Dear Readers,

I understand that not everyone will agree with everything I say on this blog. I knew when I started blogging that unless I censored 100% of my thoughts (instead of my usual 50%), I'd piss some people off. But if you don't like it, don't waste your time reading it and leaving churlish comments. Fair warning: if you leave a comment that includes something along the lines of "you selfish little bitch," I reserve the right not to approve it. It's one of the joys of comment moderation! If you don't like this blog, don't f*cking read it. I don't like Fox News. I don't agree with the things they say. Watching Fox News, in fact, makes my head feel like it's going to explode. The solution? (Wait for it, because it's really ingenious!) I. Don't. Watch. I respect the fact that not everyone likes my blog and for those readers to whom that applies, I humbly suggest that you ignore mine and look for one you do like.

Sincerely,

Selfish Blogging Bitch

Me: I'll have a grande black iced tea, unsweetened.

Him: Okay, I have a grande black iced tea, unsweetened.

<time passes as he makes my drink, then hands it to me>

Him: Here's your grande black iced tea, sweetened.

<In my defense, I thought he had just misspoken. Hah. So I put the straw in the drink and took a sip. Then I gagged.>

Me: I'm so sorry, I asked for an unsweetened black iced tea.

Him: Oh! I'm terribly sorry.

<dumps the offending beverage out, makes a new one>

Him: Here's your iced green tea.

Me: *sigh* Thank you.

<I hate green tea, but I didn't have the heart to ask him to make it again. Plus, I figured there was a better than even chance that he'd hand me a grande caramel macchiato instead of a black iced tea.>

I just have to say that the ladies in the Victoria's Secret catalog are way too excited about their undies.

Our dog Luke is in love with my friend Dana. He just thinks she's the greatest thing since organic dog treats. He's the sweetest dog, if a bit shy, and he'll let most people pet him. (Though he seems to dislike John's dad.... hmmm). But he goes above and beyond when he sees Dana. He flips out. He runs huge, scary circles around her. He, in fact, pees uncontrollably when he sees Dana. And I really think there's no better way to show your excitement about someone, than peeing all over the place when you see them. I plan to do it myself from now on.

Actually, I don't have that many. True, there's my fear of trailers and sweatpants. But I don't consider those phobias. And I have night terrors, but that's different as well (since it's a subconscious thing). My real phobia is of murals. Murals and taxidermied animals. So I suppose you could say it's a phobia of inanimate things with real or real-looking eyes. In the normal course of events, a fear of murals is not insurmountable. It's not as if we live in a town hip enough to be covered in murals, nor do I work in an art museum. But there was a time when my fear of murals really got in the way. From the summer of 1997 through the winter of 2000, I worked at Hale Library on K-State's campus. It's a lovely library and I thoroughly enjoyed working there. But it has a mural room. I'm sure it's not called "the mural room," but that's what I called it. It's the room where all the art books are stored. I hear it's beautiful. It's a huge room with soaring ceilings. But I've never stepped foot in it because of those damned murals. There was a day, in fact, when my dad showed up to the library with the express purpose of showing me the mural room. But I refused. Although I was able to avoid the mural room, little did I know that the library had a secret in store for me: the anteroom of the staff lounge. The first day I headed up to the staff lounge, I was with a coworker. I'd never been there before and as I rounded the corner, I nearly collapsed. (No exaggeration there-- I actually had to grab my coworker's arm to keep from falling down.) There I was, standing face-to-face with a GIANT MURAL. It was hideously ugly. Worse still, several very large pairs of painted eyes were staring back at me. My heart rate must have jumped through the roof. I didn't know there was another mural in the library! What library has more than one mural?!? (Don't answer that, I don't want to know.) From that day forward, if I wanted to go to the staff lounge, I either went with John (who dutifully guided me in while my eyes were closed), or I simply glued my eyes to the carpet and raced in.

How I made it through the British Museum and Britain's National Gallery, I'll never know.

Not so much screaming at the tv, but screaming at the people on tv. I like to watch House Hunters every now and again. But I'm super picky. If the people are melba toast boring, I fast forward (thank you, TiVo) through them talking just so I can see the houses. But my biggest House Hunters pet-peeve is people (usually with piles and piles of money that they roll around in whilst naked) walk into a house, into a given room and say, "Oh, this paint color just wouldn't work." I'm sorry, did I understand you correctly? This paint color wouldn't work? Another classic, heard just the other night, is "I just don't know about these drapes." Drapes that, mind you, aren't superglued to the wall. Drapes that are, in fact, easily replaceable. At that point I started hating those people even more than I did at the beginning, when the host/narrator mentioned that their price range was up to a million dollars. All of this to say: if you go on House Hunters, there are bigger fish to fry than the color of the paint or the ugliness of the drapes.

