Poison Control Center (a.k.a. If you want something done right, don't ask me)

Don't be alarmed: no one was harmed in the making of this post - or in the ruining of the lamp that inspired it. My hands did look like this, though: 

And then - after Brad called Poison Control to make sure that I was not going to be poisoned by the black paint that would not come off my hands despite 7 minutes of washing and scrubbing with a rough sponge - they looked like this: 

Like that shine? It's Crisco vegetable oil. 

Yes, they are glistening with vegetable oil. Which actually worked pretty well. After the second try. 

Anyway, age-old wisdom tells us that anything worth doing is worth doing right. My house/craft/cleaning motto, by contrast, is more like, "Anything worth doing is worth doing now." Herein we find numerous problems, not the least of which is my undertaking projects without sufficient preparation, know-how, time, and/or interest. 

See, for example, Thursday evening, which can be summed up by the following equation: 

   1 cheap spray paint primer 
+ 1 dirty lamp 
+ 10 minutes before dinner 
+ 1 over-eager spray painter (me) 
+ 1 impatient spray painter (me)     
DISASTER 

After spraying the crap primer on probably too thick (it costs $1 for a reason), I sprayed the dries-in-10-minutes black Krylon on too thick, and it started dripping. I then had the bright idea to wipe it off. In the stationary tub with my hands. You've already seen how I faired in that deal; well, the other guy got it worse: 

I like to think this lamp isn't ruined. But I also like to think that I've never massaged vegetable oil into my hands (and the base of a lamp) at the suggestion of Poison Control. 

The Friday 4: Books I'm Embarrassed to Have Not Read

You might think that I like to read given that I have a master of fine arts degree in creative writing; am a PhD student studying contemporary American literature; have three large bookshelves full of books and many other stacks of books that won't fit; and teach courses focused on writing and reading. You would, however, be wrong. 

Graduate school officially killed my love of reading. I can't say when this happened - year 2? 4? - and I hope in my heart of hearts that the damage is not irreparable, but I wouldn't place any bets at this point. These days, the most I like to read is Martha Stewart's amazing website (crafts, decor, and wonderful things galore!) and Shape magazine. Anything more involved than that, well, thanks but no thanks. 

Even so, I fake a love for reading when necessary (like, at school), playing the role of the avid, interested reader at least semi-convincingly when it counts. There are, though, more than a few gaping holes in my reading that I just don't know if you can fake your way around. These books are so frequently referenced and so commonly known by others - whether students of literature or not - that I really should just break down and, well, read them. But I don't wanna . . . . 

4.  Catch-22 by Joseph Heller (1961) 

I love using the phrase that originates with this novel's name, but I couldn't tell you a darn thing about the contents of this book. I feel like everyone I know who read this read it in high school - along with #2 below - and it seems that we're about a decade or so past that point. Brad loves this book and highly recommends it, though. (He's read all the books on this list except #1 - what a show off.) 

3.  1984 by George Orwell (1948) 

Doesn't he look like
Sean Penn?!

Let me tell you, it's harder than you may think to pretend you've read a book (a classic, no less) when not one, but two of your students are writing a paper on it. I recommend Wikipedia, backed up by reputable websites. Maybe go to the third or fourth page of Google results so that when you talk about the book you're not using the same exact language your students are likely to see when they, invariably, search for their so-called "favorite" book online so they can figure out something to say as well. 

I do give a thumbs-up to Orwell's essay "Shooting an Elephant," which is a thought-provoking read. I taught it in two creative writing classes a few years ago, though, and it definitely wasn't a class favorite. 

2.  The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger (1951) 

I know a few things about this topic. I know, for example, that Salinger was a recluse. I know, also, that my mother used to teach this book to high schoolers (along with To Kill a Mockingbird, another one that I, unsurprisingly, haven't read) - at least I'm pretty sure she did. 

That about covers what I've got to offer. I don't know if I heard one word about this novel in high school, which is apparently when you've got to read this thing for it to be the most unbelievable book blah blah etc. etc. But I can't tell you the number of times people have mentioned this book in my presence since then. 

1. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad (1902) 

Last fall, we studied Heart of Darkness in my modernism class. Did you not read said novella then, dear student? you ask. No: I listened to it on cd. Two months in advance. And I didn't remember a damn bit more than the plot when the time came for class discussion. You can imagine how actively I participated that night. 

