Whenever I'm feeling depressed (which is--stupidly--a frequent occurrence), I just trot on over to zombo.com and let them make me feel welcome.

Other weird things from Doyle and Alex:

http://www.freshsensation.com/samorost.swf
http://yugop.com/ver2/
http://www.lares.dti.ne.jp/%7Eyugo/storage/monocrafts_ver3/03/index.html
http://www.sonicteam.com/chao/
http://www.linkydinky.com/dewkiller.shtml
http://www.gvetchedintime.com/

Today was Catherine's big volunteer day with the Monroe County Humane Association. Every year she helps organize the Walk for the Animals, and every year I fail to show up. I finally made it there today, though, and even walked the circuit with Erika and Henry (oh, and the dogs, Foghat and Dinah). Many, many, MANY happy dogs out there today.

I've decided I'm just too high strung to be a dog owner. They never stop moving, never! You'd think I'd never owned a dog, but that's not the case. It's just that having a dog in the family when you're growing up is vastly different from being solely responsible for the beast. Can't do it, I don't think. Not home enough, not patient enough when I am home. I'd snap in a second. I can barely handle our nutcase kitten, imagine what would happen to my nerves if I added a basset hound to the mix.

What, exactly, is feminist architecture? The problem with architectural theory/history is that when it really comes down to building a structure that occupies social space, there is only a very tenuous relationship between the words on the page and the nails in the wall. Most architectural historians have no practical experience with building; in fact, I can't think of a single one of my friends working in the field who have actually built a house...or even a shed. It's all theoretical. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE theory, but lately I've been wondering what I can offer to the world as a designer/builder that I couldn't offer as a historian, and I keep coming back to this idea of building as a feminist. It's an entirely different endeavor than writing as a feminist, I think.

As a historian, as a writer, I'm perpetually occupied with the is and the was, rather than the what could be. And perhaps that is the great flaw of architectural theory--it's very seldom speculative, no science fiction allowed. It's not that writing isn't creative, and I've always maintained that writing history isn't much different that writing a historic novel (you just have to provide more footnotes), but it's still primarily occupied with examining what has already happened instead of what might happen in the future. There are architectural critics writing about what they are seeing right now, but those buildings are already the past, already built, already alive. I want to get to them before that stage, when I can still change them into something I believe in. Not that I necessarily believe that the built environment can be transformative, but just in case it is, I want my mind and hands involved at an early point in the design process.

So, what is my responsibility as a [liberal/feminist/lesbian/socialist] designer? At a very basic level, I want a building that functions more than I want anything else. I'm an advocate for universal healthcare; likewise, I believe all humans should have the right to safe, functional, and sanitary dwellings. While the intellectual in me really loves buildings that challenge our conceptions of how space is supposed to work (Eisenman's Wexner Center comes to mind), I think those kind of structures should be designed only for quasi-public spaces (places like museums *not* gov't buildings, which should always provide equal, non-challenging access to public services). I don't believe every human needs a 3,000 sq. ft. house. In fact, I don't think *any* human needs a 3,000 sq. ft. house. Our society craves privacy and individualized space, but you don't need a behemoth of a house to gain that.

Huge houses are socially irresponsible on many fronts. In materials alone, they are devastating the planet. Yes, you can raise timber for wood-framed houses on plantations (monoculture bad!), but what about all the remaining building materials? Synthetic insulation, composition roofing shingles, vinyl siding, even latex paint is bad news. Everything is required in greater quantities, even the pipe to run cold and hot water supplies. Plus, the bigger the footprint of the house, the more soil you disturb during the building process. The more ground you cover, the more problem you have with run-off. More sq. ft. means more space to heat. It's just not an environmentally wise decision.

This is one thing I like about Habitat of for Humanity. Their mission is to build "simple, decent, affordable houses" for as many people as possible, so they build small houses so they can afford to build more. I love the compactness of the plans. This is also why I like working for Bloomington Restorations. By renovating historic homes for low-income buyers, we're not necessarily using less building material--it can take as much to renovate as build from scratch--but older homes tend to be smaller and thus waste fewer resources over the life of the house once we've got it insulated and energy efficient.

So, as a liberal environmentalist, energy efficient affordable housing is huge in my book. But as a feminist? There has to be something more. There has to be a recognition that single-family dwellings don't work for the majority of women (even though that's all we design in school). For instance, in my own family, my great niece is being raised by her mother and her grandmother. To make the living arrangements work, they had to completely remodel the grandmother's house, converting a garage into a living space for the mother, which turned out to be a huge hassle because zoning laws didn't take into account that two adults might be co-habitating and still need separate bedrooms. A cursory survey of statistics indicates that there are something like 12 million single parents in the U.S., and according to the U.S. Census Bureau Household and Family Characteristics March 1998, 84% of children who live with one parent live with their mother. Clearly, my family isn't particularly unusual.

Let's face it. Men aren't going to do the work for us. I'm not into all that 1970s womyn-loving-wimmin-helping-womon ideology, but I do think that I should probably start taking care of my own if I can. Women shouldn't have to modify traditional dwellings to meet their needs, that certainly doesn't fall under "best practices" for architects. There is a paucity of affordable housing designed for single parents, and maybe I should think about working to change that. I wouldn't be alone, there are already organizations like Women's Housing and Economic Development Corporation and Women's Research and Development Center (teaching women how to install drywall!) doing things like this. I don't know why I can't contribute to the movment.

To finish this long-winded post, a list of some of my favorite affordable housing projects (feminist or otherwise), taken from the Affordable Housing Design Advisor:

Holladay Avenue Homes, San Francisco, California
YWCA Family Village, Redmond, Washington
Viviendas Asistenciales, Tuscon, Arizona
Melrose Court, Bronx, New York
The Reservoir, Madison, Wisconsin

Random thoughts for the day:

1. Obviously the majority of the people in California are on crack. How else can you explain the fact that Arnold is still in the race? Good on the Oakland Tribune for rescinding its endorsement of him, bad on the Oakland Tribune for thinking he was a good candidate in the first place.
   
2. Is it my imagination, or is the entire world suddenly looking at my hair? Time to shave it off. Half way through today's concert, our conductor was advising me to play out because I had a significant snare part on the next song. "You have to play out because you're playing into the wind. I can tell you are, because your hair is standing straight up." So, I started the song thinking about the feasibility of a buzz cut instead of the music.
   
3. I hate people, I really, really do. We went to the discount movie theater today to watch Finding Nemo, and the place was crawling with children. One mother left her young son alone in our row to hold down four seats while she went and gathered her other two kids. Pretty soon, here come these two adults trying to take this kid's seats away from him. He was obviously not going to be able to hold them off, so I said that I thought that they were saved, but the woman was all, "Well, I'm going to sit there, anyway" and tried to push past my legs. I repeated myself, and her boyfriend said, "Seats aren't taken until someone is sitting in them." Relax, dude! Don't you have better things to do then push this little boy around? What is it with people? I find it hard to believe we will ever have peace in the middle east when two supposedly mature adults think it's okay to push around a little kid.
   
4. Living with Catherine is a lot like living with a blue tang fish named Dory.
   

How embarrassing.

Today, I missed the green left-hand turn arrow because I was thinking about baseball, of all things. I glanced up and saw the arrow turn yellow, and finally realized the car behind me was honking. I wanted to apologize, but what would I say anyway? "Sorry about that left turn thing, I was thinking about the World Series." Right.

When I was a kid, we lived pretty close to Tacoma. Some of my best memories are of my mom popping up a big grocery bag full of popcorn, and then my parents loading us all into the van to go watch Triple A ball at Cheney Stadium. I still think fondly of that greasy paper bag being passed up and down our row of box seats behind home plate.

Tacoma was a farm team for a lot of different clubs and they had a lot of different mascots--they were the Twins when we first started watching them, and then I think they became the Tugs. They were the Tigers the last time I saw them, part of the feeder system for the Oakland A's. I loved that last season--it was Jose Canseco's last (and I believe first) year in the minors. He showed up mid-summer, and our attendance record went up accordingly. We were all about seeing Jose play.

The last game I went to in Tacoma was Canseco's last game in the minors. We were bitterly disappointed when we arrived and saw that he wasn't dressed--we came to see him! But then this rumor started going through the crowd: he'd been called up, he was going to the Big Leagues! Ah...I get a sports tear in my eye just remembering the feelings of anticipation and excitement because of one of *our boys* got called up. He didn't play that night, but he did step out and hit a few home runs for the fans. Bashed three over the wall at center field, then stepped across the plate and did the same thing batting left. It was awesome.

Well, he was great to watch, he was the 40-40 man, after all. Before everything started going wrong, before he became a perpetual member of the disabled list and/or police blotter. Somewhere in there, around the time he was traded to Texas, I stopped watching baseball, and the strike made that a more or less permanent decision for me. Yeah, I've still got my collection of baseball cards hanging around, and I still think they're cool, but I guess I don't really watch much ball anymore.

