Roaringgrrl

The Last Word

Roaringgrrl — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 17:32:00 GMT

As I sit here weeping, having been rejected by another potential suitor, I’ve been advised by a friend to write out my pain and heartache, and so, dear reader, I offer you this poem.

I stand here

With
                            dangerous curves
                            legs that go all the way up
                                    to a brain that will karate chop you
                            a career that changes the world
                            humor about myself

You

                            Smoke more than Bob Marley
                                    (and all the Wailers)
                            own neither a car nor a couch
                            drown your world in tequila
                            treat a privileged job like a chore

And you

deserve neither my time nor my tears

O Holy Ketchup

Roaringgrrl — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 02:01:00 GMT

Last Christmas, I wrote about my first time being away from my family during the holidays. I vowed to add new traditions to keep things fresh, such as watching The Sopranos on Christmas day and doing donuts with Jacek in his car in the school parking lot at midnight.

This year I’ve found it especially important to keep the tradition of being non-traditional alive. Jacek and I have split up, and for the first time in my life, I find myself alone at Christmas. The break up happened too late to purchase a reasonably priced plane ticket home, and for the past few weeks, I’ve truly fretted about what the holidays would be like without family or a boyfriend.

I felt awful. Convinced I had just lost my last chance to be in a committed relationship, I found myself having urges I’ve never had before. I started craving the companionship of something other than a man. I watched this video over and over and thought about how great it would be to have a kitten.

Luckily, my urge didn’t get far and I realized that if I got a cat I would probably become one of those crazy cat ladies who never gets married because, you know, she has all those cats.

Determined to set myself down a different path, I thought back to my vow last year to start new traditions, so I set a few plans in place. First, I chucked Love Actually and all other movies having to do with love in any of its forms and stacked my Netflix queue with thrillers like Misery, Taken, and Drag Me to Hell.

I shoved my traditional John Rutter and the Cambridge Singers carols to the back of my cd collection. The night before Christmas Eve, I attended a Kirtan, an Indian chanting session accompanied by an harmonium and bongo drums. Instead of “O Christmas Tree” and “Angels from the Realms of Glory,” I chanted “Ramakrishna jaya bolo, bhajo mano” while banging a mallet on a bell.

I ‘fessed up my newly single status to my friends and received numerous invitations including a Christmas Eve dinner with delicious homemade soups and a Christmas evening drinks party with martinis and pie.

But what about the day itself? How would Gracie (my cockatiel) and I spend Christmas day? In keeping with the theme of being non-traditional, and trying to fulfill at least one of last year’s New Year’s resolutions, I decided to make ketchup.

In my life, ketchup has only ever come in a bottle, ready to squirt forth to join my fries and veggie burgers. The idea of making ketchup has held a certain romance for me because of the film Meet Me In St. Louis. In the opening scenes of the film, the Smith family is making ketchup, and each family member has an opinion about the condiment’s sweet or sourness. I really love this family that is so checked in with one another that they are all allowed opinions on what amounts to be a minor part of any meal.

I scoured the Internet looking for recipes and finally landed on this one. Though it is a complex recipe, I wanted a considerable amount of my day taken up with this process in case free time left me feeling sentimental and sad. On Christmas Eve, I went to the grocery store to stock up on my ingredients.

On Christmas morning, I tucked into a cinnamon roll and a mug of hot chocolate. Afterward, I started putting together all the ingredients for my ketchup. I broiled large slices of onion, peeled ten cloves of garlic, and tightly packed brown sugar into measuring cups. I stirred in tomatoes and tomato paste and added all ten spices. Then, I simmered the four quart mixture for three hours, stirring it every fifteen minutes.

After three hours of simmering, I poured the boiling ketchup in batches into my food processor and pureed the mixture. From there I transferred the puree into Tupperware containers. With all that simmering and pouring from one container into another, my kitchen was a hideous mess.

The ketchup, despite its lengthy ingredient list and cook time, was delicious. I’m not sure if I’ll continue to make my own ketchup, but I think I’ll continue to resist pre-packaged and processed traditions of the holiday.

And because of this homemade holiday extravaganza, I need not worry about becoming overly sentimental about being single during New Year’s. I have almost four quarts of ketchup left over.

On this year’s New Year’s Eve menu: tater tots and slasher movies.

Conveyer Belt of Love

Roaringgrrl — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 18:50:00 GMT

In January, I watched what was either the greatest television show ever or one of the seven signs of the apocalypse. The show was called, “Conveyer Belt of Love.”

Here’s the set up. Four women sat in chairs facing a stage featuring a moving conveyer belt. One at a time, men floated in front of the ladies. In less than a minute, a man had to make an impression on the women in the hopes that he would be chosen for a date. With a quick flash of signs that read “Interested” on one side and “Not Interested” on the other, the ladies either invited the men to get off the conveyer belt or encouraged their ride off the stage. If two ladies showed interest in the same man, the man could choose between the two. Then, he would come down from the conveyer belt and put himself on a platform featuring the chosen lady’s name. Later on, if the woman decided she liked the look of someone else, she could bump off the guy on her platform.

I think this is a fabulous idea. Let’s face it, within a few minutes of meeting someone, we can usually tell if we’re attracted to him/her. Of course, these guys had only a minute to put on their A game, and the first guy who floated out and admitted to living with his parents was given a flash of four “Not Interested” signs within a matter of seconds. Others played guitars and sang, while a few appeared in only their underwear in the grand hope that their physique would serve as the main attraction.

All four ladies went on dates, and while two of the ladies realized that their initial attraction wasn’t strong enough to keep a conversation going for more than five minutes, the other two ladies did seem to genuinely get along with their chosen men. A fifty percent chance of finding a nice companion after only seeing him in person for a few minutes? These are odds I like.

And so, dear reader, in the wake of my last break up, a looming Valentine’s Day, and my impending twentyyear high school reunion, I did something I promised myself that I would never do again. I joined an on-line dating service.

I had actually joined this service about seven years ago when I was still in grad school. I met and had dates with three different men. These were all “good-on-paper” guys, but when I met them in person, I didn’t feel any spark of attraction. From this experience, I reasoned that on-line dating wasn’t for me.

However, I live in a tiny town, and my options are limited. I’d like to date again but outside the fishbowl I live in. The best way to meet men, I thought, would be on-line. Plus, two single friends, one here in Dillon and another in New York, had both met interesting men on-line. As one friend put, “It’ll do wonders for your self-esteem.”

Oh, how I wish that were true.

Once I joined the service I decided to make my profile invisible so that I could enjoy a “conveyer belt of love”-type experience. I would shop around for men who lived in Bozeman or Missoula, towns close enough to drive to easily but far enough away so that my personal and professional lives wouldn’t mix.

Browsing through the profiles was a fascinating but daunting experience. I quickly became overwhelmed with all of the choices, so like any good teacher, I had to devise a rubric or scale to rate my level of interest. Any man whose profile picture featured him proudly holding a fish (or any other dead animal, for that matter) was right out. That eliminated a good third of my choices (after all, it is Montana). Next, I started reading profile autobiographies and realized that I couldn’t take off my English professor hat. After looking at these writing samples, I knew I had to eliminate anyone who couldn’t be bothered to use spell check or write in non-texting language. There went another third.

With the remaining candidates, I saw a disturbing trend. A great many of them were outdoor enthusiasts who listed activities that involved either hurtling one’s self down the side of a snowy mountain at breakneck speeds or walking though forests with fifty pounds of gear on one’s back. This worried me. Where was the guy who admitted to liking channel surfing while eating Doritos? Or reading Dickens and the Huffington Post?

I consulted with my ex-boyfriend, Will, and he said that these guys weren’t necessarily looking for me to participate in these activities but perhaps for someone who can appreciate their interests. This made sense to me.

So I wrote to several of these men. I introduced myself and explained why my profile was hidden. I offered to send a picture and more information about myself. Then, the waiting began. Within a few days, I had some takers who were interested in seeing a picture and knowing more about me. I replied and sent on my picture, and again I waited . . . . and waited.

For the most part, none of these men emailed me again. So a week later, I sent out another batch of introductory emails to different men. A few replied to my emails, but once again, after I sent a picture, I never heard from any of them again.

Puzzled, I spoke to my best friend who used to live in Montana and had done some on-line dating. “Are you crazy?” she exclaimed. “Men in Montana are a**holes.” She told me a story of a man she had met on-line. They had exchanged emails and phone calls, and after a few weeks, he decided to visit her. They made arrangements for him to stay with friends and both were looking forward to meeting in person, but he never showed up. He never called her again. Unfortunately, she has a treasure trove of these types of on-line dating stories.

But what if it was me? After all, I’m 38 and still haven’t been able to make a relationship work. Clearly, I have some pretty unique baggage. I decided to re-read my emails and study the picture I had sent. Was the picture not good? Admittedly, I was wearing a sleeveless blouse and the way I was standing made my bicep look to be the size of a Virginia ham. Were my emails too intimidating? I did cop to being an English professor, but it’s not like I quoted Shakespeare or Derrida.

