Some Updates

It's been busy around here for the past couple of weeks, and I've tried to post a few times on a few topics, but I haven't had the ambition, really. Here are some random thoughts:

• I was putting together a long post about George Carlin, and it was too maudlin and it was boring me. Suffice it to say, the two pop-culture entities that most influenced me when I was a teenager were Monty Python and George Carlin. The Pythons gave me a model for embracing absurdity and Carlin exposed my lifelong alienation as natural in a culture as ridiculous as this one, and expressed exactly what I was feeling in ways that helped me accept it.
• I had another job interview on Friday. It came up suddenly, and I had to prepare a teaching presentation in a shorter time than I'd have liked. The interview went well, though, so now it's back to waiting.
• Michele and I celebrated our second anniversary last Tuesday. Michele wrote about it here. We went to a restaurant in OKC and I got this amazing filet of tilapia, and had a glass of a really good pinot gris. Then we went home and watched The Spiderwick Chronicles. Talk about a wild celebration. Sly called in the middle of dinner, so I said I'd call him back. I haven't called yet, though. I owe him a call.
• Michele's brother and his family stopped by unexpectedly on Monday. Their three kids are like a tornado, so it seems like we don't get to visit as much as our time together would suggest, but it was good to see them.
• I have a lot of thoughts about the NBA draft, and maybe I'll write a post about that soon, but for now I'll just say that I'm of two minds. I think what the Timberwolves needed was a solid seven-footer to start at the five so Jefferson could be more effective at power forward, and the only asset they got in that regard was Jason Collins, in the trade with Memphis. On the other hand, I like what Kevin Love brings to the team, and Mike Miller should be a solid asset. Eh. Not a bad draft, but nothing to be too excited about.
• Since we've lived in Norman we've met a lot of people who brew their own beer. I think the funky Oklahoma blue laws have created a fixation among some people here. For our anniversary Michele bought me a book about the history of brewing in Minnesota. The book is fascinating, and because of that my reading of Ellison's Juneteenth has slowed to a crawl.
• It's hot here, and it's getting hotter.

That's about all I have to say right now. Maybe soon I can be more entertaining and/or interesting. Right now I just feel worn out.

February: The Tough Month

It's been a while since I posted anything other than videos or quick blurbs about nothing. It isn't that I haven't had the time--hell, I've been working hard to find ways to put off working--but I haven't had the mental capacity to even consider what to write, let alone bother trying to compose my thoughts on a subject.

The truth is, February was a tough month. And the difficulty with February started way back in October. When we got to Norman I felt lucky to get work right away, but I still had to hold out for two and a half months before I'd get paid. We made it, even if it was stressful. Just part of living the glamorous adjunct life, I guess. But then around the middle of October I realized, "Rut-roh. That not-getting-paid thing is going to happen again at the end of January." Sure, this time I'd only go one month without pay, but could there be a worse time? Right after Christmas? Right after a planned drive to Minnesota (and all the costs that entails, even if others are entirely too generous with us). No pay going into February? The month with Valentine's Day? The month with Michele's birthday? Her first birthday ever spent out of reach of her family? A birthday that might be made easier for her if I can do something to make a big deal about it? An actual milestone birthday on top of that?

Needless to say, I've been a basket case for months (I heard that "your whole life" from the back . . .), and I considered staying behind in Oklahoma over winter break so I could find a job and just keep working--keep the difficulty to a minimum. For a number of reasons I decided that wasn't going to work out, so I made the trip and gritted my teeth for the coming depression.

And that's the funny thing about stress. Even though I knew I could make the situation more bearable by picking up a weekend job I didn't. I tried a few times, made some halfhearted stabs at some extra work, but in the end just sighed and resigned myself to a month of self-loathing.

And then one of my sections was cancelled (not enough enrolled), so I had a smaller paycheck to look forward to on the other end of February. That was nice.

Add into that strain a class that insists on challenging every announcement I make. Add to that a few job openings I needed to get myself together to apply to. Add to that my complete inability to write on any of my projects. And on top of that goes a further inability to even read productively. I was a mess. A mess of my own making.