Well, this is a long-winded explanation of why I've decided to go for Oakland to win the Fall Series. I know that "chicks dig the long ball" and all that, but that small-ball moment Oakland had the other night against Boston reminded me that I really need to be rooting for the home team, and for me, that would still be Oakland. So, I apologize to my partner, who is backing the Cubbies, and I apologize to my friend, who is going for the Giants, but I'm all in it for the A's. Or, as the t-shirt says, "My favorite team is Oakland...and whoever is playing against Atlanta."

Play ball.

Well, now I get to make a choice.

I've been pretty good at just letting things slide at work, letting my co-workers talk about whatever the heck they want to talk about. If it gets too bad, I just say something like, 'Hey, chick in the dough room, and she doesn't want to hear about your equipment, okay?" and everyone just laughs and I usually succeed in getting the subject changed. I haven't complained about the music, I haven't complained about the punk rock boys calling each other "bitch," I haven't really done much of anything except my job.

But really, should I have to listen to this at work? I thought I was doing pretty good letting this one slip by without comment, but I'm not sure I can keep my mouth shut if I have to listen to this one again. I don't know, the only other woman in the kitchen doesn't complain, and I feel like I shouldn't, either, but really, can I really be expected to be happy about going to work when I know this stuff is going to be going full blast all day long?

When I was on the plane from St. Louis, there was this kid sitting back one seat from me but across the aisle. About half way to Indy, I heard him say, "You can still see Mars! That's bullshit! That's just bullshit! You can still see Mars!" Now I wish I had turned around and asked him why that was such a problem.

Hockey weather.

It's a beautiful autumn afternoon, bright and sunny, but cool enough that you need a long sleeved t-shirt or sweatshirt over your shorts. A perfect day to be heading toward the rink with your equipment bag pulling on your shoulder, and your stick banging against your shins as you kick it across the parking lot. Early season ice, pristine and clear and hard, just waiting for the bite of your blade, the feather of a C-cut spraying toward the boards. The blue line gives way to the red line and then you're back out of the zone again, circling around the center and back over the blue again, forward then backward, that mohawk turn isn't quite right. Adjust your laces, check your outside edge. Quick start, sudden stop, take a breath, do it again.

It's a great day for hockey.

The real question is: what the hell do they feed their yellow jackets on the West Coast? I wanna know. 48 hours later, and I still feel like someone jabbed a hot needle through my knuckle. A knitting needle, if I'm not mistaken. What's up with that?

Well, I meant to audioblog while I was gone, but mostly I couldn't be bothered. Too much stuff going on, too little time. Waaay too little time.

I can barely remember the flight out, it seems like it was five years ago. Oh, wait. Air sickness, that's right. I wish I had known that was going to be the leitmotif of the weekend's symphony..."Here's Susan feeling sick on the plane, here's Susan feeling sick on the train...in the car...on the plane again...at dinner...in bed...at the park...at the wedding..." What a fucking waste of energy, an endless fugue of illness and pain.

Anyway, despite that, it was an easy trip to Portland, and an easy trip to Sacramento and then Chico from there.

I think Friday went okay. Well, right--I think my heart stopped when Catherine announced Susana's arrival, but CPR wasn't actually required, so that's okay. It ended up being a pretty nice, low-key evening of shopping and dinner and chatting. I managed to spill coffee on myself (twice by Monday, in fact), but I mostly just thought it was funny.

But, yeah, I wish I could have most of Saturday back to do over. There were really good parts of it, like walking in Bidwell Park, but by the time the wedding rolled around, I was so sick all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry. It should be easy to spot me in the wedding photos--I'm the one who looks like she's about to pitch forward and crack her head open on the concrete. It's really too bad, the wedding was at the most beautiful spot up on the Skyway, but I honestly think Susana enjoyed herself more than I did, and they weren't even her relatives. Well, I've hidden away a few moments from the day to take out later and enjoy them, and hopefully the rest of it will just fade from memory after a bit.

I am so fucking un-butch, I almost asked Susana to drive us home from the wedding. But I probably would have burst into tears, and that would have been absolutely humiliating. It's kind of funny now, I had this raging dialogue with myself the entire way down the canyon, telling myself "You cannot wreck the car. You cannot. You have your wife, your mother-in-law, and your greatest friend in here, and you will hold it together and get them home. You CAN.NOT.WRECK.THE.CAR." And I didn't. Didn't hit that 'possum, either, so it all worked out okay in the end.

And when we got home, we watched Roger and Me and quite frankly, once you've contemplated life in Flint, Michigan, it doesn't matter how crappy you feel--your life can only look perfect in comparison.

Oh. Someone should have reminded me of that on Sunday when I was bitching at Catherine. I could have used it. I know everyone else was still in wedding mode, but I had my eye on my watch the entire time, watching the rest of my weekend tick away. Watching, and getting more and more annoyed because I wanted to be out of Chico, on my way south, a lot earlier than we were. I am so high-strung, I don't know how Catherine stands it. I didn't even begin to relax until we hit Sacramento.

I'm not sure when I totally relaxed. Definitely by Monday morning. When the alarm went off, I had the passing thought that I should get out of bed and take a shower before anyone saw my hair, but that was pretty quickly replaced with an "Ah, screw it, I'm too tired." And ten minutes later, S. did me the favor of pointing out that it was indeed sticking up all over--a true friend :)

The interesting thing about the internet that I'd never really thought about before--it masks motion. E-mail is static, web pages are mostly static, and you just don't get the sense that someone is actually moving around behind those words. Sitting and typing, more likely. Well, I discovered that Susana is a perpetual motion machine. I saw a bit of it on Friday and Saturday, but wow, once she hit her own front door, it was amazing, especially since I was still in "don't make me move" mode. It is absolutely fantastic to watch someone inhabit their own space, it really is (even if it was a bit dizzying to watch her toast a bagel). But what *really* got me was that her rapidity was punctuated by these moments of absolute stillness when she was thinking. I would ask a question, and everything would just freeze for a few seconds. The first couple times it happened, I thought it was just that she hadn't heard me or something, then I realized, Oh my god, she's actually trying to give me a well-thought out answer. How cool is that? Cool, and for some reason endearing. I don't know, I can't explain it. Just a completely opaque and silent moment when I have no idea if she's going to say yes, no, or fuck off, like she's drawn into herself examining the possibilities. I don't know, just very, very cool.

Needless to say, Monday was my favorite day of the whole trip. At one point, I was trailing after her (if I am ever cast in a Hollywood film, it will be as the sidekick, eternally drifting along behind the protagonist), heading toward her pickup, and I suddenly channeled myself at 10, 11, 12, when I used to follow my cousin, Sheryl, around in this hero-worship sort of manner, all excited because she was going to take me along where ever she was going, and maybe if I was good and quiet and didn't sing off key, she would let me stay on. All that was missing this weekend was the 8-track player in the truck. Otherwise, I was totally there for a few seconds.

I just needed more time. Time to not be sick, time to get rid of my family obligations, time to just *be*. Hopefully some day. I don't know, as I was standing in Liz's yard, trying not to look like an idiot because everyone was staring at me, I felt just like an angry three year old, robbed of my favorite toy (C: Why are you crying? S: I don't want her to go! Make her come back!).

Yeah. Anyway. I'm trying to console myself with the fact that I should get a lot of mileage out of the broken toilet handle over the next couple of years.

It is SO COLD in Indiana. Completely cruel to give me sunny, warm California for a few days, then plunge me into freezing temperatures. The flight from St. Louis, which was delayed *forever* came sans heater. We did manage to get home five and a half hours before I had to be at work, and now that I'm home from there, I'm getting in some quality time with the cats. Life ain't all bad.

Well...Friday is the Big Day. Everything is packed except the pair of denim shorts currently in the washing machine, I'm printing out directions to our hotel, Catherine is wrapping the wedding present for Anne and Eric, and I just ate a chocolate chip cookie. Can't think of anything else I need to do...damn, I'm probably missing something.

I really hate to fly, always have, always will. But I have to admit, I'm looking forward to having an excuse to do absolutely nothing except sleep for a few hours. I am so tired. I sat down after work this afternoon to talk to the cats, and fell asleep before I could even think about not doing so. I'd probably still be crashed out if Catherine hadn't called me mid-afternoon to ask me...something...what? Can't remember, I was asleep at the time.

Okay. I'm going to take a shower, clear Catherine's stuff off the bed and crash, not to move again until 4 a.m. tomorrow morning. Then I am going to drag my sorry self up to Indy, get on a plane, sleep through the entire flight to Oregon, and wake refreshed and rejuvenated when we touch down in Portland. Enjoy a night in 'burbs with the 'rents and get a good night's sleep.

