And this time, it doesn't involve porn

Last night was one of those idyllic evenings that are only sweeter because it happened unexpectedly in the middle of the work week. I've been scouting some new recipes to try, and I came across Ina Garten's (The Barefoot Contessa's) Roasted Red Pepper and Goat Cheese Sandwiches accompanied by her Fresh Pea Soup. Fanfuckingtastic. Please, do your dear blogger proud and make these recipes stat.

This foray into cuisine heaven was followed by an hour of good conversation with the Bunny, a jog around the neighborhood together, and, finally, some trashy TV.

Here's my confession: Last night, the Bunny and I watched Beverly Hills Chihuahua. Now, those who know me know that I despise children's movies. That is, unless of course, they are films from my childhood. We'd been told by our parental friends, Jen and Brad, that this flick features a presumably gay talking pug named Sebastian and a German Shepherd former cop dog. Wow, that kind of sounds like two dogs I know:


Tell me there are talking dogs in a movie, and I'm pretty much there. Still, I don't think either one of us was prepared for how much we would enjoy the film. By the end of the movie, Delgado, the German Shepherd, who once was retired from the force for losing his sense of smell, was offered a spot as a detective again. As Delgado went galloping across the field to meet his new cop partner, who had a dog collar with a badge attached waiting in hand, I looked over at my husband to find the same tears streaming down his face as were on mine.

I know it sounds like bullshit that we should be so moved by such a ridiculous film, but I guarantee that the Bunny had the same thought as me: German Shepherds are a herding breed that thrive on having a task to complete. There is still some sense of shame in Dax's face because he can barely walk now, much less patrol like he used to--though he does patrol our living room, sniffing out the cat scent flowing through the floor vents from the feline that resides under our home.

This morning, I went to put the movie in the mailbox to return to Netflix, and the Bunny stopped me. He said, "You know, we might as well hang on to it for a few more days. I mean, someone might want to watch it or something..."

And I've written pages upon pages, trying to rid you from my bones

I've now spent 15 weeks with another group of old teens/young 20-somethings and the scant middle-aged learner wearing the name badge of their full-time assignment. I've given them every piece of me that is good and worth regurgitating, though I'm sure some of the bad parts of me might've sloughed off into them from time to time.

Yesterday was the final day for their group research projects. This clever assignment works two-fold: I don't have to grade a second set of horribly drafted papers and they are forced to injest abstract theory, apply it practically to a primary text from the course, and create a presentation devised of logical fodder for conversation with their classmates. Inevitably, this task only endears me to them all the more.

I watch them all, red-faced and anxious, shifting from foot to foot in front of their peers, eyeing me nervously, and mispronouncing Jacques Derrida as "Jackez Derita," and I want to laugh and cry at the same time for the bittersweet emotions that the end of the semester brings. (I highly doubt all instructors feel such vulnerable sentiment for their pupils.) For just a moment--actually, 20-30 minutes--I forget that they are the bastard children of iPhone fame, and I begin to love them again, despite their enunciation flaws and mumbled readings.

All of this culminates Thursday when I'll attend the annual awards banquet in our department. It is not for my benefit this year, but, rather, I mean to show support to one of my darlings, who, at my suggestion, submitted his paper on Poe and placed second in the undergraduate writing competition. Perhaps this is why the notion of growing something in my womb at this moment seems so far removed from the me that is me; like a proud mama, I'm trekking that long road back to campus an extra day this week merely to clap for my young'n. That's abundantly sufficient for me.

Eyes wide open, naked as we came

Every week, Ira Glass of This American Life fame makes my life a little bit sweeter by doing a variety of stories on a common theme. This weekly podcast/broadcast is something I can count on, and, like clockwork, it streams down into my dear iTunes every Monday for me to collect and enjoy on the long road to Memphis.

Should it be any surprise to me that sometimes, like dear Ira's show, my life has a theme? This week's theme has been reiterated twenty times over, and we've barely crossed noon, but it's clear to me what solitary, secret message our planet is trying to beam into my mind today: everyone wants to touch and be touched in a way that reminds them of their first experiences with love and passion.

