Finally, it’s time for some sleep!

The semester is over (almost) and as soon as I hit “publish” I’m going to bed. I already slept four hours this afternoon, but feel as if I could sleep fourteen more.

Last night was weird.

I went to the store to stock up on caffeinated drinks before beginning work on my last two research papers.

People buy the strangest items late at night. I used to be a checker at Safeway, so I was already aware of this fact, but still, looking at the items of the person in front of me made me feel better about the gummy worms, Red Bull, and carrots in my own basket (I was trying to be somewhat healthy).

The person in front of me bought beef jerky, Cheez-Its, and what looked like about a gallon of white wine.

Gross.

And then there were the bugs.

I think the recent cold weather drove all six and eight legged creatures into my house. And they won’t leave.

Sitting on the couch last night, writing about Moby Dick, I saw an ant crawling up my arm. I don’t like ants. Where there is one ant, there are hundreds. I didn’t freak out though, just grabbed a Kleenex and sent him off to ant heaven.

Ten minutes later I feel something crawling on my arm again. I assume it’s another ant. It’s not. It’s a spider.

This time I do freak out. I threw my computer off my lap. Books and papers went flying. So did the spider. I still don’t know where he went.

In my nearly delirious state I couldn’t help fixating on the ant and the spider. Was the spider hunting the ant? If so, why on my person?

For the rest of the night I kept slapping at my arms and legs, certain that I could feel dozens of ants and spiders crawling up and down. It was a long night.

I’m sitting here, writing this at my dining room table because I still can’t sit on the couch. The spider could still be there.

Anyway, I went to bed at 5:30 am, grabbed an hour and half of sleep and then it was off to class.

Walking around campus today, I saw the same bleary eyed gaze reflected in the faces of my classmates. For many of us, last night wasn’t the first “all nighter”  of the week.

It’s Ok, though because we made it. Now, time for sleep.

 

Dancing at the VFW

“Ok, so I’ll meet you at the bar at 7:30, right gram?”

This was not a conversation I thought I would ever have with my grandmother during Thanksgiving break, but she’d been asking me for a while now, every time I go home for a visit, and I did kind of want to go…

Maybe I should back up and explain a little, lest you think my grandmother and I were out carousing the day after Thanksgiving. We went out dancing. Line dancing to be exact.

You see, a great deal of my childhood was spent on the dance floor. My grandparents owned Klamath’s one and only dance hall. It’s OK though. My grandfather was also a pastor, so it wasn’t your stereotypical beer joint.  In fact, we didn’t serve alcohol at all. My grandparents wanted it to be a family friendly establishment, and it was.

I spent many a Friday and  Saturday night twirling around the dance floor with my grandfather, dad, and uncles. When I finally tuckered out, my parents could always find me curled underneath the D.J. station sound asleep. I learned how to two-step, swing, cha-cha, waltz, and lindy hop. When I was older, around 17, my grandmother made it her life’s mission to find me a boyfriend. She’d try to get me to dance with the local boys–but I was too shy and whenever I saw her leading one over to me I would run to the storeroom to make sure we weren’t running low on napkins or straws.

We were kind of like the Partridge family, except we didn’t sing. But we did travel most of the West coast participating in dance competitions and performing at county fairs. This was by far one of the most acutely embarrassing stages of my life.

I loved dancing, but I despised the matching costumes. Tassels and fringe don’t exactly aid one’s reputation. When I was 15, I finally gathered the courage to tell my grandmother that didn’t want to be on the dance team any longer.

She fixed me with a disappointed look. Hands on her hips, she only shook her head at me. That was all it took, and I was back on the team.

It might be cliche to say so, but those were truly some of the best years of my life so far.

After my grandfather passed away, my grandmother wasn’t able to keep the dance hall open in Klamath’s struggling economy. The polished dance floor has since been divided into office spaces, one of which is an H&R Block.

