Am I the only one here who knows what’s going on?

Long-time readers are aware that I am actually pretty good at my job.  I am smart, I am capable, and I take pride in a job well-done.  I am constantly making efforts to be better at what I do.

If student evaluations are to be believed, some of my students think my expectations are too high.  What they don’t realize is that I have high expectations for EVERYONE in my life.  Myself…my students…my friends and family…my co-workers.

Which leads me to the reason for my post.

I ended my day today cranky.  This is fairly unusual these days – I have been having a FANTASTIC semester.  Good schedule, good balance, good rapport with students, awesome group of kids.

BUT…I teach two lab sections for another professor’s lecture.  Said professor is a great guy, and students historically love him.  But most of those historical students are second-year or older.  He is scattered.  He is highly disorganized.  He is…frankly, not that bright when it comes down to it.

He is definitely smart enough to teach the classes he does, and he is probably a lot better than me at organic chemistry.  But that’s not saying much – I suck in that area.

(Keep in mind that every opinion in this post comes from someone who has had multiple students evaluate me as, “not suited for freshman-level classes.  Should be teaching higher-level students.” <bullshitsneeze>)

 

I believe he has fallen into the trap that so many tenured professors do – he is complacent.  He knows that students will find their way through his class, no matter what he does.  I know this is true…my job is not so much to teach, but to help.  To put my students’ mind at ease, so they can relax and learn on their own, because this is really the only way they do learn.  I can’t force knowledge on them…I can only encourage them and make them WANT the knowledge they cultivate within themselves.

BUT…there is NO FUCKING EXCUSE for having a poorly-organized class.  NOT WHEN YOU HAVE TENURE.  NOT WHEN YOU HAVE TAUGHT THIS COURSE BEFORE.  That is PURE.  FUCKING.  LAZINESS.

And I’m not very understanding of that.

Last summer, due to my contract’s stipulation that I work a couple of extra credit hours to justify my summer benefits, my department head told me he would designate me as a “Laboratory Coordinator” for my and my colleague’s laboratory sections.  The idea was that we would both do the same labs, and since I have been teaching this class more lately, I’d send him my schedule so he knew what I was doing.

I did this.

I even included a blanket statement of, “you did these labs for me last year…let me know if you have any reservations about them so we can work out something that works for both of us.”

Two days before classes started, I received an e-mail and syllabus that had ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO with what I had sent him.

Naturally, the only person that teaches labs for both lectures is me, so I am the only one that has to teach two different lessons in one week as a result of this development.

Furthermore, aforementioned professor actually printed and distributed a syllabus that listed the same lab twice, with another lab in between.

I asked him about this before classes started.  No response.

Brought it up again a week or two ago.  Several e-mails back and forth were unproductive and more confusing.  Finally caught him in-person as he was fleeing a meeting last week, and nailed him down to a schedule for the rest of the semester, which brings me to today.

Another e-mail to all of the lab instructors, this time about how he has not yet covered this material in lecture, so we are responsible for teaching it in lab first.

Fair enough: shit sometimes happens.

BUT…I HAVE TAUGHT THIS LAB  BEFORE.  I USUALLY TEACH IT A MONTH FROM NOW.  IT IS REALLY LONG AND DIFFICULT TO FINISH IN TWO HOURS, EVEN IF THE STUDENTS HAVE SOME CONCEPT OF HOW ACIDS AND BASES REACT IN WATER.

This…is my fault.  I should have leaned on him – if he wants to do this lab now, he should cover this material in lecture now.  I should have earned my “Laboratory Coordinator” title.

But shouldn’t he have earned his “Professor” title???  Shouldn’t he have READ THE FUCKING LAB when he put it on his syllabus?  TWICE????

If you tell me this is the lab you want to do this week, THEN FUCKING BACK IT UP.

In short: DO NOT MAKE ME DO YOUR JOB.  YOU GET PAID MORE THAN I DO.

A couple of weeks ago, someone else in my department came into my class to admonish me about how I was running the lab and how much of the various chemicals students were using.  I actually heard some of them say, “her boss came in…we’re using too much…” and chuckling.

I was running the lab the way I was, in part, because the solutions she gave me were of incorrect concentration and, thus, my students were not seeing the results the way they were supposed to.  Once again, I had told her this, and she had not fixed the problem.  By doing the reactions in test tubes and using SLIGHTLY more of the chemicals, they might see what was supposed to happen.

She is not my boss.  She is the person who prepares the chemicals and watches the budget.  She should NOT have said ANYTHING to me in front of my students…but she doesn’t realize how much she undermines me when she does this.

She doesn’t have a degree in chemistry – she literally follows recipes for a living.  She doesn’t know how to actually MEASURE the concentrations of the solutions she prepares for us.  She doesn’t know how to prepare enough of a fresh solution to last for an entire week of lab sections.

 

I am sick of answering to people who are not as good at this as I am.  People who have little to no expectation of themselves, but expect other people to do whatever they want.  Please, God, either put me in charge…or give me a job where I answer to people who KNOW WHAT THE FUCK THEY’RE DOING.

Are you a good ‘wich? Or a bad ‘wich?

One of the things I love about where I currently live is the fact that I have a little outdoor space in which to garden.  Unfortunately, I travel a lot in the summer, so said garden probably isn’t as productive as it could be if I were here to dote on it constantly.  But I do take a lot of joy in running out there to grab some lettuce for a salad, or snip some fresh basil for my pizza. 

And…I love having tomatoes.

There is nothing more delightful than a home-grown tomato, still warm from the sun when you slice it.  And my balcony isn’t big enough to produce enough tomatoes to ever tire of them before the season is over.  Which means, as the trees are starting to show some color and the nights are getting colder, I’m scrambling to get as many of the little buggers to ripen as possible.

Mostly for the purpose of making one of my favorite sandwiches ever.

Growing up, during tomato season, we had a LOT of bacon and tomato sandwiches.  They were fantastic.  Just very good bacon, garden tomatoes, a little Miracle Whip, done.  My brother now has an extra-sentimental attachment to them, because his first son was born in peak tomato season, and our parents came to stay with them for the first week after he was born to help out.  And my parents’ idea of “helping out” was to basically stay completely out of their way and cook for them while they locked themselves in their bedroom to fawn over their new little creation.  Mom and Dad brought a good supply of tomatoes into the house, and my brother and sister-in-law practically lived on bacon and tomato sandwiches for the first couple of weeks of their son’s life.

Now that I’m growing my own sandwich fixins, I have taken the concept a little further.  And I happen to personally believe that I have now perfected the sandwich. 

Well, perfected for my taste.  And considering that’s who I’m cooking for, that’s really all that matters.  So I’m documenting it here, just in case I can’t remember what went into it when next year’s tomatoes start to roll in.

1.  Some sort of whole-grain english muffin, toasted.

2.  Homemade mayo – mine was a basic recipe, but I used all olive oil and lime juice instead of lemon.  I like mayo with flavor, and tomatoes love olive oil.  Apply to both halves of the muffin.

3.  Truffle oil – the real stuff, made with actual truffles.  A few drops sprinkled on the top half of the muffin.

4.  Homegrown tomatoes – sliced and applied to the bottom half of the muffin.

5.  Bacon.  GOOD bacon.  Sliced thick, and fried crisp.  This goes on top of the tomato.

6.  Arugula – also homegrown.  Yep, this is actually a BAT.  The top, truffled half of the muffin is now applied on top of the arugula.

It’s nutritious…it’s flavorful…it has bacon.  It’s basically the perfect breakfast. 

And I might still get to squeeze 3 or 4 more of them out of my garden!

Take Back Your Mink

I’ve mentioned recently that I’m on the cusp of making some changes in my life.  I may have hinted that I’m not sure I’m currently where I am supposed to be.

This pains me, because I ADORE Michigan.  So, while I’m trying to keep an open mind about where to go next, I’m also trying to keep an open mind about whether that place might be right here.

 

All of my Indiana roots boil down to my community theater experiences.  My grad school friends have all scattered, as grad students are wont to do after graduation.  The people I am still close to in Indiana are the people I did shows with.  Those were my people, my community while I was there.  They kept me sane when grad school was throwing me deep into depression, and they are the people I think of when I think fondly on that part of my life.  They are the ones I ate deep-fried appetizers with over beers late at night, and the ones that celebrated birthdays and my Ph.D. defense with me.

When I interviewed here, my department head told me there was a community theater in town.  I didn’t pursue it the first year because I was too busy trying to keep my head above water at school and keep up with friends back in Toronto on the weekends.  Last year, my teaching schedule had me doing back-to-back 75-minute lectures that kept me in the classroom until 7:30.  The last thing one wants to do after talking for 3 hours straight is go somewhere else to do more talking.  Plus, there wasn’t anything on the season that was all that appealing.

But this year, I’m done by 6 every day, and the season has several shows that I am interested in.  This week, they held auditions for Guys and Dolls. 

I believe I have posted here before about how badly I want to be Adelaide in that show.

I’m still probably a few years too young to really play her, but I played 30-somethings fairly convincingly in my mid-20’s, so it’s not outside the realm of reason.  Plus, I can belt the FUCK out of her songs, and I’m a strong dancer.  So, even though I haven’t auditioned for anything in seven and a half years, I sucked it up and went for it.