I could speculate endlessly on why these men weren’t interested in me, but the truth is that I’ll never know why they didn’t reply to my email.

So I decided to take myself off line and go with some friends to the one bar in town that my students don’t frequent. My mission that night was not to find someone to date but to find someone (preferably an out-of-towner) to have a minor fling with. My self-esteem needed a booster shot, and, in the past, I’ve been a fairly successful flirter. So I chatted up a man from Seattle who was passing through town. He seemed to respond well to me, and together with my friends, we closed out the bar. While I had hoped to spend some time alone with him, he left me quickly with a peck on the cheek, and I cried all the way home.

And now, I write to you on this Valentine’s Day, with my self esteem in the toilet. My “conveyer belt of love” experiment was a sign of the apocalypse after all. It may not be the end of the world, but it’s the end of my attempt to find love. If he wants me, he knows where he can find me, but for now, Cupid can kiss my ass.

Bridget Jones' Classroom

Roaringgrrl — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 00:32:00 GMT

Just recently, a new colleague in my department experienced every professor’s worst nightmare. She forgot to go to class. On the first day.

See what happened was that, in her head, she mixed up the time of her class as being in the afternoon rather than in the morning. Her husband, also an instructor at the university, was in their shared office that morning and called her at home to say that her students were in the office, confused about their class.

She handled it like a pro, though. The next day in class, she began by introducing herself and asked, “Let’s break the ice by describing something stupid that we’ve done. Let me start…..”

After hearing about this, I realized that after teaching in higher education for fifteen years, I have quite a few stories of my own goofiness in the classroom. I believe I may rival Bridget Jones in her general inability to make it through any given day without lipstick on her teeth and her skirt tucked into her pantyhose (both things I’ve done, by the way).

In fact, just last month, I railed on my students for having such poor grammar that they were writing in incomplete sentences. I believe I said something like, “Really, at this level [it was a 300-level class] you should be writing in complete sentences.” Instead of marking the errors in their papers, I put a number in the margin next to a sentence with an error. The number corresponds to a punctuation and style key that tells students about the error and offers suggestions for fixing it. I passed out the key impatiently and told the students to get cracking on correcting the errors. The next day, a student pointed out my own proofreading error on the style key in which I wrote “to” instead of “two.” Awesome.

Once I was looking at a syllabus I had passed out a few years ago advising students to buy any “addition” of the novel they wanted. I also accidentally photocopied a summer school class application, which included my social security number, on the back page of a syllabus. And about ten years ago, I wrote to a student that “for all intensive purposes” she was set to pass the class. Oh yeah.

But my fumbling as a professor goes beyond the occasional typo. I’ve tripped over a trash can, kicked off a shoe during a particularly active discussion, backed into a black board which left chalk dust on my butt, and farted while I slid off a table I was sitting on (though the table creaked a lot so I don’t think anyone heard).

This of course doesn’t even touch all the technological boo boos I’ve made. While trying to turn on the classroom’s Smart Board, I angered it so much that the board’s lights flashed red and made a beep beep beeeeeeeeeeep noise that sounded like a heart monitor on a dying patient in a Meg Ryan movie. In another class, I couldn’t get the slide clicker/laser pointer to work, and after changing the battery and restarting the computer, I had to have an IT staffer show me the on/off switch on the clicker itself.

And I know I’m not the only teacher who’s been Bridget Jones-ing it in the classroom, so I’m leaving this column intentionally short to allow editions…..wait…..additions by readers (either who are teachers or who, as students, have been witness to some pretty goofy things).

Let me hear from you!

Fraidy Cat

Roaringgrrl — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 02:00:00 GMT

I’m not what you would call a sporty person. I’ve never felt the need to run or jog (except after an ice cream truck or the Schwan’s guy), and the idea of chasing after a ball whether it be volley, foot, base, or basket in nature has never appealed to me.

I do, however, love to swim. When I was 8 or 9, my parents encouraged (read: forced) my brother to stop staring at the television and join our neighborhood swim team. As a tag-a-long little sister, I begged to be included in this endeavor and every summer until I was 18, I swam with the local team. I hardly won any races, but I learned all of the strokes and am now able to swim long distances quite easily.

So when a friend asked me to join her and a few others on a trip to swim Clark Canyon Dam, I said yes, excitedly. I’ve swum in open water before, but only for play. It was during this excursion that I realized that I am a big, stinkin’ ‘fraidy cat.

First, you should know that the water was frickin’ frackin’ freezing. It literally took my breath away. Next, you should know that the water was filled with algae. Little strands hung suspended in the water and large globs of it floated all around me.

And here’s what nobody told me about swimming in open water. It’s dark! Unlike the pool with its semi-clean, chlorinated water and clear, black lane lines, the lake water was dark as night. I put my face in to begin my free-style crawl, but I almost immediately pulled my head up and shook myself like a dog. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t swim and not know where I was going and what was beneath me. I was pretty sure the canyon dam wasn’t home to any sea monsters, but I did know that the dam covered a small town called Armstead. I half expected ghostly post-resident Amstead-ian arms to reach up and grab my ankles.

So, I turned over on my back and began to do the back stroke. Ah, this is the life, I thought. I hardly ever do the backstroke in the pool because I’m afraid I’m going to bump my head on the pool’s edge, but in the open water, what would I bump into? Well, as it turned out, something bumped into me. A large pelican had been quietly swimming closer and closer to me as I swam, and when I turned on my side to check my progress, I saw Pete the Pelican coming in for the kill. Seriously, this pelican charged me! I let out a yelp loud enough to scare both of us and he flew away.

Since I was too scared to put my head down, I proceeded to swim the breast stroke, but with my head sticking out of the water like a 95-year-old granny. I may as well have been wearing a bathing costume and floral swim cap with a neck strap.

I swam like this for an hour, and my partner, who was paddling along in a kayak, and I switched places. Unlike me, she had no problem putting her head under water and swimming an industrious crawl. She finished her part in about half the time as I did.

We celebrated our swim with warm towels and a thermos of hot cocoa. When I got home I peeled off my swim suit and realized that I was covered in green slime. Because I had kept my head above water, the algae had no problem making its way down my cleavage, leaving me with slick, green boobs that smelled like a salad. I looked like an alien.

I didn’t used to be so fearful. It’s known far and wide that I’m a champion worrier (and I have the bunched up intestines to prove it), but I’m usually pretty good about taking risks. I’ve moved all over the country to universities where I haven’t known anyone. I’ve gone hang gliding. I’ve been a model (in various states of undress) for art classes while I was doing my undergraduate work.

But lately I’ve noticed that I’m less likely to take risks. After my somewhat bad turn at a carnival this past summer (see my last column), I didn’t chance any rides at this year’s carnival in Dillon. I usually like the rush of adrenaline I feel when I’m at the top of the ferris wheel, but now, I think that rush is really stupid. Why should I put myself through the palm-sweating experience?

One of my favorite movies is Albert Brooks’ Defending Your Life (1991). In it, Brooks plays Daniel Miller, a man who has died and gone to a place called Judgment City. While he’s there, Daniel discovers that he has a lawyer who will literally defend his life. In order to move on to the next place (an undefined heaven), Daniel must prove that he has conquered his fears. If he can’t, he will be sent back to earth to try again. During his trial, prosecuting attorney Lena Foster, played by the feisty Lee Grant, shows movie-like clips of Daniel’s life to demonstrate that he hasn’t overcome his fears.

If there really is a Judgment City and I do have to defend my life, I wonder what clips the prosecution will show from my life. The time I gave into peer pressure and signed a classmate’s petition to run for class president in high school? The time I needed to look for a leak in my roof but I froze at the bottom of the attic stairs and then made my boyfriend go up there? The million times I’ve listened to racist/sexist jokes and not said anything?

What might be if I stop being a ‘fraidy cat? If I stopped being afraid that people won’t like me (though I have a feeling that ship may have already sailed in certain cases)? If I push myself to enjoy rather than dread the rush of adrenaline that flushes my face and gives me a mild case of the shakes?

I can tell you this, if I hadn’t been too scared to put my head down at the dam lake, I wouldn’t have gone home with green algae down my bathing suit. And really, who wants to go through life with green boobies?

Quirky TV Shows Featuring a Strong Female Lead

Roaringgrrl — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 17:54:00 GMT

With access to high speed internet this summer, I’ve taken to downloading shows and movies. After watching several episodes of Weeds, the title, “Quirky TV Shows Featuring a Strong Female Lead,” appeared in my queue as a genre that Netflix apparently feels is suited to my taste. The title also appropriately describes my summer vacation.

I’ve had a little too much time on my hands. After not being 100% satisfied with certain products, I called a lot of companies to complain. My call to L’Oreal about a greasy face cream netted me a refund check but my visit with a Victoria’s Secret sales clerk stuck me with a bra whose seams would show through fleece (there’s a reason why it was on clearance, ah-ha!).