Officemate has a daughter turning sixteen, and she worries that it is time to have the birth control talk. There was a special this morning about cougar celebrities and how older women and younger men just make sense sexually. Liv Tyler's early virgin movie, Stealing Beauty, came on television this weekend. I, on the other hand, started my emotional experiment into the private lives of lovers yesterday.

I looked at dear Dustbunny in the afternoon sun when we were lying beside our pool and admiring all of the hard work I did in the yard Saturday. He sat silent and still, and, like it has always been with my quiet man, I felt like he was an utter mystery to me. I asked, "Do you ever get excited about me anymore? Is there anything between us that makes you utterly and completely drunk with passion for me?" Cryptically, he said, "Well, of course I do," and he returned to his face-tucked-under-cap nap in the sun, and I slipped back into my book.

Sure, I've said it here, and I'll say it again: our life is beautiful, and nearly every day I send happy thoughts to the natural power I perceive around me for the blessed existence I've landed. (This power is the same earth hum that makes me feel slightly less atheist and more agnostic.) After a decade together, however, the very rational part of me understands that daily passion is not natural. (Should I put a question mark here?)

There was this boy I knew once from summer camp when I was a teenager. After sending love letters state lines away, he flew in from North Carolina to visit me the summer after we met. The best way I can describe that early love feeling that his presence blew into my small town is to say that it sounds like Iron and Wine's "Naked As We Came." We spent the morning after my parents left for their respective factory jobs making out in my bedroom floor. I return to that memory when I need to remember how sweet early physical experiences can be.


And, then again, there is something quite delicious about coming through the back door of our home on a weeknight and finding the man I love--whose mysteries I can never fully perceive--standing at the stove with a dinner ready just for me.

Gonna be wipin' your weepin' eyes

It is trite to say that everyone and everything is affected by this recession, but I can't help but notice new examples of this platitude on a daily basis. The daily, free trip giveaway on Regis and Kelly used to be a pretty sweet deal, but they stopped informing people before they called them to ask the prize-winning question. Now, half of the people are not home when they call them, without notice, to ask the question, which, in the end, means far less trips are given away now. Far less winners are made. The ones they do reach are often only home because they've been unemployed for months, sometimes years, and can't find work.

Yay, here's your consolation prize: escape to an extravagant vacation in Hawaii, all expenses paid, and try not to think about your current shit lot in life. Hooray!

My city paper, especially on Sundays, is noticeably about 50% slimmer now. There are packs of abandoned dogs and cats that run down our midtown streets.

Still, there is no place more depressing during an economic crisis than a party store. I went into the Party Central yesterday to find kitsch material for the upcoming massive birthday party. Amidst the overpriced tiki garb and the Nascar birthday banners, the shelves were only half-stocked. The prices were haphazardly, if at all, slapped against cellophane wrappers. It was as if the owner is embarrassed to even ask for the marked amount for such a non-staple item. I mean, who needs confetti and balloons in order to survive?

I always feel a little guilty when I walk into a deserted store, and the three-person staff desperately hovers in hopes of "helping" me. I get called "Mam" a lot in these instances, and that only makes the entire effect that much more disconcerting.

The 50s-aged male owner/manager--something I ascertained from his instructions to Doris as to how she should arrange said Nascar birthday banners--asked me three time if I was finding everything okay. Really, I only stayed in there so long because I was ashamed to walk out with nothing. He just seemed so desperate to outfit me with all my party needs. I'll admit that the real-to-life-sized Elvis wall stickers were tempting...

I was jostled out of my strategizing about exiting the store--this is just another one of my anxious habits--when the owner's cell phone erupted with "Mustang Sally." It rolled and rang and vibrated three repetitions, all the while Doris was shouting for Bill to return and answer it, but he just kept hovering over me in hopes of helping along my purchase. It was horrible. I left the moment he entered the stockroom, and I didn't look over my shoulder when Doris--in her 50s as well--said, "Have a nice day, Mam."