Thematically and structurally, it's a cool book. But otherwise, let's just say it's not my cup o' joe. I mean tea. No, I actually mean joe. Unfortunately, I feel like this book more than all others that I've read and haven't read is on the tongues of professors and other students, no matter their interests. I mean, at least I know the basics, right? Doesn't that count for something? 


A young Robert Duvall! He rocks!   

(Note: I have seen Apocalypse Now - Francis Ford Coppola's 1979 film based on Heart of Darkness - and I didn't hate it, but I didn't love it. Then again, I almost categorically dislike any movie made before 1985, so not hating it is kind of a compliment. Plus, Robert Duvall as Lt. Col. Bill Kilgore could not be any awesomer.)

Another one bites the dust . . .

That is, another perfect hardwood floor gets messed up. 

It should be noted that "another" suggests there was, in fact, a previous one that had been perfect - well, that's not entirely accurate (can you hear Independence Day in there?!). It was never perfect, although it had the opportunity to be. 

That story: last summer, Brad, my mom, my dad, and I refinished two of the hardwood floors in our house - my office and Brad's office. We did his first and did a less fabulous job b/c, well, we didn't know what we were doing, but even still, it's amazing-looking, especially when compared to the crap show it previously was. 

In my office, we had a bit of a clue, and our sanding was much more even (if no less tedious and torturous in 86-degree weather when we couldn't turn the air on b/c sawdust would get into the HVAC system and we couldn't turn any fans on b/c sawdust would get in our eyes). The oak thus took the stain more evenly, and, on the whole, the floor looks wunderbar. 

Except for the footprint. And its cousin the toeprint. 


It's not pee. I swear. 


Yep, Brad stepped in the wet stain. And we didn't see it until it had dried the next morning. Why didn't we see it? Well, b/c LIKE IDIOTS we did the staining at night so we had only lamps to show us what we were doing and only lamps to illuminate what we'd done. There's not even an overhead in that room. (Instead, there's one of the house's 1800 ceiling fans - I hate ceiling fans everywhere except for porches.) 

I'd detail the efforts to repair this disaster, but, obviously, they didn't work. I spent two weeks in distress over the fact that my beautiful floor was, essentially, jacked up from the get-go. And over the fact that either 1.  it needs to be fixed next time we tackle floor business (which will NOT be this summer) or 2.  when we sell the house, we'll be selling it with a messed up floor despite having spent tons of money and tons of effort to make it look nice. 

So that's that. 

Now, onto this story: I got SUPER GLUE and BLACK FELT stuck to the floor this evening. How is this possible? I shudder to think of explaining. It's too soon, far too soon. But I am agrieved. 

The shiny stuff is just the camera flash. But
even so, this looks ridiculous. 

And now I'm in the Stupid People Who Mess Up Their Beautiful Floors Club with my dear Bradley. Someday I hope to be able to to share this tale of woe, but right now I need to nurse my wounds. And eat some hot dogs.

The Friday 4: Minor Goals

I'm going with minor here instead of major b/c I'd like, at the moment, to avoid all the soul-searching and philosophizing that attends making a list of major life goals - such an effort requires so much energy . . . and it's summer! So let's call this little list Life Goals in C Minor in honor of my #4 goal. 

4. Learn how to play the piano. 

Turns out my mother was right. "When you're older, you'll wish you could play the piano. I would've loved to have the opportunity to take piano lessons!" she'd say as she nagged me to sign up for lessons that I would have, invariably, loathed at the age of 9, 10, 11, 12, etc. 

A pretty old Steinway 

But now, I do so wish I could play, and I've felt this way for some years. Perhaps it's b/c Brad turned me onto classical and jazz years ago, and now I appreciate instrumental music in a way I never before had (with the exception of "Orinoco Flow," haha). Whatever the case, I hope some day we can get a piano (it need not be anything fancy), and I can get schooled in the ABCs of piano playing. 

3. Be able to run 5 miles (again). 

I used to be quite the runner - if not fast, at least dedicated. From about 7th grade through my junior year of college, I'd take to the streets and hoof it on a fairly regular basis. During the summer after my senior year of high school, I was running 40 miles a week (10 miles at a clip). 