And I rocked it.  I actually heard a “wow” from the audience when I sang Adelaide’s Lament.

 

Here’s the point where I should probably mention that this was billed as a “co-production” of the local high school and the local community theater.  So I walked in thinking I was at a handicap, not because I wasn’t good, but because the vast majority of people auditioning were going to be teenagers.  Any adults present were probably already going to have history with this theater, and nobody knows me yet.

But again, I rocked it.  Several of my competitors complimented my dancing and reading, and did I mention the “wow”?

These kids couldn’t sing on-key.  And they certainly couldn’t be heard from further back than the 10th row in an empty theater.

So naturally, I got a callback.  And I was feeling pretty good about it, even though the director had said that the casting would come down to matching the couples age-wise – they weren’t going to put an older Adelaide with a teenage Nathan, or a teenage Sarah with a 40-something Sky.

Callbacks came, and there were four potential Adelaides.  Me, a younger girl from my night of auditions, and two age-appropriate candidates from the second night of auditions, one of whom was also called back from Sarah.  And has a doctorate in music.  It should go without saying that her voice is heaven.

But hey, she looks more like a Sarah, and she doesn’t even really want Adelaide because it will be too hard on her voice.

But they only called back one actual grown male for Sky, and he doesn’t have a strong enough voice to pull it off.

At this point, I am bracing myself for the fact that I might lose the part I want to the angel voice.  I can deal with that.

The other Age-Appropriate Adelaide is half of a married couple.  She waxes philosophical about what parts she and hubby will play.  Hubby has a gorgeous voice – would, in fact, be a perfect Sky – but she can’t sing Sarah.  He is called back for Nathan and Nicely-Nicely Johnson.

At this point, I am bracing myself for the fact that I might lose the part I want to the Age-Appropriate Adelaide who is not as good as I am, but married to the Age-Appropriate Nathan.  Because they seem reluctant to let each other kiss other people on stage.

So…I wait.

And when the cast list goes up, I see that I did not get Adelaide.

The part went to the only candidate that was, at the very least, a decade younger than me.

Most likely because the best Nathan was a high-schooler.   Never mind that there were older men that COULD have played him – let’s face it, it’s NOT a rigorous singing part.

So I look to see who is playing Sky and Sarah.  Again, they have CHILDREN in these roles.  ALL of the major singing roles have been filled with high schoolers.

High schoolers who CAN’T FUCKING SING.

Meanwhile, I have been cast as a streetwalker and a backup dancer.  The woman with the amazing voice has not been cast, nor has the man with the amazing voice.  This appears to be because they declined the smaller roles they would have been offered. 

 

Any time I have auditioned for a show, I always say I would accept any role.  I’m usually doing it for the social experience, because I need to get out of the house and meet some new people, so I don’t care what part I’m playing.  I always have fun just working on a show.  It wasn’t until after I finally got to play my first lead that I even started indicating what roles I was interested in on audition forms.  I have been considered for leads and not gotten them, and been offered chorus parts instead.  And had a fantastic experience.  And I really did go into this just hoping to become a part of the community.

But I wanted to become part of an ADULT community.  I hang out with 18- and 19-year olds all day, every day.  I don’t exactly want to go spend an extra 3-4 hours of my day with people who have never lived in a world without instant messenger.

I DIDN’T want to be a 34-year-old, fat Hot Box girl when the rest of them are literally half my age and half my size.

So I think I’m out.  I don’t think I will enjoy this experience – I actually think I will hate every. fucking. minute of it.  I can already tell that, while the choreographer and vocal director seem like they are pretty good at what they do, the director is…a small-town high school drama teacher.  Who has built herself a small-town high school musical.  I can’t take direction from someone who I can’t respect.

 

But I still feel like an asshole for going back on my word.  And I feel rejected.  And downright insulted.  And I STILL don’t know if I will ever feel like I truly belong here.  At the beginning of the week, I felt like this might be just what I needed. 

 

And now I just feel lost.

Music Therapy.

Sometimes it’s frightening how well my iPod knows me. 

Earlier this week, I was Angry.  For reasons I won’t go into now, because it no longer seems important.  But I drafted my anger.  I reworded it.  I saved it, and slept on it for more than one night.

I received a pre-emptive apology.  Which I accepted.

I deleted the draft the next day, but here’s the problem with the pre-emptive apology: at that point, you can’t be Angry without being an Asshole.  Or at least, you can’t express the Anger.

 

So where does it go?

 

It doesn’t just evaporate, no matter how much I would like it to.

In my case, I usually just kind of bury it and wait for it to go away.  Emotional compost, if you will.  Which generally works…but it takes a while.

In the meantime, I had an 11-hour drive with only NPR and a loaded iPod to keep me company.

 

Music is a powerful thing.  Often, it would take me hours to come up with the words that are expressed in a single song.  Those are usually the times that I come here and post nothing more than a YouTube video.  I’m not just promoting my favorite singers…there’s a reason I posted that particular song.  Some people get it, others don’t, but it’s out there.

And as I drove the long road home with my iPod on shuffle, a song came on that ran through my veins like ice.

AND IT FELT SO.  FUCKING. GOOD.

So I’m posting it here.  Let me be frank – I am not posting it to be passive-aggressive, or because I need sympathy.  I am posting it because, until I put the anger somewhere, it will not leave me.  Life is too short to let it fester and putrify – I need to shoot this shit into space so it can dissipate into the ether.

And yes, I realize it’s completely trite that it’s Alanis, but whatever works.  Play it on surround sound if you want to know what it sounds like in my head.

It’s a pound of flesh, but it’s really a ton.

It has been quite a summer.

Since finals ended in May, I have been on trips to Traverse City, San Francisco, St. Louis, Virginia, Chicago, Iowa, Omaha, Minneapolis, Madison, Ann Arbor, and Western Pennsylvania.  And Virginia again.  And now that I’m back home in my little hamlet, I am literally at a crossroads. 

It’s a common mantra in higher education that the learning curve at any new institution is about 3 years.  This is why it is generally discouraged to do more than one degree at the same school, or to spend more than 3 years in the same post-doc.  I do find the fact that this is a philosophy generally espoused by tenured professors as ironic as all hell, but if you think about it, it makes sense.  In most undergrad programs (at least in science), your HARD year is the third year.  For me, it was the first time I took truly high-level classes (and more than one at a time) and the first time I attempted research.  (Keyword: attempted)  It was also the first time I experienced panic attacks…every time I thought about going into the lab to attempt research.  (This was also the first time I started to second-guess my plans to go to graduate school.  Frankly, I’m still wondering if I made the right call there.)  But senior year (or, if you’re a pretentious ass like me, FOURTH year) was more about tying up loose ends.  The classes were easier, I had job interviews and GREs and grad school applications, but really it was all a piece of cake compared to third year.  The tough part was coming to terms with leaving behind the best social network I had ever known – the emotional challenge, not the intellectual one.  (Ever since my mom and dad made the executive decision to put me in kindergarten at age 4, I have known that my intellectual readiness generally exceeds my level of socialization.)

Grad school follows a similar pattern.  Not that those last few years were a piece of cake, but the vast majority of the learning happened in the first three.  It takes about two years to get your classes out of the way and get the hang of group meetings and break the instruments enough times that the senior students start making you fix them.  In third year, you spend the fall working on your orals (which is really just an extended exercise in developing and defending a proposal), and in the spring you REALLY start your research in earnest.  Then you’ve got two years (or…ahem…more) to actually produce and train someone to take your place.  The stress is just starting, but the learning is mostly done in those first three years.

Postdocs: same old story, they just don’t make you stick around because you are expected to teach WHILE you learn.  I felt like I probably had given everything I had to offer to my lab in Toronto after about two years – at that point, I had pretty much taught them everything they needed me to, and learned as much as I was going to.  I stayed a third year because my project wasn’t done, and managed to squeeze out another paper, but I knew I was on the downswing.  I think that’s the number one sign that you are getting smarter – you start to recognize when the learning curve is tapering off.  I stayed for that last year for a variety of reasons – loved the group, loved the environment, was actually enjoying research, even when it wasn’t going as smoothly as it had when I started, and I had started to branch out and find friends outside of my little bubble.  But it wasn’t my best WORK at that point.

So now, I’m headed into the third year at my current job, and the last year of my current contract.  And, through the course of all of the road trips, I have had the same conversation with nearly every friend and relative I have:

“So, how’s the job?”
”Good, I have a really good deal, and my students are very sweet.”

“Any chance of becoming tenure-track?”

“Actually, yes, but I’m going to look for other options this fall.”

This is usually the point where people  jump to the conclusion that I hate my job and hate my institution.  This is not true.  It really is a good job, and I am reminded of that every time a friend at another Michigan institution posts job postings on Facebook.  I have a great department head who supports me, and I am paid better than I would be anywhere else for a comparable job.  I can just tell that I’m nearing the end of the learning curve, and at this point I have to decide whether to fish or cut bait.