I am no prophet, and here's no great matter

I once was a techy nut. When the internet was fresh and new, I designed webpages dedicated to Riot Grrl ranting and my love of strawberry Chapstick. I suppose that was the center of my universe at age 13-14. This is the same girl that competed on a math team in local competitions; it is the girl that talked astronomy with her father.

About my Sophomore year of high school, I discovered several names that changed my world: Allen Ginsberg, Sylvia Plath, George Orwell, Nikki Giovanni, and William Carlos Williams. I even had a laminated black and white photo of Walt Whitman in my desk, which, on many occasions, I remember swooning over while mid-90s Radiohead played in the background. Nevermind that Whitman was dead, I was crushed to discover he was homosexual. Maybe the saddest part of this whole ordeal is that it was the older, bearded Whitman that got me revved.


During this period, I clearly remember my passion for all things numerical and logical transforming into a whole different beast, and because of these great writers and poets, I could never be the same. I guess because the World Wide Web was taking over, I also link this period in my existence with my parents' decision to get rid of our extensive collection of Encyclopedias, which had become obsolete in the wake of the electronic revolution. The countless hours I spent pouring over the heavy books in our isolated country home--they were the only friends I had when we moved away from town--were soon removed with a swift drive to the local donation store. My new friends, the best and brightest poets and novelists of the 20th century, stepped in to take the place of history and facts.

Yesterday, I had my William Carlos Williams and EE Cummings lecture planned. On my drive in to work, I was listening to last week's This American Life podcast, and, coincidentally, the discussion in Act II covered one of the Williams poems I had prepared:

This Is Just to Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Legend is that this poem began as a note to Williams's wife, but I have my doubts about anything too mythical straight from the writer's mouth. Though the title of my blog is from a Wallace Stevens poem, the url address is from Williams. Though he was a successful physician, he was a prolific writer that inspired many of the brightest poets of the Beat Generation. Williams even treated Ginsberg as a child, which is a pretty magical story.

The TAL podcast invited listeners to send in their own versions of the above poem, and some were very, very dark, while others were much more funny. The topics ranged from banging one's sister-in-law at a wedding to the crucifixion of Jesus. I watched my students alternate, appropriately, between chuckling and somber silence as each version was read aloud by various TAL staffers. I could tell the students who were moved by the whole affair, and it made me so honored to have the opportunity to share these truths with them.

If I'm lucky, one of them got that same stomach-emptied feeling I get when I hear something fucking brilliant. I felt that way the first time I heard Built to Spill play "Carry the Zero," and the first time I read Pablo Neruda. Days like today make me restless and longing for the girl who finds inspiration in the needle drop of a record player or the brilliant simplicity of the doctor poet's words.

I Think I Finally Found Religion

Can you guess what all of these people have in common?





My local news is always a few days behind the rest of the world. After Oprah, CNN, and GMA all did in-depth exposes of the new teen trend in "sexting,"--sending raunchy photos/videos of oneself via text--WBBJ followed up with coverage about two weeks later. They took to the streets and found three average-looking white people, some of which don't even have kids, to find out how this issue is affecting locals. I'm waiting with bated breath for the follow-up story on the harm of using Twitter in the operating room.

My friend Winnie was in a local play last night, so Jen, Rachel, and I went to show our support. Rachel brought along two other women from school--one born in Rwanda and another girl, who recently moved here--and we trekked downtown to see the show. On the way there, I remarked about the pitiful excuse for a tea party that was held downtown Wednesday, and the trashy girl said, "Yeah, I don't really like tea or even those little cups that they use." I stayed silent.

On the way home, the same girl started talking about the "scary" parts of town. I asked her where she lived, and proudly she responded, "Oh, I live on the NORTH side of town, but my boyfriend lives south of the interstate," and then she shuddered. She said, "He has no idea."

FYI, I live south of the interstate. We were currently south of the interstate. The girl from Africa now lives south of the interstate, and I can't even imagine what she thought about trashy girl saying our town was scary when she moved her from a place like, I don't know, RWANDA.