Now when I visit, I’ll take whatever detour necessary to avoid driving past the old building which was my second home, and I don’t listen to much country music anymore either. This is why I was a little hesitant to go dancing.

But running away doesn’t ever make things easier.

So, at 7:30 last Friday night, I found myself shivering on the cold downtown sidewalk in front a heavy metal door waiting for a local Veteran to let me into the inner sanctum of the VFW. It was line dance night, and the bar was open to the public.

In the middle of the dance floor was my grandmother, and number of friends from the “good ol’ days.” Gram saw me and rushed over.

“I want to introduce you to some people,” she said grabbing my hand and steering me towards a table in the far corner.

“This is my granddaughter,” she said “She came to dance with me tonight.”

“Thanks for the Sh*t”

Yesterday, on my way back from taking Samson on a walk, (or rather Samson taking me on a walk) I decided to stop and check the mailbox. Usually I just bypass it because I’m lazy (hey, I’m already walking the dog).

I pulled Samson to a stop and made him sit while I fumbled in my pocket for the mail key. This is easier said than done. Samson gets very excited about the mail and by the time I found the key and got the box open his whole body was quivering as he tried to grab the mail out of my hand. I made him sit again, and gave him a Macy’s ad to carry back to the house.

I threw the mail on the dining room table and a thick red envelope caught my attention– the first holiday card of the season.

Really?

Part of me doesn’t even want to know who it’s from. I already feel inadequate enough about the holidays. I really really want to be that creative, crafty, super efficient person who has all their shopping done by September, makes their own Christmas cards (accompanied by a letter detailing the achievements of each family member), and bakes cookies for the neighbors–as I’m sure the sender of this card does.

Every year I try. But it never works out quite the way I hope.

I love to cook, but I am a terrible baker. I don’t use measurements when I cook. I know what a tablespoon of olive oil or a cup of milk looks like. But this doesn’t work with baking. I can dice an onion without cutting my finger, but whenever I break out my mixer bad things happen.

Last year, I decided to make ginger bread loaves to give out as gifts to our neighbors, but I accidentally zested the tip of my finger along with the piece of ginger.

And my card making skills? I should just hire a class of kindergartners and let them make my Christmas cards, then I wouldn’t have to lie and tell people my nephew helped me. I could just purchase cards. But who am I kidding. They still wouldn’t get sent out until after Valentines Day.

It’s OK though. So what if my house looks more like a Griswold family Christmas than Martha Stewart. I’m sure the Griswolds have way more fun.

And because I’m thinking about Christmas cards now, I have to share with you the card my nephew sent last year. He drew it himself thanking us for the gift we bought him (it was a shirt). Except, he forgot the “r” in “shirt” so the card reads:

“Thanks for the shit”

I love that kid.

And I think I know who he inherited his card making ability from.

Thanksgiving Oysters

Every year for Thanksgiving my grandma Fern makes oyster stuffing.

She didn’t always make it. Her mother, my great-grandma Hazel, is the original creator of the awful concoction.

My childhood Thanksgivings were more like family reunions. It wasn’t odd to have thirty plus family members elbow to elbow at long tables, which made the living room look like a school cafeteria. The house smelled delicious. Like roasting turkey, pumpkin pie, and candied sweet potatoes–all the normal Thanksgiving smells–until Grandma Hazel and Granddad Harold showed up.

I could always smell the oyster stuffing the moment they shuffled in the door, a powerful odor of ocean, minerals, and dirty feet.

Tradition called for Grandma Hazel to transfer the casserole dish to middle of the table, often shoving my mother’s cornbread and cranberry stuffing off to the side.

Here I should point out that out of thirty adults, only three people actually liked oyster stuffing: Grandma Hazel, Grandma Fern, and my great-uncle John. Yet, for some reason unknown to us all, grandma insisted on making enough to ensure that no one had an oyster free plate.

I remember the first time Grandma Hazel tried to make me eat a Thanksgiving oyster.