My best interaction was with the representative of the Keurig corporation, a company that makes single serving coffee makers. Mom purchased a Keurig coffee maker for my dad for Father’s day, and we all fell in love with it. The coffee maker uses little pre-measured cups (called K-cups) of coffee that are popped in and out of the maker. Dad is a straightforward cup-a-joe guy, but I like flavored coffee, so I purchased a K-cups box advertising that it contained Butter Toffee and Caramel Beurre coffee.

Unfortunately, I found that the 18 cup box contained 16 Butter Toffees and 2 Caramel Beurres. I called the company to complain about the inequity and hoped they would send me an entire box of Caramel Beurre as an apology. My complaint was met with silence. Then, the customer service representative tentatively suggested that I was, in fact, in possession of an entire box of Caramel Beurre…..because the term is French for “butter toffee.”

Apparently K-cups are popular in Canada where some are labeled in French.

Oh.

In all, it’s been a schizophrenic summer. I spent time with “all-American” families, widows, and carnies. I learned that I am too old for carnival rides (though never too old for funnel cake), I learned that if I get married, I’ll always have someone to buy hangover food for me, and I learned that the middle and ring finger of my right hand are virtually fingerprint free.

This last piece of knowledge came as a particular surprise. For a teaching license, I needed to undergo a background check which necessitated fingerprints. During the printing process, the officer at the Sheriff’s department printed me twice, and still, we couldn’t get clear prints on two fingers of my right hand. I guess, then, I can still embark on a crime spree using only my right middle and ring fingers. It’ll make lock picking difficult, but I’m sure I’ll manage.

In fact, only two days later, I did do something legally dodgy. At a store, I wanted to purchase a can of Virginia Peanuts, but no one was around to take my money. There were no other customers in the store, I poked my head into the back room and saw no one, and I called out for assistance. Crickets. So I wrote a note and tucked the cash into it. And then I left, with the peanuts under my arm. I’ve never done anything like this, and so far, the police haven’t come knocking on my door. Maybe they were confused by the odd fingerprints I left behind.

As it turns out, I needn’t have worried. The Montana Bureau of Justice has rejected my fingerprint cards, citing them as unreadable.

This whole fingerprinting incident really got me thinking about where I am as an adult. I mean, I’m lucky enough to have stayed off the grid for 37 years, which I think is a minor miracle given my penchant for speeding and making obscene gestures (which often occur at the same time).

However, in 37 years, I’ve managed to become less physically tolerant of being whipped around violently. As a child, I could climb off any carnival ride with a big smile and wild hair. This summer I discovered that those days are over. After 3 minutes on the swings at the Salem Fair, I tumbled off, listing heavily to the right, with very wobbly bowels. No, I learned, port-a-potties at a carnival are not fun.

On the flip side, at 37, I’m old enough to stay in the pool during the adult swim. This summer I swam most days at a nearby outdoor pool. I was entirely too excited the first time the lifeguard blew the whistle to announce the adult swim, and I realized that I could stay in while all the ankle biters had to get out. I floated in luxurious quiet on my swimming noodle.

One of the groovy things about going back to my hometown this summer was meeting up with high school friends. Of course, they’re all married with children (while I still ride the relationship short bus), but I was invited in for a glimpse of the “all-American” family at play.

During the weekends, the families in my friend’s cul-de-sac let the children play in the street while the adults, sometime nursing babies, sometimes nursing beer, supervise from their driveways. Though conversations were punctuated with, “Don’t do that!” “Leave your brother alone!” and “Take that off your head!” I learned several things about the “all-American” family.

I learned that perhaps the greatest invention of the 20^th century is the baby monitor. Parents can listen for kids up to mischief in their cribs from hundreds of yards away. With baby monitors clipped onto their belts, moms steadied a glass of wine in one hand while spraying bug repellant on a rowdy two-year old with the other.

I also learned that two-parent households are particularly adept at tag-team disciplining their kids. Employing the eyes in the backs of their heads and using a growl that could stop a team of horses in their tracks, these parents didn’t need to leave the comfort of their lawn chairs in order to scare the crap out of their kids.

I think the most interesting thing I learned about these married-with-children families is the built-in support system. Sure the parents shared the car-pooling and cooking responsibilities, but, most importantly, I learned that all the husbands drove out the morning after a particularly raucous Christmas party to buy their wives hangover food. This is a fringe benefit of marriage that I’d never heard about. I think I might have climbed on board the marriage roller coaster if I’d known that!

When I wasn’t spending time with the Great American Dream families or at the pool, I shared an occasional glass of wine with the widows who live in my parents’ condo building. With an average age of 75, these ladies are living the good life volunteering at church, taking pottery classes, and spending time with family.

They also taught me something about marriage—it’s a good ride that everyone should get on, but once it’s over, it’s good to stand on your own two feet. Hopefully without the listing and the loose bowels.

Blue Highways Revisited

Roaringgrrl — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 21:19:00 GMT

In my last column, I discussed my need to get the hell out of dodge so I could shake the anger and misery of a bad school year. I’m not sure going on a cross country road trip was the way to do it.

During the last major road trip I undertook alone, I fell in love with William Least Heat Moon’s autobiographical book, Blue Highways. In it, Least Heat Moon describes a journey he took after divorcing his wife and losing his job. He outfitted his van with sleeping quarters and took to the road. While mapping out his trip, he decided to keep to the blue highways (the color of U.S. highways on older maps). Least Heat Moon’s autobiography begins as a simple journal about his trip but evolves into a more intimate account of his own spiritual journey.

Inspired by this and despite the farm animal settings my dad had prearranged (see my last column, “Mapping”), I decided to put TomTom to work. I programmed him to avoid the major interstates. I believed a trip down those lonely highways would soothe my troubled soul.

In the beginning, the blue highways were superb. Well, except for the cattle drive I ran into only 20 miles north of Dillon. I’ve lived in Montana for almost four years and had never seen a cattle drive. Of course, Murphy’s Law dictates that such an event would correspond with my soul journey. Riders on horses expertly moved the cows down the shoulder of the road, however, a couple of errant bovines decided to move down the middle of the road, aiming directly for my stopped car. It was then I learned that Montana cattle are bigger than my MINI Cooper. Luckily, Martha (my Cooper) didn’t appear interesting to the cattle, and they moved away from us.

Motoring along U.S. 12 in Montana, I got a look at central Montana, a place I hadn’t yet seen. The rolling hills and green grass brought a smile to my face, but I’ll admit what really pleased me was learning that the Town Pump franchise had planted itself along the highway. No matter how small, most of the towns I puttered through offered this well-equipped convenience store that allowed me to eat somewhat healthily on the road.

The last time I drove across the country by myself (15 years ago) convenience store fare was very different. Today’s convenience stores offer vegetarians like me the best invention since sliced bread: Campbell’s Soup At Hand. A minute and a half in the microwave and I was good to go. Don’t get me wrong; I love road junk food tremendously (Slurpees and Bugles and Ho-ho’s, oh my!), but I wanted to give my aging body a fighting chance at a b.m. at some point during the trip. (Hey, I'm a teacher. I'm always interested in outcomes.)

In fact, I drank at least one Soup At Hand each day, and while I was on the blue highways in the west, I had no trouble finding great convenience stores along the highway for my daily soup fix.

After Montana, I crossed through a tiny corner of Wyoming into South Dakota on U.S. 385. This beautiful blue highway afforded me an experience through the Black Hills that was breathtaking. Literally. Since I live in a town so small that trips to the grocery store only have me in my car for two minutes and so isolated that longer trips outside the county require strict attention to roads that may be littered with animals (see above), I don’t generally spend a lot of time cruising easily in my car.

On this trip, however, with my Ipod loaded with CDs I hadn’t listened to in a while, I enjoyed cranking up some tunes and singing loudly, badly, and, given the altitude, somewhat breathlessly. My favorite Black Hills CD was Barbara Streisand’s Broadway Album. Maybe it was her version of “Being Alive” that got me going or maybe it was the misguided notion that I actually sounded good when I sang along with Barbara, but when I was listening to that album, I felt great. My soul started to shed all the junk from the past year and leave it in the wind.

After South Dakota, I cruised happily on U.S. 20 through Nebraska and learned that no matter how small the town in Nebraska, there is always a Pizza Hut. I’m a big fan of the Hut, and though I didn’t stop to sample the pan pizza, I loved knowing that they were there.

In fact, during the first half of the trip, I enjoyed a great amount of abundance. There were plenty of places to eat and sleep, and I never worried about Gracie, my cockatiel who rode right beside me. I plied her with millet and Ritz crackers when she wasn't napping atop her stuffed bird. Life was good for both of us.

From Nebraska, I traveled into Iowa and saw something I rarely see in Montana: happy cows. Now, this is not to say that cows are unhappy in Montana, but when I observe cows pulling up dry grass and milling around aimlessly, I believe them to be dissatisfied with their lives. The cows I saw in Iowa were curled up, chewing their cud in the shade of large trees. They looked contented and peaceful.