I am currently living in a very small town.  When I moved here, it suited me well, because I was still able to go back and forth to Toronto to see my friends, and I am not fundamentally small-town averse.  But this particular small town is generally populated by students…married couples and families…and Townies.  None of these options make for particularly good company for a single girl in her mid-thirties who still harbors pipe dreams of getting married and having babies.  Sure, I can drive an hour to Grand Rapids whenever I feel like having a good time and meeting people, but this just hasn’t yielded any real connections that will last beyond a few beers.  Even the online dating cognoscenti keep sending me matches that are 4-8 hours away in an effort to make me pay for a subscription, because they can’t come up with any local options.  In short, aside from my genuine love for the state of Michigan, there is absolutely nothing tying me here.

So naturally, everyone asks “In a perfect world, where would you go?”

I’m a firm believer that home is where the heart is.  I also believe you never truly know where your home (or your heart) is…until you leave it.  I don’t mean vacation – I mean picking up your life, moving it somewhere new, and seeing if it fits.  This takes, at minimum, a year.  You need enough time to get over the homesickness, make new friends, and start to lay down roots.  Nothing can change the fact that my roots are grounded in Virginia – that’s where I grew up, where my parents will live out their retirement, and where it appears my brother and sister-in-law will raise their children.  Moving to the Midwest the first time made me realize how a big part of me belongs here – I have formed adult relationships with my aunts, uncles, and cousins, and now the next generation of tiny cousins are starting to invent games and jokes just for me.  Toronto gave my repressed city mouse its time in the spotlight – it changed my personal style, the way I eat and drink, and tweaked my political views and the way I foster relationships.  Coming back to the Upper Midwest consummated the love affair with the Great Lakes that started when I was about 8 or 9 years old.  These lakes have a romantic pull that the Atlantic ocean never did…no matter how much I will always consider myself from the East Coast.

Generally, when I meet people, and they ask where I’m from or what my story is, I rattle off my sequence of hometowns, and get a response something like, “Wow!  You’ve been all over!”

I really haven’t.  I have never lived more than 12 hours away from where I grew up, and all in one quadrant of that radius.  Okay, fine, having spent some of that time in Canada makes it SOUND much more exotic, but when you think about how large this country is, let alone this planet, I haven’t gone that far.

I had never seen the Pacific until May 2012.

This summer, I checked off four new states I had never been to, and I’m still not halfway.  I’ve still only been to two of the Canadian provinces, even if I’ve been on all of the Great Lakes.

At this point, the one thing I know is that I can find happiness of some sort anywhere.  When people ask if I would stay in Michigan, I answer “absolutely!” but…right now I can get anywhere in the lower peninsula in 3 hours or less.  I’m not sure I’d be quite as happy in Ann Arbor, to be quite honest.  At least where I am, my city mouse can get to Grand Rapids and my country mouse can find beaches, hiking, kayaking, biking, etc….all within an hour’s drive.

Right now, I have paid my dues where I am, both professionally and personally.  I have learned a lot about being a better teacher…I have probably formed all of the meaningful friendships I am likely to find here.  I have shared inside jokes with the preschool cousin set.  In short…each place I settle takes a piece of my heart…but I can always come back.

At Pennsic, I had a tarot reading.  It said that previously, my life has been all about work.  This is sadly true.  Despite my best efforts, my career has always been the only thing moving forward in my life - the only thing that I can really put my faith in - and I have followed it wherever it takes me.  The reading went on to say that a change was coming.  It might be scary, but I need to have faith, and trust in it.

Bitch, please.  I don’t need a tarot reading to trust my gut.  Frankly, it has yet to steer me wrong, although it does have a sick sense of humor.  7 years of grad school, IBS and whatnot.  But this summer, as some friendships have faltered, others have strengthened, and new ones have been forged…even my personal life is in flux.  It’s hard to know who (if anyone) to trust, but I have nothing tying me down, and for once I feel like I have only my own heart to answer to.

I have to say I’m ready.  Ready to find my next Home.

In this moment, I am just the right mix of exhilarated and terrified.

It’s easy to be brave when one has a steady job to fall back on and a family that loves you no matter how ridiculous you are, but there it is.  I am, once again, waiting for my real life to begin.*

*Oh shut up.  I know I’ve already used it.

Letters From the Front: All’s Fair in Love and War

This picture has been making the rounds of the Facebook since we all came home from War last weekend:

Pennsic is pretty much the ultimate in romanticized excess, and some people get very caught up in it, particularly at night.  Let’s see if I can paint a picture for you:

Step 1: Imagine yourself on vacation.  Not a visiting-people vacation, a foreign-locale-nobody-knows-you’re-here vacation.

Step 2: Now remove all traces of your normal identity.  Clothes you would never wear in normal life.  A different home, one made of canvas.  Different hairstyles.  A different name.  Different friendships.  A different accent perhaps, a different personal history.

Step 3: Now wander around at night through woods only lit by the occasional row of tiki torches, past a bog covered with mist, all with the sounds of drumbeats, dancing, and laughter in the distance. 

Okay, so Step 3 is kind of hard to try at home.  If you are also carrying a mug and/or hip flask filled with something you have to be 21 to purchase, then you’re getting the idea.

There’s a saying among SCA folk.  Let me see if I can capture the sheer romantic poetry of it…

If you can’t get laid at the Pennsic War…you can’t get laid.

 

I mean, seriously.  There is a lot of drinking going on, some truly debaucherous parties, backrubs are handed out freely, and everyone is on vacation.  Your average Pennsic evening could range anywhere from singing songs by the campfire and toasting marshmallows to naked bellydancers and moans of ecstasy emitting from the next Port-o-John. 

It’s basically Medieval Spring Break (woo!).

 

With its population at around 11,000 people, Pennsic is a crowd you can easily lose yourself in.  And some even manage to pull off the “What happens at Pennsic stays at Pennsic” thing.  But it’s also something else.

Pennsic is, at its core, just another small town.

It has restaurants, shops, and small entertainment venues.  It has greenspaces and neighborhoods.  You can cover the entire area on foot, but it’s going to take you a while. 

And, like every small town I’ve ever known, it also has GOSSIP.

 

Our camp is a mix of marrieds, families, and singles.  Some of the singles are of the sort to go out to the parties, find people to make out with, and come home saying things like, “He was NOT CUTE.  But he was SUCH a good KISSER!  I need to find him again…” And I have no problem with that sort of thing…it’s just the sort of thing I grew out of long before I started going to Pennsic.  (For the record, after a handful of gentleman callers stopping by throughout the week, it was this guy that she wound up with on the last night of War.  Note to all gentleman callers out there: a woman’s “type” goes right out the window when confronted with a Very Good Kisser.  True story.)  These people don’t really get gossiped about, because everyone already KNOWS who they’re hooking up with.  We just do lovingly mocking impressions of her the next day.

I, on the other hand, have never hooked up at Pennsic.  Okay, full disclosure: I have, once or twice, engaged in some hot-and-heavy hand-holding.  I know…SCANDALOUS.  I don’t hook up because it’s impossible to bring someone home without everyone knowing about it.  It’s impossible to spend the night in someone else’s tent without your walk of shame being duly noted.  It’s impossible (for me, at least) to have any romantic fun without making recognizable noises and those tent walls aren’t as thick as they seem.  I just don’t want people all up in my bidness.  Other people can put their bidness out there for everyone to see, and I’m fine with that.  Live and let live, and at Pennsic, anything and everything goes as long as it happens between consenting adults.  I just happen to always hang out with my Clanmates, and go to bed alone.

And yet, according to this year’s in-camp gossip mill, I have apparently slept with at least 3 men (2 of whom are married) and one woman in our group.

Perhaps it’s due to my personality – my natural way of relating to people and putting them at ease is to joke and flirt, and innuendoes fly like that weird floatie stuff in a snowglobe everywhere you go at Pennsic.  Ever since my first War, I have gotten more than my fair share of backrubs and doting from various men in camp, and it’s expected that some people will be jealous of that.  Jealous and/or bored people have nothing better to do than to make shit up to keep themselves entertained.  But I refuse to apologize for being attractive and fun to be around.  Healthy self-esteem is not something one should be ashamed of.

 

So for next year, I have made a resolution: I will not rest until the rumor mill links me to, at the very least, a sex tape, a ball gag, and a very confused hamster. 

 

Ya gotta give the people what they want.

Some people wear their heart up on their sleeve. I wear mine underneath my right pant leg strapped to my boot.

Ages ago, I started a draft of this post.  Not a draft, really, just a list of hot-button topics.  I thought it was time to actually write it.

I love weddings.
I hate Wedding Crap.
I hate the hoopla.  The dresses, the flowers, the Hall, the invites and politics, the Expense.
(I will admit to enjoying Say Yes to the Dress, but only because I love watching how the salespeople suss out the customers, NOT because I give a shit what they eventually pick.  Both the Atlanta version and the Bridesmaids edition thereof can go straight to hell.)
(Also: I may or may not be writing this to an Ani DiFranco soundtrack, which is damn near guaranteed to make me more bitter than necessary.)

Let me get anecdotal on yer ass.

