26 November 2018

Who's the Turkey Now?

It was Thanksgiving in Three Feathers a few days ago, which meant not only the usual hilarity about a misplaced grand piano (apparently my mother, my two sisters, and I are the only people on the planet ever to have read Home Sweet Homicide, because this joke makes precisely zero sense to the rest of the populace), it also meant that my mother had bought several boxes of Advent candles. I am forty-five damn years old, and I have never once bought my own Advent candles. The two years I lived in Spokane, my mother actually mailed them to me from 2600 miles away. Because, you know...moms.

I pointed this out when my dad called the week before Thanksgiving to find out if I had recently acquired any orphans who would be joining us for dinner (don't laugh, it's happened. More often than not, actually. One year the orphan was trapped at work because an NPR party don't stop, so I brought Thanksgiving to him, but that's another story entirely). Before ringing off, he added, "Oh, and Mother has bought you Advent candles."

What? Of course she has. It would only be news if she hadn't. Between this and Home Sweet Homicide, sometimes I wonder how my dad puts up with us. Then I remember that for five years he and I had a standing date Thursday nights to take out the trash and hold hands on the walk back--our driveway is quite long, so it's enough of a walk to catch up on stuff--and that every time I visit them to this day, I still try to arrange it on a Thursday. When I realised somewhat belatedly that Thanksgiving was a Thursday yet again this year (how does that always happen? And how do I always manage to be surprised by it?) I actually said, "Ooo, it's trash night!"

So yeah. Maybe he's in with the right crowd.

That crowd, however, had a bit of a malfunction this year surrounding the Advent candles. When my mom found my set and tucked them into my briefcase, there were four of us in the room, not counting the turkey. Among the four of us there are five master's degrees, one juris doctor, and fully 9/10 of a Ph.D.

I mention this because it wasn't until two days later than anybody noticed that for the past eight years my Advent wreath gets stored at my parents' house. Which meant it was still in the attic when I left Thursday night, laden with candles and three different kinds of leftover pie.

Every year Solstice manages to forget how fire works.
Also, how the dining room table works, which is by not having cats on it.

22 November 2018

You're Welcome

As I take a breather between pie crusts I am thinking about the way Thanksgiving is in my family. We take our Robert Frost and our Dorothy Day very seriously in these parts.

I think about my senior year in high school when Betsy's family left for Long Island before we got back from marching band, and as we sat down to eat the doorbell rang and there was Betsy holding out a bouquet of flowers she'd stopped at ShopRite for because she didn't want to show up empty handed. "Hi, I'm Betsy. Sara said it was okay to come over?"

And I'm reminded of the first Thanksgiving I ever hosted (my second Thanksgiving away from home; Daryl and I went to Brodsky's our first year) and suddenly calling Meg's mom and saying "Jane, how do you actually cook a turkey?" And five minutes before dinner, Kary and Georgia showed up with a Mrs Smith's pumpkin pie and some whipped cream and said, "We decided we wanted to have Thanksgiving after all, is it okay?"

And the one and only Thanksgiving I was married, when we had Thanksgiving on a Saturday because that's what you do when you're a chef, and all four of our parents and at least a couple of our siblings and some waitstaff from his restaurant and of course Robin showed up and it was a madhouse but it was our madhouse, and Robin just took over everything that my husband wasn't doing without asking if it was okay because he was Robin.

And I think of the night a few years ago when I loaded up my parents' cooler with leftovers to bring to the station for Alien Boy and the desk guard on duty and as I was leaving I heard my dad tell my mom, "I put in the rest of the apple pie to make sure there was enough, was that ok?" and my mom answering, "Good because I was worried that just the pumpkin wouldn't be enough." It was okay. It was more than okay.

It will always be okay. That's what it means, that phrase. It's not a formality when someone says thanks. It's what this house has always stood for, and will always stand for, no matter who occupies it.

You are welcome.

28 October 2018

Got His Goat

A few years back, Alien Boy briefly owned a goat named Oliver Twist. I say "owned" with some looseness, though. First of all, you don't really own an animal if you're Alien Boy. It owns you. Secondly, I recently learned the full story of this hircine acquisition, and....well. How can I say this delicately?

It turns out my boyfriend once stole a goat.