Scooping a spoonful from the casserole dish, I watched as the oyster slid off the spoon and landed on my plate with a plop. It smelled even worse close up. I told her it looked like a crusty booger. She didn’t think that was very funny, but I wasn’t sorry enough to find out what it tasted like.

Every once and a while someone would try to talk Grandma Hazel into not bringing the stuffing.

“Don’t worry about it gram,” my aunt would say. “We have plenty of food. Why don’t you just relax and let us take care of the details?”

But Grandma Hazel would not be dissuaded–she was stubborn and feisty. After she passed away, the recipe and the casserole dish passed to Grandma Fern.

Last Thanksgiving, when I walked into Grandma Fern’s kitchen, the smell of oysters enveloped me. I wasn’t thinking about dirty feet or their slimy texture. I was thinking about Grandma Hazel. I was thinking about our coffee dates, and our book club, and the way she would often grab my hand and hold it tight during church services.

I don’t know if the casserole dish will ever find a home in my kitchen cupboards, maybe it will go to my aunt or one of my cousins. Regardless, it’s been in my mind to give Grandma Fern a call to make sure I have the recipe handy–just in case. It would be a terrible shame for a holiday season to pass without the traditional Thanksgiving Oyster.

The Great Banana Fight of 2006

This is a story I like to call, “The Great Banana Fight of 2006.” I wrote it last week, just for fun, on our anniversary because it’s a funny story that we’ll probably be boring people with for the next fifty plus years.

***

 

“Um, babe? Where’s my Greek yogurt?” My husband asked.

I was scrubbing the kitchen sink and turned to see Matt standing in front of the refrigerator, door open, but looking at me.

“It’s in there. You actually have to look,” I said, rolling my eyes in exasperation.

I returned back to my scrubbing, but knew he was still staring at me.

“What?” I said. “It’s really in there. I promise.” His gaze never faltered. Distrust emanating from his very stance.

“Sure it is.” He said. “Just like the banana was.”

Would we ever lay to rest the great banana incident of 2006?

It started out much the same way this day had. It was a Saturday, which meant I was on a cleaning frenzy and Matt was trying to stay out of my way. I didn’t mind. I like cleaning. So I vacuumed, and sang, and scrubbed my way through our apartment—a happy housewife. Until I reached the kitchen.

And then I saw it. A disgusting banana. It’s peel was jaundiced and covered in what looked like brown liver spots. I could smell it over the lemon scented cleaner and fresh air streaming through the open windows.

So I did what any rational person would do. I picked it up, holding it by the stem so as to touch as little of the putrid fruit as I could and chucked into the trash. Then I took the trash out and tossed it into the dumpster.

It was done. And Matt would never have to know.

Cheerily, I returned to my cleaning. Hours later, Matt came home.

“Where’s my banana?” He asked me in mid-hug.

I kept my face carefully blank. “Did you have a banana? I don’t remember buying any.”

“We bought some last week. Remember? You made me carry them in a separate basket so they wouldn’t ‘contaminate’ the rest of the groceries.”

“Huh. Well, I guess you ate them all.”

“No I didn’t. There was one left. I was saving it.”

Seriously. Who saves a banana? I did him a favor. He just didn’t realize it yet.

“Maybe you took it to work and left it there. Or maybe it fell out of your bag and it’s in the car.” My mind raced with other plausible excuses as to the whereabouts of the banana.

“Fine. I’ll go check.” He went back down the stairs to the parking lot. I could see him through the kitchen window searching the car for his lost banana. I saw as he turned to look at the dumpster. He looked away and trudged back up the stairs.

As the night wore on, Matt continued to lament the banana, questioning me over and over again about the last time I saw it.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned towards him and said, “It’s gone. I threw it away. It was disgusting. I hate bananas and you know it. It was rotting and brown, and I wanted it out of my kitchen. I told you last week to do something with it and you didn’t. And you know what? I’m not sorry.”

We were both standing now. Squaring off, ready to do battle over the fate of a banana.