Then I'm going to fly to Sacramento, drive to Chico, and...then what? Worry for a couple hours? Doesn't matter, 'cause after that, I'm going to spend the rest of the weekend having a great time, no worries at all. This is going to be good.

And all is good.

Tommy stopped me at work this morning with the ever-so-ominous "can I talk to you in my office for a few minutes?" question. Damn, busted for chewing out the delivery driver, I knew it. But he actually wanted to apologize to *me* instead of me apologizing to him for my unprofessional behavior. He said he was sorry the driver behaved like a jerk, and that if it happened again, to let him know and he'd do something about it. In fact, he offered to formally write up the incident (yeah, like I want a statement in my personnel record that reads, "and then I told him to quit being such a fucking asshole and stormed out the cooler swearing like a sailor!") so if it comes up in the future, I'll have the documentation on my side. Anyway, I told him I wished I'd used a little less profanity, or even just walked away, and he just laughed and said I did the right thing.

I can tell I'm not in my own world--there were plenty of people to cuss out at my other jobs, but I would have been fired in a heartbeat if I'd actually done it. Here, everything is all, "Susan kicks ass!"

Really, the sign that I'm not in my own world is in how my co-workers handle their paychecks. Today was payday, and during break, I sat through a discussion on where the best place in town is to get checks cashed, who charges the lowest fee? These guys are living in such precarious circumstances--financially and otherwise--that they don't even have bank accounts. Not enough money to warrant a checking account. Well, one of the punk rock boys has a checking account "but that's just so [he] can use the ATM card as a second ID for buying alcohol." At least we're not there yet (gotta go find some real wood to knock on).

It was a nice evening, hot air balloon weather (saw three of them), but I had to cut my run short because it was getting dark. Too bad, because it started raining right when I got home, and it would have been nice to finish up in the wet. I probably could have kept up, even in the dark, since there were a lot of people around at the park--I mean, people who weren't drug dealers--but I hate running through the woods when I can't see. Probably perfectly safe, but I guess I don't really want to test that assumption.

If I don't get lazy while I'm out of town, I'll be back up to 60-minute runs by the end of the month. Right. Don't get lazy when you go on vacation. Nice goal, too bad it never works out that way.

The fleet.

A drakkar sails the glassy seas of our CD player.


Pourqoui-pas? spends some time in dry dock.


The Pamir rolls atop the wild blue ocean of our washing machine.

Well...today I told one of the delivery drivers at work to fuck off. I don't think I've ever told anyone in my life to fuck off, especially no one at work. So, that was a first. Actually, I said a lot more than just fuck off, but I can't remember all the profanity verbatim. He came into the dough room and asked who was prime rolling, and I said I was, and he went off on how my trays were supposed be straightened by the time he came to pick them up. Jay jumped up and said he'd show me how to do it--I'm still in training after all, and I don't have everything down yet--but the driver kept ragging on me while Jay was helping me. He was all "You just cost everyone three and a half cents in production bonus because we had to stop and do this," and that was so wrong, because I'm still in training and my hours don't count against his bonus. He should wish they did, because I've been doing a good job at prime rolling. I started to point that out to him, and he said, "Well, I expect the rest of the trays to be downstacked by the time I get back from my delivery run," as if he was my boss or supervisor or anyone besides a fucking delivery driver.

So, I let him have it. Told him to fuck off, quit being such a fucking jerk, blah blah blah, and walked out of the walk-in cooler more or less yelling, "Jesus Fucking Christ!" And the guys in the dough room thought that was pretty damn funny. Rory said, "The thing you gotta know, Susan, is that he's an asshole, you just gotta get used to it." And my answer was, "He can be an asshole all he wants, but not around me because I'm not getting paid enough to put up with that crap. He wants to be an asshole, he can take it somewhere else."

I now have a solid reputation with the punk rock boys. Jay said he'd put five bucks on me in a fight against anyone,and that he thought it was the right move, if I'd just kept quiet and walked out, the driver would have just nagged me about something else the next time. And Rory said now everyone knows--don't fuck with Susan, 'cause she'll kick your ass.

Once I calmed down, I was really embarrassed, I mean, how immature can you get, cussing out a delivery driver in the cooler? Not to mention the fact that this is exactly how you lose a job. But on the other hand, he won't mess with me ever again. And he did come back later in the afternoon and apologize, saying he was just joking. I accepted that lie and his apology, and we're all good now. Just don't fuck with me, man.

You know you're a dork when...

you find yourself in the public library searching for a book by size, because you know you can fit a paperback into the side pocket of your work shorts, so hey, why let those fifteen minute breaks go to waste when you could be reading? It's the first time I've ever scanned bookshelves for reading material strictly based on size. This one is too tall, this one is too thick, this one is too wide. Finally ended up w/a Penguin reprint of something or other. Probably going to get me beat up by the punk rock kids.

Catherine just came in and told me I look like a heroin addict, bruises all down my forearm from loading fiberglass dough trays. It may be this look will help me fit in at the office.

It took me two hours today to slice 41 pounds of tomatoes. I don't know what optimal tomato slicing speed is, but that seems pretty slow to me.

I feel like I'm working in the middle of a sociology experiment. We've got the twenty-something year old losers, who probably could work outside of food service if they could just control their binge drinking. One of them promised he was going to start his night out with nine beers--at least--at the Texas Roadhouse, and I found myself trying to calculate it all out: how many hours do you have to work at 6.25/hour to pay for the first nine beers? Not to mention the other half case he's apparently going to try and down at home.

Then there's the teenager who barely made it through high school (her own admission). If it hadn't been for that art class, her favorite class in which she got a D, she never would have made it through high school at all. The big drama of the weekend is that she noticed the blades of the vegetable chopper were still rotating, so she stuck her hand inside the machine--to stop the blades? I don't know, but that finger will probably never be the same.

Then there's the musician who reminds me of a character off Jerry Seinfeld. Stuck in this job as part of his alcohol and drug rehab program, apparently. He can't really play with the band anymore, because he isn't allowed in bars, the program prohibits it. He lost his old job because it required a driving license, which he lost due to a DUI (or more? how many do you need before they take your license away?) So, here he is, trying to make the kids stop listening to punk rock and listen to Buddy Guy in the dough room instead.

A couple of recent immigrants. One is from Nicaragua via Chicago, his wife is a student. He seems pretty nice, at least he has a nice smile. The other one is--I'm guessing based on the last name--from Afghanistan. I can't figure him out, half the time he seems belligerent, half the time he seems jokey, and I just don't know him well enough to really know how to take him.

A few I really haven't talked to enough yet. Hometown boy with a cross around his neck, about to celebrate his six-month anniversary with his girlfriend. She's plays the clarinet in marching band at one of the high schools. Another guy, apparently also a musician, who just seems really down on his luck, no money, no car, not really from around here. Another hometown girl who seems like she started working here as something to do, and maybe just got trapped.

And the boss, perpetual motion kind of guy, too much coffee, but I like him. Things definitely run better when he's around. He left the twenty-somethings in charge for two days this past week, and nothing really went right the entire he was gone.

I could do with a little less punk rock music, maybe a few pounds fewer tomatoes, definitely a few more dollars an hour, but otherwise, it's okay. It's only temporary, right?

Really, if my parents didn't want me to turn into a liberal, socialist radical, they shouldn't have let me watch Sesame Street when I was a kid.

This evening we went to see Sonia Manzano (a.k.a. "Maria" from Sesame Street) speak on campus. When I was five or six, my greatest goal in life was to move in with Susan and Gordon, and then marry Maria. She was always hanging out with that David guy, though.

So, her talk was called "The Importance of Hispanic Role Models," and I suppose there was nothing too unexpected in it. Mostly a narrative of growing up in the Bronx as a first generation transplant from Puerto Rico, lacking role models in the mass media, setting out to become one via Sesame Street. I'm guessing a lot of the people in the auditorium were born after 1980, so they probably got a bit of a history lesson. All good stuff.

One thing that surprised me was her admission that she had just recently realized there were other "types" of Latina/o groups in the U.S. She gave the example of talking to a woman on the phone whose last name was Gutiérrez. This woman had a Texan accent, and Manzano assumed she was anglo, married to someone of Mexican descent. Then when she met this woman--and all her friends who also had Texan accents and preferred line dancing to the merengue--she was quite shocked to find they were of Mexican descent. So, now she's interested in learning more about the diversity of the Latino population in the U.S. I'm sorry but how could she just be discovering this? I shouldn't hold her to a higher standard just because she's Latina, I guess, it's like people thinking I should know everything about queer theory just because I'm a dyke, but...wow.