No, it wasn't a fraternity prank, either. He just flat-out yoinked a goat.

Now. Before I make him out to be some sort of professional goat-rustler, poacher, or outright felon, let me explain. This goat was one of a small herd at a local business establishment. Said establishment apparently kept the goats for novelty. They weren't even really a petting-zoo type of establishment. The goats were just....lawn ornaments, corralled in a small pen. To this day neither of us understands it, really, particularly given the specifics of the business. Anyway. Behold, this small array of goats. Behold, Alien Boy partaking of the offerings of this business. Behold, Alien Boy being the most sentimental animal-lover ever to exist in this dimension or any other, sidetracking towards the goats to say hello. And say hello he did, for long enough to notice that one of the goats seemed unwell.

Being a good Alien Boy and aforementioned adorer of Animals, All Sorts, he notified the owners of said business. "One of your goats is ill. He needs attention and possibly a visit to the vet."

The business owners seemed unimpressed with this observation.

Several weeks later, Alien Boy once again visited this establishment, partly for its advertised purpose, but mostly (to be perfectly honest) to visit the goats. His friend was now quite ill. So he approached the business owners again. "Your goat is still very, very sick. I'm really worried about him."

No particular response, and no action. A few nights later, on passing the business, the goat was still there, and still quite obviously not thriving.

So Alien Boy hatched a plan. He borrowed a friend, and her truck, and under cover of darkness, they....shall we say liberated the goat, and brought it back with them. A visit to the vet confirmed that, yes, the goat was in dire straits and not likely to live. Being who he is, my beloved partner brought the goat into his home.

And I mean into his home.

Oliver Twist
Oh, yes. Yes he did. It quickly became clear that he would not be nursing his new-found friend back to health, but rather making his last days comfortable and filled with love.

And friends, filled with love it was. Oliver Twist slept wrapped in towels by the fire, handfed the finest grass and maple leaves the abundant yard could provide. Towards the end, when he was unable to muster much of an appetite, Alien Boy played him classical music on the CD player, which believe it or not actually worked. Only when listening quietly to his favourite composers could Oliver Twist summon the energy to eat.

Sadly, Oliver Twist was not long for this world. He never got to live outside the way most goats do, for it was a chilly spring when he came home to live with Alien Boy. He is buried out in the backyard now, with the bell from his collar to mark his grave under the maple tree that nourished him. And a week after he died, the friend who helped save him brought over a hand-felted replica of Oliver Twist, who now resides atop the mantelpiece clock.

How he would like to be remembered
This story, though, does not have a sad ending. Oliver Twist may no longer be with us (which, frankly, the cats are pretty relieved about, as uncertain as they were about sharing their domicile with something hooved. And let's face it, those diamond pupils are pretty creepy to see staring at you when you get up to pee in the middle of the night.) but the memory of his suffering is much redeemed by the vision of my beloved partner tying on his metaphorical superhero cape in the dark of night and going off into the wilds of suburban New Jersey to abscond with some livestock. And then bringing it home, and not only letting it inside, but letting it on the couch with him while he watched The Rachel Maddow Show.

Truth be told, I'm kind of sad I wasn't able to go along on the rescue mission. Because that would have been an awesome thing to add to my resume.

22 February 2018

It Seemed Worth Mentioning

I've been pretty open recently about my struggles with depression and self-harm. This afternoon I had to fill out the NCHA survey--and remind me to tell you how funny it is to fill that form out as a 45-year-old. All of the sexual health questions are geared toward people half my age, and don't take into account that my partner is in his fifties. All of the alcohol-related questions are geared toward assessing binge drinking and hazing-type behaviours--and while I greatly appreciate this at a university that saw four students brought to the ER last semester for alcohol poisoning, I can't adequately convey in my answers the part where mostly when I drink, it's with my parents. At the dinner table. Or occasionally to celebrate someone's retirement. We are dealing with a whole different set of relationship issues, here, fellas.

Anyway, that's not the point. The point is this. I thought some of you might like to know.

06 December 2017

Meet Me in STL (a brief interlude)

Scene: Lambert St. Louis International Airport.

I’m finishing up some research on my layover when a man in his late fifties sits next to me at the charging station and starts a random chatty conversation. I have never understood why men in their late middle age want to talk to me. Like, can you not see I am nose-deep in Henry David Thoreau?

