SPCA

We just got Flannery back from the SPCA today. We had to take her in to be spayed, and even though she was gone for only a little over 24 hours, the apartment felt really empty without her. I'm so glad we got her spayed though. It's better for her this way. Plus, the whole hunching, butt-up-in-the-air, caterwauling issue was getting a little old. But I did have fun singing Neil Diamond's "Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon" to her every time she went into heat. Anyway, here are the ridiculous post-op instructions we are supposed to follow:

1. No licking or chewing at the incision. Well, I can guarantee I'm not going to lick or chew at her incision, but these were pretty much the first two actions Flannery took when she got home.

2. No running or jumping. Um....Those were the second two things she did when we got her home. If I had just gotten my pet turtle spayed, It might be feasible, but a cat? What's worse is that my cat's brain is made up of concrete and a strong will. The only way I know how to make her mind is to squirt her with a spray bottle, which just happens to violate number three.

3. Keep the incision dry. Right.

4. No rough play (with other pets, you or themselves). This might be hard to believe since Flannery has a reputation for biting strangers, but we really don't play rough with her, and we won't have any other pets probably for two more weeks. (Kitten season starts and we want to get Flannery a friend.) However, she's kinda fond of chasing and biting her tail.

And I'm just going to assume every cat violates all four of these instructions because they wouldn't be cats if they didn't. I just want to know how the SPCA lady kept a straight face we she gave me this list. I honestly don't know how to keep any of these rules unless we keep her in her cage until the 12th, the day she gets her stitches out. So I hope no one reading this reports me for animal abuse.

You might be thinking, "Man, Monica can't take care of her cat. How's she gonna take care of kids?" Well, you aren't alone. I suppose I'll take the same tack: let them run and jump, lick their incisions, chase their body parts, and squirt them with a spray bottle when they do something annoying.

Big Mo'

So, the world has its newest candy bar. It happens to be the brainchild of Dale Earnhardt, Jr., a NASCAR driver, and Palmer, the world's grossest chocolate, so this is quality from word one.

What's better is that the name of the candy bar, which comes in peanut butter or caramel filled chocolate, is named Big Mo'. This name conjures all kinds of images. Is it named after a hulking, dimwitted bouncer? Nope. Jr. says it commemorates the "Big Mo"ment when he first started driving cars around in a circle professionally. Because, you know, when you are the son of a NASCAR deity, it's really hard to get your big break. My brother suggested that, considering the language used by NASCAR drivers, it might really stand for Big MoFo. And I'm sure the forces behind this candy bar don't mind that connotation.

But let me suggest another meaning. One day I was hanging out with my friends Kristin and Brett. Kristin kept calling me Mo that day as a nickname. Finally, Brett said that she might want to stop calling me that. Well, we of course asked why, and here's what he told us. Those in the gay community, to which he belongs, refer to each other as 'Mo or Big 'Mo as a shortened version of homosexual.

So, Dale Earnhardt, Jr. may have just inadvertently endorsed the first gay candy bar ever. Well, let's say the gayest candy bar ever. I'm pretty sure Bonkers, Big Daddy, Gobstoppers, Good & Fruity, Jolly Ranchers, Mike & Ike, NutRageous, Oh Henry, Pixie Stix, and Three Musketeers, were all gay forerunners to the Big Mo'.

It's just funny because I can't think of a more good ol' boy institution than NASCAR. You'd think they would have appointed a Czar of Straightness to make sure nothing like this got past. Of course, I thought the same thing when everyone started calling Jeff Gordon the Rainbow Warrior.

DIY

So there's been a recent surge of interest in home births and I think it's fantastic. I can talk all I want about how I don't want no evil doctor man shoving a needle in my spine and ripping my stomach open to seize my baby, but until I'm in that position, I don't really have any room to talk. Lots of women have done home births and I admire them for it. I want to do it or at least have as few drugs as possible involved, but who knows what I'll be asking for when the draws near.