So I'm working with a new computer these days. It's still a Mac, but it's a PowerBook G4 instead of my beloved iBook G4. It's not brand-new, but new-to-me new. It's faster and it's got more memory. It's got a wider screen and, unlike my iBook, the letters haven't worn off the keyboard. In truth, it's got all the bells and whistles a girl could ask for. But it's just not quite right. I'm sure it's because I'm not used to this one, and because I'm so attached to my iBook, but things don't seem to work the way I want them to. Nonetheless, I'm determined to give it a week. If after a week I decide I really and truly don't like it, I'll go back to my iBook (which, incidentally, is looking at me scornfully).

John and I have a bathroom project we've been trying to jumpstart for a couple of years now. One handyman who did some work on the house before we bought it told me that it would take about two days to complete the project and he briefly told me what it would involve. I called him some time later and we set up a date and time for him to come over and give us an estimate. Said appointment came and went with no sign of him. We called him again and rescheduled and he didn't show once more. A year has gone by since that time and we've found a new handyman. This time, we set up an appointment for him to call us to set up a real appointment (don't ask), and he failed to deliver. That's the thing about handymen: in order for them to be handy, they actually have to show up. Otherwise, they're just men with skills.

For the past several days, I've had a jingle going through my head. It's the song from a Kansas tourism commercial back in the 80s. I distinctly remember the melody, but the lyrics are a bit fuzzy. It goes something like this:

It's a wondrous place, both day and night
Ahh Ahh Kansas!
It's a _____ _____ that feels so right
Ahh Ahh Kansas!
____ ____ _____ _____
Those clear blue Kansas skies!
Ahhh Ahhh Kansas!
Linger a while.

(Anyone remember this? Kim? Amy?)

I'm still not sure about the kid thing. I really like the life that John and I have now, I like our freedom. Once you have kids, you know, you can't give them back. It's not like renting a movie, finding out you don't like it, and being able to take it back to the store. If you find out you don't like parenthood, you're pretty much stuck with that movie for life. Or eighteen years. (And don't get me started on the fact that I'm not exactly wild about children to begin with.) But beyond that, beyond not being sure about the kid thing, is the timing thing. I've pretty much nixed having kids in graduate school. Babies and graduate school do not mix, in my mind, especially when the graduate student (me) would be the person-- you know-- being pregnant, having the kid, recovering... I could go on and on. Changing diapers and writing a dissertation don't mix. So, if not in graduate school, when? When I get my first job, pre-tenure? It's a pretty well-documented fact that universities frown on faculty members (yes, women more so than men) being on the parenting track. So do I wait until after I get tenure, when I'm (gulp) in my late thirties? I don't think so! I don't want to be nearing retirement when my kids are begging for beer money. So the timing thing is, clearly, problematic. And I know, I know, I know: "there is never a good time to have children." I get that. I've heard it a million times. But certainly there's a better time than this, eh?

So, the entire state of Florida is on fire these days. With something like 250+ wildfires currently burning throughout the state, it was just a matter of time before we started getting nervous. Last week, Gainesville was surrounded on three sides by wildfires. We still are, but they're not as close as they were. As the fires got closer and closer and the smoke and ash got heavier and heavier, I started gathering up important paperwork that we'd have to take with us should disaster strike. And that whole experience was a bit odd. What do you take when you can't take everything? What do you sacrifice? Clearly, we'd take all of the animals. But since John was in California at the time, I would have been doing this by myself. With my small, four-door sedan. Once filled with myself, the dog, and the three cats in their carriers, there would have been little room for anything else. Thankfully, nothing bad happened to us and the fires never got close enough to warrant an evacuation. But it did make me think about belongings and what really matters.

Huzzah! I successfully defended my dissertation prospectus just a few short hours ago. I am now officially ABD. How cool is that?!?

With the "final" version of my prospectus out the door as of today, I've got one week left before my oral defense. It's more nerve-wracking than I can tell you. Nobody seems to really know what happens in an oral defense. Oh, sure, I've heard stories. Whispers of conversations spoken furtively in hallways, and glimmers of evidence hinted at by faculty members and grad students alike. But it's hard to tell what they'll ask and what they'll expect. I plan to wear full battle armor, so as to more effectively ward off any unsuspected attacks. I'll let you know how it goes. In the meantime, count down with me.