“You’re too cute to be smart.”

I work weird hours.  Often, I will take some papers to my local Buffalo Wild Wings to grade on a Monday night.  Okay, it used to be Tuesday nights, because Tuesdays are wing night, and Michigan beers are $1 off, but this semester, I have three lab sections on Tuesday and…because Football.

Ladies, if you want people to talk to you in bars, take a stack of papers to grade.  People find this fascinating.  I think if men do this, nobody bats an eyelash, but a woman who sips a beer in public while grading papers is coming out of the closet. 

I often have people say, “I wish I’d had a teacher like you.”
And I answer, “You did.”

Every teacher I know (whatever level) does it.  Honestly, parents, if you think your kid’s teacher doesn’t have a glass of wine handy when she’s grading papers off the clock, you’re kidding yourselves.

Easy, parental units…we’re not getting hammered.  But if I’m spending my Monday night grading papers, I have a right (nay, obligation) to have an adult beverage and maybe eat some dinner while I do it.  This way, I can correct the same error 100 (and no, I’m not exaggerating) times without getting angry.  My comments contain 50% less extraneous punctuation if I am grading at my dining room table or a bar than in my office. 

But like I said, it gives random dudes an easy opening line, should they find me cute.  Or, perhaps more realistically, should they find themselves away from home (and usually their wives) for the night and bored.  Gentlemen, a word of advice: choose that opening line carefully.  You have no idea how well I can read you based on those first few words.

WHAT NOT TO SAY:

“Are you doing homework?
Nothing to see here, folks.  Moving on. <crickets>

“Are you grading papers?”
Dude.  I’m holding a red pen.  I am going through a stack of papers.  What the FUCK do you think I’m doing?

”Are you a teacher?”
See above.

“Where do you teach?”
This implies that, based on my appearance, you can’t tell if I am smart enough or old enough to teach at the college level, and I’m not frumpy enough to teach high school. (Or at least you hope so…you really don’t want me to be a high school teacher because high school teachers aren’t sexy, no matter how much we want them to be.)  Let’s be honest – you’re hoping I will answer “_____ Elementary.”  Because El-Ed majors are usually sweet, cute, and frankly, not smarter than you.

”Where do you teach?” askers are almost certain to follow up with…
”You look too young to be a professor.”
or, alternately:
”So…that means you have a Ph.D.?”
Which is followed by:
”You look too young to have a Ph.D.”

Look, asshole.  I work at a general-admission state school.  I could teach here with a Master’s degree, but for the sake of argument, to be a Visiting Professor or tenure-track Assistant Professor I need a Ph.D.  I got my Ph.D. at age 28.  This is not unusual.  Actually, I SHOULD have gotten my Ph.D. at age 26, had things gone according to the original plan.  That means my spinster ass has been “old enough to be a professor” FOR A FUCKING DECADE.

Okay, so I don’t look my age.  Are you saying I don’t even look 26?  I want to look young.  I don’t want to look 20.  You are vastly underestimating me as a woman and, shit, as a human being.

But what I actually say to any of the above is, “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
<crickets>

WHAT TO SAY:

”What do you teach?”
This is a safe question.  It gives you an opportunity to a) collect more information before embarrassing yourself and b) possibly establish a mutual interest.  If b), it really doesn’t matter what level I teach, does it?  See?  Good question.
Extra credit: I will usually answer this question with, “I teach Chemistry at <insert name of local college>.”  See how much useful information a well-chosen but simple question can provide?  Even if I don’t specify the school, naming a subject rather than a grade at least clues the listener in to the fact that I probably have at least one degree in that topic, and you don’t want to engage me in a conversation about it unless you are actually interested.

WHAT NOT TO SAY:

”Oh, man, chemistry.  I was AWFUL at chemistry, but I had a really bad teacher.”
-or-
“Chemistry, huh?  Wow, you’re smart.”
My response to either of the above will be, “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
<crickets>

But…
WHAT TO SAY:

”Oh, wow, chemistry.  I was awful at that, but luckily I found I was really good at <insert favorite hobby or skill here>”

”Yeah?  So what do you do?”