 Matt looked at me with dismay. “I know you come from a long line of crazy women, but you lied about a banana.”  Matt grabbed his keys and turned away from me.

“Are you leaving?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

“Where are you going?”

“To buy more bananas.” He kissed me on top of the head, and walked out the door.

 

Matt’s eyes narrowed at me, his hand still clutching the refrigerator door. Haughtily, I sauntered over and pulled the tub of Greek yogurt out from behind the gallon of milk and set it down on the counter.

“Well, you can’t blame me for not trusting you,” he said.

“I’m a changed woman Matt.” I went back to scrubbing the sink and prayed he wouldn’t ask about the cottage cheese.

“I can’t even take out the trash!”

As much as I’d like to think of myself as a fearless woman, I know I’m really not. I’ts OK, I’ve made my peace with this part of my personality. Thank goodness I found a patient loving husband who puts up with my eccentricities.

But, as some of you may know (because of my constant whining this week) my husband is out of town. He’s currently tramping around Eastern Oregon hunting Elk. (“He” by the way is Matt. I’ve mentioned him enough in my blog that I should probably start using his actual name.) However, Matt would say he’s not “tramping”–that would scare away the Elk.

Anyway, it’s been six days now since Matt left and life is getting a little interesting.

On Monday Samson went to doggy day care (Yes. You read correctly. Day care.) If you have questions regarding this decision I refer you back to my post on September 20th, “What I wish I’d Known Before I Got a Great Dane.” Suffice it to say that Samson is not entirely trustworthy when left to his own devices.

There was a Yamhill County police officer at the day care, and Samson lifted his leg on the police vehicle–right in front of the officer. Great. Fantastic. Is that an arrestable offense?  Apparently not. But it is humiliating.

Tuesday morning was garbage day. All I had to do was wheel the garbage can down to the street. Sounds easy enough right? No. There was GIANT spider on the lid. It was so large I could see all eight of its eyes. The garbage man got a pass on our house that morning.

On Wednesday night I had to work until 10:00. Which meant any neighbors peering out their windows got to see me doing my best ninja impression as I kicked open the door to scare any would be intruders who might be lurking in the living room.

So yeah. I’m kind of a wimp. A fact made all the more clear to me after speaking to my sister. I’ve been missing my husband for six days. Her husband (Scott)  has been in Qatar for the last six months. Sure, I have an extra large, extra exuberant dog to care for, but she has two kids.

She’s dealt with minor emergencies, (think seven-year-old boy, a lake, a bike, and a missed jump). She’s had to be both mom and dad to two little one’s who never quite understood just why their dad had to go away for so long.

And I couldn’t even get the trash to the curb. She is one fearless woman.

Happily, Scott returned safely home on Tuesday night. I’m told my niece and nephew tackled him as soon as he walked into the terminal. Their family is back in balance.

Four more days and mine will be too.

Digital Fuzz

I’m sorry.

I tried really really REALLY hard to think of something else to write about for this blog post, but it’s no use. I am officially obsessed. Any extra time I may have this weekend will probably be devoted to this:

Great Dane Puppy Cam  <- (click here to view)

Yes. It is a live, 24 hour web cam featuring eleven squirming, ridiculously cute Great Dane puppies.

I’ve already wasted hours of homework time watching their antics. In fact, I have it streaming right now as I’m writing this post. I’m pretty sure I’ve only written one or two sentences in row before I feel the need to click over and make sure I haven’t missed anything.

Granted, they don’t do much. They just eat and sleep, and make cute puppy faces. But really, who could ask for more?

Last night things really became exciting. A woman was seen changing the blankets on which the puppies and their mama were laying. One by one, she picked up a puppy and placed it in a laundry basket. The basket was overflowing with wiggling puppies, and then (my favorite) the blue dappled pup, climbed over it’s brothers and sisters and tried to make an escape. It was OK though. The woman caught the little one before it fell out of the basket.

It was crazy.