Anyway, it just got me thinking about how very urban she was--and also how urban Sesame Street is. The mission statement of Sesame Street states more or less that the show is intended to give underprivileged ethnic minority children a leg up in life, helping prepare them for school by teaching them things with examples from their own environment, using people who reflect their ethnic backgrounds. I never really thought about it as a 5-year-old, but looking at the clips she showed, and listening to her, it just struck me that the whole endeavor is aimed at the inner city. Well, obviously, it's a New York themed show, but it suddenly seemed so insular to me. It sounds like I'm criticizing Sonia Manzano and the show, but I'm not really, I was just really struck by the fact that she didn't realize their were other ways to be Latina, and that there is a huge rural population still not reflected on the show. Something for me to think about for a few days, I guess.

It was a good talk, especially the monster video clips (!), but it actually ended on a bit of a tense and disappointing note. Someone in the audience asked during the Q&A if there were ever going to be any gay characters, and her answer was an emphatic "No." She went on to say that they only dealt with children's issues. They deal with AIDS because a lot of children have AIDS, but children just aren't dealing with sexuality issues. I was turning to Catherine to say, "My god, where is this woman from?" when someone else in the audience raised his hand and said, "Well, I'm a little confused. You've been saying that your show is all about showing people role models, and I meet gay people every day who were hurt the same way you were, not seeing positive role models on TV. And anyway, sexuality aside, don't you think there are a lot of children out there who have gay parents, and would benefit from seeing something like that on Sesame Street?" She admitted he had a point, but still said it wouldn't be happening. And the Q&A session came to an end.

I guess it's safe to say Maria and I won't be getting married anytime soon.

I just really liked The Prize Winner of Defiance, Ohio. Of the three books I've read so far this weekend, it turned out to the be the one that made my mind sit still for awhile. If Willa Cather had told this story, it would have been flat and bleak and cold, but instead it turned into something more celebratory and kind when told by the author.

I finished Lucy Jane Bledsoe's this wild silence last night--so far past my bedtime it wasn't funny. I like Bledsoe's work, she has a firm style of writing, and I enjoyed Working Parts. In the end, however, I ended up feeling a little disappointed that the plot wasn't a little more opaque. I felt almost as if I had already read a synopsis of the story and knew what was going to happen and how it ended before I even started reading.

The jury is still out on Wrong Beach Island. The title put me off initially--too intentionally clever. I think it's hard to just jump into the middle of a series, all the character development tends to happen in the first one or two books, and if you don't take the time to go back and read them, everything feels one-dimensional. I never bought the relationship between Andy and Meg...oh, excuse me, *Maggie* and I generally just thought she wasn't very clever. Another case of feeling like I'd read the plot line before actually reading the book.

On to the next book. Yes, I know I should be doing homework.

David asks the hardest questions.

I was fantastically happy to hear his voice on the phone yesterday. David! Where the hell have you been? It's like he came back from New Zealand and then just disappeared into a rain cloud out in Oregon somewhere. Best friends aren't supposed to do that. I feel like I've been one phone number, one address behind him for the past two years, and I'd all but given up on him at this point.

No matter. Totally doesn't matter. I'm just happy to have him alive and well and back in my life. And it's like this. He apologizes for not staying in touch: "Well, Susanna, I was going to call you, but I wanted to surprise you and tell you I passed the Oregon bar, but then I had to postpone taking it until July, and I just heard, I passed!" My god, I'm happy for him. I've never seen anyone work so hard for so long. Someone should write a book about his guy, he never gives up. And he never gets bitter. If someone builds a wall in front of him, he just steps back and considers, "Hmm..I could go over it, around it, or through it. Which would be most efficient?" and then he does it. I would have just taken my toys and gone home. Not David. He is just an amazing, amazing man. Oh, look....I'm gushing. "But wait, Susanna," he continues, "that's not all! When I passed the bar, the firm at which I've been working offered me a partnership." Fantastico! And he's living on an 11-acre ranch outside Eugene. And he has a girlfriend. And life is just perfect.

And man, I'm pleased. Pleased that everything is working out for him, but mostly just pleased to hear his voice again. I'd forgotten how much I loved him.

But I'll admit, after celebrating his success, I almost just shined one on when he asked me how things had been gong. I could have told him it couldn't be better, that I'm happier than I've ever been. But it never pays to lie to your lawyer, does it? So, I told him the truth. That I've been feeling a little unsteady. That I just feel like I should be handling everything better. That my career is a disaster area, my father is dying, I've been feeling desperately short on time ever since Mark died. That I felt like I should be doing better than this. People cope with more than this every day, but why can't I?

David has not changed one bit. He can transition from lawyer to friend to therapist in the space of a second. He said a lot of stuff last night, but probably the most important was, "Susanna, if you look at where we started 20 years ago, and where we are tonight, you will be forced to admit you have done an amazing job with your life." There was more to his speech than that--because I always take some convincing--but he's essentially right. The difference between me at Point A and me at Point B is astounding, something that he could see and I easily lose sight of. And that's one of the benefits of long-term friendships, you can look at your history through someone else's eyes, someone that's traveled most of the way with you.

Somewhere in this conversation, though, he asked me about how I felt about the way I lived my life. Did I have any regrets? David, show me someone who says they have no regrets about their life, and I'll show you a liar. Okay, we all have regrets, but what's your biggest regret?

I can only stall for so long before he makes me answer a question. The saddest part about the whole thing, though, was I didn't have to think about it at all, I was just buying time in hopes of not having to answer, not because I needed to filter through my life. But I eventually had to answer.

David, my biggest regret in life is that I arrived at my adulthood already damaged. When we met, when we could have just been enjoying a spectacular friendship, it was already too late for me. Wouldn't it have been great if you, me and Stepan could have just hung out and had a blast? Wouldn't it have been great if you two didn't have to babysit me all the time? My biggest regret is that by the time I figured out how to put myself back together and become a whole person, my youth was already gone, and none of us ever got to enjoy it. I can't get that time back, and I hate that. I am happy with what I've managed since, but I can't help but feel regret that I didn't work it all out sooner, and that I had to work it out at all.

I am fortunate that David saw a future in our friendship. Actually, I'm fortunate that he saw any type of future for me at all, because in many ways it was his hard work that made my future happen. And all I can say is thanks, and I love you, and I'm very glad to have you back in my life.

Damn, I was right. It *was* a good day.

Today...felt like a good day.

Thanks for the jam session, sir.

I can't find a good way to write this out. Paragraph form just isn't working for me right now.

• I find that doing small, detailed work--like drafting or building models--keeps me distracted. I've dealt with myself long enough that I know I can usually hang on until my depression passes by engaging in some project full of multiple small tasks.
  
• I just finished one of these projects, a scale model of the Finnish barque Pamir. It's sitting on the top of the bookshelf nearest the stamp table in our dining room.
  
• I started reading this month's Outside Magazine this afternoon. There's an article in it about William Stark, written by his son, Peter Stark.
  
• The first column of the article informs me that Bill Stark sailed around the Horn on the Pamir. His book about this adventure is due out in November.
  
• What are the odds that I would set a model of the Pamir on the shelf, only to pick up a magazine with an article about someone who actually sailed on the Pamir?
  
• However, the Pamir aside, Peter's article is mostly how someone like his father, a diehard adventurer with a seemingly unquenchable thirst for life, ends up killing himself one morning in Aspen.
  
• Faced with such a small yet immensely intriguing coincidence of the boat, I felt like I should do something with it: Read the article, figure out what Bill Stark was thinking when he jumped to his death, figure out how to avoid ending up in the same place.
  
• But I'm nothing like him. Nothing like him at all. Not a manic depressive, not an old man facing the fact he can no longer climb mountains, not an adventurous-type person to begin with.
  
• Peter makes a stab at relating manic-depressive behavior with extreme sports, like climbing Everest, but I can't see myself as that type of person.
  
• I'm the type that builds models of ships, Bill Stark was the kind who sailed the ships. Big difference.
  
• So, although I wanted to see some sort of divine intervention going on here, wanted to read some big meaning into that little plastic boat sitting on the shelf, I can't.
  
• And that means I still have to find my own answers.
  
• Damn.
  

I think it's pretty much going to be okay. I worked my first day with One World today, and I didn't die. I've just got to keep focusing on the paycheck and quit mumbling to myself about how I spent 6 years in graduate school just to end up back at the kitchen job I had before I wasted all that time and money on an apparently useless education. Anyway, I'm still willing to believe this is all temporary, that some day, someone will hire me in my chosen field. In the meantime, I can pound out bread dough with the best of them.

Paying the bills, baby. It's all about paying the bills.

Catherine wanted a coffee table to go with her lawn chairs. Unfortunately, all I had was an old door, half rotten and full of bugs. Chased the bugs out, hardened the rotten wood w/some left over siding repair goop I used on the chairs, attached four old balusters I found at an architectural salvage shop, and slapped on some green barn paint. Voila, a coffee table.

Too.much.garlic.