These days, I can run approximately .27 miles. (Okay, I made that up. But you get the point.) In fact, I don't run at all. Just over eight years ago I fell (while running) on a sidewalk in Oakland, tore my labrum, and did some other unidentified damage to my hip/lower back. Despite seeing four orthopedics surgeons, enduring PT and an unncessary cortizone shot, and even going to a chiropractor and a rheumatologist, much of the problem remains a mystery, and I'm still in pain. And, as one might suspect, running is basically out. 

Well, it's my hope - however dreamy, lofty, and unrealistic this may be - to work my way, slowly, back into running and then, slowly, work my way up to 5 miles. Is it gonna happen? I guess time will tell. 

2. Learn woodworking. 

Brad and I have a friend who made us new cabinet doors for the windowseat/bookcase in our living room. He came to visit last spring, I randomly complained about the cabinet doors, he said he'd make news one, and three or four weeks later he showed up with the new ones and put them on and viola! our crappy so-called built-in was a lot less crappy. This same friend has also made himself and his children headboards, end tables, etc. etc. 

I want to be able to do that. I love refinishing and painting furniture - being able to make it seems like the next logical step! 

1. Live in a big old house with lots of character - and bring it back to its full charm. 


I've got a thing for Victorians (this one's in Georgia) 

There are very few things I find more beautiful than an old house. Arched doorways, etched glass, enormous front porches, hardwood floors, high ceilings, built-ins, huge windows, dormer windows, fish-scale siding - I could go on and on and on. To have a wrap-around porch would, for me, be the equivalent of a sports car or yearly trip to Jamaica for someone else. Sigh . . . gush . . . swoon . . . . 

And whereas Brad would enjoy snapping his fingers and having all of our house projects magically completed, I like the actual doing of these project (see #2 above). 


A fabulous federal style house in CT 

Okay, wait - I can't stand hand-stripping wallpaper and I loathe refinishing floors. But otherwise, I'm pretty much down with it. There's a sense of accomplishment that comes with looking at your home and thinking, "I did that." Even pulling weeds makes me feel like I'm gettin' things done. (Okay, truth be told, I really like pulling weeds. Sometimes when I'm at my parents' house, I get my mom to come outside and pull weeds with me. Brad thinks this is weird; I do, too. Oh well.) 


A sweet little Kansas City Tudor 

Gimme me an old house in decent but far-from-perfect shape (I don't want to be dealing with ductwork, roof problems, etc.), some tools, and, of course, enough money to shape things up - and I'll be in my glory.

Public Service Announcement: Protect your hearing

I pretty much can't hear anything the first time it's said. "Wait - what?" is perhaps the statement that most frequently comes out of my mouth. And yes, I clean my ears out on a regular basis (I love Q-tips). 

None of this is surprising considering the fact that I come from a long line of people who also cannot hear and, therefore, shout as they talk to compensate for it. (Interesting side note: I am extremely sensitive to noise. I hate hate hate loud stuff, screeching stuff, and bass makes me beyond miserable.) 

Despite my genetic disposition to crappy hearing, yesterday's chiropractic experience will demonstrate how important good aural . In fact, protecting your hearing could be a means of protecting your health in general. 

At the point at which our PSA commences, I was laying on my back while Dr. L., who was behind me, stretched the mucles in my neck and rubbed out knots there. We were discussing his eldest son's college plans, which will probably involve Pitt-Johnstown for the first two years. Here's how I thought the conversation went: 

Me: Why won't he just go to Pitt main the whole time [in Oakland]? 
Dr. L: Oh, he'd hate it down there. 
Me: Why?! It's awesome. I bet he'd like it. 
Dr. L: No, he would hate it. His favorite thing to do is go fly fishing. 
Me: What?! Where am I?! 
Dr. L: You're in moral America. 
Me: Don't give me that Republican crap! 

Here's how the conversation actually continued: 

Dr. L: I said rural America! 
Me: Oh! I thought you said moral America! . . . This isn't rural America! We're 45 minutes outside of the city. This is super gun land, but it's not rural! 
Dr. L: I live on a farm! 
Me: Oh, whatever. 

I sit here writing a blog post, unscathed by this event - which continued to get even more political on my end, although dear Dr. L., like a good business owner, abstained from political discussion on the job - but aware that things could have gone differently. Off the top of my head, I can think of two unfortunate fates that could have easily befallen me: 

1. Incensed, Dr. L. could have snapped my neck in .2 seconds. All this would have required is twisting my head a little harder and a little farther to the right or left. 

