The Cat's Meow

I love my landlords. And here are some examples of why. One, I have become the annoying key tenant. First, I insisted that they get a new doorknob for the garage so that we could lock the garage (yes, to protect my RC-30 – the saddest part of all is that I don’t pay a fee to store my bike in the garage, but when I moved in I told them that either the bike went in the garage or the bike when up and down the stairs every day – so when I’m insisting they put a new doorknob on, I’m being super bitchy). ANYWAY, they did put the new doorknob on and then they gave us keys (very responsible of them). But none of the keys worked. And that made me laugh. Anyway, as I write this, I realize it’s not very interesting. It turns out that the landlords have to make us all new garage keys, in addition to getting me a key to the front porch. All because I’m a key bitch. Another example of how cool my landlords is about the cats. We have several cats living in our house. Actually, four. But it’s not nearly as bad as it seems. Two cats live upstairs and two cats live downstairs and they don’t interact because they don’t get along. So I can go all day and only see two of the cats, if I choose. Which I rarely do because these cats are FREAKING ADORABLE. We have a DMZ between the upstairs and the downstairs where NO cats can go and so you can imagine my surprise when I came home this evening and found Murphy, one of the upstairs cats, in the DMZ. I shouted “LANDLORD!! THE CAT’S IN THE DMZ” really loudly because I , um, didn’t want to get blamed for it. She immediately took responsibility for the fact that Murphy had gotten into the DMZ ON HER WATCH. And that’s funny. Oh, yeah, and they other thing is that I have been given two household chores. One, make sure the stairs and the upstairs hallway are clean and two, take the recycling out to the garage. That’s it. No cleaning the bathroom. No cleaning the kitchen. No sweeping the zillions of feet of hardwood floor downstairs. Two simple chores that take me a maximum of twenty minutes a week. Sweet. That's why it rules to live in my house.

Iowa in October

Is pretty.

We went to Iowa this weekend. The drive down there was beautiful – fall colors and whatnot. I slept for most of the drive back, so I can’t tell you much about that, except for the part about the rain and the rest area with the signs saying “don’t drink the water cuz it has bacteria in it” and then I had to decide whether it was worse to wash my hands in bacteria filled water or not wash my hands, understanding that I had flushed a toilet with those hands in a PUBLIC restroom. I choose to wash my hands in the bacteria filled water and not lick the bacteria off my hands.

But now that I’m back home, I just can’t get into the swing of things. My dad had some internet connection questions he asked me (umm…note to dad: me? I don’t even know where the blue cord goes in the back of my computer) and I spent a good hour and a half doing research for him and emailing him. That felt good and useful, but, um, I don’t really have an hour and a half to do that. Likewise, I don’t really have a half hour to write this blog entry, but that’s what I mean. I can’t get into the swing of writing anything else.

I spent some time this weekend thinking about a dissertation topic (I was in IOWA – okay, just kidding, we were quite busy most of the time, but there was the drive and the entire Saturday afternoon to think). And I know what I’m interested in, but I don’t think it’s going to be a burning question that any of the faculty care about. So, I’m going to spend tonight writing a page or two on it and then I’m going to march down the hall and talk to all the American politics professors until one of them gives me even the smallest bit of encouragement that it is interesting.

FYI – it was sad to be in Iowa during the loss to Michigan. As a matter of fact, since I was driving Monster, who has Michigan plates, I got lots of glares and nasty honks. Biker Boy was kind of upset. I thought about making him a big sign he could hold up to the window: “I WENT TO IOWA, JACKASS.” But he wasn’t a fan of that particular idea.

So, this weekend I met some of BB’s friends FROM HIGH SCHOOL. That’s right, my friends. My little Biker Boy had a life before college. And one of these friends went to college with him and told this great story about Biker Boy. This was a story I had actually heard from BB already, but this was hearing the story from an entirely different perspective. And I got some dirt on BB that will involve lots of begging on his part if he doesn’t want me to blab it to the ENTIRE world.