While home birth might be grabbing all the headlines, there's another DIY area that is quietly gaining popularity- home funerals. No embalming, no expensive casket, no funeral home. The wake takes place at the family's home and the casket is very simple- sometimes cardboard. The person is transported by family vehicle to whatever religious ceremony is chosen and then the family buries their loved ones themselves either on their property or in a cemetery. This might sound crazy at first, but I think the home funeral idea has some merit. Just think about it.

I watched a PBS POV documentary on netflix instant play called "A Family Undertaking" about home funerals. The "death midwife" or "home funeral guide" ,as she prefers, interviewed by PBS made a really good point: "We've institutionalized the most important rites of passage in our culture- birth and death." Before the 20th century, people had their children at home and laid their loved ones to rest at home. Now we just hand them over to strangers in hospitals and let these people deal with our relatives at the very beginning and very end of life. Our emotions about these events become monitored on someone else's time. The joy of birth is dampened by doctors taking the babies too soon or the nurses ready to whisk the newborns off to the the nursery. The grief of losing a relative is hidden away because a show of that kind of intense emotion around strangers (funeral directors and so on) is disturbing and too intimate. We are prevented from experiencing these events and emotions as fully as we could or should.

Just like home births, home funerals are more natural because there are no chemicals involved. Anyone who says a dead person at a the funeral home is "so natural looking" is either weird, lying, or both. It's not natural. There is nothing natural about what undertakers do. Jabbing holes in a person's body to suck out all the fluids, propping up the eyeballs, clamping the mouth shut, filling the body with formaldehyde- if anyone but a funeral director we're doing this stuff it would be considered desecration of a corpse. It's not pleasant to think about, but it's true. And all so we can get our relatives to look like they did in old age, right before they died. That's not the way I want to remember any of my grandparents.

Finally, it's no secret that funeral directors take advantage of the grief stricken and bereaved. This is yet another similarity to families in the delivery room. We'll do what they say because they are the experts. Never mind that they don't have our best interests at heart, they don't have our emotional well being at heart, and they certainly don't have our financial well being at heart. So we end up paying thousands of dollars for something we don't want and something our relatives didn't want because we are not in the right state to deal with it.

The topic is macabre, I know, but it is important to think about culturally. Would I want a funeral with no chemicals, no expensive casket, and no funeral home for myself? My gut reaction is to say that as long as I have a funeral mass said for me, I'm buried in a Catholic cemetery, and I'm right with God before I go, I don't need anything else. Would I have the strength to be in charge of a home funeral for someone I know and love? Like home birth, I can only really answer these questions when the time draws near. What do you guys think?

Sisterly Advice

Warning- the following material may not be suitable for younger audiences, those who are at all politically correct, or those who may have an aversion to the F-Bomb.

Well, some days I take two steps closer to heaven and some days I take two steps back.

So, I'm in Lafayette right now visiting my family and friends. It has been a great time and I'm enjoying myself. One of my favorite parts about this visit is that I've gotten to spend some time with my 16 year old brother. Alex is a really good kid that people should take the time to get to know.

Two nights ago we were talking about how high school is going for him. I remember high school as one of the most miserable times of my life, so I wanted to check in with him and make sure he was okay. He said that classes were fine and he had friends and he liked one of his teachers. Then he mentioned that some kid in his math class was giving him a hard time. This kid would say rude things to him, butt in on his conversations, and just be a jerk in general to Alex.

Well, at this point rage seethed within me. It's the type of rage that one can only experience when a blood relative has been insulted. It is instinctual and I am sure everyone has experienced it. My blood boiled, my fists clenched, my teeth gnashed. I asked Alex, "What's this kid look like?" Alex remarked that he's a skinny gay kid who talks with a lisp.