Ohhhh...I've been challenged. We're going to go to Walmart and get a red bouncy ball, and then we're going to go over to the local elementary school, and then I'm going to trounce my wife at two-square. Says me.

Ah...live sports. The WNBA is fine, but I definitely prefer college athletics to professional. Went to watch IU play volleyball this evening (IU lost in the tiebreak, fifth game), just nice to be back in the gym. Except for that same stupid guy from last year, sitting in the first row hassling the refs. At a volleyball game! Who heckles refs at a volleyball game. Such a loser.

And then we splurged and went to Steak'n'Shake. Wild night on the town, we were out until AFTER ELEVEN O'CLOCK! Well, that is late, considering I had to get up early for Habitat this morning. Still, you know you're old when going out for a peach milkshake after dark seems like a crazy idea.

Catherine snagged a miniature volleyball at the game, and when we got home, we played two-square in the living room. I can say with some authority that I am the reigning squareball champion in our household. Next time I'm putting money on our game.

I feel like I've been hoarding information, hiding my life behind my back so no one will see. I've written a thousand pages of autobiography in my head these past two weeks, none of which will make it out to the public domain.

Well. What would someone have to offer me before I'd relocate to Sheridan, Wyoming? Maybe I should try and find out.

Statics is incredibly fucking hard. Catherine is always telling me not to let my head explode when I'm out running. She should really be telling me to watch my tension level when I'm trying to resolve vector forces. That's when the real danger appears.

That cookie thing worked pretty well, I might have to make some more.

I knew I was in trouble last week when I couldn't drum. Sit in front of the set, stare at it for a few minutes, then leave the room. That's bad news. Drumming is one of the few--if not the only--things I do just because I like to do it. I might not be really great at practicing or doing skills work, but I'm always ready to make noise. And if I can't do it, that's a warning sign. Then, too, after I talk with Bobby, I'm usually all about coming home and laying down the backbeat, but on Friday, I could barely stand to be there listening to him, even though he was writing out exactly what I said I wanted, some Motown fills. So what's the problem, then?

Still not drumming. I did read a drumming book, though, and I'm thinking about listening to a CD or two, so maybe that's progress.

Yeah, last night I read Mickey Hart's Drumming on the Edge of Magic: A Journey into the Spirit of Percussion. I'm not exactly its intended audience. I couldn't be spiritual if someone pried open my mouth and dumped a gallon of homemade spirit pop down my throat. I'm not a Dead Head, and can only hold a reasonably informed conversation on the Grateful Dead because I lived in Eugene, Oregon, for too many years. But it was a good read, nonetheless, and almost made me turn on some music (not quite).

I think to read it, to try and really understand what the author's trying to say, you have to turn off your scholarly mind. You can't start criticizing his use of anthropological texts and ethnographic records. Well, you could, but you'd be missing the point. Mickey is trying, I think, to figure out if that vibration that rests right below your sternum, always there but only provoked into showing itself when it's taunted by a percussive instrument, has any meaning at all. His method of discovery, I think, is secondary. And I think it's the quest, not the final answer, that feeds his spirit.

And here's the thing. I've had Mickey Hart's Planet Drum Supralingua CD for years--five years, something like that. But I never play it. I played it once when I got it, and then a couple of times fairly recently, but never the entire way through. As stupid as it sounds, I never listen to it because I've always felt like it needed more than I could give to it. It's exactly like my Rhythm Quest CD--if you can't put on headphones, turn off the lights, and sit still and really listen, there's no point, because if you can't do that, you're really and truly missing *the* point. I'm too superficial a listener, too amateurish a musician, to do either of those discs justice, so there they sit, gathering dust in the CD rack, waiting for me to reach a point of aural enlightenment so I can enjoy them.

After spending the large part of the last 48 hours in bed--or rather, moving from the bed to the chair to the couch back to the bed again in an endless cycle--I got up and made a batch of chocolate chip cookies with Catherine. It seemed like kind of an optimistic thing to do. I mean, if you're not going to hang around to eat the cookies, why even bother making them? Terribly life affirming.

Of the dozen or so books I've finished in the last week, Population: 485: Meeting Your Neighbors One Siren at a Time was one of the two or three I actually liked. Basic story: Michael Perry returns to his home town after years away, and joins the volunteer fire department. His reintroduction to his home town is colored by the fact that he re-acquaints himself with his old haunts and neighbors primarily through emergency response calls. Mostly well written, a little choppy because it wasn't written from front to back, but instead as separate essays. A little heavy in the town history section, but other than, a pretty good read.

It made me feel better about the people who picked up my dad when he had a heart attack. I've always wondered what they thought, how they treated him, what they said when it looked like my dad wasn't going to make it, if they thought they had the power to pull him through, or if they knew deep down that he was going to pass over in the medivac helicopter. And I've wondered what it must have been like for everyone who worked on Mark, who was a volunteer fire fighter himself. Your beeper goes off, you look at the address of the emergency, and what do you think? What happens when you get there and you not only recognize the dead guy, but you went to high school with him, and probably went on a fire call with him a couple days before? Mr. Perry might not have given me the answers to my specific questions, but he actually came pretty damn close.

And I was thinking about it all again when the two fire fighters were tromping around the house this evening (the carbon monoxide detector in our bedroom went off). Emergency people are kind of scary, suddenly there's this big burst of testosterone in your house, boots banging on the floor, voices ten miles deeper than our own bouncing on the walls. Several years ago when I had to take an ambulance ride, I felt as if my house had been invaded, all these huge guys with loud feet, moving our furniture, demanding information from me, totally overwhelming my life, and even though they were there to fix me, I hated them, every single one of them (and undoubtedly told them so). But tonight, I was watching these two guys, listening to them simultaneously contradict each other and reassure us, I felt a little more benevolent about the whole rescue guy situation. After they were done checking our air, they were just going to go back to the station, write it up, maybe eat a few of the cookies Catherine gave them, and this would become only some small moment in their work life, a non-emergency that they probably wouldn't remember a month from now. And that felt kind of good, knowing it was just something insignificant and normal and not even very interesting, not even worth writing a book about.

Today.

Notable because.

Catherine and I had our first public argument in 11 years. One time last March or April we had a pretty serious "either something changes or I'm leaving" argument on the bike path, but no one was around to hear us, so it doesn' t count. Today, everybody on both sides of the street could hear us, including her co-worker who interrupted me mid-scathing-sentence on Kirkwood Avenue.

Notable because.

For the first time in 11 years, I didn't give a damn that her co-worker knew we were fighting, that people could look at me and tell I hadn't slept in days, that complete strangers could tell we were both angry. For the first time in god knows how long, Catherine had to stop and listen to me and believe me and not put me off because I was just going to raise my voice all that much more if she continued to bury her head in the sand.

Notable because.

Catherine realized she couldn't just put me off with a "I'm sure it will get better, honey." I didn't have to listen to any more platitudes and accept any more well-meaning pats on the head. I didn't have to listen to any of my friends change the subject or brush me off or chastise me when I tried to talk to them about what's been going on in my head. I didn't have to pretend I was coping just fine, and I didn't have to lie to anyone.

Notable because.

I got what I wanted, which was a promise from Catherine to help me try and solve a few things, instead of just pretending that nothing is happening and that everything will eventually work out on its own. I got what I wanted, for her to acknowledge how humiliated and depressed and desperate and scared and exhausted I am, and that some of the things she's been doing just haven't been helping.

Notable because.

I made it through one more day, despite my total lack of desire to do so. Nothing is solved, nothing is better at all, but at least someone finally stopped and listened to the truth instead of trying to make me hide it in the back of my throat, where it was getting seriously close to choking to me to death.

Last night I figured out that if I was dead, Catherine would save about $500/month--she could actually live on her paycheck if it wasn't for me. She could stop paying my health insurance, she could sell the car ($4000 blue book value) and stop paying car insurance, she could save herself the $20 a month I waste on internet services, she wouldn't have to pay for music lessons or gym fees, she could get rid of my cell phone. The utility bills would drop, the garbage disposal bills would drop, and she'd probably start feeling quite wealthy. And that's without even selling all my junk. She could sell my drum kit, my trumpet, my guitar, my telescope, my computer equipment, my weight bench, my heavy bag, my power tools, my drafting equipment.... Financially, she's a whole lot better off without me.

Finally got off my lazy butt and set up the telescope. No, I haven't got it balanced, and no, I haven't replaced the bolt in the gimpy tripod leg. Still, we did give it a go tonight, and I guess it went okay. Catherine saw the polar ice cap on Mars, she's happy. Actually, it was a huge pain in the ass because I didn't have the thing balanced, nor do I have a spotting scope mounted, so it took a lot more work than it really needed to. But Catherine's happy, so that's all that matters.