After I got dropped off in Baghdad, aka my midtown home, I started thinking about her comments. It struck me that her living north of the interstate--which is commonly a divisive line in my town nearly akin to the Berlin Wall--gave her so much pride, so who am I to dash her pitiful tea party dreams and warzone nightmares? I'll probably never see her again, but I only wish I could've remarked on how the thugs have finally figured out that midtown folk don't want for much and, therefore, don't have as much. They've all moved north for their plundering. A scary pedophile in a van was just picked up after cruising for victims out NORTH this week. Besides, who can stand to be in such close proximity to all of those damned casual American dining establishments? Ugh, now that makes me shudder.

Dear God, thank you for helping me put up with a few extra gunshots in the middle of the night, so that I don't have to live with a bunch of subdivision SUV Republicans. Amen.

Then she runs away from me, faster than I crawl

The Bunny and I trekked to Memphis last night for the Dinosaur Jr. show at Minglewood Hall. As a preface to this event, we had dinner at the Ethiopian restaurant with Amanda and Brandon and enjoyed one another's company on their idyllic street before heading to the show.

Though we did recently drive seven hours to see Trail of Dead perform in New Orleans, I'm not one to go the extra mile for shows anymore. Case in point, I purchased tickets for the Broken Social Scene and Land of Talk show in Nashville last Fall, but on the day of the event, I was too lazy to get in my car and drive. What an old ass I've become...

Because Dinosaur Jr. is one of mine and the Bunny's original favorite bands--let me count the hours we spent making out to some of J. Mascis's more somber love songs in our formative years--we didn't want to miss the show. Nevermind that it was on a Tuesday night in a city I already hate commuting to when it I'm required to do so, we sucked it up and hit the road.

We arrived at the venue, which just recently opened, and there was no proper signage to explain the entrance. We saw some people standing on the front landing, so we opened a large gate and walked on inside. I guess our confidence was killer because no security guards thought to say, "Hey, you kids don't belong here." We later learned that we had walked straight into an area where, if we hadn't paid for our tickets in advance, we could've seen the show for free. I guess we really do look like responsible, trust-worthy adults now. I'm not really sure when that happened.

Dinosaur Jr., which I've seen five times and the Bunny has seen six times, put on a remarkable show, as always, and we were right by the stage. I met a woman in her 50s, who has been interviewing and documenting J's life for years. We shared stories, and I realized just what an odd mix there was in the crowd. Dinosaur Jr.'s two-decade plus career garners fans of all ages between 18 and 50, and we fit firmly towards the older end, as my husband has been a fan for 15 years. We've traveled as far as Boston to see them play. Once upon a time, this girl snuck backstage to get a coveted autograph on a rare piece of vinyl for her dear Bunny. This interaction spawned a connection with the band which, at one time, allowed us backstage access to all Dino shows.

I realized something last night as I stood there watching the band: I am no longer star struck by any of these entertainers with once I was so enraptured. The bands that I do see on occasion, well, I'm excited, but never am I dazzled. I'm not really sure when this happened either.

After a set of old, old songs, every lyric I knew by heart, the band exited with what we knew would be a short intermission before a tiny encore. The crowd sparsely chanted for their return, and I, in my fatigued, adult body, could only hope that they would return soon so that I might get home and get to bed. I stood silently, leaning against my husband for support, and waited quietly and patiently. Two young boys behind us--god, they had to be under the legal drinking age--starting yelling, "Come on you fucking assholes. Give it up for Dinosaur Jr. What are you--too emo?" The chants got louder, more adamant, and, eventually, accompanied with the tussle and jostle of overly testosterone-filled boys. I took a swift elbow to the spine and a bicep to the ear as arms came pounding and showering down around my 5foot frame.

Dear Bunny, ever the pacifist, stood stoically, but protectively, over me until he could know longer ignore the mob. He turned towards the boy responsible for inciting all of the violence and kicked him flush in the leg, sending him sprawling out and away from my vicinity. Yes, it was sexy.

On the quiet drive home, we both shared the same melancholy sentiment: though the show was satisfying, there is hardly room for modest fans like us and our road-weary love for Dinosaur Jr. in the midst of the new crowds that have moved in, unsinging, gesticulating violently, and calling into question our own commitment. So, we chalked it up to another shared experience and reminisced down a deserted I-40 about the moments we've shared over the last ten years.