PLAY RECORD SCREECHING NOISE HERE

I said, "Wait, wait, wait. You're letting a skinny gay kid give you shit?" You have to understand that my brother is at least 6 feet tall and he is big and strong. The next words out of my mouth make up some of the best and worst sisterly advice I have ever given. (sorry mom and dad if you're reading) With teeth fully gritted I said, "The next time that kid gives you shit, look him in the eye, put on the meanest face you can imagine and say 'Fuck off mother fucker'". Admittedly, it is regrettable that I did not think of Christian charity first. But as I said, I was in the throes of protective familial rage. That kind of thing stands up in court even. Alex kind of laughed and shortly after our chat he announced that he had to go to bed.

Later that night I started feeling guilty about the advice that I gave him. That kind of retort could get Alex in a fight or get him kicked out of school. Plus, it ranks pretty high in the uncharitability factor. So I sent Alex a text message that night before I went to bed so he could read it before he went to school that morning. This is what it said verbatim- "Hey, just kidding about that gay kid @ school. You probably shouldn't tell anyone to fuck off. Have a good day tomorrow."

That's the kind of sister I am I guess. I can only imagine how much worse it would be if I had sisters of my own, and I fear for how bad it will be if my children are bullied at school. I think the life lesson overall was a good one- don't take shit from anyone. However, I also think that my approach was a little off. Sigh. Lord help me.

US Americans

Okay, I know this girl has been made fun of time and time again, and I actually feel really sorry for her. Who hasn't just completely lost their composure in front of a group of people at some point in their lives? It's happened to me while teaching class before- not to this extent, but still. And I don't think this girl is stupid either. She's probably a good student even. With all that being said, I feel a little better about posting this clip, which I thought was hilarious. It looks at how this beauty queen's "parents" coach her through the speech. Besides, everything Miss Teen South Carolina said about The Iraq was true.

Update

Hey guys, I just wanted to give you a little update on a miracle I've been privileged to witness. It's hard to believe AJ will be a year old soon.





And here he is now.



He has a long road ahead of him, as all micropremies do, but so far everything is going well. He still has his feeding tube, but that's it. He's not on oxygen or any other machines anymore. Thanks for all your prayers. My entire family, especially my brother and his wife, are extremely grateful.

The Accuracy of NFP Finally Takes Its Toll

Yeeaaaah, Sure. It's all the NFP.

VATICAN CITY - Islam has surpassed Roman Catholicism as the world's largest religion, the Vatican newspaper said Sunday.

"For the first time in history, we are no longer at the top: Muslims have overtaken us," Monsignor Vittorio Formenti said in an interview with the Vatican newspaper L'Osservatore Romano. Formenti compiles the Vatican's yearbook.

He said that Catholics accounted for 17.4 percent of the world population — a stable percentage — while Muslims were at 19.2 percent. ASSOCIATED PRESS

Shit. Well, I guess David and I are going to have to start making babies now. I can't stand being #2. Catholic Baby Havers Unite!!! Or we could try to convert some people or something.

Potential Problem

I've been thinking a lot lately about potential and how maybe for the first time in my life I don't have any. I'm not sure if that sounds arrogant or sad, and maybe it's both. I'm not necessarily depressed about the potential problem or anything, but it has led me to some interesting reflections.

Americans, and maybe every society, love a person with potential. When I was in school- high school, college, grad school- I was always asked about my plans and what I intended to do with my degrees, and it all sounded very interesting- precisely for the fact that I hadn't done any of it yet. I would tell people what I wanted to do and I would get wrapped up in the idea of just being able to do those things...someday, and that kind of potential is fun and attractive. Having the potential to teach English at a community college is much cooler than actually doing it(and I like my job). And now, at parties and get-togethers, I love talking to people who haven't graduated yet because I get to imagine with them what they could do, and it's exciting. It's much more fun talking about the future with a person in law school than it is talking about the future with a lawyer.