Case #1: Labmate
Yep, THAT Labmate, from years ago.  Never a romantic role model, but I don’t believe I’ve ever shared with you the circumstances of her engagement.  She and her boyfriend had been dating for at least a couple of years when I met her.  A couple of years later, he graduated and was ready to start his postdoc.  He had been offered a position at a Very Prestigious University approximately 4 hours away. 
It is understandable that Labmate wanted to go check out the area with him.
Less understandable is the fact that her parents went as well.  Not his, HERS.
But okay, fine.  Cultural differences and whatnot.
While visiting VPU, they naturally stopped into a jewelry store, where they were promptly sold on putting a deposit on a diamond that had not yet arrived in the store.
Yep, you read that right.
Oh, but the paperwork was very impressive.  Nothing really says everlasting love like some irrefutable paperwork.
A few months later, on Labmate’s birthday, Boyfriend went all out.  It was an all-day-Labmate-extravaganza.  Overpriced dinners, pricey jewelry, desserts from her favorite bakery.
I think it was Valentine’s Day when he actually proposed.  Apparently it was “so romantic.”  He gave her a beautiful box…when she untied the ribbon and opened it, it was filled with rose petals…and…

…a blank check.

You know, for the balance of the unseen-but-pedigreed diamond.

Let’s be clear: I could give a shit about a ring.  If you want to marry me, say so.  If you want to give me a ring, make it one you can afford when you ask me.

So now it’s time to actually have the rock put into a setting.  She asks for the setting that will make the diamond sparkle as much as possible.  Naturally, this means it will be set very high so that light can pass through it as often as possible for maximum jealousy.
For at least the first year they were engaged, that ring sat in her parents’ safe.  The reason? She couldn’t wear it every day because it was set too high and would interfere with her work.
<FACEPALM>
See?  I hate this shit.
I believe Labmate and Mr. Labmate are FINALLY planning their wedding this year.






Case #2: Facebook
During my postdoc, I had an acquaintance who got engaged and later married.  They were one of those couples who posted everything about their relationship on Facebook. 
Don’t get me wrong – I was very happy for them.  They were a very cute couple, and while I didn’t know her, he was a really neat guy.
But every aspect of their wedding planning seemed to be captured on FB:
Professionally-shot engagement photos?  Check.
Dog adopted out of wedlock?  Check.
Status updates about every aspect of the wedding?  Check.
Wedding photos?  Check.
Mobile uploads from the honeymoon?  Check.
And even after all of this, I was still almost enjoying the process, until they posted a link to their favorite photographer of joyous events.
It has been a long time, so I can’t find the link to share the delicious irony of the situation, but upon entering said photographer’s site, you are greeted with sample videos from previous satisfied customers…
…one of which is set to Mika’s “Happy Ending.”
Um…call me crazy, but I don’t particularly want my night of golden memories set to the dulcet tones of:

This is the way you left me,
I’m not pretending.
No hope, no love, no glory,
No happy ending…

WHY ARE PEOPLE IN LOVE SO FUCKING STUPID???





Case #3: Facebook (Part Deux)
So I decided to finally write this post thanks to a video that is making the FB rounds lately.  I will not link it here because it pisses me off too much to give them extra hits.  If you must know, it is entitled “Isaac’s Live Lip-Dub Proposal.”
I HATE SHIT LIKE THIS.
You videotaped your elaborately staged proposal.  For your future wife to reminisce by?  Aww…how cute.
Wait…you uploaded it to YouTube.  To share with your friends and family in distant states?  Aww…how cute.
Wait…in approximately two days it has gone viral on FB.  Because you are hopelessly narcissistic?  Aww.
If you haven’t already seen and/or Googled it, the video is a VERY elaborate proposal, set to “I Think I Wanna Marry You” by Bruno Mars.
How original.
If you’re the sort of person that has to surround yourself by a gaggle of friends and family (including a token gay couple – how progressive!) in order to commit to a woman, then fuck you.
If you have to put the proposal up on YouTube and have it go viral to validate your love, then fuck you.
And if you need my female friends, who don’t even know you, to “AAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWLLLLLLL” to feel like you are a good boyfriend/fiancee/husband, then FUCK YOU.




To me, the best part of every relationship is what happens behind closed doors.  I don’t like public displays of affection or girl talk.  I don’t like meaningless tokens.  You will never see my relationship status on Facebook.  My best friends will never understand why my most meaningful relationships were such, because that is just between me and him.
My relationships aren’t for a diamond, a party, or a dress.  Not even for a viral video.  They are for my heart, my head, my body, and my soul.
My relationships are for me, not for you.

Who’s Gonna Miss You?

Every time I move to a new city, my mom worries.

 

Okay, she ALWAYS worries.  She’s a mom. 

 

But my mom is particularly good at keeping her cool.  The cracks only show when I move to a new area, far away, with no pre-established roots.

 

It is sound Mom-logic.  It goes like this:
If something happened to you…would anybody know?  Would anybody tell me?

This is, when it comes down to it, a very good question.  If I get in a car accident, I believe my license/registration/insurance all have her listed as my emergency contact.

But if I were to have an accident in my home?

If I were to choke on takeout?

Sure, when school is in session, someone would notice after a day of not showing up to class.  In summer?  Maybe a couple of weeks.  And that’s only because I have enlisted the department secretary to come look after my garden once a month when I go out of town.  They might not notice until fall.  Thankfully, all of those trips involve friends, who would surely be concerned if I never show up.  But they might just assume I was flaking out.

 

It’s an occupational hazard when one is a poor correspondent.

 

…

…

…

 

One of my students didn’t show up for his final this week.  He didn’t forget what day it was – he had sent me an e-mail the day before expressing regrets that tomorrow would be our last day.  He isn’t a ridiculously irresponsible 19-year-old – he is in his late 40’s. 

 

He is the sort of person that, were he stricken with food poisoning, would have e-mailed me.  Had his car broken down en route to campus (he lives about 40 min away) he also probably would have e-mailed.  Family emergency?  E-mail.  He loves my class and needs a good grade to move on.  Plus, he is a diligent student and GROWN-ASS MAN.

 

Right after the exam, I sent him a concerned e-mail.

The next day: a concerned voicemail.

Neither got a response.

I contacted my department head, and the Dean of Students’ Office.

They know nothing, and have told me this is the end of the road.  There isn’t really anything more I CAN do.  (I won’t go into all of the intricacies here.)  They will let me know if they hear anything.

 

Something has to be wrong, but it is officially out of my control.  At this point, all I can do is wonder and worry. 

 

If you want to know what my head sounds like, this is it:

A cacophony of emotion that I can’t quite make sense of…but whatever it is, it is true, and I am feeling it.

 

And if it turns out that he is happy and healthy and just decided this school can shove it, I will kick his ass for not at least letting me in on it.

Virginia Slammer

So there are times, when I’ve gone a long time without posting, that I am tempted to just turn this thing into a food blog.  I could probably post at least a couple of times each month if I were satisfied with the sort of writing I see on nearly every food blog – rote repetition of the facts, pictures (sometimes pretty), and often some sort of rating system for the experience if it is had outside my own kitchen. 

 

But there’s a problem with doing that…

 

Those sorts of blogs bore me to fucking tears.

When I read a blog, I want STORIES.  Whatever the subject matter is, I’m only going to become a regular reader if you take me somewhere.  Most of my favorite blogs are, much like my own, basically very long-format autobiographies, written in entertaining little snippets. (I once described Tina Fey’s book Bossypants as “a very entertainingly-written book about a pretty mundane life” and meant it as a very high form of praise.)

But sometimes I still want to share something I’ve come up with, and a picture posted on Facebook just won’t do it.  So if I’m going to go the food-blogger route, I will at least give you some sort of context/story to go with it.  It’s the least I can do.

 

On that note, I present my recipe for the Virginia Slammer.

A friend in Toronto hosted a Trailer (not so) Trashy dinner party tonight.  I REALLY wanted to go, especially since I have an extra-long weekend.  But snow and the crapload of stuff I need to do around the house intervened, so I’m relegated to participating in spirit.

Now, I feel the need to reiterate that this party was happening in TORONTO.  And that I am, in general, the token Southerner in the group.  It wasn’t just that I WANTED to go…I felt somewhat like it was my DUTY to go.  And I ain’t even that Southern.

The point of this party was not to eat Frito pie and Hostess cupcakes – it was to eat classed-up versions of these things.  Given my natural affinity for all things alcoholic, I naturally assumed the best way I could contribute would be to come up with a classed-up trailer-trashy cocktail (although admittedly, MadMup’s Twinkie Cake might have been just the right note to strike on this particular evening).

One question remained: which cocktail?

Unfortunately, most of the “cocktails” enjoyed in actual trailer parks are either twist-and-pour Kool-Aid + booze type things or involve Jaegermeister.

I refuse to put Jaeger in anything.  I have been known to actually enjoy it straight, but it makes for ludicrously disgusting cocktails.  I will never understand how it became frat boy catnip.

But then…then I remembered a little beverage from my bartending class in college called the Alabama Slammer.

Okay, so my memory was also jogged while watching the BCS Championship game at my local BW3, when the bartender started trying to sell them to anyone who even LOOKED like they were likely to utter the words, “ROLL TIDE”.