Or maybe I’m crazy? Yeah, that’s probably it.

But seriously, how can anyone not smile while watching these little guys? They have floppy ears for cryin’ out loud! Not even the most cynical stick-in-the-mud can resist floppy ears.

Feeling disgusted or depressed over recent political events? Steal a quick look at these puppies and think about how cute it is when they roll over on their backs.

Midterms stressing you out? Take a virtual cuddle break.

Tired of watching Miley Cyrus shed her dignity on television and every social media site available? These pups are sure to restore your innocence.

Not to mention the fact that these puppies are being raised as service dogs for people with Multiple Sclerosis, those suffering from Friedreich’s Ataxia, and disabled veterans. They will be specially trained to assist individuals with balance.  Danes have the stability and strength of a Mack truck, but are also gentle caretakers, which makes them wonderful service dogs.

In a world with the Walking Dead and Tosh.0, sometimes it’s nice to realize that we don’t need to be shocked and assaulted by entertainment. Sometimes all we need is a puppy.

Required Reading

I really miss reading right now.

Wait.

What?

“Aren’t you an English major?” You ask.

Let me clarify, I REALLY miss reading what I want to read right now.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy reading Nathaniel Hawthorne and James Joyce (okay, I’ll admit I’ve had a hard time enjoying Joyce, some of you know just how hard a time, but the man could not punctuate to save his life, or maybe he could and just chose not to. Either way, it bothers me– a lot.)

Anyway, now is not the time for a James Joyce debate, mostly because it’s Friday afternoon and I lack the required energy and mental capacity to do so.

I apologize if it sounds like I’m whining today and maybe it’s just the cooler weather, but I really really want to curl up with a cozy blanket, a cup of tea (or coffee, or hot chocolate– any hot beverage will do) and a new book.

I am painfully aware of all the wonderfully new and exciting books that other people are reading right now.

Maybe I shouldn’t have stopped by Chapters earlier today. I didn’t even buy a cup of coffee. Instead, I wandered forlornly up and down the aisles, tentatively touching the spines of books I’d like to have bought and taken home.

Now I sit here staring at the ever expanding stack of books  that are gathering dust while they wait for Christmas break to role around.

Every once and while I will re-stack the books in order of which one I will read first. Here’s what my stack looks like right now:

Half Broke Horses, by Jeanette Walls

Bastard Out of Carolina, by Dorothy Allison

Asylum, by Patrick McGrath

Olive Kiteridge, by Elizabeth Strout

Arcadia, by Lauren Groff

The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova

The  Crossing by Cormac McCarthy (He actually has a problem with punctuation too, but it doesn’t seem to bother me the same way it does with Joyce…hmmm, I wonder why?)

Hyperion by Dan Simmons (This one was actually put in the stack by my husband who insists I read it. He said, “It’s a science fiction romp centered around a reincarnated John Keats.” I’ll believe it when I read it. )

For now I guess I’ll just have to count down the days until Christmas break, continue to rearrange my stack of books, and feed my brain with Joyce while my soul starves.

And with that cheery outlook, I think I’ll go make a cup of coffee.

 

 

A Writer and her quirks

Every writer has their quirks and idiosyncrasies about the space in which they write.

Annie Dillard recommends a room without a view “so imagination can meet memory in the dark.” Kurt Vonnegut used his hardwood floors as his desk so that he could spread out piles of papers while he worked from an easy chair. Edith Wharton and James Joyce both wrote from their bed, and Richard Ford described his desk as “more an idea than a place you actually sit at.”

Second only to having a space of your own is the sacred invocation of the Muse. For example, Balzac is said to have drank up to fifty cups of coffee in one day and W.H. Auden twenty-five cups of tea. T.S. Eliot evidently was at his most creative when he had a head cold, and the poet Friedrich von Schiller was rumored to have kept rotten apples under the lid of his desk, open it, inhale deeply, and compose.