So, there you have it. There’s actually no point to this rant. No point at all. I’m should go to school now. And go to class. I have to lead a study session today, too. For my TA class. Because I actually get paid to do this job, so I should actually do it.

I Can't Believe It

This is going to be a post about my bike. I can't believe I'm doing this. This is not a post about bike riding, which I feel qualified to talk about because, you know, I ride a bike. But it's about MY BIKE about which I know nothing except for the fact that it's pretty.

I have a Rocky Mountain RC-30 (blue, with streamers). I have valiantly tried to come up with a name for my bike, but he's (definitely male) a bit tricky to name. So I call him RC-30. RC for short. Which reminds me of RC Cola and sometimes I call him King (Royal Crown, right?), but most of the time he's just RC. Poor guy. He's blue AND he gets a boring name. HOWEVER, he does have kick ass streamers.

That's all. I don't know the specs on RC, so I'm not qualified to actually discuss the makeup of my lovely bike, but rest assured, RC likes to go fast. He's speedy. And because of this, I had to learn how to put air in the tires. See, I was under the impression that I could ignroe the tires of my bike altogether, much like I ignore the tires on my truck (but if my dad ever reads this - NO, I don't ignore Monster's tires - I rotate them every 3000 miles and check the air pressure every time I fill it up with gas). Alas, when I purchased my bike, Biker Boy strongly suggested I purchase an air pump for RC. My reaction was, "huh? I thought that basic maintenance was why I was dating you." His reaction, "Nope. Basic maintenance is all you. RC -30 has those crazy high air pressure tires. You need to be on top of it. I'll teach you."

Famous last words. I have never even checked the air pressure in the tires of my motor vehicle. Isn't that what the guys at the oil change place are for? (Dad, again, if you're reading this - it's not true, I check air pressure regularly).

So BB attempts to teach me how to put air in my tires. He goes through the whole drill. Great. I ride my bike for a couple of weeks. "Have you checked your air pressure recently?" "Of course." Hee. Then the guilt overwhelmed me and I decided I should actually check the air pressure.

Do you know what I did? I blew out a tube. My first bout with routine maintenance and I blew out a tube. I call BB, "um, I think I broke RC-30."

Okay, that was earlier this summer. I check my tires every four or five trips to school. I don't want to hear any comments about why I should do it more often. I won't.

Today, BB and I had serious business with RC. Biker Boy trued the wheels. Seriously. Who knew there was a machine with AN ENTIRE PURPOSE of truing? A truing machine. And then BB put me and RC on a trainer (a machine that allows you to pedal your bike WHILE STAYING STILL - again, who knew such a machine existed?). He made me pedal, walked around, looked at my butt, and fiddled with the saddle. I asked him if he looked at all the girls' butts and he didn't really have a good answer, except to say that most girls don't care about their saddles as much as guys, which I guess makes sense because of the whole what's down there thing. So we put the saddle higher and tipped it up. A good friend of mine had recommended that the saddle be tilted slightly downward, but that never worked for me. A while ago, BB adjusted it so it was level. I still wasn't happy, so we're now trying it tilted up just slightly. And it's a lot more comfortable.

Oh, yeah, and I got a new headlight because my other one kept falling off. So, goodbye headlight that looks like a rocket ship and hello headlight that looks like a cat eye.

That's all I have to say about RC-30. I promise there will be no more boring posts about my lovely bike until RC undergoes more maintentance OR I find the PERFECT saddle position.

I'm Not As Young As I Used To Be

Hi. I'm 26. Apparently that's when you become old. This weekend was filled with Freckles, bikes, monsters, and uncomfortable awkwardness. And then last night I collapsed. I was incapable of movement. When I was in college, this would have been just another weekend. But this was a HUGE weekend for me. Friday afternoon we went horseback riding. My horse was Freckles. He was a very nice horse, but he liked to go fast. Yesterday I went on a long bike ride with my boyfriend and then we went to a Haunted Maze and Hayride. I screamed and grabbed Biker Boy's friend's arm so hard that I left a bruise on her arm. As we left, some car almost hit Biker Boy's friend in the parking lot. And then I collapsed because the excitement of the weekend was too much for me. Okay, I have to read some stuff. I'm a grad student. That's what I do.

