester (I'm in a PhD program and have a life-long habit of procrastination and not quite getting everything done); new students (yeah, I teach, too); and a soon-to-be new husband (getting married in June, and yes, he's the one, the only, the only ever). But I want to take advantage of old-me possibilities, too.

Old-me possibilities are all about becoming myself again. I've kind-of let my studies take over, and since I'm a writer and a reader, my studies lead to a sedentary life. And as a PhD student--well, they like to tell us that we don't really have the time, or the right, to have a life. Pre-PhD studies led to weight gain (a lot), which led to ill-fitting clothes, which led to an uncomfortable-in-my-own-clothes-and-my-own-skin me. So yes, I'm joining the thousands of people that are trying to lose weight this time of year, and hoping that wanting to look hot and feel great for my wedding will give me the motivation I need to keep it up. (That, and my friend Dana, who has agreed to work out with me 3x/week.) But old me kept care of my spirit, too. And my spirit's feeling pretty neglected at this point, so I'm going to make it a point to start feeding it again.

So new year, new me? That's left to be seen. I'll leave you with a random quote of the day: "The men's room was disgusting."