Also, I remembered how bad deep sky telescopes are for planetary observing. It's hard to navigate by sight--you can see three stars with the naked eye, and a thousand stars through the scope, so you can't just jump from star to star. You need a deep space atlas, and they aren't that helpful for planetary observing. Catherine is interested enough in all this that--if I ever get a job--maybe we'll get an 8" cassegrain to add to the viewing collection.

I would just like to point out that it is a full three hours past my bed time.

Hmmm...shoulder or knee? Knee or shoulder? If you've only got ice enough for one joint, you have to make some painful decisions.

You know, I'm pretty sure that posing in lacy underwear is a dishonour to your black belt. Her body, her decision, but I think I would respect Diana Lee Inosanto more as a martial artist if I didn't feel she was doing me a diservice as a woman. She had an interview in this month's Black Belt Magazine, and I thought she had some interesting things to say about how women are socialized to behave in a certain (submissive) manner. It's so hard to take her seriously, though. I'm not saying she shouldn't celebrate her body, I'm really not, but does she have to do it in a way that unquestionably invites the (male) gaze to devour her? She talks about the fact that men don't respect women in martial arts classes, but I really feel like she's contributing to the continued visualization of women as sexual objects, even in the dojang, where that shouldn't be happening.

I don't know, I just get so tired of women glamming it up for sports. The WNBA publicity this season was totally disgusting. It's all about snagging male viewers. Get the men, get the money. I understand the practicalities of the situation, but I don't have to like it.

Well, I may have lost my voice, but I gained a belt. Passed my orange belt test this evening. Added a couple pieces of pine to my short stack of broken boards in my office--palm heel strike and side kick did the damage. My goal, inasmuch as I have one, is to make it farther up the ranks than I did in college. If I go one more belt level (green), that will be even w/my college rank, so I need to go at least two levels, to purple. I was in a lot better shape in college, though, so I may give up on this yet. If I stick it out, I could conceivably be a purple belt by the end of the year. Stay tuned.

What is it with band directors and drummers? If our director doesn't learn how to control his tendency to berate the percussion section, he's going to find himself with one less percussionist. My foster father was the same way, but at least I understood why. Drummers in junior high and high school are always pounding on something, they're a constant distraction. But you know, at this point, we're all adults, we don't sit back in the back and bang away at the snare just to have something to do. We're working our asses off most of the time, trying to cover 6 parts with 3 people. Brian and I both practice more than any responsible adult should, and we're both dumping money into lessons every month. We are not goof offs.

It just bites my ass that the conductor can spend 20 minutes rehearsing the clarinet section note by tedious note, but when he has to give the percussionsists five minutes of his attention, he acts as if we've committed some sort of heinous crime. Why is it if he has to spend a couple of minutes with us, we're "wasting the whole band's time," but if he spends twice that on the trumpets, they're not accused of doing the same thing? Brian seems to be able to shake it off, but I am definitely not getting paid enough to put up with this.

I am such a wuss. I got up at some ungodly hour this morning to go in for an MRI on my shoulder. I've had one done before, so I figured, hey, no big deal. A little loud, a little tedious. Well, the last one was in an open machine, and this one was in a closed machine. There's nothing quite like being strapped to a table and sent into a tunnel to start off a panic attack. I spent 45 minutes staring up at the top of the plastic tube, telling myself to get a grip. Such a big baby.

My birthday apron. Now I have no excuse for not cooking dinner.

We managed to add an extra two, if not three, hours on to our return trip by getting lost in Brown County. It's bad when you know you're driving south along the lake, but you can't find a road heading south--much less a lake--on your map. Neither of us is an idiot, but we had to ask for directions three different times before we made it to a spot we recognized.

Although we drove right through Portland, we skipped the big tractor engine show. We picked up a flyer for it in Geneva, and I must say, when I saw they were going to have six thousand different spark plugs on display, I was sorely tempted. Hanging out with 30,000 other people actually interested in all those spark plugs didn't sound like a good time, though.

We had a great time watching the kingfishers and herons at the Loblolly Marsh this morning. The DNR has been working on reclaiming the wetlands--the former Limberlost Swamp--for the past six years, and the Loblolly is a good example of what can be done to return cultivated land to a more wild state. I'm not sure if turning corn fields back into marshland is a good idea or not--surely the land has been poisoned with pesticides, surely we shouldn't be pretending we can control nature--but it does seem that the area *wants* to be swamp land. I know it took a lot of human work to turn it back into a marsh, but no human brought back the birds and fish and frogs and bugs.







Anyway, after we spent some time out at the Loblolly, we went back into town and talked with the site manager of the Limberlost Historic Site. We talked to him quite a bit yesterday, but it must have been slow today, because he didn't seem like he was trying to get rid of us. Probably everyone that would usually visit was in Portland at the tractor engine show.

Oh, I am not making this up, Catherine took a picture of it: we stopped at a Shell station at the intersection of 27 and 67 to wash off the Deet, and outside the gas station they had a converted soda-vending machine full of live bait. $3.00 for premium night crawlers, $2.00 for the regular kind, $1.50 for moths. What kind of quality control do you have when you're buying your bait out of a vending machine?

I should have had more alcohol on my birthday.

audblog audio post

The whole point of our trip--to visit the house at Limberlost (Geneva, Indiana). The Queen Anne influence is obvious here. Beautiful house in its own way, but I much prefer her house at Rome City.

I feel like I could write a book about Gene Stratton-Porter, I've been living with her non-stop all week.





Since all the hotel rooms in this part of the country are full, we end up at Bearcreek Farms for the night. We are not senior citizens.



audblog audio post

A lightning show after an evening of swimming in Lake James.

audblog audio post

After LaGrange, we went directly to Rome City to see Gene Stratton-Porter's second home, in Wildflower Woods, on the shores of Sylvan Lake. A brilliant house, ideally laid out to take advantage of all the daylight available. Particularly charming was the conservatory w/its dry sink. Too hot to spend too much time in the gardens.



Decided to drive to Garrett for no real reason, stopped in Avilla on the way for lunch at St. James Restaurant, the oldest restaurant in northern Indiana. Ended up in Auburn. A quick look around led to an hour spent in the Auburn Cord Duesenberg Museum. An hour wasn't enough time, so we went back the next morning. It's just a totally cool way to spend the morning, and not just for the cars. The museum building was the former administration building for the Auburn Automobile Company, complete with showrooms. A lot of the offices were laid out as if they were just waiting for everyone to come back from lunch. I especially like the drafting/clay model rooms. Looking forward to going back. Looking forward to owning an Auburn Supercharged Speedster.

audblog audio post

LaGrange, Indiana. Not so much happening here, but that's quite alright. Never pass up an opportunity to sit in the shade. We didn't get a chance to try out the coffee shop, but can give the local bakery two thumbs up. Just across from the courthouse is a mural celebrating the LaGrange corn school. How neat is that?

audblog audio post

Fairmount, Indiana, "where cool went to school." An un-planned detour on our way to northeast Indiana. Who knew that Fairmount could claim four famous people? Wish we had time to hang around longer.

audblog audio post

Wow, those Amazon people are wiley. Spend a few minutes reading jigsaw reviews, the next thing you know you're getting power tool catalogues in the mail.

Audioblog is all set up. If I see anything truly fascinating on the road in the next few days, I can call up my journal and describe it, as long as I can describe it in two minutes or less. Anything more complicated than that will have to go undocumented. I can't imagine anything exceptionally exciting appearing in front of my car in northern Indiana, but you never know.

Mm. My anger carried me through a strong 45-minute run, so I guess that's okay. I wish all my anger was so productive. If general disgruntlement could be harnessed and used for fuel, I could keep a small nation in business w/out it ever having to resort to using fossil fuels.

Catherine can never become an invalid, because I'm a totally incompetent caretaker. I've just been following her around--when she hasn't been in bed--asking, "How do you feel? How do you feel? Should I get a doctor? How do you feel?" She's probably ready to shoot me. I can't tell if she's sick or REALLY sick. If she feels like fainting or vomiting, do I reassure her it's probably just the allergy medication, or do I pack her into the car and take her to Promptcare? Somehow when I'm sick, she figures out what to do--ignore me, bring me water, call an ambulance. But all I seem to be able to do is ask, "Are you better yet? Are you better yet?" like some twisted parody of the cell phone commercial.

We've been at odds a lot lately, a lot of stress in our lives. A lot of stress at her job, a lot of stress w/my lack of job. So we bicker about stupid things. We're both tired of it but seem to keep at it. I hope the time away from home does us both some good.

It is absolutely amazing the number of hits this web page gets as a result of the keyword search "how to make a meth lab."

Well, Catherine's sleeping, and I'm trying to decide if I should stay here *just in case* or if I can go for a run. She says it's okay to go out, but I'm not all that sure. A not-so-unreasonable chunk of my afternoon was spent waiting for her at the doctor's office, and than at the pharmacy. We're not sure what she's allergic to, but she looks like a burn victim, the hives are so bad. Head to knee, really harsh looking welts. She's pretty uncomfortable, but says she isn't having any trouble breathing. She's not known for telling the truth about things like this, though, so I think I should stick around in case I need to force her to seek more medical attention.