See, if you start off on the offensive about what I do, you’re going to have to pique my interest to get me to reciprocate what is, in reality, a simple small-talk question.  Had you just started with “What do you do?” we could have avoided all of this nonsense, but the world is never so simple.

(The reader will notice that I have left out the possible response of, “Really?  I always LOVED chemistry” because this happens so infrequently as to be statistically insignificant.  As my favorite professor once said, “Nobody goes into chemistry to go over well at cocktail parties.”)

I HATE small-talk.  But I will play by the rules if you are polite, interesting, and I enjoy talking to you even a little bit.  I am polite, and friendly.  Downright gregarious in most social situations.  But I am old and wise enough to be beyond tolerating inanity for the sake of a free beer and an hour’s company.

So I guess what I’m saying is…gents, if you want to talk to me or buy me a beer, perhaps start by noticing my despair over the fact that the Redskins are pissing the game away, and then ask me why I care.  This is a much more interesting topic of conversation, and, perhaps more importantly, infinitely less likely to piss me off.

Because the ‘Skins suck.  If you tell me how we need to fire Shanahan and start Cousins and holy CRAP how old is Moss at this point?!?, now we have something to talk about. 

 

 

But so help me, if you follow this up with, “So what brought you here?  School?” I will CUT you.

Shuffle, shuffle. Shuffle. <twitch>

When we tire of well-worn ways, we seek for new. This restless craving in the souls of men spurs them to climb, and to seek the mountain view.
-Ella Wheeler Wilcox

After a summer where I may have been away more than I’ve been home, and with a whole lot of unresolved emotional ties from those travels, and with my first day back “at work” looming tomorrow…

I am restless.  And keep getting urges to act out.

I have acted out in every (socially and morally acceptable) manner.  I have e-mailed, IMed, or texted everyone I e-mail, IM, or text…I have Facebooked my ass off.

I still have a need to do something irrational and ill-advised. 

This is one of my great character flaws. 

Really, what I want to do is shout to the world, “HEY!  I’M HERE!

I AM AWESOME!  I MATTER! 

I AM RIDICULOUS! 

I am NOT JUST A CHEMISTRY PROFESSOR!”

before I get swallowed up once again in the daily nonsense.

I love my job.  It’s a great job.  But when one doesn’t have a husband, or kids, or a local network of awesome friends….when your job is all you realistically have on a day-to-day basis…it kind of sucks if it’s anything short of amazing.  I love my job, but

a job doesn’t love you back.

 

So I am grasping at straws to be loved back.  Grasping, in the hope that I can keep some of the ties that have been formed and strengthened this summer going. 

So that I can take

semi-plans

and make them

plans

and then

reality,

rather than crapping out on them like I always do.  This is what my summer vacation allows me to do – I get an impulse and follow through before I can crap out.  I see the people who truly love me.  I get quality time with those people.

I need to figure out how to get that quality time the rest of the year.

My sanity depends on it. 

 

Otherwise, I just keep wandering.

Restless.

Heart of Steel.

One of the things that makes my heart soar is finding a band that just…rocks me to my core.  I’ve found a couple this summer, albeit in unexpected places.   I first heard this song underscoring a segue in Buckwild (don’t judge me!) but promptly forgot about it until a trip to Lexington earlier this summer.  In one of those fortuitous turns of events that only seem to happen when traveling alone, I was there for the start of a bluegrass festival, and Gangstagrass was headlining the first free show of said fest.  The bar was full and the show underway by the time I found it, but the street was closed off, the sound pumped out on speakers, and there was a taco truck.

In other words, I was home.

If you know me even a little bit, you surely understand how very…ME…this is, like it or not. I proceeded to go back to my rented airbnb room, download two albums, and listen to them on repeat as I drove around Kentucky bourbon country and across West Virginia and Virginia for the next several days.