For those of you who either a) don’t drink or 2) have blissfully lost any and all recollection of an Alabama Slammer, it is usually comprised of:

Amaretto

Sloe gin

Southern Comfort

Juices (generally orange, may also involve sour mix)

It is a disgusting, overly sweet, overly pink concoction.  It often has a flavor reminiscent of Hawaiian Punch.

So, for my more sophisticated take, I attempted to upgrade each of these ingredients:

Instead of amaretto (an almond liqueur), I opted for homemade orgeat syrup.  Still almond-flavored, but tastes more like an actual NUT than some chemical extract with TONS of sugar.  Also contains orange flower water, which has a lovely floral note if not over-used.

Since sloe gin is rarely made with gin anymore, it’s basically a berry liqueur.  In its place, I used the liquid from my homemade cocktail cherries to get some fruitiness.

Southern Comfort…oh, where do I start?  SoCo was originally made from whiskey, infused with “fruit and spices.”  It is now made from neutral grain spirit, infused with “fruit and spices and whiskey flavoring.”  Instead, I used bourbon.  Actual, straight bourbon.  I figured the spices from my cherry liquid as well as the fruitiness would cover the rest of the flavor profile, and MY drink might actually TASTE A BIT LIKE WHISKEY.

Finally…orange juice.  This is going to be a very sweet, very fruity drink.  I opted to use bitter orange juice instead of regular.  I find it has a better orange scent, but a nice sour/bitter backbone to balance the drink.

I also added a slurp of cherry-vanilla bitters (also homemade – this is why nobody can ever follow my recipes) and a dash of orange bitters.

I wound up with:

It’s pink.  It’s fruity.  But it’s a HECK of a lot more drinkable than the original, and it’s a rather deceptively stiff drink.  I might tweak the proportions a bit (and possibly add a dash of Angostura) but I think I accomplished what I set out to do.  I made an Alabama Slammer that’s just a bit more classy.  Thus, I’m calling it the Virginia Slammer: not quite as trashy as it could be.

 

Correction: When I went to mix a second one, it became clear that what it needed was a dash of, not Angostura, but tobacco bitters.  NOW it’s trailer-trash-errific!

Home Sweet Deck.

After that last post about my hideous neighbors…I figured maybe I ought to say a few words about what I LIKE about my apartment. 

 

1.  It has two bedrooms.  No, seriously.  My last apartment didn’t even technically have one – it was an “open concept” one-bedroom.  Which meant: kitchen/dining room and living/bedroom.  Fine for me, but inconvenient when having guests, since this also meant I didn’t have a couch.  The “guest bedroom” was an air mattress, inflated at the foot of my bed, after all of my living room furniture was pushed out of the way.

 

2.  The bathroom is within the confines of the apartment proper.  Again, not a luxury I had in my last apartment, where my bathroom was out in the hall.  This meant walking to the shower or going to pee meant entering common space.  You have no idea how much you value the privilege of walking from the bathroom to the bedroom naked (or semi-so) until you can no longer do it.

 

3.  It does NOT have an overbearing landlady who lets herself into it without warning and peers around her curtains at my visitors.

 

4.  My building is only one apartment deep.  This means I actually have east-facing windows AND west-facing windows, ergo my apartment has excellent sun exposure throughout the day and breezes blow straight through it when the windows are open.  I have never lived in an apartment that had decent air circulation without mechanical intervention.

 

5.  I have a dishwasher.  Granted, I have to open the fridge door to open it all the way, but dishpan hands are a thing of the past for me.

 

6.  This is the big one…I HAVE A DECK.  Growing up, the deck was something I took for granted.  It was the site of crab feasts…dinners when the house was too stuffy to stand…it was where my family met one of my college boyfriends for the first time, and where my brother once suggested that maybe I would enjoy photography (he was right).  My apartment in grad school had many things going for it: a small gym, hot tub, in-ground pool, tennis courts, nice little trail through the woods for running.  But in my last couple of years of grad school, I told myself that my next apartment would have: a) a dishwasher, b) a washer and dryer, and c) some sort of balcony/deck. 

Then I decided to move to Toronto.

On my limited budget, I had to make some sacrifices.  My little basement apartment did come with laundry privileges, but not a dishwasher.  But I made damned sure I would have some outdoor space for my grill.  I use my grill year-round, as long as it isn’t buried under snow (and even then, have been known to melt a ring around it when desperate).  My Toronto landlady offered the use of their very large grill, hooked up to the natural gas line.  I opted to use my tiny Weber Smokey Joe, because I.  REQUIRE.  CHARCOAL.  Landlady hated this.  She had a severe aversion to smoke or lighter fluid fumes, so I used that as an excuse to buy the chimney starter I had been wanting for ages anyway.  TA-DAH!  No lighter fluid!  Every time I lit that damned thing on a nice day I heard windows being angrily slammed shut, but there wasn’t anything she could do to stop me, because IT WAS WRITTEN INTO THE LEASE.

And, lest you think I just said, “I need outdoor space for my grill…”

Nope.  I specified that it was charcoal.  Bitch had full warning, and didn’t have a leg to stand on.

However…I still had to climb the stairs out of the basement…cross their gargantuan 3-season deck (complete with patio heater which made it more like 3.5) and stand out in the freezing cold to use the spot they had given me.  So my grilling frequency was less than optimal.  It’s hard to throw your meat on the grill, then go work on side dishes, when you spend at least a minute in transit negotiating doors.

So when I looked at this apartment, I saw right past the smell of Pet and ugly-ass cabinets, because there was a big sliding door leading out onto…a proper Deck.

And not some shitty balcony built of cinderblocks that feels like a concrete cage.  This is the biggest deck I have ever seen attached to an apartment of this size.

I have room for a patio set.

I can store my recylables and my bike out here.

I CAN GRILL.  Just a couple of feet outside of my doors and windows, which means I can do it in nearly any weather.  Especially now that I have a down vest for the dashes outdoors in the colder months.

I have a view, not of the next complex over, but of a nice little patch of woods surrounding a drainage culvert.  Nature provides a buffer between me and the medical center/retirement complex on my street.  It looks kind of like this:

I can garden.  Not a lot, but I have tomatoes.  I have radishes and lettuce.  I have rosemary, thyme, oregano, parsley, and two kinds of basil.  My garden looks kind of like this:

I.  HAVE.  FLOWERS.

I have little lanterns with tealights in them.  I have an extension cord that allows me to blog by candlelight.

I have delicious, Lake Michigan breezes from the west, and strong afternoon sunlight.

I have:

That’s right.  MUTHAFUCKIN’ PRODUCE.

And this weekend, as summer comes to a close, I have UVa football streaming on my computer as the sun goes down and I grill my dinner.

No matter what’s going on in my life…no matter how stressed I am at work or at home…no matter how messy my kitchen or bedroom are…my deck is my oasis.  Nothing seems to matter when I’m out here.  As long as the plants get watered and the gnome gets paid…

 

Everything is going to be okay.

To be continued.

So it was brought to my attention, by a new reader of The Alchemist, that a certain long-running plotline was never resolved.  Namely, “whatever happened to the VGLM???”

 

He got married about two weeks ago. 

 

After obsessing over him for far too long, getting over him and becoming fairly good friends with him, I kind of lost touch with him my last year in Toronto.  We had evolved into a weird mentor-mentee kind of relationship, since he’s one of the few people I know that spent nearly as long in grad school as I did.  Some of us have to take longer so that we can participate in outside activities that keep us sane.  He’s not a prolific Facebooker, and that last year I had moved on to a teaching position, meaning I had moved out of the lab space I shared with him.

 

So a little while after I moved, I found out via Facebook that he was engaged.  <sad face>

And she appears to be lovely.  <sadder face>

And they seem to be starting a lovely life together.  <slow tear>

And according to her profile pic on Facebook, they both looked stunning at the wedding.  I do find it slightly disturbing that, in the pic she chose to use, she looks gorgeous…and they’re both smiling…and they’re not actually looking at each other.

 

But to each their own.

 

I prefer the pic I took of two other good friends at their wedding last weekend, where they couldn’t take their eyes off of each other during their first dance as they sang to each other quietly.  But whatevs.

 

In other news: The cinderblocks were removed the day after I complained.  Also, the Bitch Downstairs with the Baby has moved out.  Hopefully my new downstairs neighbors will have less of a fondness for extremely loud bass on Sunday mornings, and for storing dirty diapers within noseshot of my deck.

Won’t You Be My Neighbor?

When I took my current job, it involved a major move on almost no notice.  When I came for my interview, I took it as a good sign that the department had put together a packet (read: binder) of information for me…guidelines for all of the majors at my university that require chemistry…information about benefits…a folder from the local chamber of commerce with information about the school system, things to do, etc…and a flyer tucked in the back advertising a house for rent.

 

I inquired about said house, and the landlady sent me pictures.  The place was ADORABLE.  It looks small, but is a 4-bedroom house with a recently remodeled kitchen, a finished basement, and a garage.  Two of the bedrooms are upstairs, and thus could easily be closed off and/or used for storage, while I use the ground floor and basement as a perfectly me-sized house.  And it was…<drumroll>…$700/month!!!