Unfortunately, my time in Iowa was the last peace I was to find on the blue highways. Once in Illinois, I found that the blue highways were crowded with large towns through which TomTom skillfully guided me. However, unlike the blue highways of the West, the blue highways of the Midwest and East lack services. Gone are the roadside convenience stores and cheap hotels. Such amenities in Illinois and Indiana are reserved for the numerous interstates that criss-cross the states. Fearing that I wouldn’t find gas or lodging on those highways, I decided to find the nearest on-ramp of a major interstate and just jet on to Virginia.

This turned out to be a huge mistake. If I had stuck to the blue highways, I would have made it home a day later, but I probably would have avoided the giant rainstorm that socked me in on the West Virginia Turnpike. As it was, just as it turned dark and I paid $1.50 in tolls (and there were two more tolls to come), it started pouring. Then the clouds rolled in so that I was driving in the mountains, through the rain, and in the dark. I put on my hazard lights and slowed down to a crawl, but 18-wheelers kept zipping past, spraying Martha and me with water. The road, slick with rain and tractor trailer oil, looked (and felt) like corrugated cardboard, and Gracie and I bounced our way down the mountain. How ironic that the one road I actually paid extra to drive on was the worst maintained.

I’m glad to say that I arrived that night in Virginia safely but exhausted, with my shoulders up around my ears from four hours of tense driving.

Now that my shoulders have relaxed, I am sorry that I gave into the fear of scarcity when I arrived in Illinois. I know if I had believed in the beauty of abundance that I would have had enough, but fear is a powerful motivator. If only I had remembered this passage from Blue Highways:

But it is man’s potential to try to see how all things come from the old intense light and how they pause in the darkness of matter only long enough to change back into energy, to see that changelessness would be meaninglessness, to know that the only way the universe can show and prove itself is through change. His job is to do what nothing else he knows of can do: to look about and draw upon time.

Driving on the blue highways was meant to slow me down so that I could “look about and draw upon time,” but in the remaining hours of my road trip, I forsook that notion in favor of fear. I guess all I can do is to keep traveling down blue highways (both literally and figuratively) and know that I have all that I need.

Mapping

Roaringgrrl — Mon, 25 May 2009 18:34:00 GMT

The academic year is over. I have no major complaints. I’m still employed and most of my colleagues are still speaking to me. My night table is stacked with delectable goodies to read, and my TIVO is almost filled to capacity with the past year’s Masterpiece Theatres just waiting for me to submit my final grades.

I have no major complaints except one. I have become a miserably angry person.

I’m two-thirds of my way to tenure, and I think my latest incarnation as miserably angry person, or MAP, is probably fairly common at this stage in my career. The honeymoon is over; I’ve seen the future of my current job, and I keep mumbling to myself a phrase uttered by Mr. Wilcox in Howard’s End: “Oh, the uselessness of it.”

(Such a phrase applies to several situations, though certainly not to my students, who have kept me from going into a bathroom and opening a vein.)

It’s useless to think that I can change the course of the university’s trajectory, it’s useless to think that I can change my colleagues, and, ultimately, it’s useless for me to be miserably angry about it anymore.

This year, my MAP-ping has taken on several forms and more often than not, I leave the campus feeling like Charlie Brown with his forehead against a wall.

But lately, I’ve been seeing things. Or, as I like to think of it, I’ve been shown things. Several nights in a row, I watched five large raptors circle the tops of the trees on the university’s campus, which is just across the street from my apartment. From my balcony, I watched these huge birds swoop and glide above my head.

Jacek came over and declared them to be golden eagles because of the coloring of their wings. I loved watching them soar into the wind, riding thermals (as birders call it). The English professor in me couldn’t help but to see something symbolic in these beautiful animals flying high above my balcony, night after night. Their presence was telling me to fly to new heights and to take pleasure in the ride.

The symbolic birds reminded me of the summer after my first year here. After heavy rains, enormous rainbows perfectly framed the university two evenings in a row. As with the birds, I saw the symbolism and took the rainbows as a sign that I was in the right place.

Then I found out that the birds weren’t golden eagles. They were turkey vultures.

Try as I might, I can’t think of anything positively symbolic about the university and my balcony being swarmed by vultures.

And so, dear reader, I have decided to put my Mini to the wind and get the hell out of Dodge. I’m spending the summer far, far away from the university and the turkey vultures. I’m going home to Virginia.

When I asked my parents about a two-month long visit, they were surprisingly welcoming, given that I’m almost 40 and basically asking for free room and board. And though I’ve made this trip from the Midwest to Virginia more than a few times, Dad sent me his TomTom, a GPS system, for my car.

I’m not one to get caught up in gadgets (I don’t even have a cell phone), but I must admit that the TomTom is pretty cool. And creepy. As I sat in my car, powering up the TomTom, I thought I would have to reprogram it from my Dad’s location in Virginia to mine in Montana, but nope, within about three minutes, six satellites (according to TomTom) found me and pinpointed my exact street location. AND the little car on the screen was a blue MINI Cooper, just like mine. Freaky.

When some friends decided to take a spontaneous jaunt to Butte (about an hour north from Dillon), I packed TomTom with me to get to know him better. After I programmed him to take us to Butte, we hit the highway.

And then TomTom began to moo. I’m really not kidding. TomTom periodically mooed all the way to Butte. At first, we thought maybe he knew that we were in cattle country and was alerting us to the possible presence of livestock on the road. We also thought since TomTom knew there were few other roads, exits, or communities around that he was mooing to keep us awake.

After returning from Butte, I googled “TomTom moo” and learned exactly why TomTom was mooing. Apparently, TomTom has safety preferences. It only took one phone call to discover the guilty party.

“Dad, did you or did you not program TomTom to moo when I go over the posted speed limit?”

There was only uproarious laughter on the other end of the line.

It turns out that Dad also downloaded the image of the MINI Cooper for my enjoyment, and I was a little relieved to know that the satellites tracking my every move didn’t exactly know what car I was driving.

Since then, I’ve been endlessly fiddling with TomTom trying out different routes home, discovering different POIs (points of interest) on the way, and learning that TomTom is default programmed to take me to any Shoney’s in the country.

As a visual learner, I’ve always loved looking at maps and tracing routes from one place to another. However, I’m easily weighed down by the big picture, the whole trip, all the states to cross.

What I like about TomTom is that he breaks the journey into parts so that I’m not overwhelmed by the whole. He’s helping me trade one MAP for another, one that helps me see the joy in the journey.

Stay tuned for updates from the road….

Life is Like a Box of Booberry Cereal

Roaringgrrl — Mon, 09 Mar 2009 04:18:00 GMT

When we were growing up, my brother and I weren’t allowed to eat cereal with marshmallows. Every two weeks, Mom would take us to the store, hand us a stack of coupons, and tell us to find cereal that matched the coupons. Shuffling through the stack, I would always pick out Froot Loops, Trix, and Fruity Pebbles, but my brother, ever the cheapo, would make me take the cereal that had the highest dollar savings on its corresponding coupon.

As a result, boxes and boxes of Life cereal traveled through my childhood. Damn you, Mikey!

After high school, I lived in college dorms and subsisted on cafeteria cereal which only ever seemed to include non-confrontational cereals like Raisin Bran and Corn Flakes. So when I moved into my first apartment during grad school, I purchased a box of Lucky Charms just because I could. It was delicious, but an hour later when I was both hungry and wiped out, I realized just why Mom had forbidden such sugary cereal.

But I think there was another reason for making sure we stayed off the junk cereal. Once when I was over at my cousin Leo’s house, I saw a box of Booberry cereal on the kitchen table. Booberry had blue nuggets and marshmallows that turned the milk blue and was therefore, awesome. I exclaimed, “Your mom lets you eat that?!?” Leo nodded proudly as I sank down in my chair. It just wasn’t fair, I thought.

Then Leo’s mom let him go to a KISS concert when he was 10. He became a skater punk who was harassed out of high school and later became one of our town’s first body piercers. But now, years later, cousin Leo is in prison for selling drugs to a local television personality who almost died.

Was it the Booberry cereal that led to his life of crime?

On the flip side, am I who I am because I didn’t eat Booberry cereal when I was a child?

But seriously, I have been thinking a lot lately about those small choices that seem to dictate destiny, especially when it comes to romance.

Recently, I thought about a man I dated during my first year of college. Our relationship only lasted my freshman year, during which time he proposed. There was no ring and we were both pretty tipsy for the event, so I didn’t take it seriously. Then, a few months later, he moved across the country to finish his degree and that was that. I wondered what had happened to him after he left.

Now, I am not one who keeps up with ex-boyfriends with any kind of regularity. After they dump me, and they usually do, I like to pretend that they’ve gone to Siberia where they have no access to modern technology.