This doesn't just happen with school and jobs either. When David and I were engaged so many people would ask about the wedding, where we were going to live, our plans, and on and on and on. And it is fun to talk to engaged people because they have their entire lives together before them, none of it has happened yet, and it's fun to see all that potential. I think that's why older people love to ask young couples when they are going to get engaged; they want to be excited about the future. But almost two years after our wedding, no one cares about how long we've been married, and they certainly don't care that we were once engaged. And I'm not saying people should. I mean, honestly, who doesn't get married? Almost everyone does it, even people who are terrible at it, so I don't feel special about it. Yet when I was engaged to be married, oh man, people thought that was sumpthin' special. But no, after people are married, they have to move on to the next big potential thing: having a baby.

How do I know that I've milked my marriage for all its potential? People are starting to ask me when I'm going to have a baby. And having a baby is exactly like to two examples above. During the nine months of expectancy, people are positively beside themselves about what could be with their friend's baby. What are you going to name it? How far along are you? Do you have the baby's room ready? And to be fair, pregnant women deserve some excitement about their potential. Just from an outsider's perspective, it looks like it sucks being pregnant, so these women should at least have people asking them fun questions. But what happens after the baby is born? Well, they have a baby. They have the thing they were expecting. I certainly don't make a big to-do about the fact that someone has a baby every time I see them the way I did when that same person was pregnant. That would be weird. "Oh, you have a baby." "Oh, you still have a baby" "What's it like still having a baby?"

So maybe fulfilling one's potential is never as exciting as possessing that potential . That doesn't mean the fulfillment isn't better- just maybe less interesting. I'd rather be working than back in school (most days), I'd rather be married than engaged, and I'm sure most women would rather have their children on the outside instead of the inside. But still, it's nice to have some potential. I don't know when I'll get some potential back, but I'll be excited when I get it.

How Many Babies Can Fit in a Tire?

The title of this post is from a movie that I cannot go a day without quoting- Waiting For Guffman. I consider the fact that I quote it daily one of my most obnoxious qualities, and I have scores of obnoxious qualities. In the movie, the main character, Corky St. Clair, says, "It's a Zen thing, like how many babies can fit in a tire." This is such a brilliant line because he's poking fun at that old Thomist query, "how many angels can fit on the head of a pin?" And why bring this up now? Well...

I've been reading Chesterton's biography of St. Thomas Aquinas. It's cool because ol' GK is doing some of that Augustine/Aquinas, Plato/Aristotle stuff that I love. Even though Chesterton is sometimes annoyingly over the top and almost always distracted, his Aquinas bio is still a good, fun read.

So anyway, I've been thinking quite a bit about that portly,profound theologian lately and I came up with what I thought was a pretty funny pun: St. Thomas Aquinas was the world's first deep fat friar. Whoo, I'm still laughing. God, that would be great if I was the first person to ever think of that, but I doubt that I am. It's the first I've ever heard of it though. Oh, I tell you, this steel trap is sharp. I'm off now to ponder how many cats I can fit in a dryer.

My Husband Is A Monkey

This is what happened when my monkey-husband decided to jump on the bed





From a chair stacked on a hope chest



In what can only be described as a WWF style, top of the ropes, spinning elbow drop.



Why? Because he finished changing a light bulb and thought it would be fun to jump from the chair onto the bed. David says it'll just take a 2X4 and a couple of nails to fix. I remain skeptical. Currently, our bed cannot support 3 out of its 4 slats. I would say this is the kind of thing for which David would find himself sleeping on the couch tonight, but I think it's obvious that we'll both be sleeping there. I told David that the only reason why it's funny is because we're comfortable enough in our finances that we could buy a new bed if need be. If we were poor, I would not be laughing nearly as much. Oh, man. At what age or stage in our life was responsibility supposed to kick in? Because I clearly don't think it has for the O'Neils.

My Alter Ego

Okay, I already Myspaced about this, but then I realized that some of you don't have Myspace. I would Facebook about it, but I'm just not that Facebooky yet. I feel like I'm already committed to Myspace and if I committed equally to Facebook I'd have to quit my job just to keep up. Anyway...I was grading some papers last night and came across two mistakes in my name that led me to invent a teaching alter ego.