A Question of Propriety

What's the protocol for finding that perfect card for your ex-boyfriend? I felt kind of like the whole sending a real, honest-to-goodness, postage stamp and all card was too much. I settled for a lame e-card with a lame message inside about cake and ice cream. It can't be deemed too personal, but it still sends the message that I'm still alive, right? It's all very confusing to remain on speaking terms with someone that you don't really speak to. I wonder what Miss Manners would say?

Crazy as a Loon

I met one of my best friends from college in a class. A class taught by a man who insisted we call him Dr. Joe. After that, my friend and I always wanted to take a class together. Since we had radically different majors, the only thing we could find to take were philosophy classes. We could each fulfill our humanity requirements AND take classes together. We took two. The first was Philosophy of Punishment with Dr. Stuart. He looked like William H. Macy. When we read articles written BY HIM, he would say, “and as Stuart says, blah, blah, blah.” He would refer to himself in the third person. I thought that was great. (This is a slight tangent, but ever since these classes I have 1) wanted someone to call me Dr. NGS and 2) wanted to be able to refer to myself in the third person IN FRONT OF A CLASS.) The second class we took together was Philosophy of Death and Dying with Dr. Dixon. The people who took this class were mostly gerontology majors. And the political scientist and the creative writer. Crazy. We just didn’t belong. And Dr. Dixon. She didn’t belong in front of a classroom. She was too nice. And sensitive. I know that the topic of death and dying is hard, but she was a little crazy about how sensitive she was about it. She let people redo their assignments if they got grades they didn’t like. She was a Midwestern lady with gray hair, slightly overweight, with just the slightest hint of sibilant s’s. Anyway, one day, she told us the following story. Where I used to live, there was a huge oak tree in the front yard. And I would go and read under the tree during the summer, build snowmen under the tree in the winter, and I loved to rake the leaves in the fall. I just loved this old tree. And one day the city came in and said that they had to take down the tree for road expansion. And I didn’t want them to. And one day, I came home from work and the tree had been taken down. The workers were just cleaning up and removing the branches and I just sat down by the stump and cried. And cried and cried. And the workers just looked at each other as if to say, “lady you are DER-RANGED.” The way she said deranged. As if she had suddenly popped in from southern Tennessee. Flash forward five years. I am in love with my pickup truck. It is cute and a little pickup and is so happy. But the maintenance on it is killing me. It would be cheaper for me to pay a car payment every month than to pay the monthly bills for the upkeep on Magenta (the cute little pickup). When my father realizes this, he insists on TRADING IN Magenta and giving me his HUGE ASS MONSTROUS truck that is practically brand new. On the day when my father took the key from me and took my cute little truck to the dealer to trade in, I CRIED AND CRIED AND CRIED. When I called my friend, the same one from the philosophy classes, as I’m sobbing, sad about the loss of my good friend Magenta, what did she say? Lady, you are DER-RANGED.

Too Cool For School

This sudden snap of cold weather (yes, I know if it were 40 degrees in February, I'd be celebrating a heat wave) has me convinced that the best place to be right now is in bed. This is unfortunate in that it is 1:13 pm and I am still in my pajamas and contemplating how difficult a shower would be. It is also unfortunate that I have a philosophy regarding sleep. If you are tired and your body lets you sleep until 1 pm, it's probably because you actually need sleep. Well, that may be, but whether my body needs it or not, my dissertation needs worked on and it ain't getting done in bed.

A Simple Thank You

I spoke at an event sponsored by the organization for which I volunteer. It was a simple request and a simple enough job to go up there and say a few words about my experiences. And I didn't give it a second thought. And today I got a thank you card from the organization and a direct quote said "You are such a fun and vibrant presence and I'm grateful to have you as a volunteer." It was a very sweet thing to say and I think I may have to thank them for their kindnesses.