What is thoroughly cool today: Diane gave me her dad's old snare drum. Very vintage, very awesome Ludwig snare from the 1950s. Sharp sound, tons better than my own snare, and I'm in love with it. I want to be in a rock and roll band that plays music from the late 1950s/early 1960s. I will give myself a buzz cut and wear a suit and tie and Buddy Holly glasses, and everyone will say, "Hey, is that Drew Carey on the set?"

What is thoroughly uncool today: I've just spent the last three hours working over various forms of my resume/CV, editing cover letters, and generally trying to sell myself to the world. I hate this whole process. It is kind of funny--I'm applying for one job that I don't really want, but am really qualified for. By the time I finished editing my resume and writing up a cover letter, I felt bad that I don't even want the job because, damn, I'm a good candidate.

It's too bad I can't just stay unemployed, I'm really good at it. Quite productive when I don't have to go the office. For instance, today I managed to argue with my wife, go for a run, go out for coffee, make two trips to the hardware store, practice my drum exercises, make up with my wife, buy and install a 60# heavy bag in our garage, work out, go to the public library, go to my drum lesson, go out to dinner, and make a trip to the grocery store. That sounds like a pretty full day to me.

Me at the computer, courtesy of Janet:

Work was more rewarding today, both professionally and personally.

On a professional level, I got concrete evidence that my method handling the viruses was the right one, even if it might have broken a couple of other things in the process of pounding the virus to death. We got a list of all the infected machines today. There were three on the Hoosier that actually had--and replicated--the virus. That was three more than I would have liked to see, but it was better than the 20 or 30 or 100 machines on other forests. I do believe that it was my maverick behavior, my insistence on patching machines and running the virus cleaning tool despite my boss telling me not to, that kept us functioning at a basic level. Three days later, the WO still hasn't released an official fix for the virus, still hasn't pushed out a security patch, still hasn't helped anyone with anything, so a good deal of the Forest Service is still offline. The Hoosier is almost all back on, with the exception of two Catalyst machines, and a whole mess of people who can use the MS Office suite. We don't have a fix for that, and I'm sorry I have to leave before I could get everything back in order, but we're a lot better off than every other National Forest that is sitting there waiting for the WO to "certify" the Symantec cleaning tool and approve it for use.

On a personal level, everyone made it clear that they were sorry to see me go today. Made it *really* clear. They threw me a kind of funny surprise going away party. Everyone is always teasing me because I eat the same Subway sandwich for lunch every day. At the last Diversity Luncheon (south Indian food), Brenda stood up and said she heard that Subway was sending a search party to find me because they got worried when I didn't show up for lunch. So, today they brought in sandwiches from Subway, plus a bunch of food other people made. Brenda got a whole bunch of Subway sandwich wrappers and cut scalloped hearts out of them for place mats, and then tied up all the Subway napkins with yellow ribbon. So it was pretty funny, and good to know that they'll never forget me as long as Subway remains a viable franchise.

I got my first USDA "Certificate of Merit" today--the gov't is big on handing out certificates. It's really big, and even framed, and commends me for my "extra effort in the deployment and configuration of the Hoosier National Forest's computer systems, the rough inventory tracking, and friendly customer service." Kind of cool. Janet drew me goodbye card that I'm going to have framed, a picture of me working on a computer. It's perfect, it even shows how my feet never touch the floor because I'm so short. And apparently I griped too much about the price of getting my brakes fixed last week, because the Social Club gave me $85 toward the bill, enclosed in another really sweet card. And John said I should be expecting a bonus check in the mail. And he gave me tomorrow off, but with pay. Also they gave me this great long-sleeved denim shirt with the new Hoosier National Forest logo stitched on it. So, I guess they might actually miss me when I'm gone, if the financial investment in my departure is any indication.

I'm really, really tired, it's been a hellish week, but at least I'm leaving feeling a little better than I did yesterday when it seemed like everything I touched fell apart.

Well....I cried all the way home from work. And then I cried again trying to explain why I was crying in the first place to Catherine. So, something is definitely about to break open here, and I've got to do something about it before something really bad happens.

The short term fix is changing my plans for next week. I was going to go to Virginia to do some research for a paper I'm supposed to be writing. I'm still going out of town, I'm just not going anywhere to work. I'm not sure which direction the car will be headed when it leaves our driveway, but it will definitely be headed AWAY. I need to put a break between this job, which ends tomorrow, and school, which starts the 25th.

Last Friday afternoon, work was so stressful I had to leave the office four times to walk around the building and try to calm down. I actually thought I might throw up. The server was apparently running slow, and my boss simply walked into the server room and turned off the power switch--no warning to anyone who was working in the office that day. Turning off the server crashed everyone's applications, and a bunch of people lost a bunch of data. And everyone was calling my name, trying to get me to fix it, and there was nothing I could do. Who the hell just turns off a file/application/authentication server with no warning in the middle of a work day? I've had a lot of IT jobs, and no one I have ever worked with would have pulled such a stunt, particulary when there was no rush, people could have saved their data, closed their applications, and been just fine. Thank god it was Friday afternoon, thank god half the office is out on fire. Otherwise I really would have thrown up.

And I came home and told Catherine what had happened and said, "Well, at least I've lived through the worst now." Ha.

This week's virus took down the entire Forest Service system. Not just on the Hoosier, but the entire system, nationwide (except my system because I ignored everyone above me and installed my own security patch first thing in the morning--what are they going to do, fire me?). It is so fucking stupid--why didn't the WO push out the security patch a long time ago? It's been available since July 16--almost a whole month, and yet no FS systems have been patched. And to make it worse, all the systems needed to have Service Pack 2 or higher to be patched, but the WO hasn't even pushed that out yet, and Microsoft is all the way to Service Pack 4! I feel like I've been running for two days solid, and everything we do to fix the problem is just making it worse because of this stupid Service Pack 2 issue. I'm pissed at Microsoft for their lame-ass OS, I'm pissed at the WO for not keeping up on the security updates, and I'm pissed at the idiot who wrote the stupid virus.

Because it's not just a matter of time and money. We have 130 people stuck in the system who need to be out on fire, but they can't go anywhere because every single fucking Forest Service computer had to be unplugged from the network all day yesterday and a good chunk of today. Some idiot is apparently running around starting fires on the Flathead National Forest, and the people who are supposed to be fighting the fires can't move because no one can get their information through the dispatch system. It is mighty damn stressful to be standing in an office full of people who are supposed to dispatching firefighters, and not be able to do anything to help them because our hands are tied by the WO and none of our own solutions are working.

So, tomorrow's my last day, and I'm mad because I won't be able to fix any of this mess before I leave. I have to leave with all these systems in disarray, and it just isn't right. I hate not being able to finish up. On the other hand, I haven't exactly been very effective and solved the virus problem, so it's not like they need me here to help.

Anyway, I need to go, because I'm starting to get attached to people, and that sucks. I'm having a hard time saying goodbye to the people I like when they go out on fire, because I think of Storm King and wonder if they're ever going to come back. Clark rode back up from Tell City with us today, so he could meet Daron and Dave to drive an engine truck out to the Flathead. When we got back to the office, Daron was washing up the truck, and I realized that I really didn't want him to go out on fire because I really liked him and what if there's a blowup and he can't deploy his fire shield?

I really need a vacation.

I'm sorry, I'm doing the best that I can. I really am.

A semi-successful first outing with the telescope. We only had about 15 minutes of clear sky, and any view of the stars was occluded by the light from the full moon. So we didn't even bother with the stars, I just focused in on the moon and gave Catherine, Amanda, Garry and Amanda's sister the best view of the moon they've probably ever had. There are all kinds of warnings about looking directly at the sun with a telescope; today they all learned the dangers of looking at a full moon with a deep sky telescope. We're all semi-blind now.

Now that I've got it all cleaned up and the mirrors collimated, I need to spend some time balancing it. I can see why Meade didn't stick with this design, it's really hard to work with the mirrors and the counter-weight system. Still, we're looking forward to some good viewing over the next winter.

We ran into Diane and Garett yesterday, and I guess that was okay. I've been avoiding all my friends, especially everyone from the library, because I just didn't want to have to explain that I lost my teaching job. Everyone at the library thought I was an idiot to be leaving a relatively high-paying job with benefits for a definitely low-paying job with no benefits, and I just don't want to hear them say, "I told you so." Or even worse, look at me with sympathy and sorrow and try to cheer me up. Diane and Garett were pretty matter-of-fact about it all, though, so it wasn't too bad. They made it sound like it wasn't any big deal and that I'd have a new job, a better job, by Monday, Tuesday at the latest. They're obviously wrong, but at least they didn't fuss.