Well I do have access to modern technology, and Google is a beautiful, beautiful thing. I typed in his name and BAM, there he was, the subject of a local newspaper story. He had earned degrees in his chosen field and was working for a terrific firm. But the focus of the news story was on people who had survived cancer. Diagnosed with a brain tumor, he had survived numerous surgeries and treatments only, seven years later, to be diagnosed with testicular cancer. I assume he survived that, too, since he keeps an updated Facebook page. He doesn’t appear to be married, and the article indicated that he had been cared for by family members.

Next, I looked up my high school boyfriend. He never proposed and, in fact, dumped me for someone else, but what if fate had intervened to keep us together? Another Google search revealed that he is also living far, far away, working in his chosen field. I couldn’t find out if he is still single; in fact, I couldn’t find any personal information on him at all, which I found sort of interesting. It’s as though he’s disappeared into the black hole of professional life.

I even Googled a boy whom I’d had a mad crush on in high school. Today, he’s a teacher like I am and is living in our hometown. What would have happened had I only managed to convince him of my very existence?

On the other hand, what would have happened to these young men had I stayed in their lives? As far as I can tell, their professional lives weren’t adversely affected by my absence.

Of course, such speculating assumes that romantic relationships affect life and career trajectories. And I suppose they do, I just haven’t had that experience. As I mentioned in a previous column, I always assumed that I would fold my life into someone else’s by getting married, but that situation never presented itself.

Such speculation also assumes that by changing one thing about my life, the rest of my life would have been dramatically different. If cousin Leo hadn’t eaten Booberry cereal every day of his young life, would he still be in prison? Probably. If I had pursued any of these fellas would I still be an English professor in Montana? Who knows?

Nevertheless, I have decided to tempt fate. I bought a box of Booberry cereal.

It may not lead to a life of crime, but perhaps it will encourage me to keep plugging away at myself, always trying to improve, always re-examining, always moving forward.

Christmas with The Sopranos

Roaringgrrl — Fri, 26 Dec 2008 00:35:00 GMT

This is the first year that I’m spending the holidays away from my family. As I type this, I’m watching the snow fall while listening to Sirius Radio Hanukkah. My feet are propped up on the couch, and Gracie my cockatiel is preening herself.

We just finished watching my favorite holiday classic, Meet Me In St. Louis. It’s my favorite holiday film not because of Judy Garland’s beautiful version of “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” but because in the opening scenes of the film, the family is making ketchup. I’ve never made ketchup, but I love the IDEA of making ketchup. I think this movie reminds me that not everything used to be processed and canned the way it is now.

And that’s how I feel about my holiday vacation this year. It’s new and different for me to be away from family. I’m making up traditions as I go along instead of taking part in the usual processed events I’ve participated in for the past 35 years.

Instead buying a tree, I decorated my ficus. Instead of passing up roast beef on Christmas Eve, I tried halibut for the first time (and liked it!). Instead of praying quietly in church on Christmas Eve, Jacek and I took a midnight drive to a empty, snow-covered parking lot where we hit the brakes and did donuts. Today, we’re planning on celebrating Christmas day together by watching the 6^th season of The Sopranos.

Now there’s a family steeped in tradition. Granted, it’s a bloody and violent tradition that is oftentimes misogynistic and racist, but nobody sticks to tradition like Tony Soprano. Shoot his nephew Christopher and find yourself capped in the back of the head. Beat up his sister Janice and find yourself with a broken nose. Retribution and retaliation figure largely in this world where men must commit acts of violence to garner respect.

Unfortunately, violence is a part of many traditions, both secular and religious. Though this time of year generally brings cease fires between warring factions, we cannot but be reminded of the religious zealotry and/or absolute steadfastness to tradition that has often led to these violent disputes.

Maybe it’s a little simplistic of me to think this, especially given that my words come from a place of privilege and ease, but wouldn’t it be great if we could throw out some of the old traditions to make way for different ways of doing things?

So instead of sticking with processed and canned traditions, I think I’ll make my own ketchup this year.

I hope you have a wonderful holiday and a happy new year.

Pep Rallies and Other Places I Don't Belong

Roaringgrrl — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 14:57:00 GMT

A friend once told me that the definition of insanity is to keep doing the same thing over and over while expecting a different result. According to this definition, then, I’m insane.

This may not come as a surprise to some of my readers.

To me, though, I’m constantly surprised at the activities I repeatedly put myself through in the vain hope that maybe this time, things will be different.

In my high school days, I eschewed team sports. Before high school, I had played soccer as was required by law (isn’t it?) until 8th grade when the boys on the opposing team got too rough and grabby around the area between my neck and belly. I swam for the local swim team every summer and was generally pretty fit, but since I didn’t play sports for school, I wasn’t seen as particularly athletic.

Actually, I had tried out for the junior high soccer team. Title IX required the coach to allow girls to try out. None of us girls made the team, go figure. Instead, I was made a manager along with a pretty cheerleader, Mandy. I kept the team’s stats while Mandy generally smiled at the boys and twirled a pencil. One day while the boys were warming up for a game, I overheard a boy say to the team, “We have the prettiest managers of all the other teams.” My 13-year-old ears perked up at this until another boy said, “Yeah. And then there’s Bethany.”

Ouch.

But I kept my mouth shut and continued to take down stats. Needless to say, I didn’t try out for the team again, and the year following, I stopped playing soccer. After that, I was typically picked last for teams during gym class, and I lost any interest in sporting events.

My senior year in high school, though, I decided to turn over a new leaf. Instead of pooh poohing high school sports, I decided to support them.

As Principal McGee from Grease says: “If you can’t be an athlete, be an athletic supporter.”

So I decided to show my school spirit at our first pep rally. I took a bottle of bubbles and blew them into the crowd. The crowd had a great time and demanded I pass around the bubbles so that we could blow them in time with the marching band. It was all going great until the principal called me down in front of everyone and yelled at me for ruining the gym floor.

With soap bubbles? Really?

I left the rally dejected and didn’t support another athletic event until I arrived at college. During my undergrad and grad school days, I attended a few large-scale university football games and even saw the Atlanta Braves play. For the most part, though, I attended these games with the same mentality with which I attend outdoor concerts and festivals: to people watch and eat junk food on a pretty day.

Until recently, I hadn’t attended any sporting events at the university where I teach. When my students perform in plays or concerts, I generally attend to support them, but until lately, I haven’t felt the urge to see the university’s athletes in action.

I decided that choice was hypocritical. Why not support all my students in whatever university events they choose to take part in?

So with a smile on my face and a cheer in my heart, I decided to attend a football game. I wore a university jersey to show my support and was promised by another faculty member that both beer and nachos would be on the menu.

The day was beautiful, sunny and warm without being sweltering, and the crowd was buoyant and loud. However, my good mood was put on hold when I found that the snack bar held only meat products in the way of burgers and hotdogs. No nachos? What would I do without that lovely, liquid processed cheese?

With a sigh, I proceeded to the beer garden only to be told that I couldn’t take my purchased can of Coors Light into the stands. I quickly tucked the unopened can into my jacket and proceeded to drink it like a hobo surreptitiously out of my pocket. I quickly abandoned that project when I remembered that high school pep rally. I had visions of the university Chancellor singling me out from the crowd to yell at me.

Without food or drink, I was without distraction and was therefore forced to watch the game.

While I appreciate the physical challenges and the various strategies involved, I just don’t like watching sports. Maybe it’s psychological, and I’m still carrying around that 13-year-old girl who was called ugly during a sporting event. Maybe it’s sociological, and I can’t help but analyze rather than appreciate men chasing after balls.

Whatever it is that causes my aversion to sports, I left the game feeling very much like the teenager who was called out of the stands by her principal.

So am I insane for thinking that this time would be different? Maybe. But sometimes, I guess it’s good for me to put something new into my routine.

I’ll always support my students, no matter what events they participate in, but I think I’ll do it by wishing them well. Oh, and I’ll wear the school colors (red and black) on Fridays. When in doubt, say it with fashion.

My Montana Summer

Roaringgrrl — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 01:32:00 GMT

This was my summer to discover Montana. This state is chock-full of geological marvels like Glacier National Park, Yellowstone National Park, and what are known to me only as “the pretty mountains one passes on the way to shop in Bozeman.” These places attract tourists from the far reaches of the world who hike, bike, and camp through Montana’s natural wonders.

I am not one of these people.

(If you doubt this statement, see my column, “The Roaringgrrl Goes Camping.”)

I prefer to see the world from the driver’s seat of my car or from the balcony of a hotel. I can look at the scenery and breathe in the fresh air while keeping away from mosquitoes and other creepy crawlies.

So I hopped into Martha, my MINI Cooper, and set my compass to north. Five hours later, we landed in Havre, a town so far north in Montana it should be guarded by Canadian Mounties rather than Montana state police. I was a little nervous. I’d heard people say about Havre, “It’s not hell. But you can see it from there.”