 

Of course… “if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.”

 

Did I mention I was hired a mere two weeks before classes started?

 

And I was moving from Toronto.  A place where the rental market is HIGHLY competitive (my absolute unwillingness to compete for a shitty downtown apartment is precisely why I wound up living for 4 years in a tiny-but-marginally-less-shitty apartment in the suburbs), and thus one must act fast to lock down a good place.  At this point, I want the house.  I am doing everything I can to try to get deposit money to this woman so that I can guarantee I have it.  My stuff was already packed…I just wanted to find a home and move into it and get on with my life.

Even though she explains that the utilities bills will stay in her name, and be sent to her in Colorado.  So I will be expected to mail my checks to her in time for her to mail checks to the utility companies by the due date.

Oh, and she had talked to someone else about renting, but determined it wouldn’t be a “good relationship.”  She always rents by word-of-mouth, to temporary faculty and such, she doesn’t rent to “just anybody.”

 

O…K…

 

Still, I want the house.  So I explain that I live in Canada, and all of my funds are Canadian, so I’ll need to figure out how to get a deposit/first and last month’s rent/etc. to her.  IN COLORADO.  I ask if she has a PayPal account…
"No.  And I refuse to get one.”

 

O…K…

 

And she launches into an e-mail tirade about how she needs to know my move-in and move-out dates so she can draft a lease to send me, and all she gets from me is all of this information she doesn’t need to know about my finances, and yadda yadda yadda.  She also leaves not one, but SEVERAL messages to this effect on the machine of the friends with whom I am staying.

Also, one of the stipulations of the lease agreement will be that the neighbor kids are not allowed to play in her yard.  She has the biggest yard in the neighborhood, and the kids all want to play there, but the neighbor mom has sued her once already when one of the kids got hurt on her property.

Oh, and a previous tenant had been told he couldn’t paint one of the bedrooms.  She had done it in some sort of (horrible sounding –ed.) denim finish for her son.  She still hopes to come back to, at the very least, retire to this home and wants nothing changed.  In fact, there will be a clause in the lease that prohibits me from making any changes.  Former Tenant apparently mentioned to a neighbor that he was going to paint this bedroom anyway.  But, “word got back to me that he was going to do it and I put a stop to it.”

So…you’re saying that your neighbors will be spying on me and/or suing me.  At all times.  Eeeeeeeeeeeeexcellent.

 

Um…what.  The fuck?

 

This is about the time that I say, “I don’t think this is going to work out.  Perhaps we should go our separate ways.”

“I agree.”

End of story, right?

 

Nope. 

A few days later, I have another e-mail from her.  “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot.  I have been looking at the real estate listings, and all of the apartments are either in bad areas or too far from campus.  I feel for you…you are young, and I am willing to try to work this out.  We just need to work on better communication.”

 

Um, bitch?  You crazy.  I don’t think so.

 

“Thanks but no thanks.  I’ll take my chances finding a place on my own.”

 

We finally go our separate ways.

I move to my town, and set up shop in a hotel so I can start work and house-hunt.  There is a complex that I have been told, multiple times, only rents to faculty, staff, and professional students.  The sign in front of said complex says, “Now Renting”

So I give them a call.  They say that there is one apartment that just became available.

Again, coming from a competitive housing market and now literally homeless, I ask when I can come see it.

This is the point where I feel it is relevant to point out that this is the only apartment complex I have found that I am ELIGIBLE to live in.  Everything in this town falls into one of the following categories:

1.  Student housing (too old for that shit)

2.  Retirement housing (too young for that shit)

3.  Low-income housing (too rich for that shit)

4.  Home ownership (too smart for that shit)

So basically, if I don’t want to get stuck owning property in a small, dying Michigan town…I NEED THIS APARTMENT.  So I look at it.  It smells bad and the cabinets are older than my mother, but it has a nice layout, a dishwasher, and a nice big deck out back.  The property manager assures me the previous occupant has JUST moved out, and they haven’t had a chance to clean it.  It will not smell like Pet when I move in.

I say I will think about it.

But by the next day, I’m pretty sure there is nothing else for me in this Godforsaken town.

I call back and say I will take it.  Again, I am used to a MUCH more competitive housing market…the manager seems taken a bit aback by my desperation.  She does not understand that I AM LIVING IN THE HOLIDAY INN, Y’ALL.

No one should have to pay seventy bucks a night for a roof over their heads.  I don’t care if they do clean it, make your bed, and leave you wee lotions while you’re at work.

So it’ll be at least a week before my apartment is ready.  <sigh>

Finally, I sign my lease and take possession of my new home.

And it smells like fucking Pet.

At first, I thought I could get used to it.  But I spent about an hour in my new home before I started to get an asthmatic reaction to the lingering allergens. <sigh>

So I dash off an e-mail to my property manager: 

Me: Dude, I can’t live like this.  Like, asthma.  Seriously.  Can you clean the carpets again, or maybe get them replaced?

PM: We will have the carpets replaced on Monday.

Can I get a whoop whoop for good customer service???

 

So I spend one night sleeping on an air mattress on the exposed carpet padding in my dining room.  Then go out of town for the Labor Day weekend…and come home to fresh carpet.

A year later, my apartment still smells weird, but it is the weird chemically goodness of brand-spankin’-new, heavily StainMastered carpet. Meanwhile, I have settled in.  I swabbed down the linoleum in the kitchen and the bathroom with vinegar (to remove the last ammonia-riffic traces of what I have to hope were Pet accidents).  I have bought under-cabinet lighting and a kitchen cart to make my ugly kitchen functional.  I have hung pictures and posters on my walls…put up window treatments for privacy and hominess…changed the window treatments and sheets in the bedroom because I realized I couldn’t hang my favorite poster with the ones I had…cleaned out and actually started to furnish and decorate my back bedroom/office/sewing room.

 

Then the neighbors changed.

Over the course of the last few months, I have had to deal with:

1)  Screaming matches downstairs, followed by slammed doors as both of them leave to presumably tell their friends what an asshole the other person is.  48 hours of continuous howling by their neglected dog ensues.

2)  Perfectly nice-seeming downstairs neighbor knocking on my door when I was home sick and unloading a sob story about his cheating girlfriend with WAY TOO MUCH INFORMATION…all as a prelude to asking if he could borrow my phone.  Dude, KEEP THE PHONE FOR ALL I CARE…JUST STOP TELLING ME THINGS I DON’T NEED TO KNOW ABOUT YOUR HORRIBLE LIFE.  A few days later, watched the guy she was cheating with move into the apartment…when the ex had just moved into the building next door.  Bitch, have some class.

3)  Unnecessarily loud comings and goings, often around 4am when I am trying to sleep with my windows open.  A typical conversation proceeds as follows:

“Please don’t pee on my car.”

“I’m not going to.”

<sound of peeing on what one can only assume is the maple tree right outside my window>

IF YOU ARE IN MY PARKING LOT, SURELY YOU HAVE A FRIEND THAT LIVES HERE.  AND SURELY THAT FRIEND HAS A FUCKING TOILET. 

Oh…my bad.  You might have to climb TWO AND A HALF STORIES to get to a toilet that flushes, and you just have to pee.  The tree is certainly the best option.

4)  The morning symphony of birds singing…breeze rustling the leaves of the trees…and wretching somewhere in the distance, presumably in my parking lot.  Because indoor wretching should not carry through my open windows.

5)  My next-door neighbors (also faculty, and lovely, quiet neighbors, expecting their first baby) moving out because the people living upstairs from them appear to be the source of 3) and 4).  Apparently, there has been wretching on our stairwell, but on stairs I (blissfully) never need to ascend or look at.  Said neighbors are apparently not limited to peeing on trees and (not) cars…they also like to pee off of their balcony.  ON THE THIRD FLOOR.

6)  Unusually large numbers of unusually large flies in my apartment.  Specifically, around my patio door and kitchen window.  I go outside and look down…to find an entire box of dirty diapers stored just outside Downstairs Bitch’s patio.  WHO STORES DIRTY DIAPERS IN A CARDBOARD BOX???  OUTSIDE???  WHEN THERE IS A DUMPSTER LESS THAN 50 YARDS AWAY???

7) Two cinderblocks, carefully stacked just below my fire escape.  Because this is apparently an acceptable alternative to remembering to take your keys.

8)  A completely random, approximately 19-year-old drunk kid opening my front door this afternoon because he thought it was his buddy’s. 

“Um, HELLO??? GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”

<door closes>

I deadbolt it.

<door knock>

I open door.  Nobody there.  I slam door shut and deadbolt it.

<door knock>

I open door (honestly expecting an apology, if not from Random, from one of his friends).  Nobody there.  I call upstairs, “Are you guys having fun?” as one of Random’s friends says, “you are a retard.”  Slam door.  Repeat.

<door knock>

FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE.

 

What I REALLY want to yell is, “I hope you’re in my class this fall, asshole.”

 

Today I started doing three things: writing angry letters to my landlords, and deadbolting my door, no matter how full my hands are when I come home from Meijer.