We walked around with them and their friend, Jenny, and it sort of felt like "Be kind to Susan day," as they both spent a good chunk of their time telling Jenny about all the wonderful things I do with my spare time. Diane has always told me I've raised extracurricular activities to an art form, and I suppose she's right, I focus a lot more on the things I do outside of my job than the work I'm supposed to be doing inside my job. But yesterday it got to the point where I really thought the next thing Diane was going to say was, "Oh, did I tell you that Susan single-handedly designed, built and piloted a rocket to the moon last week?" it was that bad. Garett said everytime he sees me he feels bad because all he does after work is go home, watch Friends and maybe play his guitar a little. I told him the partial truth, that really, he's the smart one because I'm always tired, always on edge, trying to do too many things, while he's getting a good night's sleep. I didn't tell him the rest of the truth, which is that the only reason I do all this crap is because I can't stand myself the way I am, and I keep hoping I'll turn myself into something better. It's like I'm both Capability Brown and his landscape, simulataneously. I.must.be.improved.

When I was younger, I always wanted to be really, really smart, and do really, really cool things with my life. I figured if I did all this remarkable stuff, if I was totally brilliant, then when people found out I was gay, maybe it wouldn't matter so much. Coming out cleared that up, but now I do the same thing, operating on the theory that if I spend all my time doing all this stuff, people will be distracted by the deeds and not notice that I'm a total nutcase; or, if they do figure that out, it won't matter so much because hey, at least I'm building houses for people who need them. I hope this plan is working.

I told myself I wasn't going to write anything more until I could think of something happy to write about, but that was starting to feel like it was just going to lead to an eternal silence. I don't know where the happy thoughts are right now, but they're definitely not anywhere within my reach, and I'm not sure I even care. I'm getting pretty good at shrugging off everything and everyone around me.

About the only thing good that happened today was that Bobby gave me a lot of compliments when I was drumming this afternoon. The funniest thing he said--and it really was supposed to be a compliment--was, "Susan, if you told someone you were a drummer, and sat down and started playing, they would never know you were lying." What he meant was: "Susan, you sound as if you've played the set all your life; you're a little rusty, maybe, but otherwise, you've got it down." It just didn't come out that way. A few sessions ago, he told me the only thing standing between me being an adequate drummer and me being a really good drummer was the matter of self confidence, and I guess he's right. When I'm home alone, I relax and play a lot better, and when I just shut my eyes and stopped thinking about it today, I could feel myself leaning into the music. He swears I was in a groove, and said he wished he had a bass guitar to sit down and jam with me. Also, he said he wished he had his Pocket PC so he could record my sound on the kick drum, because it was really sharp and unique and cool.

Afterward, he said (consumate salesman) that I play well enough to seriously consider upgrading my kit. He wasn't sure until he heard me today, but he thinks it's time to invest in a higher level set. I'm so tired of saying, "Well, if I ever get a job..." but that's the way it is right now. I just don't have 1/3 of $880. He told me that when I buy a new set, he'd throw in a harmonica, which obviously decided the matter right there. I have to get a new drum set.

http://dir.yahoo.com/Science/Astronomy/
http://directory.google.com/Top/Science/Astronomy/

I tried, but I couldn't trick Catherine into writing for me again. "Nothing interesting happened today," she said. Well, newsflash: not a whole heck of a lot of interesting things happening in my life right now, either.

Multiple choice question:

1. Susan's teeth ache because she ground them together instead of snapping at:

a) her physical therapist
b) her boss
c) her band director
d) all of the above

My money is on d) all of the above.

And now a word from our guest editor:

A fairly typical Bloomington weekend—

Friday—Garry and I walked home from the Kinsey after work. We’d missed the 5:00 bus and figured we’d beat the next one out to Rockport Road. Susan had her drum lesson downtown, and arrived home shortly after we did. We all checked out the progress of the garden (the tomatoes are looking good, but the zucchini didn’t survive the baking soda-and-water fungicide treatment that we gave it a few night ago).

As the students will be returning in droves in a couple of weeks, we decided to go over to the east side of town for a light supper at Panera, a chain soup, sandwich and bakery establishment that is almost always packed during the school year. After we decided to try the fire-roasted vegetable bisque, it was removed from the menu board, leaving us with less-inspiring soup options (vegetable and chicken noodle). As we headed across the parking lot to do a bit of literary shopping over at Borders, we ran into the Kinsey’s visiting Korean researcher Dongwoo and his wife and daughter. Delightful people—Dongwoo is going to make us a CD of Korean pop music from MP3s.

After making our purchases at Borders (magazines for Susan and baby animal stickers for me—so much for literary), we stopped by the campus Starbucks for a couple of decaf coffee beverages. We made it home just as a thunderstorm was arriving, but luckily it was a very brief one.

Saturday—A beautiful day, especially for August in Indiana. Sunny, but not too hot, and not too muggy. We were up early, as I wanted to check out Rich and Lisa’s yard sale that began at eight. They are moving to Massachusetts this fall. It’s pretty typical that as soon as we make friends, they leave town. Anyway, I found a great 1930s photo album, but otherwise it was pretty much a bust. We’d hoped that Rich might be selling some of his home movie collection, but no such luck. We also found that it’s not much fun looking at other people’s junk when one knows the other people. Luckily I found the photo album, as I didn’t see anything else that I needed to add to our own stack of junk.

At 4:30 we headed south for Orleans, for an evening concert with the Bloomington Community Band. The band’s first gig of the season was in Orleans, so I wasn’t too excited to be going back so soon. It’s a tiny town—its historic district is one block long (and only on one side—the park where the band performs is across the street). It was threatening to rain, but luckily it just sprinkled. The crowd was small and elderly, but appreciative, and the band sounded good. Unfortunately the main street is also the highway, so at times the car noise was a bit loud. Susan’s fellow drummer Brian brought his three children, and after a couple of songs I noticed the son urgently asking his dad for something. Shortly after that Susan gestured to me to come over, and my suspicion was confirmed—I was entrusted with finding a bathroom for the restless group. Luckily I had already gone on such a quest when we first arrived in town, so I was able to escort them to the Shell station one block up the street.

It’s really quite amazing to watch Susan play all the percussion parts. She quite often has several instruments to play within one song, sometimes even two at the same time! This was the first time I had heard their Beatles medley, in which Susan gets groovy with the tambourine.

Sunday—A work day. After fortifying ourselves at the west side Starbucks, we picked up supplies at Lowe’s and commenced on home improvement projects. Susan is making a really cool table from an old wooden door, using the jigsaw her parents just sent to us. I used the rake to clean out the flowerbed next the garage. Hot work.

I love getting rejection letters.

I didn't get the full time job at Ivy Tech. I'm not surprised, but I am a little angry that they didn't even bother to give me an interview. I was more than qualified, had the education and the experience, more than enough in both cases. I've been an adjunct faculty member at the college for three semesters, and had good student evaluations. You'd think they'd at least make the effort, if only for appearances' sakes. I guess what they're really saying is, "Hey, if you want to teach for almost no money, with no support, we'll take you, but no way are you good enough for us to pay a living wage."

But you know what? I don't even fucking care. Not about being unemployed, not about anything. Government sponsored indiscriminate killing in Iraq? Who cares? The creepy Pope trying to govern my body? Whatever. Ripping a hole in the ozone? Not going to worry about it. You can beat people to death with a big stick, and I don't give a damn.

The good news of the day is that Mr. Land is actually going to be okay. He pulled out of it, had quadruple bypass surgery, and gets to go home. The doctor said if it wasn't for taekwondo--or some other equivalent activity, I guess--he'd be dead. He only survived because he was exceptionally fit to begin with.

Mr. B. is kicking our asses in place of Mr. Land, and I am absolutely exhausted. Which is just as well, otherwise I'd stay up half the night writing a long essay on how the world is going to hell in the hand basket hanging off George Bush's arm.

I will say if I have to hear Toby Keith and Willie Nelson singing about vigilante justice one more fucking time, I'm going to break the steering wheel off the column and beat someone over the head with it. Rightwing radio all the way to Tell City and back *three times* this week. Raise your glasses against evil forces around me and I'll shoot you myself.

Oh, I should also point out the the Klan activity is *not* happening in southern Indiana, but up in the "civilized" part of the state, Michiana. So those of you who are complaining about how backward the Midwest--and particularly southern Indiana--is, you should shut up.

And speaking of southern Indiana, if you're advertising for a social services position in Crawford County, you should not title your ad "Have a true Appalachian experience without ever leaving Indiana!" Trust me, it's not a selling point. I couldn't live in Crawford County, anyway, because everytime someone says, "six o'clock fast time" or "five o'clock slow time," I have to come to a complete halt in the middle of the street and try to figure out what the hell time that means. Case in point: Welcome to Crawford County!