2. A swarm of gun-bearing locals could have converged on the chiropractic office, busted down the door (or simply pulled it open), and captured me for the purposes of torture. 

Neither of these sounds very pleasant. Perhaps this is why Brad - whose hearing is minorly better than mine and who could hear the conversation from the other room where he was on the Spinalator - when he saw me, said quietly and quickly in shock/dismay, "You can't say 'Republican crap' in public!" 

Oh, but I did. 

Besides, if anyone had openly minded (well, actually, if there'd been anyone there to openly mind - the place was empty), I could have just put my hand to my hear, scrunched up my face, leaned forward, and said, "Huh? I can't hear you."

Der Bericht an Deutsch

That means - I think - The report on German. And if it doesn't, that's what it's supposed to mean, and you should cut me a break b/c today was only my first day (!). 

Now onto der Bericht (note: in German, you capitalize all nouns, so that's not just me being fancy-shmancy with my non-existent new language skills. Except you see that I obviously learned something . . . ): 

I loved it. 

The teacher's hilarious, wonderfully random, and really really good at conveying the material. Plus he moves at a reasonable pace - which is super impt. for someone who hasn't formally studied a language in, gulp, over a decade. 

This morning, as we walked from Starbucks to class, I said to Butcher, "This is my life," with a sigh. Getting up at 6:20 a.m., driving an hour + in rush hour traffic, starting class at 9 a.m., sitting there for three hours . . . I was not looking forward to this ordeal. 

But I enjoyed myself. A lot. I learned things. I felt smart. And it was like a throw-back to my beloved days of Latin where I thrilled at both my increasing knowledge of another language and my growing facility with English. This is all incredibly starry-eyed, I realize, but hey - I'm going with it if it's here to go with. 

Don't get me wrong - I'd rather not have 5 hours a day consumed by driving and class time when I could be whiling the day away at mi casa. (Throwing some Spanish in there - how do you like that one?) BUT since that's not an option, the current situation seems to be just about the best one a girl could find herself in. 

Some rockin' German castle 

Correction: it could be better - I could be learning German in that awesome castle above, although I guaran-darn-tee you I wouldn't eat their food.

I've become an expert - overnight

Sometimes, a totally unexpected/weird/cool e-mail from a random journal editor asking you to review an article being considered for publication shows up in your inbox. Okay, sometimes is an exaggeration; once is more accurate, but you gotta start somewhere, right? 

The scoop: yesterday I get an e-mail from the editor of a journal that I've never heard of, asking if I'll be an outside reviewer (!) for an essay that focuses on the book on which I published my first article. If not, the editor asks, could I recommend 1 or 2 people who I think would be qualified to do so? Oh, and he called me "Prof."! Haha! 

So, my eyes pop out of my head, etc. etc., and then I look up this journal online, thinking it's some silly thing that's existed for about 3.2 weeks, but siked nonetheless. Not so. It's been in existence for more than 30 years and some major theoretical bigwigs published articles there about a decade ago. Like, Jonathan Culler? Um, major bad*ss. 

Of course I said "yes" in about no time flat. (Well, 55 minutes or so.) And like that - 10 min. tops - he writes me back with the article attached. Now I've got 6-8 weeks to review this thing and make my recommendation on publication.

Just so you can understand the magnitude of my shock and how much this has tickled me: outside reviewers are supposed to be "experts in the field." (That's the exact phrase Brad and I use when teaching our students about peer review.) It's a little laughable that anyone could think of me as an expert in anything outside of, say, sitting on the couch, drinking Mt. Dew, or arguing. 

Brad's immediate response was, "They must have liked your article!" My response was, "They probably haven't read it. But there are like no articles published on that book." I'm willing to settle somewhere in the middle. They probably haven't read it, maybe glanced at it, and chances are the author (who cites me!) recommended me as a reviewer b/c lots of journals (and it seems, from the website, that this is one of them) ask the author to do so. 

Anyway, this is one more step in the direction of me feeling like a real true adult with an actual possible career. Instead of a flunky who's 29, still in school and stinks at it, and who's never going to get a teaching job. 

A seasoned professor who's been asked to review an article 100 times would probably groan and find it to be more of a pain in the butt than anything else. But when I think about it, I'm like, Wait a minute - I think someone might be taking me seriously . . . !