And thinking seriously about getting the hell out of this town.  Damn 2-year contract…

Letters From the Front: Hookah-ed.

Pennsic, in general, has many traditions…many social events…lots to do.

 

Blood Moon, in particular, has…well…two.

The first time I started this series, I wrote about Scotch Broth night.  That’s one.  And a lovely, family-friendly ritual it is.

 

The other one?

<sigh>

The other one is called Hookah.

And no, it has nothing to do with smoking.

Hookah is the one “party” Blood Moon throws.  But it’s more of a neighborhood block party than a ParTAAAAAAAAAY party.  The ground rules for Hookah are as follows:

1.  We cannot Hookah unless it has rained that day.  The first rain is generally a guaranteed Hookah occasion, but I usually miss that one since it always seems to happen in the first week.

2.  The Hookah is announced to neighboring camps via a few ringleaders that run around the fringe of our camp singing the Hookah Song.  It goes something like, “Hookah, dookah, dupity do!  I’ve got another Hookah for you…”

3.  The Hookah is filled with…<sigh>…Pat O’Brien’s Hurricane Mix.  It is syrupy sweet.  It is reasonably strong.  It is bright red.  It is the sort of thing that nightmarish frat parties are made of.

4.  The Hookah keeps getting refilled until we run out or everyone passes out.

Yeah, it’s that kind of party.

 

I’m not sure how far back Hookah goes as a tradition…all I know is that the Old Hookah was made by Brother, and my first Pennsic was the first year of the New Hookah.  The New Hookah looks like this:

That’s right.  It’s a giant jug with giant jugs.

There are two pieces of tubing coming out of the top of the Hookah – in the words of Brother, “So you can Hookah with the one you love.” (The previous incarnation only accommodated one user at a time.)

Operation of the Hookah proceeds as follows:

1.  Two willing victims are found.

2.  The Hookah is hoisted above a third party’s head. (Preferably by its giant jugs)

3.  Said willing victims drink, via the magic of siphoning action, from the tubes until they can’t take it anymore.

4.  Lather.  Rinse.  Repeat.

 

It’s basically a fruity, non-carbonated keg stand for two.  The new, double Hookah introduced another aspect to the ritual: that of competition.  Whoever has the least staying power is in charge of how long of a drink the other person gets.  If you crap out too quickly, your partner will be highly disappointed in you.

I never crap out too quickly.

The Hookah has claimed many victims over the years.  Those victims clearly have no grasp of hydrodynamics.  Either that, or they have no idea how to use their tongue.

Those who allow Gravity to determine the rate at which they drink are condemned to also become its bitch by the end of the night.

 

The stories of Hookah are legendary…I will spare you the gory details.  I have only experienced Hookah once, but have never been its victim; the vast majority of our camp cannot make the same claim.  I take the occasional hit, but keep my mug filled with something more palatable.  I, like my brother, appreciate the Hookah more for the social aspect than for the beverage itself.  The Hookah draws in our neighbors, and the occasional passerby.  And, in the case of the one year I was there for it, also led to a long, snaking backrub chain.

 

THIS IS, BY FAR, THE BEST PART OF HOOKAH.

 

I enjoy drinking. 

I enjoy socialization.

I freaking LOVE BACKRUBS.

By the end of my first Hookah, all I know is that I am running a decent buzz…and I am more relaxed than I have ever been IN MY LIFE.  The new girl in camp always seems to attract the most backrub attention, so I had a distinct advantage that year.  I swear I didn’t go 5 minutes without somebody rubbing my shoulders…and that person was always different.  I actually didn’t drink that much because I was TOO BUSY GETTING BACKRUBS.

 

This is the sort of thing that makes it hard for people who haven’t been to understand what an incredibly relaxing vacation Pennsic can be.  You never have to be anywhere.  You can drink whenever you want.  AND SOMEONE IS ALWAYS WILLING TO GIVE YOU A BACKRUB.

 

People pay hundreds, or even thousands, of dollars for spa vacations that do the same things.  But I’d be willing to bet that those spa employees don’t make you laugh half as much in the process as my Clanmates will. 

Hookah, dookah, dupity do…

Letters From the Front: Ma-ma-ma-My Persona

After my first Pennsic, I wrote:

“I never felt the need to have a persona, so I didn't.  There was talk of giving me a name, and I think if I'm ever going to assume one, that's how it will have to happen.  I mean, my persona is and always will be a saucy gypsy, but for now, she remains nameless.”

She is no longer nameless.

 

My second Pennsic was very different from the first.  Brother and Girlfriend had broken up about 3 months after my first one, and at the time he had requested that I (and the other Clanmembers) maintain our friendships with her and not choose sides.  In private, he specifically told me that, regardless of what he decided to do, I should return to Pennsic if I wanted to.  That I would no doubt be missed if I didn’t return.  Luckily, he decided to return as well.

Unfortunately, so did ex-Girlfriend.

Which might not have been a problem, but Brother had fairly recently gotten engaged, and ex-Girlfriend had even more recently found out.

Camp was…how do you say…a little tense.

Even though their times at War only overlapped by a couple of days, I spent that time trying to both spend time with my brother and not ignore my friend.  Naturally, this largely resulted in my spending most of my time with people who were neither one of them.  I spent my second Pennsic becoming a Swiss national.

Meanwhile, Omar’s attempt at a bigger, better onion dome had only been halfway successful, and he wasn’t able to provide accommodations for two as planned.  So I camped with Ashlyn and shared his living/dining/kitchen space under the dome.  My stay at Pennsic also wasn’t as long this year – due to other Mundane-world factors, I only came for a very long weekend this time.

All of these factors meant that:

1.  I had no true home to call my own.  Gypsy!

2.  I was a social butterfly within camp.  Social gypsy!

3.  I spent quite a lot more time outside of camp.  Par-tay gyp-say!

 

In the four days or so I was at War that year, I think I went out every night.  Middle weekend is the BEST time for parties, but that’s another post.

 

One of the first nights I went out, I was with Ashlyn…and I think Scoundrel…and I have no idea who else.  We went to a camp that hosts an Irish Pub of sorts on certain nights.  The place was fairly dead, but the Celtic band played on…

…and one random woman was bellydancing.

 

That’s right.  Bellydancing to Celtic music. 

 

This woman was…a bit more advanced in years than your typical bellydancer.  And obviously not fully aware of her surroundings or her mental capacity.  We joked about her for the rest of the night.

 

“I think that’s my Pennsic persona.  I opened the first falafel shop in Dublin.”

“My name is…Babaganoush.  Babaganoush…O’Malley.  You may call me Baba.”

(I would later change my name to Babaganoush O’Reilly, because no matter how much I try to deny it, I am fundamentally incapable of resisting the allure of becoming Baba O’Reilly.")

Baba has a mysteriously ambiguous accent.  Mostly because a certain running clan joke (which I will not retell here because it is completely nonsensical) only works in an Indian accent, but obviously a gypsy must sound vaguely eastern European.  Have you ever heard someone speak with an Indian/Russian accent?  Unfortunately, my clanmates have.  Over time, her accent has settled into semi-Romanian.  Which is, of course, just right.

Over the course of the short time I spent at Pennsic that year, Ashlyn and I developed quite a schtick.  (No really – our neighbors complained about the late-night giggling next door.)

“Have you met my beautiful daughter Tabbouleh?”

“Come here, my little falafel.  Come to Baba.”

Hanging out near one of the food tents one morning, Ashlyn noticed a man on a wagon taking pictures of passersby.  She referred to him as the Pennsic paparazzi.

“Don’t talk to me about your Papa.  His name Razzi.  He left me for that hussy Ensalata!”

“Of course, his second wife, Caprese, she lovely.  They very happy now, with three beautiful children.  Mozzarella, Basil, and a little Tomato on the way.”

 

My new persona meshed well with brother Omar.  One of Omar’s breakfast specialties is pancakes.  As we sit under the onion dome making breakfast, passersby often stop to take a look.  Omar is polite…always invites them in for a closer inspection.  He has his own schtick:

Passerby: How do you get the curvature in the dome?

Omar: Young, supple saplings…very flexible…nah, they’re tent poles for a pop-up dome tent.

This evolves into:

“Welcome to Omar and Baba’s International House of Pancake.  First come, only served.”

“Tabbouleh!  Time to make the pancake!”

“But MaMAAAH….”

The International House of Pancake turns into the falafel stand by lunchtime.

 

This year, I would be making dinner, and Ashlyn(Tabbouleh) would be juggling or playing with the kids in camp.  I screamed across camp:

“TABBOULEH!  DINNER!  FIVE MINUTES!”

and, ten minutes later:

“TABBOULEH!  DINNER!  NOW!”

One night, she had a little date-type thing in another camp.  I said:

“Tabbouleh!  Do we need to have sex talk?”

“Yes, mama.”

“NO!”