 

I’ve been home for a few days now from my last big trip of the summer, and I tend to get a bit conflicted and melancholy this time of year.  There always seems to be something gnawing at me.  But then a promo for Top Chef: New Orleans makes me investigate the band singing the song sampled, and I find songs like this that make everything feel grounded, and remind me who I really am, in all of my blessedly imperfect, cynical glory.  With the added benefit of a drumbeat I can bellydance to.

Thanks, Galactic.  You shall soon be in heavy rotation, as soon as I can decide which albums to buy.

Imaginary Friend.

Autism is a jackass disorder.

My nephew Roo got a diagnosis a few months ago.  It’s a confusing diagnosis, so let’s just say he is on the autism spectrum.  There are developmental delays, so he’s not just Aspberger’s.  But he’s also not fully autistic.

 

And that’s really all I have to say about that. 

 

I am sick to death of people trying to put him in a box, or converse about him when they don’t even know him.  Because my brother is not terribly communicative to people he doesn’t see in person regularly, it has fallen on me to explain Roo to all of our extended family.  And because I only see Roo two or three times a year…and even then, only for a day or two…I don’t have much to say. 

But Goddammit, I have some things I NEED to say.

Does he have some odd behaviors?  Sure.

Does he have a hard time with socialization?  Absolutely.

Does he have some sensory issues?  Yes, but precious few.

Is it in any way unusual that it takes him a day or two to warm up to me? ABSOFUCKINLUTELY NOT.

He and I had an epic wrestling match.  It was so much fun.  He pushed me into a wall, he pulled me back off of it.  I tumbled over him, and he started tugging on my ankles, trying to flip me over the way we always flip him around.  I flipped myself over, asked him what he was going to do now that he had me upside down…and he sat on me while I lost my breath laughing.  Little moments like this are amazing in this long-distance aunt’s life.

But more importantly…THIS IS HOW CHILDREN PLAY.

A little over a year ago, it took me nearly a week to crack the kid, and that only really happened once we had a whole day together, when food and naps were totally my responsibility.  As far as I’m concerned, bonds aren’t formed just through play – bonds are formed when you provide CARE for a child.  Changing messy diapers, trying to feed them with refrigerator leftovers as they doze off in the high chair when it’s well past naptime…putting them down for a nap as they scream because they are still hungry…putting them back in the high chair and feeding them more until they pass the fuck out and you finally get that shower.

When that kid woke up two hours later, we had a bond.  We had been to hell and back together, and all we had was each other for a brief moment.

Shortly after that visit, he said my name for the first time.

A couple of months later…I stopped him from eating rocks with no protestations.

But I understand that every time I see him, it’s a little bit of Groundhog Day.  He is still very little, and a few months is a significant portion of his lifetime.

So at Christmas, when he paid me very little mind, I was not offended.  I mean, GRANDMA was there.  And she gives him any and everything he wants.  And she gives more fun presents than I do.  And they have a special thing going.  I had my moment when we opened his present…I brought his puppet to life, and had him captivated for a precious few minutes.  He also loved his little brother’s present…which I made.  Double nephlet win.

The diagnosis came about a month later.  And ever since then, these little vignettes take on a different meaning…for everyone but me.

A simple wrestling match, that most people would think is perfectly normal for a less-than-3-year-old…becomes “SO AMAZING.”

The fact that I managed to distract him as he was running around, hold out my arms, and have him run into them for a hug?

Not noteworthy without a diagnosis.

With a diagnosis?  “Oh my God, that must have been so amazing!”

As a matter of fact, yes, it was amazing.  Because this kid only sees me 2-3 times each year, and it only took him 24 hours or so to respond to and trust that obvious visual cue.  It actually has very little to do with his disability….IT HAS TO DO WITH THE FACT THAT HE IS NOT EVEN THREE YEARS OLD!

Practical upshot: people who are focused on this fucking diagnosis (hey, I’m a poet and don’t know it!) are depriving me of the normal joys of aunthood.