I disagree with this assessment. I think people who live in my part of Montana with its big mountain ranges are geological snobs. Havre isn’t flat; it’s nestled in rolling hills that appear to undulate endlessly in a sea of grass and shrubs. The town is charming with its long main street filled with western clothing shops, small eateries, and bars. There’s even a preserved, historical underground city where Havre residents a hundred years ago kept their shops safe and warm from the howling wind that blows all winter long.

But the best part of Havre, along with its local college, Montana State University—Northern and its Amtrak railway station that leads directly west through Glacier National Park, is the Orange Julius. In my estimation, no town that is home to an Orange Julius can be completely dismissed. The OJ is the stamp of capitalist culture, indicating (to me, anyway), that Havre is a town that is moving forward and growing. I defy you to show me a town that died that also had an Orange Julius.

After returning from Havre, I headed east to Virginia City, one of my favorite tourist destinations. It’s a restored mining town with a fabulous boardwalk lining original clapboard buildings filled with all manner of shopping.

I’d visited Virginia City several times and had seen all the old buildings, drunk a beer at the Bale of Hay Saloon, and main-lined Lemonheads at Cousins candy store, but this time, I was there for a high-class Virginia City tradition, the Brewery Follies.

The Follies take place in the old brewery and feature four actors who have clearly spent a lot of time devising rhymes for the word “Nantucket.” Crowded into the brewing room around a stage the size of a placemat, we gave our drink orders to waiters who were also the actors in that evening’s performance.

Borne out of improv, the show was hilariously irreverent, occasionally suggestive, sometimes downright dirty, but always intelligent and thoughtful. Well…except for the sketch when two actors jammed small, pen flashlights up their noses and lit up their nostrils to the tune of “Dueling Banjos.”

Next, I headed northwest to Browning, a town on the Blackfeet Reservation. As I crossed into the rez, I was surrounded by fields of purple lupine, faced with a dramatic backdrop of the steep Rocky Mountains, and looking at a cow…ON the highway. As I read from a sign about a mile later, “Open Range Grazing” means cows, and, as I saw a few moments later, horses, cross two-lane highways at will. Kids ride ponies across the middle school campus lawn, and dogs roam the streets. I like the idea of this animal-human communal living. It encourages respect. And slow driving.

After Browning, I stayed a few days in East Glacier, a town that boasts itself to be the home of the “World’s Largest Purple Spoon.” I did see the celebrated spoon, but I wonder at its practicality as the only creature I can imagine using it is the Jolly Green Giant.

From there, I drove west across Glacier National Park on the “Going to the Sun Road.” This 50-mile two-lane road spans the width of the park and takes visitors across Logan Pass (6,464 ft) and by Lake McDonald. Martha the MINI and I comfortably toodled through those thin mountain passes while the RVs and SUVs we passed quaked nervously around hairpin turns. Let’s hear it for compact cars!

My last trip had me traveling south, both of Dillon and the United States. I drove to Salt Lake City and caught a plane to visit family in Virginia, catch up with old friends, and mostly check in on my dad who had returned to work following open heart surgery (see my column “Have a Heart”).

Dad is doing great. He’s dropped a lot of weight and is eating very consciously. He works out four to five times a week at a health club that gave him a reduced membership rate because of his heart attack (how’s that for an incentive to join a health club?). He has, according to his doctors, many healthy years ahead of him.

But it was a harder trip than I thought. Facing my parents’ mortality has forced me to face my own, and I worked through this notion quite messily and with lots of tears. My friend Laurie says this emotional work has made me a much softer person, and I can only assume she means that the amount of salt water leaking from my eyeballs has somehow exfoliated my skin.

I never thought I’d be afraid of death, but such is the folly of youth, I guess. Now as I watch my laugh lines deepen and my butt widen, I think about the future all the time and wonder, “Will I die alone?”; “Will I die without family?”; “Will I die with lipstick on my teeth?”

Returning from Virginia, these questions dominated my thoughts as I drove north from the airport at Salt Lake through Utah, Idaho, and finally into Montana. From the flat, dry plains of southern Idaho into the luscious Targhee National Forest, crossing into Montana from Idaho is truly spectacular.

And while the questions I face about my family’s and my mortality are still present, they seem small compared to Montana’s huge mountains. Here in Big Sky country, I can cast my questions to the wind and let them blow in all directions of the compass because the mountains in Montana are everywhere.

The Grand Gesture

Roaringgrrl — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 02:35:00 GMT

I think I watch too many movies. In fact, I’m sure of it.

There’s a great episode of Friends in which Chandler and Joey discover a free porn channel on their TV. They don’t dare turn off the TV or change the channels for fear that the free porn will disappear from their channel selection.

Eventually, they realize they’ve watched too much porn when they begin to be frustrated by the lack of porn “reality” in their own lives. After all, they surmise, why wouldn’t the lady at the deli counter offer a little something “on the side” of the chicken breasts they’d ordered? Apparently that scenario only exists in porno-land.

I’ve watched several movies lately that have made me question the nature of my own reality, my romantic (not porn) reality, that is.

In The Other Boleyn Girl, the screenwriters would have us believe that King Henry began a new church just to have sex with Anne Boleyn. Now that’s what I call a grand gesture. Though I’m fairly sure a lot more thought went into the creation of the Church of England than how quickly Hank could play hide the salami with Anne, I’m pretty enamored with the idea of the grand gesture.

In all my favorite movies, the heroines are recipients grand gestures: in Love Actually, the Prime Minister goes door to door searching for his beloved in Wandsworth (the dodgy end) while singing “Good King Wenceslas” for the neighborhood children; in The Apartment, Bud Baxter quits his dream job so that he won’t have to give his apartment key to the slimy boss who’s messing around with Bud’s love, Fran. And, most amazingly in City of Angels, Seth gives up his life as an angel to be with Maggie.

So where’s my grand gesture? Where’s my Seth, Bud, and singing Prime Minister? As Charlotte in Sex in the City exclaims: “I’ve been dating since I was 15. I’m exhausted. Where is he?”

I have a bumper sticker on my car that reads, “We must be the change we wish to see in the world.” Gandhi said this, and I really believe it. If I want more love in the world, then I have to be more loving; if I want more peace in the world, then I have to be more peaceful, etc.

So if I want a grand gesture, should I perform a grand gesture myself?

What would that even look like? I don’t sing particularly well, I’m definitely no angel, and any gesture that would require giving up my dream job would also require a lobotomy on my part.

I guess what it really comes down to is taking risks. And maybe most of us who live in the real world without scripted endings aren’t so good at taking risks, especially when our hearts are involved.

But a girl can still dream.

Critical Floating

Roaringgrrl — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 02:28:00 GMT

I live in Montana, and in the summer, I don’t fish, hunt, hike, or camp. I float. That is, I slather on some sun screen, get into an inner tube, and let the current take me down a river.

Now, of course, I’ve made it sound simpler than it really is. There’s a matter of driving cars and leaving tubes and cars and car keys in strategic locations so no one gets stranded. Then, the inflatable cooler must be appropriately stocked with cheap tall boys and lashed to my tube for easy access. But really, after all that’s done, I really do just sit down in my tube and let the river take me.

As I see it, there are several different ways of floating a river. I tend to lay back and enjoy the ride, only kicking when the current forces me into rocks or tree branches. Others kick and pull with their arms constantly to stay right with the flow of the current. Once a buddy floated down the wrong fork and wound up stuck in a shallow eddy. He simply picked up his tube and walked on the shallow river bottom until he rejoined us. We called him the Philosopher Floater: he contemplated his situation, picked his way through the problem, and re-established normal floating rhythms.

The Philosopher Floater got me thinking about other patterns people engage in to float the river.
_______________________

What kind of floater are you?

The New Historicist Floater—faces backward, looking at where he’s been. The scenery does not inform a firm conclusion about the current.

The Formalist Floater—only the current itself informs the ride. Much flailing of arms and legs to stay in the current.

The Reader Response Floater—floats in silence and allows others to float according to their own “reading” of the current

The Marxist Floater—can think only about the material forces that conspired to create the rubber in her tube. She cannot sit in her tube but swims beside the Post-Colonial Floater who has studied the imperialist history and colonizing conditions of the location of the rubber tree from which sprang her friend’s tube. Understanding the current is secondary to understanding the means on which they ride the current’s back.

The Psychoanalytic Floater—wonders how the disturbed water fowl, beavers, and indeed, the current itself feel about being part of his “ride” through their world. Floats with arms tucked inside the tube.

The Structuralist Floater—Only the rocks and tree branches along the bank can provide the meaning of the current, but the flow of the current may not be determined without a diachronic analysis of where the river has been.

The Deconstruction Floater—the current can never be understood or known except as it once was NOT a current because of the polyvalent power of drought. Drinks copiously during the float.

The Feminist/Gender Studies Floater—holds on to the tube with one arm, investigating but not participating in the “hole” in the tube as a representation of phallocentric forces that diminish the “hole’s” power.

______________________________
Despite the kind of floater you are, maybe it’s best to remember that we all emerge from the river soaking wet, perhaps a little tipsy, and (hopefully) smiling from the ride.