I make everyone put their name, my name, the assignment, and the date at the top of the paper just like every teacher does. And as I was looking over someone's paper last night, I noticed that my first name was not Monica but, in fact, it was really Maniac. Imagine my surprise. I thought about the possibility that this person was insulting me, but then I decided that they just didn't know how to spell my name. When the infallible red squiggle showed up, this person just changed the name to the first option. So Maniac it is.

Then, I have another person who has been calling me O'Bryan all semester long. And really, aren't all Irish pretty much the same? I could get upset about this, but my real last name has only been my last name for a year and a half, so in some ways I feel like O'Neil is my Rent To Own name instead of my married name. Maybe after five years I'll feel like an O'Neil. Maybe not, but that's for a different post.

So after being called both Maniac and O'Bryan last night, I decided I would adopt both names as my teaching/grading alter ego. I informed David of this by saying things like "Maniac O'Bryan's not gonna take any shit from you" or "Maniac O'Bryan likes 12pt Times New Roman" or "Maniac O'Bryan loves the smell of red ink." And I said all of this while punching the air and stomping my feet. Well, he thought I was going crazy, so you can imagine his relief when I told him that I had just adopted a teaching/grading altar ego. Whew!! I mean, crazy people don't do that.

So that's just a little insight into what I do for a living. The fun never stops.

Penny-Anti?

There's a debate raging in the country that is likely to start another civil war. And who else but Abe Lincoln, or at least his likeness, would find himself at the center of it? Yes, I'm talking about the old penny debate. In the past year or so, copper, zinc, and other metal prices have shot through the roof making it more expensive for the mint to produce coins. Right now, it costs about 1.5 cents to make a penny, which means the production of the penny is costing us millions of dollars a year. There are essentially two arguments in this penny debate/

Argument 1-
The penny is worthless. You can't buy anything with it. It costs too much to make and distribute. It's worth more melted down for it's minimal amount of copper (pennies are mostly zinc)than it is as a piece of currency. So let's abolish the penny.

By the way, it is illegal to melt down your pennies and sell them for copper. Just the fact that this law exists in America not only illustrates to me the worthlessness of the penny but also frightens me because I usually think of smelting currency as a problem in developing countries.

Argument 2-
But, but, but, *sniff sniff* it's the penny! We just gotta keep it. It's been around forever! We won't be able to say, "penny for your thoughts" anymore.

Here's my response to that last one. If anyone offers you a penny for your thoughts, you should punch them in the face. They are essentially saying that your thoughts are worthless.

Here's the real, or at least more logical, argument- If the penny is abolished, prices will round up and cost the consumer more money. You will have to buy juice for $3 instead of $2.98.

So there's the debate. I say get rid of pennies, or at least make it legal to smelt them. I've always wanted to smelt something. Where do you stand? Are you penny-anti? (Har, har, I made a word joke) or are you pro-penny? Or should we just scrap it all and beg the EU to use the euro?

Gross

Ummm... All I have to say is that Edmund sold his brother and sisters out for nothing because this stuff is naaaassssty. It tasted like chocolate covered rosewater jello. It was devoid of Eastern promise. I understand that the White Witch's Turkish delight was charmed and ensorcelled (totally thesaurused that one)but she had to. That's the only way she could get anyone to eat it.

I probably had the cheapest version, so I'll need to re-try other varieties, but this stuff made me want to vomit. However, I picked up this Turkish Delight in the coolest grocery store ever! It was in the English foods section, naturally. Just for the record, I still like Turkish coffee, Turkish baths, Turkish gold, and Turkish Superman.