But now it's March, and I've submitted my applications, and I see the end of this stack of grading easing over the horizon, and I got paid on Friday. So the tightness in my chest has loosened a little. I'm less likely to make a (misplaced) snarky comment to anyone (poor Michele--this was not a good month). Maybe now I can write, can spend some time thinking without my thoughts meandering off in negativity like a drunken butterfly headed for the pretty forest fire.

Maybe now I can blog. There's plenty to talk about. Even if my decision on Election Day will be a no-brainer (Obama's my first choice, but if Hillary wins the Dem nomination I have her ranked next --here's my list 1. Obama, 2. Clinton, 3. A loaf of bread, 4. Ralph Nader, . . . 389. The BTK killer, 390. Paris Hilton, 391. Carrot Top, 392. John McCain (or any other conservative)).

And it gets better: in two weeks my mom and Skiffy* and the Cat Whisperer** are driving down for a ten-day visit over Spring Break. The weather is beautiful (75 and sunny yesterday), and the trees are budding. I feel almost human. Almost.

* I need to find a better name for him. "Skiffy" was momentarily funny, but it isn't anymore and it doesn't exactly encapsulate who he is. I'm working on it.
** "The Cat Whisperer," however, stays. Because it's perfect.

The Names Explained

I have a problem, apparently. Michele tells me I talk in my sleep--and it's not your average conversation. According to her, one night I yelled "Wahoo!" and whacked her in the head with my forearm as I raised my hands in celebration. I find this hard to believe, because I don't even say "Wahoo!" when I'm awake. I can't imagine anything inspiring me to say "Wahoo!" or "Yahoo!" or "Yoohoo!" or anything along those lines. But I digress.

Another time it seems she just happened to be awake in the middle of the night when I sat up, turned to her, and said, "We have to update the magic pizza updater!" You see, this is impossible. I don't use exclamation points. Ever. Especially not when I'm sleeping. And what the hell is a "magic pizza updater," anyway? And why would a magic pizza updater need updating? Doesn't it do the updating? Isn't that its function, as indicated in its name? Clearly she's imagining things.

So I'm familiar with how strange ideas get passed around at night. The other day, just before we left Minnesota, Michele and I stood in her parents' living room and her father described a dream he had. Michele's mother was accusing him of mixing the peanut butter--he blended the Skippy with Jif. He insisted he had done no such thing and that he resented the accusation. We decided that the resulting mixture of such an affront had to be called "Jipp." Or "Skiffy." So, he's Skiffy.

That same morning, Michele's mother went from cat to cat, explaining to each over the course of several minutes that we'd be leaving soon, that they'd be gone for a few days, but that they'd be home, don't worry. She explained to the cats that she'd arranged for a friend to come over and feed them and to make sure they were okay. And you know what? When we left, the cats didn't cry or carry on. They didn't cling to our legs or beg us not to go. They were calm and composed. So clearly the conversations worked. So she's the "Cat Whisperer."

Or did I dream that?

An unrelated note: I interview at OCCC for an adjunct position on Thursday morning. I feel good about this, and the timing is incredible.

We Made It.

We're in Oklahoma now, settling into our apartment. The caravan has left and we are busy putting our domicile together.

More good news: When I accessed the internet today I found an email from the Composition Instruction Coordinator at Oklahoma City Community College, and she wanted to set up an interview for tomorrow morning (Tuesday the 17th). The bad news is that she sent the email last Thursday, just hours after I dismantled the computer, and I didn't see it for four days. I called and left a message on her voice mail. I returned her email. She hasn't called back yet. Hopefully tomorrow.

I'm not happy with the way I comported myself over the weekend. I was at turns a brat, a clown, a raving lunatic, a pure idiot, and a general asshole. And those were my good moments. My family faced down the worst behavior of my adult life and didn't strangle me. I don't deserve such good will.

Another note: I've decided on aliases for my in-laws: Skiffy and the Cat Whisperer. I will explain later, because the stories behind both amuse me. But for now, I need to get to bed so I can wake up bright and early tomorrow to iron clothes and wait for the phone to ring.

Happy Birthday to Me.