 

I think there was more early material, but it has sadly faded over the past two years.  Rightly so, as our compatriots grew more than a little tired of it being repeated ad infinitum around camp as we refined our act.  The problem was, THERE WAS ALWAYS SOMEBODY WHO HADN’T HEARD IT YET.  Now, they have all heard it, and simply address me as Baba.  When I go out, I introduce myself as Baba.  I’m sure to those who take this whole Pennsic thing seriously, people like me are incredibly annoying, but to be frank, I can’t be bothered by those people.  The SCA in general, and Pennsic in particular are supposed to be…wait for it…FUN.  The day it stops being fun is the day I’m out.

 

So, my little falafels, come.  Come…to Baba.

Letters From the Front: Shop ‘Til You Drop

I had heard this well before my first Pennsic… “The shopping!  OH MY GOD, THE SHOPPING!”

And my mental response was, “um, great!  For what?”

(I never actually asked this, mind you.  Ever since I was a wee ‘hooty, I always preferred to think first, observe later, and only ask questions as a last resort.  Long before I ever heard it articulated as such, I subscribed to the “better to be silent and thought an idiot than to open one’s mouth and prove it” philosophy.  This has been proven to make me appear less ditzy to friends, but less interesting to professors. Meh, I am the original Happy Medium.)

 

Like most of Pennsic, it is hard to explain the shopping scene.  Let’s just say that at Pennsic, I have more places to shop, and for more interesting and higher quality stuff, than I have in the town I currently live in.  Not that that’s saying much given my podunk place of residence, but it’s a start.

 

My very first shopping expedition was a couple of days into my first Pennsic (I do believe this experience has been documented, but in less detail).  Someone in camp (I believe it was Scoundrel) asked, “have you been shopping yet?” 

I answered, “No.”

I didn’t even know how to get TO the shopping.  Seriously – had not left camp yet and had been led that far by Brother and his Truck.  (Three years later, I’m still not very good at getting around much of Pennsic outside our neighborhood.  Like I have said before, Blood Moon = Slacker Camp.)  Regardless, I knew I needed STUFF.  Most notably, a belt.  I was currently borrowing one, and a pouch, from Ashlyn.  She will prove to be one of my best Pennsic friends EVER.  The Belt and Pouch are the Purse (or Murse) and Wallet of the Medieval world, respectively.  Your Pouch holds your ID (important for parties)…your credit cards…your money…your lip balm…your sunscreen…your odds and ends that you need wherever you go.  Your Belt holds onto your body said Pouch…your mug (also important for parties, as well as coffee, and water, and…believe me, you don’t know how much you need a mug AT ALL TIMES until you’ve been to Pennsic)…your camera (a perfectly acceptable form of Creative Anachronism)…your knife (steel is a generally accepted and envied form of accessory)…your cell phone (if you’re one of THOSE – I am now seasoned enough that it is no longer jarring to see a man in a tunic talking shop on an iPhone)…and anything else you want to carry around.

Clearly, until you have a Belt (and, to a lesser extent, a Pouch), you aren’t REALLY at Pennsic.

So…I go to the cheap leatherworker’s tent.  I buy a belt.  It is the cheapest belt possible – a thin, long strip of leather with a ring at the end of it.  But it works.  And will continue to work for another year.  Basically, I no longer feel nekkid.  And return the (much nicer) borrowed belt to Ashlyn.  I keep the pouch, though, because pouches are EXPENSIVE.  I can’t quite wrap my head around what people are willing to spend for something they only use once a year.  Also, a member of our clan is teaching me to crochet, and I am determined to crochet myself a pouch.  (Which also works for another year.)

Thus begins one category of Pennsic vendor: the leather guys.  No, not Leather Guys…these are guys who make useful things out of leather.  These guys make belts, pouches, armor, accessories for belts, scabbards, sandals, and pretty much anything you could ever want out of leather.  Some of them also sell just plain leather.  Leatherworking is a popular Pennsic pasttime because it is slow - Slow crafts are especially well-suited for two week periods with very little responsibility.

But I am getting ahead of myself.  My first trip to the merchants, I am on a mission, and then just browse.  I don’t REALLY start to shop for a few days.  During the Wednesday of the second week of Pennsic (also known as War Week, since this is when all of the battles occur), Midnight Madness happens.

Midnight Madness is pretty much what it sounds like – the vendors usually close up shop early in the afternoon and reopen in the evening, in order to stay open until the wee hours.  Sometimes they have special sales, but (like most of the special things that happen at Pennsic) this is really just an excuse for a social event.  People put on nicer garb, because basically they are going to Town.  We fill our mugs with something tasty and sip as we browse.*  Certain items, such as jewelry, are not bought at Midnight Madness because you can’t really see them in the lower light.  But you Scout. 

My very first Midnight Madness…I bought a very small cow made of stone.  And possibly some small pewter badges.  Not much.  But I had so much fun!  Some of my favorite pictures from that first year were taken at Midnight Madness.  I still fondly remember trying on silly hats, ogling the aforementioned pewter badges (they are authentically Period, but rather risque…they would certainly make certain gentle readers blush.  I bought more this year!), and ordering Turkish coffee from a man pushing a cart.  The sensory memory of that coffee is intense.  This…THIS is where I start to get that OH MY GOD THE SHOPPING!

 

There are:

Fabric vendors, selling quality fabrics like linen, wool, and silk at prices you simply will not find anywhere else.

There are:

Vendors with reels and reels of decorative trims.  JoAnn Fabrics has, like, 5.  AND THEY SUCK.  Trim is something else you can’t possibly understand unless you have tried to make garb.

There are:

SO many people selling pottery!  AND THEY’RE GOOD AT IT!  Most of you reading know that I have not one, but TWO potters in my family (one is quite Hairy…get it?  Ah, to heck with ya).  All of my dishes are handmade…and I am on my second set.  I have a ceramic colander.  I have a ceramic mushroom pot.  I DO NOT NEED TO BUY CERAMICS.  But I buy them at Pennsic.

At my second Pennsic, I bought my jingle goblet:

It looks unassuming, but there is a jingle bell concealed in the base.  You can only ring it (safely) when the goblet is empty, or preferably nearly so.

The man selling these is genius.  They look almost primitive, and come in different solid colors.  They all have different prices.  You do not realize until you pick them up and ring them that they are priced, not by looks, but by SOUND.  I paid top dollar for the one with the best ring.  It was TOTALLY worth it – if you jingle it long enough, someone will appear with a beverage in order to shut you up.  Chivalry?  Or low tolerance for high-pitched jingly noises?  The world will never know.

I also bought my Wee Mug:

In the words of one clanmate, “Did you put mug in dryer on too high heat???”

The Wee Mug is a VERY generous shotglass.  With a handle! 

(Handle is concealed in picture due to a particularly shoddy hand model.)

Hell…my BROTHER buys ceramics at Pennsic.  I have NEVER seen Brother buy pottery anywhere…except for one booth at Pennsic.  This booth does the most amazingly beautiful pottery I have ever seen.  Case in point, this year’s indulgence:

I also bought another cup with the most incredible brass patina glaze on it.  This pic really does not do justice to the gorgeousness of these glazes.  (Mental note: do pottery photography in daylight.)  The chemist at my core giggles in glee at good glazes (say THAT three times fast), and these FEEL SO GOOD too.  SPECTACULAR pottery!

These are not the ones that my brother buys…these are much more affordably priced.  That’s right…It.  Gets.  Better!  But there is not a thing in their booth I don’t drool over.  GOR.  GEOUS.

There are:

Jewelry vendors.  My most significant purchase at my first Pennsic was my poison ring:

And thus ends my career as a hand model.

It is significant because the stone is a Moonstone.  I belong to Blood Moon Clan.  Get it?  If they had one with a Bloodstone I would have bought it too.  I still wear it nearly every day – as a chemist, I have always found poison rings cool, and this particular vendor is the only place I have ever found one small enough to not look ridiculous on my incredibly stubby, small fingers.  Who cares if the payload is so small I would have to load it with botulism to make it a lethal dose???  My students ask about it regularly.  The ones that ask think it is cool.  I love this damn thing.

There are:

Miscellaneous vendors.  This year, I spent a ridiculous amount of money at a tent that sold yarn and hand-blown glass jewelry.  I spent a sensible amount of money at a tent that sold the most comfortable wooden chair I have ever had the pleasure of sitting in (did not buy) and the most awesome leather-clad hip flask I have ever had the pleasure of holding (totally DID buy):

The flask (in Blood Moon colors – red and black!) was purchased.  The belt loop (which is probably a more ingenious design than the creator ever fully realized) was fashioned by Chieftain.  Like I said, leatherwork is a popular pasttime at Pennsic.  I now owe him a tiny crocheted monster as payment.

I’ve also been known to buy the occasional hip scarf (especially coins for bellydancing), pair of earrings, etc. to inject my persona into my garb.  You can easily spend hundreds of dollars.  Pirate boots?  Medieval musical instruments?  Puppets?  Chain mail?  The more you spent last year…the more you will spend this year.  And so on…and so forth. 

 

Pennsic: the original self-fulfilling prophecy.

 

*NOTE: Drinking in public is perfectly acceptable, nay encouraged, at Pennsic.  There are occasions where you are judged harshly for walking around with an empty mug.  Seriously, a man’s worth is directly proportional to the quality and the content of the mug he carries.  I shit you not.