Anyway, he peppers me with friendly questions while we charge our iPhones on a power strip of dubious electrical safety. There's a steady patter: am I headed home, was I here on business, oh wow Nashville, so what was I doing, oh he’s an engineer so he wouldn't know about any of that but his daughter’s favourite class in high school is English, that’s really neat. I’m not really in the mood, but by this point it's impossible to follow what old Henry is saying (though really, what else is new) so what the hell. Besides which, having just recently finished boneless wings and a pretty decent craft beer, I'm feeling fairly amiable. (Also, this may have some bearing on my critical inability to follow Thoreau's train of thought. You'd think it'd actually help.)

Talk turns to his older son, in the Navy. He’s in IT, somehow; I can’t really follow because I don’t speak IT, but I ask where he’s stationed out of. The man pulls his baseball cap out of his carry-on and proudly shows me the embroidered USS Iwo Jima emblazoned on the front. I suppress a grin and tell him that by coincidence my cousin is also on the Iwo. We marvel a bit, the man and I, at how small the world sometimes is, and he wonders aloud if his son knows my cousin. By this point I am laughing. Hard. I tell him yeah, I’m pretty sure he does. The man is not convinced, because it’s a fairly decent sized ship, and what does my cousin do?

Well, er, he’s the captain.

So there’s a pretty good chance your kid has at least heard of him.

18 November 2017

Unexpectedly Inconvenient Ways In Which My Body Would Like to Remind Me I Am Still In Recovery, Mid-November Edition

Some of this I genuinely did not see coming.
  •  Grading 40 papers by hand instead of online. Who even knew I moved my shoulder that much when I wrote? It’s a puzzle.
  •  Pulling up my pants. (And don’t even talk to me about tights.) Down, on the other hand, is no problem whatsoever. Make of that what you will. 
  •  Talking on the phone. Sorry I missed your call, but I only have one arm that reliably goes up past 90 degrees, and I was already using it for something. 
  • Feline affection. Solstice is a head-butter and a climber, and his favourite safe space is draped over my left shoulder. This dates back to kittenhood, when he was cute and wee and could nestle in the crook of my neck. Now that he’s approximately the size (not to mention shape) of a walrus, it’s somewhat less graceful under the best of circumstances.
Happier times
  • Trying to get out of this fucking bra. 
  • Flailing academic gestures, all sorts. If you’ve ever spoken to me in person, this needs no further commentary. 
  • Backing into parking spaces. Backing out of parking spaces. Backwards in general remains somewhat of a mystery in my life. 
  •  Can I carry this full cup of coffee all the way back to Drown without stopping to switch hands? Possibly yes, probably no. (Bonus points for catching that reference.) But I am definitely letting you open that door. 
  • Hair. Anything relating to hair. Combing hair. Washing hair. Styling hair. The fact that hair manages to exist so far away from my current range of motion.
Seriously. How did that get over there?
  • Pillowcases. Pillowcases are far harder than I imagined. I was prepared for fitted sheets. I was not prepared for pillowcases. And yet, I agreed to this lunacy, so here we are.

08 October 2017

I Can Write This Dissertation With One Hand Tied Behind My Back

Which turns out to be a good thing.

Meanwhile, our fearless (ha! it's called acting chops) heroine has in fact run out of non-surgical options for her dominant shoulder and is looking down the teeny-tiny barrel of arthroscopic surgery in ten days. I made the mistake of googling--seriously, I know this, the first advice I always give to sick or injured people is NEVER GOOGLE--and discovered that per my diagnosis they are removing sections of not one but two bones in the joint.


So on top of having 40 papers to grade every four weeks, umpteen job applications to submit that all have different requirements for the writing sample, and a partner who has once again been eaten by the Blair Witch (it's ok, we know where she works), I now have to do all of this with one arm. It's going to take me forever to do things like brush my teeth, forget empty the cat box.

Which reminds me, actually. I'm off to go do just that, then grade some of that pile of papers.

I cannot convey to you the level of suckitude this week has contained. And that's not even getting into the real troubles, like several hundred maimed people in Las Vegas or the fact that Tom Petty died twice on Monday.

Bitey Bird is not pleased.