Eccentricities aside, the place where we write and they way we come to it is important.

I spent a great deal of time perfecting my own writing place. It’s my fortress of solitude, and I become cranky when it’s disturbed.

I do most of my writing in my office at my great-grandmother’s sewing desk. The drawers are still filled with spools of thread, bits of fabric, and stray pins. I never turn on the overhead light. Instead, I draped white Christmas lights around the book cases and windows which gives the room a warm glow year round. There are fuzzy blankets on the couch and books spilling forth from the shelves on to the floor.

Before I can begin a writing project of any kind, I have to vacuum. I know, its crazy, but at least I don’t keep rotten fruit hanging around. I’ve tried not vacuuming, but I usually just end up sitting and my desk fretting about dirt hiding in carpet fibers.

Once the floor is clean, and a hot cup of tea is steaming next to my laptop, I am finally free to write, or at least to sit and think about writing. I used to worry over time wasted while I sat at my desk not writing, but now I’ve come to accept that this too is part of my process. First the voice of fear and doubt must be banished, the hysteria calmed, and the editor silenced. If a sewing desk, Christmas lights, a clean floor, and cup of tea does that, then so be it.

I doesn’t matter how we come to blank page as long as we come to it.

I’d love to hear about your own writing space and rituals. Feel free to share! Also, the stories on writers and their habits were collected from one of my favorite writing books called, “The Writer’s Book of Days” by Judy Reeves.

What I wish I’d known before I got a Great Dane

Warning: This post contains animal anecdotes, pictures of a Great Dane with a personality disorder, and has been written by one of those crazy people who talk about their dog as if he is a human being. Indulge me if you can. I’ll try not to be too annoying.

I have a lot friends who blog about and post pictures of their children (I think most of us probably do.) Scroll down my Facebook page and you will see dozens of adorable babies and gap toothed smiles. Sometimes I feel a little left out. All I have is this:

This is Samson. His last weigh-in came in at 163 lbs. He’s one and half years old, and I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s a chihuahua. He enjoys cheese, chasing butterflies, and long walks in the rain.

We got him when he was five weeks old. Okay, Okay, I know you’re all just dying to see another picture.

 

We certainly weren’t expecting to come home with a Great Dane puppy Memorial Day weekend 2012. We were only going look at the fourteen puppies frolicking and wiggling around our ankles. You probably know the story already. But, after one look at his heart shaped nose and sweet eyes, I knew that life was going to change. BIG time.

Sammy truly is a gentle giant. But, there are a few things I wish someone would have told me before we brought him home.

1. Yes, they do eat a lot. I won’t horrify you with the total amount we spend on dog food each month, but lets just say we had to cut down on our cable bill.

2. Their tails are powerful and have the potential to clear a coffee table loaded with magazines, remote controls, and coffee cups in a single swish.

3. All food must be kept in a closed pantry. Any edible morsel left laying on the kitchen counter is an invitation for dog drool.

4. You cannot get away with not picking up dog poo. Believe me. When you have the biggest dog in the neighborhood everybody will know who the culprit is and you will quickly become the pariah of  the HOA. (For the record, I always pick it up. It’s the worst.)

5. Invest in a heavy duty leash. I cannot stress this point enough. We just went through our third leash last week. This time he was chasing a dandelion seed when the leash snapped. The demise of his second leash occurred when we met a jogger on a walk. He loves to run and must have thought she needed his company. The three of us ran almost to Main street before I had her convinced with my screams that he wasn’t going to attack her. It was mortifying. I think she may have moved out of the neighborhood.

No matter what kind of shenanigans Samson may get into, I can’t imagine life without him. His big face always seems happy to see me. I know he’s probably just hungry and wants me to sneak him some more cheese, but I like to think that when he leans all 163 lbs against my legs it’s his way of saying, “Don’t worry mom. I’m here.”

Thanks for indulging me just this once. (Unless you want more Samson stories. There’s lots more.) Oh, and here’s one last picture.