My Dinosaur Jr. came crashing with a bawdy guitar from a near-broken record player in the back room of a messy-haired boy I knew. His played awkwardly from a stereo as a nervous guy tried to impress a girl with hopes for a goodnight kiss.

Forgive Me this One Cryptic Blog

I abhor the elusive, the fickle, the passive-aggressive, and the undependable. I've been combating these things in several personal matters for the last couple of days. Much has transpired in my quest to find out if the Bunny and I should go for it and leave our humble town behind.

Because some issues are still too private and too personal for even me to talk about here just yet, I will say this: Yesterday, before the Easter dinner and the after-dinner coffee talk, I had a private conversation with my mother. As the older child who has not lived at home for eight years since leaving at age 18, I often find that I am far removed from what still occurs within my family unit.

My mother told me a horrible secret. I took it as my sign to check out.

We've picked our top ten places, and now we are ready to go for it. Everyone's comments in the last blog, and conversations with two old friends this weekend have made what was once a "maybe in the future" now imminent, and I couldn't be more delighted.

Tomorrow night is the Dinosaur Jr. concert, and we're also excited about Dead Confederate, an Athens, GA band. I liken them to sad, ghost-slayers with, as my husband noted, real studio setups. I guess it is the same as being a man's man in a community where gender is of the utmost...

It's Kind of Like the Trashy Helen Hunt in Pay It Forward

Like the above photo from this past week's WBBJ story about a Meth bust somewhere in rural West, TN--the speaker's "stepdaddy was taken 'way in handcuffs"--I don't really feel the need to further explain my slacking the last couple of days.

This dissertation is all consuming. I just woke up from a dead sleep with an excellent introduction into Chapter Two. I figured that if I waited any longer to post the screen shot, I'd never be able to get this all-important message to the masses. Now that I've successfully reinforced one stereotype of the South, I'm off to dispel another.

On Moving Away from this Old Town aka Woe-is-Me Sentiment

One of my favorite bands right now is Montreal's Land of Talk. Female vocalist/guitarist, Liz, croons, "Family's something fixed, that's fine, you can not never move away." Despite the double negative, this line always seems like it was written for me--as if Liz knew that I'd have this conundrum, and she wanted to prepare me for the inevitable. I realize that the process of growing up, moving out, and going away is one not uncommon for the majority of this country. In the South, however, the act becomes something larger, as our culture, I would argue, is much more collectivist. (Hence our tradition of nepotism in smaller universities in order to preserve the "family" one has created within an academic community, if not to merely keep out the "outsiders.")

There was a point in my young life--I was 23--when I had to decide if I wanted to continue on in academia, or if I wanted to start law school. I had just finished my Master's degree, and I had only always thought I would go on to get a Ph.D. Looking back on it now, I never fully comprehended a lot of things that would have to occur once I accomplished the degree. I'm not sure that I would make the same decision over again, though I'm glad as hell that I didn't go to law school.

This Fall, I will enter the academic job market. If I'm lucky, I'll get a job teaching at a respectable university, but it won't be near this town. For many naive years, I always just sort of thought I would find work at one of the smaller liberal arts colleges in my area, but with the fledgling economy forcing cutbacks on those institutions, that is really no longer an option. So, this town in which we've spent the last seven years laying down roots, finding the best veterinarian, and learning about the proper routes from everywhere to our home, might only be our home for another year.

The Bunny and I love our house and our situation in general, but we had to have a come to Jesus talk yesterday about what we expect to happen in the next year. Honestly, we might have to move away if I intend to really give my career a go. I've been tearing up a lot over the last 24 hours as I finally allowed my body to face the fact that I've been avoiding for so long. Do I love my town? Absolutely not. There is no culture here, and that extends to music, art, film, food, and everything else that my husband and I value but can only crave. In this regard, moving away is an exciting possibility.

On the other hand, however, my parents make these crumbling, veiled remarks about my leaving. They twist and turn in their sheets at night for fear that I will go away. I worry about making babies state lines away from my Mom. I fret about leaving behind the few allies we've made in this pitiful town, and, mostly, I shudder to imagine the moment I'll hand over the keys to my beloved home to some other--in my mind, soul-less--family.