Goats

David and I have been obsessed with goats lately. Yeah, goats. We often say our cat is a goat because she'll eat anything and she loves to be in high places. I've said that goats are the grandfathers of the animal world; they are kind of scary, kind of funny, mercurial, have white beards, and love to eat. These are all things I could say about my own grandfather, God rest his soul.

But last night David and I went on a goat joke tirade that I'll share with you now. Please forgive us for the corny humor, but I actually think some of these are funny. Here's how the goat joke conversation went-

Monica- What do goats use to go shopping? Goat carts.
David- What do goat cheerleaders cheer? Goat team!
Monica- What do goats use to store things? A goat rack.
David- What do goats eat for breakfast? Goatmeal.
Monica- What do you call a goat fashion show? Goat couture (I personally think this is the funniest one)
David- Who do you call when you have a goat problem? Goatbusters.
Monica- What do goats sing in church? Goat tell it on the mountain.

Oh yes, the goat jokes were flying fast and furious for about 15 minutes. If any of you still want to be my friend after that display of lameness, you should leave a comment and post your own goat joke.

Here's to Incest

When David first started graduate school, he worked at a liquor store part-time. I would go visit him there, but I would hate it because a lot of really gross people went there to feed their daily vice and addiction. I thought it was a really sad place. I also hated it because there were "beer" ads with buxom and scantily clad women plastered on every wall. I put beer in quotations because I don't really consider Miller Lite, Coors Light, or Bud Light real beer and I don't consider those ads beer ads. They are, or course, ads for sex. I know everyone has sounded off on how sexist and awful these ads are. Anytime something can put feminists and the Catholic Church on the same side, you know its pretty offensive across the board. However, I find the Coors Light Twins ads really perplexing. By the way, this is the least salacious and suggestive CLT ad I could find. You can find them on a google search in much more overt poses.



I find these ad really disgusting and I think most intelligent men probably do too, but I'm not a man so I can't really vouch for that. But these ads confuse me for two main reasons.

As far as I know, there are only three issues left in Western culture that are completely taboo: child molestation, cannabalism, and incest. Yet here in this ad, these sisters are saying, "We're ready to have sex with you and with each other. Doesn't that make you feel like drinking a Coors Light, Big Boy?" There it is. It's right out there, incest to sell beer. Granted, I do connect Coors Light with incest, but that's because the people who drink CL are usually the products of it (frat boys, people who work at the Dollar General, people who take professional sports way too seriously). But these ads are worse than just regular, trailer park incest. This is twincest we're witnessing. Yes, twincest- the occurrence of two identical twins willing to have sex with each other, usually to advance their career in porn or "beer" ads. I don't know anyone who gets hot from thinking about incest, but these people must exist because these ads exist.

The second issue that confuses me is really out of my league, but I'm going to try to write about it anyway. This ad addresses that old "two chicks at once" fantasy that I'm told every guy in the world has dreamed of at one time or another. Observe the 01 and 02 on the twins' shirts lest the complex imagery fly over our heads. And if this twins ad accomplished this fantasy, I might be willing to let it go. But I thought the whole idea of "doing two chicks at once" (in the parlance of our time) was that the two chicks in the equation were different and added variety. But here in this ad, we have, for all intents and purposes, the exact same person: same features, same expression, same freaking DNA. So what's the point? Anyone turned on by this might as well have sex with a four armed, four legged, four breasted, two vaginaed, she-beast with pom-poms.

So there you have it. I don't get it. The ad is supposed to suggest exotic, fantastic sex, but it screams twincest. What a great way to market beer.

Part II

I threw on the extra layers of clothing and embarked on my journey. The wind immediately cut through everything I was wearing and my legs started to go numb. This happened before I made it a block away from the apartment. I could have reasonably called off class for this, but I thought to myself, "gods be damned! These vocational scholars must have their quiz on MLA citation. If they aren't tested on how to cite a weekly periodical, how will I ever know that the esteemed writers of Time and Newsweek will get their proper nod from the academic world?" I pretty much thought that verbatim. And so I trudged on.