Today's my birthday. And here ends a weekend of constant partying. Some of the parties were more raucous than others, but they were all celebrations of a sort. I've already mentioned Thursday and Friday. Saturday we went to Mankato for Cinco . . . er, Doce de Mayo. Diana knows how to lay out some food and beverages. It's too bad it's such a drive and I'm so old. I feel like I have to leave waaaaay too early, and I hate not opening and closing the party.

Then we did Mother's Day brunch at my brother's place and had huge omelets with my Mom, Jam, and Brigadoon. And their menagerie, which I like, because animals are fun. Last night we went to the In-laws' and Michele made a Greek chicken-and-pasta combination, with fudge-and caramel-sauce-covered chocolate cake for dessert. Mmmm. We played "basketball" with the Demon Nephew. He's a funny kid.

So we've gotten to my birthday. 37. That's an ugly number. It occurred to me that when I was still 36 that was kind of like 35 and I could convince myself I was in my mid-thirties still. Now I'm definitely hitting the end of the 30s and on to 40. Ugly. I still feel like I'm 25. Probably because I act like I'm 12. Michele and Mom visited me at work for lunch today and they brought me egg salad sandwiches, malts from Dairy Queen, and brownies with a candle I blew out. It was a nice surprise.

As for it being my birthday--I guess I'm pretty ambivalent. I don't like getting gifts, and I don't like getting attention (especially for merely not having died in the last year). And my birthday has been marked by negativity in the past. When I was nine I had chicken pox on my birthday. Happy birthday--don't scratch that.

The worst birthday I've ever had, though, was ten years ago today. That was the day I served as pallbearer at my grandfather's funeral. He was survived by my grandmother, the matriarch of the Beneshes. My grandmother--Gram--was an awesome woman. Tiny and always smiling, she had this charming Norwegian lilt to her speech, and still rolled her "r"s from a childhood (ninety years in the past) of speaking Norwegian almost exclusively. She was like Yoda--wise and hunched over. Except her syntax never twisted like the Jedi Master's, and she was much less green.

I emphasize Gram for a few reasons. Like I said, she was the unquestioned authority in the family, the matriarch. And her husband of sixty-nine years just died on Mother's Day. When she saw me she said, "Happy birthday!" and for a moment I'm positive that's all she was thinking of. One of my favorite people ever, and this is my last concrete memory of her. She died on Halloween, 2000. She was done. When Gramps died, she considered her work done. Her children were grown (and two of five had been buried). The grandchildren were all grown, and the great-grandkids were reaching adulthood.

I don't remember the rest of Gramps's funeral too clearly. We carried Gramps out of the little church where Gram had been baptized eight decades earlier and we put his coffin on the stand at the grave forty feet from the building. The wind blew the shelter and the coffin skirts, whipped them like it wanted them gone. We went to the church basement and smiled weakly over thin coffee and nineteen different Norwegian church-lady hotdishes.

Happy birthday to me. This year is much better.

How the RBO got its R back.

It occurred to Michele and me while we were sitting in the nonfunctional Rolling Blue Oven last Saturday that the RBO, at that moment, was neither B nor O, and only unhelpfully R. The blue was mostly masked by a skin of road-salt, and some of it has been eroded by rust. And the poor car can't be an oven when the atmosphere it inhabits is below zero, so it more resembled an icebox than an oven.

And the rolling was compromised. I could move in reverse just fine, but any forward motion would require a Barney-Rubble accelerator kit, as the car was stuck in reverse.

So now we had a number of new letters for a clever acronym. S can be road salt, R is now rust, and I stands for icebox. And I can only call its limited mobility useless. Instead of an RBO, I was in possession of a USRI. A useless, salty, rusty icebox.

RBO sounds better, though. And this weekend it got its R back.

The guys at Auto Shop told me that I had a broken shifter-cabley thing, and that they could fix said shifter-cabley thing for just over $330. Father-In-Law said he could handle it for much cheaper. And he did. Fixed it in just a few hours. He's good at the car-fixing.

So now I'm driving a RSRI. I think. I could pronounce it "Rosary." But a rosary is a prayer, or an object that helps keep track of prayers. It's not an object that necessitates prayers. Owned by an atheist, no less.