What Didn't Happen

Roaringgrrl — Sat, 24 May 2008 00:03:00 GMT

In May every year when my students graduate from the university, I am reminded of what didn’t happen for me when I graduated from college.

I didn’t get married.

Throughout my childhood and teen years, I didn’t give much thought to marriage. I never imagined a “perfect” wedding with a Cinderella dress and a three-tiered white cake. I never imagined a “perfect” house with a husband and kids. In fact, I never imagined anyone other than me in my “perfect” house.

But when I went to college, I always figured that I’d leave with a Bachelor’s degree and a fiancé. Sure I had a career in mind, something vague involving books or teaching English, but in the back of my mind, I thought that I’d be married first and then have a career second.

But I didn’t get married.

Instead, I trundled off to graduate school, and, I think, despite myself, landed a career as an English professor. Even in my grad school days with a serious boyfriend in tow for a few years, I figured I would finish my degree and then follow him to whatever city he landed in. I figured I could be an adjunct teacher at any college we were near.

But I didn’t get married.

When the grad school relationship ended, I stopped looking for a way off my career path. Instead I buckled down, persevered through dissertation committees that fell apart and seemingly endless examinations and dissertation rewrites, and I earned my Ph.D and landed a tenure-track job two days after I graduated.

This result still surprises me. I keep chugging along, teaching classes, publishing too little, but now, when I look into the future, I don’t see the endless romantic possibilities I once saw.

But I wonder: how romantic were these possibilities when all I was really looking for was a financial partner who could bail me out if I fell on my face? If he came along, could I really look Prince Charming in the face and ask, “Do you come with your own 401K?”

Now, in life outside of grad school, I am faced with real life on my own dime. Honestly, it kinda sucks, especially since I can’t see that my financial arrangement is going to improve any time soon. My pay is low now and will continue to be about $20,000 lower than professors at other universities even when I am promoted to full professor. Now that’s a bummer.

But maybe the flip side is that without a husband, I don’t have a potential drain on my already miniscule income. So maybe now I can say less morosely:

But I didn’t get married.

Waving Day

Roaringgrrl — Sun, 20 Apr 2008 21:26:00 GMT

Just recently in Dillon we enjoyed a day I call Waving Day.

Everywhere I went on foot or in my car, people waved at me, and I waved back. At first, I thought that maybe I was looking particularly fetching (though a quick glance in the mirror revealing a bird’s nest where my hair should be cured me of that notion).

I realized that everyone was waving because it was the first day that the temperature was over 50 degrees since November. We were all outside, enjoying the sun and blue sky. No longer did we need to bind our arms tightly to our sides to conserve warmth and energy. We could safely fling our arms wide and wave.

With this seemingly small gesture, my attitude changed that day. I un-creased my brow and practiced smiling. I threw open my windows and re-hung my wind chimes. I painted my toe nails in anticipation of sandal-wearing season.

I love spring almost as much as I love autumn. While autumn’s deep reds and oranges sooth and comfort me, spring trees with their unfurling tender, baby leaves, make me giddy and excited.

In spring the world becomes new again, and we get another chance to make things right. We shed the chronic bad mood caused by frigid winter temperatures and don a warm disposition that welcomes new ideas and delights in light-hearted fun.

With this excitement, I leafed through mail-order catalogs for new patio furniture suitable for long afternoons of summer lounging. I conducted research on how to germinate the sunflower seeds I know will flourish outside the west-facing wall of my apartment.

I washed the bedroom window sheers which gave the sheets on my bed the fresh smell that only happens when the windows are open and a light breeze tickles the bed in just the right way.

Even Gracie, my bird, began to molt her downy coat in anticipation of spring’s eminent arrival.

It snowed two days later.

And even though my feet are encased in boots once again, my pink toe nails still wriggle in anticipation for the spring that will set them free.

Valentines Schmalentines

Roaringgrrl — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 18:20:00 GMT

I am not what you would call a romantic person. Sure, I enjoy receiving the occasional bouquet or batch of cookies from Jacek, but for the most part, I’m just happy when he shows up on time with the right movie. In return, I provide for him a comfy couch and a suitable beverage. This give and take really works for us.

So imagine my surprise, then, when Jacek announced at the beginning of the week that he had made reservations for us at our town’s one semi-fancy restaurant on Valentine’s Day. Our meal would be followed by a trip to the local movie theatre where the romantic film, Atonement was playing.

I was thrilled by the prospect of an evening out, and on a school night, even! Our tiny town doesn’t really offer much in the way of entertainment, so unless copious drinking at one of the town’s many watering holes is part of your plans, a romantic evening out is a rare find in small town Montana.

But as it soon turned out, this town started to work against our romantic plans. It all started on Wednesday, the night before Valentine’s Day.

I should mention that it was a minor miracle that Atonement was playing at the local theater. A 2-plex, the theater generally specializes in family films and whatever blockbuster schlock was popular three weeks ago.

Unfortunately for Jacek and me as we found out in the local paper, the theater decided to change the films on Thursday instead of Friday as they usually do. Our choices, The Spiderwick Chronicles or Jumper. Nothing says Valentine’s like films about fishy toad beasts and teleportation.

We decided to forgo the trip to the movie theater and instead encamp at my place after dinner for a TIVO viewing of our favorite guilty pleasure, Rock of Love featuring an aging rocker from an 80’s hair band trying to find love among 20 blond bimbos. Nothing says romance like watching girls in bikinis cleaning their beloved’s motorcycle.

And everything just went downhill from there. On Valentine’s day itself, my stereo broke, forever encasing two favorite cds in its hard plastic cd changer. Later that day I found out that I owe HR Block AND the state of Montana tax money. At this point, I was mentally crossing my fingers that Jacek was paying for dinner. Nothing says Valentine’s like being broke.

Jacek and I arrived at dinner to find that the restaurant was serving special Valentine’s meals that included beef, beef, and halibut. I’m a vegetarian and have been for over 15 years. I asked about potential vegetarian options, but none were forthcoming. Nothing says romance like cholesterol-inducing Montana beef.

We left the restaurant and walked down the street to the next eatery, a family-style diner with pool tables and video games. Though lacking in romantic ambience, this restaurant’s menu featured several vegetarian options. To my delight there were only two screaming babies and a Centipede video game. Jacek ponied up a few quarters and we settled in for a few rounds only to find that the roller ball on the machine didn’t work. Out little stationary man got creamed and the game was over quickly. Nothing says romance like screaming babies and broken video games.

At this point, we decided to go with fate and make it the least romantic night possible, so we went back to his place and picked up his dog (whom I’ve nicknamed, ‘birth control’ because of his mood-breaking flatulence) and some Beavis and Butthead DVDs.

Back at my place, we popped in the DVDs and settled in for an evening of adolescent humor. And as far as I’m concerned, nothing says romance like uncontrollable laughter with my fella.

Wide Open Spaces

Roaringgrrl — Tue, 22 Jan 2008 16:16:00 GMT

My favorite song by the Dixie Chicks is “Wide Open Spaces.” Here are a few lyrics:

She needs wide open spaces
Room to make her big mistakes
She needs new faces
She knows the high stakes.

This song appeals to me in two ways. First, I identify with the protagonist who wants to establish herself beyond the norms set out by her family and society in general. Second, I love wide, open spaces.

For me, moving to Montana has certainly fulfilled both those desires. Though Montana certainly has its share of wide, open spaces, I still look longingly at Alaskan and Greendlandic picture books featuring icebergs (non-Titanic related) and frozen tundras.

Arid starkness really speaks to me. In fact, the day I’m writing this is quite bleak, the high temperature at 9 degrees and the wind chill factor in the negative teens. Usually, this would be a perfect day for me to hibernate inside and read.

But lately, I’ve been feeling dry, itchy, and anxious. Those of you who are regular readers of my column will no doubt remember a piece I wrote two years ago about my “shocking” experiences here in dry Montana.

While thick layers of body lotion and copious amounts of drinking water have helped, the dry, itchy, anxiousness I’ve felt has less to do with dry air and more to do with something that’s missing.

I spent the last two months with family while my dad recovered from by-pass surgery. Every part of my being was infiltrated with all the emotional and physical turmoil that goes along with caring for an ailing family member. Tense trips to the doctor’s, waiting in endless lines at pharmacies, and cooking (and eating) bland, low-sodium food were a daily part of all of our lives.

Sometimes, I felt as though I were drowning, and as I struggled to keep afloat, metaphorical water buckets – bills, a lost filling, my on-line class – kept dumping on my head.

But when I returned to Montana, I felt parched. Quite literally, I couldn’t seem to drink enough water, but figuratively, I looked at the life I left two months ago through a very different lens. Everything around me seemed stiff, scratchy, and generally inhospitable.

Maybe I just got used to my mother’s penchant to crochet an afghan for every existing piece of furniture in her house, but my apartment (and its furnishings) seemed bare and unadorned. My thread-bare, un-padded carpet, though easy to vacuum, cut cracks on my heels. My white bathroom (with its lovely porcelain tub) seemed stark and unwelcoming, and I tended to walk from room to room, aimlessly.