After about two blocks, my toes, which were protected only by thin dress socks and flimsy shoes, began to feel like they had rubber bands wrapped tightly around them. After three blocks, I stopped feeling that sensation altogether. That's when I got really scared. I started recalling everything I knew about frostbite and arctic survival, but as an English major, the only information I have comes from fictitious accounts. So... I ran like a madwoman for the next two blocks. Then I realized that "wait, this is exactly what the main character in Jack London's 'To Build a Fire' does right before he dies." See... and they say there are no real world applications for literary types.

Well, I immediately slowed down to a fast walk and regained some of the feeling in my feet by doing some toe calisthenics while trying not to think of a cold and icy death. My air passage ways constricted completely when I finally met a warm blast of air as I entered the school. I thought I was going to hyperventilate for a couple of minutes but I got my breathing under control just in time to teach class. Luckily, the walk back was about 20 degrees warmer and so felt like Spring Break 2008 in comparison to earlier that morning.

We let the truck sit all that night in hopes that it would thaw out by Saturday evening. Saturday rolled around and we took a walk down wretched Thrall armed with hammers, a screw driver, and a wrench. As I suspected, the truck had only thawed slightly. We then commenced banging and thrashing on the thick ice that surrounded our wheels. After a considerable amount of clobbering, we tried to move the truck but to no avail. And then in a stroke of genius, I said with icy wrench in hand, "You'd think this is just the type of occasion that our membership in AAA would come in handy." David quickly agreed and we called AAA to come liberate us from the icy shackles that had oppressed us for two days.

O'Neil's Arctic Adventure

Thursday and Friday were the coldest days so far here in Cincinnati. Both days I walked to work... not completely of my own volition. It displeased me greatly. Here's what happened.

Wednesday night, my husband came home from his job, a job he is technically not supposed to have, by the way, because the University of Cincinnati expects him to support himself and his needy wife on a somewhat paltry sum. Anyway, it was late, so he had to park on a different street than we usually use...and he didn't tell me about it (I'm not so mad because of the aforementioned illegal job and needy wife). The next day, he rode the bus to school in order to let me have the truck to drive to school. I went to our normal parking street,Bryant, to look for the truck, but it was not there. Then I went to our back-up parking street, Whitfield, but the truck was not there either. By this time the 15 degree weather and the fact that I'm supposed to be at work in 20 minutes is starting to get to me. I frantically call David even though I know he's in class. When the phone connects the first voice I hear is a erudite woman saying something about archeology. I know that his phone has gone off in class and only have about two seconds before he hangs up the phone, so I scream "Where the hell did you park the truck!!!!" Then I hear a hang up tone. Later, David would tell me that he would have texted me the location but he was sitting right next to the professor at the time. So I think archeology lady probably knew we were having parking problems. With a grimace, I started to walk the mile to work in a light coat, dress slacks, dress socks, and no hat or gloves whatsoever. And I was late to work. Punctuality should have been next to godliness in my opinion, so this was really, really bad.

Friday- It's about 10 degrees with a windchill of Siberian tundra proportions. I start the morning think to myself that it'll be a good day because David told me where he parked the truck, I won't have to walk, and I won't have to interrupt David's class by screaming obscenities. Thrall Street, by the way. That's where it was parked. I hardly know where Thrall Street is. So as I'm walking down Middleton and turning on the cursed Thrall Street, I notice that the street is kind of icy, which is weird because it hasn't snowed here for a week or two. As I'm walking further down Thrall, which is on a hill, I noticed that it was getting really icy. The cars I was passing had an inch or two of ice built up around the wheels. In the cold weather, a water main had burst and all of the flooding water froze on the street Thursday night. I thought to myself, "Gee, whoever is parked at the bottom of this hill is really going to be frozen to the street." Do I even need to tell you who parked at the bottom of that hill? I didn't think so.