STOP IT.

Let me have my normal developmental moments.  Give me an “Aww!” instead of a “That’s amazing!  That’s so hard to get from kids like that!”

It’s actually not.  You just have to stop treating these beautiful individuals like they have a disease. Just because someone does something differently than you…that doesn’t mean that they are damaged.

You don’t know what this kid will do someday, and you for damn sure know less than I do about what he will do.

Stop it.

Stop mourning future expectations that none of us ever had any right to place on him.  Not everyone has to go to college to be successful.  Not everyone has to play sports to be cool.  And not every kid with autism is condemned to a life without those things.

Be happy for me.

Be happy for him.

Be happy for the glorious family my brother and sister-in-law have created.

STOP WITH THE FUCKING PITY ALREADY.

You are killing my aunt-buzz, and that’s not cool.

Iron Chef: Salad

Once upon a time, I was home visiting Mom and Dad during the hot (and extremely muggy) summer months.  And the idea of a salad supper was tossed out, which I absolutely leapt on.

I always like salads in warm weather (or when I am longing for warm weather), and my dad is always on board as long as there is enough variety and enough protein involved.  Salade nicoise?  Yes, please.  A bed of romaine with a sad grilled chicken breast sliced and sprinkled on it? Not so much.

We decided that all three of us would contribute a salad.  Mom wanted to make salad rolls…I had an abstract-but-decidedly-Asian idea in my head…and Dad decided to make a Chinese salad out of their tried-and-true Time Life Foods of the World cookbooks.  So somehow…Salad Supper became Iron Chef: Salad. 

Mom made her salad rolls loosely based on a Thai street food cookbook I had given Dad ages ago.  They were lovely.  But in this story, Mom is the Chairman – picture her taking a big bite out of a bell pepper, because she just loves to eat good food.  She doesn’t get competitive. 

Dad and I do.

Dad’s salad was delicious.  But it involved some tiny bay scallops, soy sauce, and some snow peas.  And it wound up very…small.  And…brown.

Meanwhile, I presented a giant bowl, filled with shredded cabbage, mint, thai basil, cilantro, crispy fried shallot, shrimp, squid, shredded pork skin, and dressed with nuoc cham (fish sauce, lime juice, thai chiles, a little sugar).  Some toasted peanuts sprinkled on top.

I swear I actually saw my dad’s ego shrink before me.

I was clearly craving something.  This had required not one, but TWO trips to the only Asian market in town (20 minutes away).  The second trip was because I had asked Dad before the first trip if there was fish sauce in the house, and he said yes, but was wrong.  Was this an honest mistake, or the work of a saboteur?  Hard to say, but the fish sauce was so integral to the dish that I went out again for it.  I was OUT.  OF CONTROL.

This basic formula has served me excruciatingly well ever since.  Living in Toronto changed me for life, and one of those changes was heavy exposure to Vietnamese food.  The hot/sour/salty/sweet balance that is integral to both Viet and Thai food, mixed with the heavy herb use in Viet cooking is like catnip to me.  Any crisp, green vegetable matter (cabbage, cucumbers, lettuce, etc) dressed in nuoc cham and a generous handful of herbs makes me inexplicably happy.  And crispy fried shallot is better than any damn crouton.  And…let’s face it…that much fresh veggie studded with bright green bits of herb and red chile…it just looks really damn pretty.

So all I ask of you, dear reader, is that you do yourself the favor of trying this sometime.  There is so much flavor going on that you won’t even notice that your meal is almost fat-free.  Put anything on or next to it – shellfish, seared tuna, rare steak.  I just ask that you don’t overseason or overcook whatever it is.  Tonight it was seared tuna over cucumber salad…and it was ridiculously amazing.  Spring Break on a plate, even though it never broke 40 degrees today.

Oh, and by the way, according to the Chairman, I won.

Mmmm….Beer. Cheese. Beer…Cheese. BEER CHEESE!