And then my bathroom ceiling developed a leak. The ceiling paint started to bubble before I left to take care of my dad, and to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating (was the ceiling really expanding?), I tested the bubble with my finger and ended up pulling down several inches of sodden drywall.

While I was gone, I expected my landlord to fix the ceiling, but he didn’t. Now instead of exposed drywall, there’s quite a large hole in my ceiling, revealing a bit of the attic.

And it’s dripping.

I’m not sure what message I’m supposed to take from this. Maybe it’s a sign that I should move. Or maybe my apartment is truly too dry and it’s trying to give itself a shvits.

Or maybe it’s that, like my leaky ceiling, my family is always with me, no matter the miles between us.

Whatever the message, I kinda like my leaky ceiling. After all, I’m a big fan of wide, open spaces.

Have a Heart

Roaringgrrl — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 14:27:00 GMT

For the past week, I’ve been fighting a cold. I hate colds, partly because I don’t understand how it is that scientists have discovered how to make the perfect French fry (beef aroma apparently has something to do with it) but they still haven’t figured out a cure for the common cold and partly because colds are so mundane. I like what my favorite character on Gilmore Girls, Loralei, says: “Having a cold is so boring. Just once I’d like to say, ‘I’m sorry I can’t make it, but my leg is haunted.’”

Having a haunted leg is far more interesting than having a head cold. At least then I could have a ritualistic exorcism rather than recurrent visits to the local Safeway for Nyquil and tissues.

I think mostly I just hate feeling like I’m a slave to my body. My lungs shudder up a cough, my throat swells in protest, my sinuses expel excess mucus, and I just have to let it happen. Add a dinner with beans, and I am my own wind instrument of disgusting noises, smells, and fluids.

But I put my minor cold into perspective when I received a call that my dad was in the hospital after having suffered a mild heart attack. He was hiking on the Appalachian Trail when it hit, and because he didn’t realize he was having a heart attack and was simply enjoying the view, my brother took a picture of both our dad (having a heart attack) and the view. It’s a pretty good picture, actually.

Because of the rapid appearance of his chest pain, doctors admitted him to the hospital and believed the problem to be a clot. The clot, they said, could be cleared up with the placement of a stint in one of his arteries. The angiogram would tell the whole story, they said.

But the angiogram said something altogether different. Instead of a simple splint, my father would require quadruple bypass surgery.

So I hopped on a plane and headed home. I didn’t make it in time for Dad’s surgery, but I was there to visit the evening after his surgery. There were lots of tubes, IVs, and monitors, and there was a teddy bear. Huh? We’re not a stuffed animal kind of family, so I wondered about bear my dad was hugging so tightly.

I found out the bear’s name was Cough Buddy (though I renamed him Myron T. Coughman). Cough Buddy is actually a soft surgical splint, designed to help bypass patients cough and deep breathe with minimal pain.

Cough Buddy’s ear tag told us the correct usage for him; Dad was supposed to hold Myron T. flush against the incision running the length of his breast bone. Patients having had thoracic surgery were to hold Cough Buddy sideways across their chests, and abdominal surgery patients were to hold Cough Buddy tightly across their bellies.

But Cough Buddy’s ear tag also indicated that he was to be used “to ease the discomfort of abdominal, thoracic, or open head surgery.” Open head surgery? Does that mean patients could wear Cough Buddy on their heads like hats?

This typographical error aside, Cough Buddy served my dad well, keeping him warm after cold walks in the hospitals corridors and helping him cough up all the fluids that landed in his lungs while he was on the bypass machine.

The rest of the time in the hospital was marked by respiratory therapy, incision care, and enough pills to make a junkie jealous. After a lot of bad cable TV, my brother bought Dad a Nintendo DS lite and loaded it with games like Flash Focus and Brain Age.

I’d never played Brain Age before. It’s one of those games that tests the player’s ability to memorize and problem solve with words and numbers. It’s also one of those games that tells you exactly how stupid you are when you suck at these games. Apparently, I have the brain age of a 49 year old. I am not 49.

But the way my dad has powered through this surgery (less than a week after his surgery he’s puttering around the house telling me how to make his oatmeal and coffee), lets me know that my brain isn’t as important as my heart.

My dad’s heart, always open to his family, is even stronger now after surgery. He lets us know how much he appreciates us (even when he’s bossing me around the kitchen), and with his cockatiel Cindy firmly planted on his shoulder, he models for us what’s really important: love, tenderness, and an amazing tolerance for bird crap.

Though he may have no pulse in his left arm (that artery has been “repurposed”), my dad still has a lot of heart.

Share and Share Alike

Roaringgrrl — Thu, 09 Aug 2007 21:46:00 GMT

I’m sure somewhere a file kept on me during kindergarten reads, “Does not share with others.” With shame, I remember a selfish moment of gobbling down a Three Musketeers bar after my mother told me to share it with my friends. In school, whenever we did a group project, I bossed everyone around and took over all the work so that the project would be done “right.”

Even as a professor, I’m mostly on my own. I plan my syllabi, lecture, lead discussions, and grade by myself. Sure I have a department chair, dean, and chancellor to answer to, but they’re generally not overseeing my every move, and I like that.

Hmmm….no wonder I’ve been single for so long.

So if someone told me that this summer’s greatest adventure would involve me, my boyfriend Jacek, and his giant cooler of Polish sausage crammed into my new Mini Cooper, I would have guffawed mightily.

Jacek and I have been dating for over a year now, so we decided to put our relationship to the test by taking it on the road. Both he and I have family on the east coast that we hadn’t seen for several months. I had ordered my Mini to be picked up in North Carolina and Jacek had ordered his sausage in Toronto.

The plan was to drive to Virginia to see my parents and then drive to North Carolina to trade in my current car for the Mini. Then we’d motor on up to New York, visit Jacek’s family in Buffalo, pick up the meat in Toronto, and head back west.

Ah, the best laid plans.

On the last day of our trip east, my car’s engine started squeaking and smelling of burnt rubber. The next day, the car’s air conditioning died, but in all other respects, except for the cracked side mirror, the chipped windshield, the broken front seatbelt, and the fact that it had been declared a total loss at one time, the car was in great shape.

More nerve wracking than my old beater car making it another hundred-odd miles to the Mini dealership was the fact that I was bringing a boy home to meet my parents for the first time in seventeen years. Questions raced through my mind: Would my parents like Jacek? Would he like them? Would my parents’ birds crap on him and scare him off?

The answers to those questions are yes, yes, and thankfully, no. Everyone got along like peas and carrots (as Forrest Gump would say), and my folks and I introduced Jacek to the wide world of bluegrass and grits.

As it turned out, my Mini was stuck on a port in Charleston, South Carolina and wouldn’t be available to be picked up for another week, so we traveled north in my mom’s car to pick up Jacek’s order of sausage in Toronto.

As we spent more and more time on the road north, I noticed I was willing to share items I had been previously unwilling to share. At first, I offered to share my toothpaste to save packing space. Soon after, I noticed that we were drinking from the same water bottle in the car, and I wasn’t even checking the bottle for goobers. At dinner, I’d remove all the offending items (olives, mushrooms, onions, and any vegetable from the squash family) from my entrée and place them on Jacek’s plate to be devoured. Granted, it’s not much of a sacrifice to share something I don’t like anyway, but it felt good to give him something he liked. We arrived in New York in good humor.

Except for the Midwest and Western states, I’d never been farther north than the Mason-Dixon line in the U.S. I expected gruff people and good pizza and wasn’t disappointed on either account.

When I took a photo of Jacek’s childhood home in Buffalo, the current owner appeared on the scene to yell at us. I’m not exactly sure what he expected us to do with the photo (I was prepared to guilt the guy into submission by telling him about Jacek’s 85-year-old mother who wanted to see how the house was doing), but the owner finally backed off after a few minutes.

Later, after piling the olives off my white pie from Fat Man’s Pizza onto Jacek’s plate, I realized that genuine sharing in any relationship involves a kind of protectiveness that is both selfless and selfish. At the moment of confrontation between Jacek and the homeowner, I wanted to protect him both for his own sake and for mine because I knew that as long as he was around, I was protected too.

And that’s a tough lesson for an independent-minded, non-sharing person like me.

Thankfully, by the time we picked up the Mini Cooper, Jacek and I had shared so much that we didn’t mind the close quarters of the Mini for the three day trip back to Montana. We knew instinctively when the other was hungry or needed to make a pit stop. I really enjoyed this level of intimacy (even beyond letting myself fart in front of him).

Most importantly, I enjoyed learning to share. I, a fifteen-year veteran vegetarian, allowed several pounds of frozen pork to share my new Mini’s cargo space with my matching LL Bean luggage. And, incredibly (to me), I let Jacek drive the new car. Even though I clung for dear life as we curved around Montana’s mountains, I knew I was safe.