Well, I get to the truck, which has about four inches of solid ice surrounding the wheels, and I start laughing one of those laughs that only maniacs have. I started the truck just to see how bad the situation was. When I pressed on the gas, the wheels did not move. At all. To make matters worse, there was a brand new SUV parked about a foot in front of me, so if my little 1990 Ford Ranger ever did break loose, I would have smacked to son of bitch in the bumper going about 80 miles an hour.

I got out of the truck and called David just to tell him about his impeccable parking spot. He was sitting in an apartment with the thermostat on 71 at the time, so he thought it was a little funnier than I did. To help mollify my anger, he said he'd meet me at the lobby door to give me a hat, scarf, and gloves for my freezing cold walk to work. To be continued...

Part II will be up soon.

Correction

Ummm.. Just a little correction. I'll be home Tuesday the 29th through that Sunday. I hope no one thought I was ignoring them. Sorry!!

I do have internet as of four minutes ago. This means I'll definitely be blogging more again.

And here is a picture of Flannery

Avalanche

So, I know I haven't posted lately. I'd like to be able to say that this will be a really long post, but it won't be. I've been buried under the avalanche of Mt. Composition Papers. Its peak is said to be almost as high as Mt. Everest and it is deadlier than Everest's north face. I'm breathing from an oxygen tank as we speak. I haven't even read anyone's blog in weeks. Here is a short synopsis of what's I've been up to:

1) I got a black and white kitten for Christmas. Her name is Flannery. I'll post pictures later.
2) We got a computer and we'll have internet in our very own home starting Saturday.
3) It turns out I didn't need a root canal(most of you probably didn't even know I was in danger of needing one). This is why we bought a computer. We instead named the computer "Root Canal"
4) The semester ends here on Monday and I'll be home Tuesday the 22nd through that Sunday.

Everywhere You Look

Well, I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas. Midnight Mass rocked as did the party afterward. Christmas always makes reflect back on childhood memories. As I was reflecting back on a certain childhood memory a couple of days ago, I became confused and scared. The following is why.

I was thinking back to a time in elementary school. This was an awkward period for me to say the least. I wasn't completely sure I wanted to be a girl yet, and I shunned all dolls, pink things, flowers, etc. This made my mother so angry because she worked at a children's clothing store at the time and would bring home really cute clothes that I refused to wear. Sooooo....I had a unique fashion sense. Anyhow, here's the memory. One day I wore an outfit to school that I just loved. However, when I got to school all the other kids made fun of me for wearing it. I started feeling bad as I remembered how those terrible kids teased me. But the more I got to thinking about the memory, the less sure I was that the event had ever happened. In fact, I thought to myself, didn't I see an episode of Full House where the exact same thing happened? Wasn't it really DJ Tanner who was teased for her outfit and not me? This is where I got really scared. What other childhood memories had I confused with DJ Tanner's life. Maybe I never really dated a guy from the wrestling team who sounded just like Aladdin. Perhaps my best friend and I were never locked out of my car while doing a Chinese fire drill at a stop sign. Maybe I never had three slightly gay father figures.

Okay, so maybe those last examples were a bit over the top, but now I really am confused about whether I was ever made fun of in school for an outfit that I wore (to my face. I'm pretty sure I was constantly made fun of behind my back.) As I see it, there are only two possibilities. 1)I really was made fun of in school for something I wore and when I remembered it I automatically equated it with something that happened on Full House. 2) Only DJ Tanner was made fun of for something she wore and I somehow got my life mixed up with a fictitious character. Either possibility freaks me out. I do not want my memories equated with bad television shows, and I really do not want to mistake events that happened to fake people with something that happened to me in real life. I mean, If this kind of thing is happening now when I'm 26, I can only imagine how bad it will be when I'm 76. I'll probably be telling my grandchildren how I lost my one true love to a ship wreck in the arctic.

I have a friend from school who says her father never allowed her to watch Full House as a child. I can only envy her now. At least she knows her memories are safe.