The Super Bowl loometh.

Let’s get this out of the way: I hate murder and ugly stadiums, so I am clearly not rooting for the Ravens.  And nobody has given me a good reason NOT to root for the 49’ers (“they’ve won a few” does not, in my experience, qualify them for my evil eye) and I happen to adore San Francisco, so that’s the way I’m going.  And, let’s be honest, I have a lingering childhood Joe Montana crush, and that’s as good a reason for a Super Bowl pick as most I‘ve heard.

Anyway, the Super Bowl is, when it comes down to it, the #1 reason in this country for a) drinking beer, b) watching commercials, and c) dipping things in other things.

Tomorrow, I will be dipping lots of things in other things.  It’s going to be an all-dip dinner.

And tonight, I made my first dip: Beer Cheese.

Beer Cheese is a beautiful thing, that I did not properly appreciate until I moved back to the States.  It seems to be specific to the Midwest and South.  And it is brilliant.

But…I must caution you: DO NOT.  GET FANCY.  WITH THE BEER CHEESE.

Believe me, I have tried.  I am a big fan of fancying up simple foods – I have tried many different variations on mac and cheese, and all have been brilliant.  I DO believe a great hamburger is better with cheese and bacon, and I think a grilled cheese sandwich made with fancy cheeses is infinitely superior.  But I have made beer cheese with smoked stout, and used fancy pickled chiles, and the one I made tonight was, quite possibly, beer cheese perfection.

We won’t truly know until tomorrow, since beer cheese is best made ahead and chilled while the flavors mellow.  But here’s the idea (I made a half-batch, since it’s just me around here):

20 oz sharp cheddar cheese, grated
2 cloves of garlic, grated
7 oz of flat beer (Bell’s Christmas Ale in this case)
Tabasco, optional (this is the one place I got Fancy – I used Walkerswood Scotch Bonnet hot sauce, and this is the reason I felt compelled to write this post – holy CRAP do I not use that stuff enough.)
Mustard powder, optional (I do not consider this optional.  It adds a nice tang, and I personally believe the emusification power of mustard is important to the final consistency of the spread.)

Put it all in a food processor, and process the hell out of it.  You are, after all, making a processed cheese spread.  It’s just GOOD processed cheese.
When it’s thick and creamy, put it in the fridge and let it mellow.
Dip veggies…chips…pretzels…your significant other… in it, and enjoy.  I seriously think the simplicity and one great ingredient has made this the best batch of beer cheese I have made.

And really, isn’t that what makes home cooking great?  Keep it simple, use at least one great ingredient.

Oh, and GO 9’ERS!

Baby Mama Drama

I find people’s reactions on Facebook to the birth of a baby to be fascinating.

With my friends who, let’s face it, are all of a certain age, and generally trying to be pregnant or are happy if it happens, there’s a lot of “I’m so happy for you!” or “It’s so wonderful!” and “Congratulations!” and “So beautiful!”

But apparently, with younger acquaintances who knocked up their girlfriends, it’s a lot of “We’re so proud of you!”

Proud?  Really?  Of what?  Proud that they fulfilled the bare minimum of biological imperative?  Proud that they actually acknowledged ownership of said pregnancy/child?  Proud that they took responsibility for their lack of contraception?  Proud that they have a high sperm count?  Proud that they named their child after a hockey player?

It’s nice to know that their knocking up their “on-again/off-again” girlfriend merits exactly the same praise from their friends and family as my ACTUALLY EARNING A FUCKING PH.D. DID.

Even if we accept this as status quo, those people would be a whole lot less proud if they knew what I know.
I know that “I kind of have a girlfriend” means “She lives with me and is 5 months pregnant.”

I know that he spends a lot more time checking out other girls than you ever imagined.

And I know that you seem quite cute, and sweet, and probably will only find out too late that he can’t be trusted.  It’s not your fault you’re so young.  Godspeed, sweet young thing.  May you never grow to be as jaded as I am.

Peace out.