I am what I dream

Have you ever had an addiction you were embarrassed by? Not smoking, or drinking, or trashy romance novels, because those are accepted in a certain way. But something you crave that you can’t really tell anyone about?

Mine is the Olive Garden. I know it’s uncool. I know it’s terribly uncool. But at night, I have food dreams. A great number of these food dreams revolve around ice cream, but an equal number revolve around Olive Garden salad. And breadsticks. And lasagna.

When was the last time I was actually at the Olive Garden? I’ve thought long and hard about this. I think it was March 2004. So, a year and a half ago. I was visiting my family in Pennsylvania. They don’t know how uncool the Olive Garden is. They don’t understand that chain restaurants have been prohibited from my life. So we went. And I ate so much food. And now I have dreams about it.

Every time I pass the Olive Garden downtown, I stare at it. My mouth waters. Have you ever noticed that the Olive Garden downtown has a purplish kind of awning with a low-key sign and not the bright green, obnoxious signs we are used to? It’s as if even the Olive Garden knows it is uncool and is trying to distance itself from itself.

I know it’s bad. And my boyfriend can’t eat there. I refuse to go by myself and all my friends are way too cool for it. So it will have to wait. I will have to continue my lascivious dreams concerning lasagna until the next time I visit my family.

I am Wearing Olive Oyl Socks

My dad is a former military man. He's a large man who fills up the room. He wears his thinning hair in an Army length crew cut. He has two tattoos on each arm, one that says Mom, one that says my mom's name, and one that says Dad. He drives a pickup truck, listens to Rush Limbaugh, and sometimes stares at me as if he can't believe I am the product of his beautiful wife's egg and his sperm. He smoked way too much for way too many years and quit, cold turkey, almost three years ago. He has a loud, booming voice, isn't afraid to use it, and always has to be right. He drives for two hours every day commuting to his job, listening to talk radio the entire time, so he always knows the current events of the day and exactly where Rush and G. Gordon Liddy, and the rest of the bad guys stand on the issues. He was raised in Chicago and moved out in the middle of nowhere to please my mom. He tolerates the dogs (and the cats when we had them) to please my mom. He loves his wife, he loves his kids, and I am terrified I am turning into him.

I am the left wing version of my father. Or, rather, I fear I am turning into this slightly off-centered carbon copy of my father.

The biggest example of this is what I now call the "Landlord Situation."

When I left my old apartment, there were some issues with the landlords. The let the new tenants move in before our lease was up. So I handed in my keys on the 27th and stopped utilties in my name on the 28th. I thought that was fair. Then I get a letter from the landlords telling me that they were withholding money from my security deposit to handle the five days of utilities that I did not pay. They weren't going to give me interest on my deposit either (which is required of them by state law).

So I wrote a nasty letter. They wrote a nasy letter. And I found myself threatening TO SUE THEM. For fifty dollars. And when this happened, I had to stop myself. This is exactly how my father would handle the situation. And to verify that, I called my father. And he said, "that's my girl. That's exactly what you should have said to these nasty fuckers."

I find myself pacing at night, just like my father. He's an insomniac. As long as I can remember, he has never slep more than five hours a night. He paces. And last night, it was after one in the morning, I couldn't sleep, my trashy romance novel wasn't entertaining me, and I got up and paced in my room. Back and forth. Back and forth. I was trying to get my 10,000 steps in, but I wasn't counting. I was just thinking about nothing.

Then came the clincher. The radio in my truck. There are FOUR stations programmed. Yes, I know there are twelve spots. Two of them are country stations (one of these stations randomly turns into a Spanish-speaking station after nine at night, so sometimes when you get into my truck and turn it on, you get blasted with that dramatic sounding Latin music). The other two? You guessed it. NPR AND TALK RADIO. Talk radio that includes Dr. Laura in the afternoons.

I've become my father.