It's the not knowing what will happen over the next twelve months that is killing me. I hope to keep you, dear reader, informed every step of the way, and I promise to be more honest here than I've been with myself in a very long time.

I've always been very superstitious, so one can imagine how I felt when I cranked my car for the long drive to work this morning, and out from my iPod erupts, "Family's something fixed, that's fine, you can not never move away."

See Rock City

...and we did!

The Bunny accompanied me, for the first time ever, to one of my literary conferences. Generally, these events are boring, yes-man conventions where we all try to impress one another with how many -isms we can name. This conference, however, was a convening of creative voice across the Southern region, and it just happened to occur right here in my home state of Tennessee. I met Dorothy Allison, Marsha Norman, Beth Henley, Lee Smith, and a bevy of other literary idols. It gives me chills just thinking about it now...

Because the conference was in Chattanooga, and the Bunny, unlike me, had never been to the kitschy touristy spots up that way--Rock City and Ruby Falls--we made a point of spending one day just exploring these places.

Rock City was completely deserted, and though I remembered the "See Sevens States" spot from my childhood, I was floored by the shiny Starbucks built beside the park entrance. Ruby Falls was fun enough, but a trashy family from Kentucky defiled as many natural cave formations as possible, and I started getting pissy after said family kept asking the foreigners from Georgia--the country NOT the state--if they knew "so-n-so in Atlanta."

Because pictures tell it better, I'm including some of the high points from our trip:

About a Boy

It's amazing to me that I can spend a decade with the same man and still find out new things about him daily. No, I don't believe that one can ever fully know another person. My father, because he is so much like me, and I like him, seems to often know my thoughts. A marriage, however, is a whole other game. I think a bit of secrecy is maybe the key when one enters an institution with a better-than-half failure rate. I often imagine the fallout if I spoke daily about my changing fears and desires for my own domestic agreement.

The Bunny and I have the same ritual every night at bedtime: We collectively turn out the lights, re-check that the front door and gate are locked, set the alarm system, and corral the dogs. The person that is last to get upstairs must pick up our brickhouse pug, Sebastian, and carry his heavy ass up the narrow staircase. (Yes, our little dog is so pampered that he won't even climb the stairs when he is too sleepy to do it himself.) Because we both hate doing it so much, sometimes one of us will lie and say we are "going to get something to drink," but we'll just sneak upstairs instead. This forces the unsuspecting party, still half-sleeping on the couch downstairs, to lug the dog up to the bedroom.

Last night, I was the clever one who made it to the bedroom first. As I was washing my face, another nightly ritual, I heard the Bunny softly singing as he walked slowly up the stairs with Sebastian:

"You need to find a way to say precisely what you mean.
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
Even though the sound of it is simply quite atrocious
If you say it loud enough, you’ll always sound precocious..."

It wasn't the kind of bombastic, showboat singing in which we each often indulge. Instead, this was a completely private moment, if even consciously so, between my husband and himself. I doubt I was hardly meant to hear it.

It struck me that even though we both share some childhood memories--The Goonies and a longing for Lunchables, which our mothers wouldn't buy--he has never once mentioned that he used to watch Mary Poppins when he was a boy. This from the man who got sent home in grade school for wearing an explicit Motley Crue t-shirt to class. This from the man who left the tell-tell scent of cigarettes and patchouli oil on me when I would sneak back into my parents' home after a night of making out. Midnight monster flicks and Poison albums I can understand, but when I heard the man I've loved for all these years singing this juvenile song, a product of a film he's never once mentioned in a all these years, my heart just pounded for him. I imagined the young Bunny sitting in a one-piece pajama suit in the floor in front of a wood-paneled television. His baby blue eyes were certainly shining, and there was likely a smear of chocolate somewhere on his mouth that nearly covered his lucky dimples.

The whole ordeal just did something to me, and I knew last night that I couldn't wait to pen it all for you, dear readers. It's kind of nice to be reminded, unexpectedly and in the middle of the night, how much one can love another.