For years John has talked about opening up a coffee shop when we leave Gainesville and move to Cool Town, USA. Roasting coffee has always been a hobby of his and he thought he'd really enjoy the change of pace from his current profession (he's a software engineer). But last night, out of the blue, he said he might not want to do that after all. That the idea of being a software engineer was born out of his hobby of writing code, something he really enjoyed, and that now it had turned into a Job. A Job that is not always fun, that is really demanding, and that is starting to suck his will to live. And he wondered aloud if the same thing would happen with coffee, should he open a coffee shop. And it really made me think, I have to say. I love what I do, I love being an historian. But don't we all have those moments when we dream of a different life? I know I do, sometimes, when I'm staring down a stack of midterms seemingly a mile high. Or contemplating a blank screen, with nary an idea of what to write. What about you? If you could do something else, would you? If you had an opportunity to take a hobby you loved and turn it into a career, would you? Or would you pass, knowing that it might turn sour?

In case I've never mentioned it, I do a lot of my shopping online. Books, clothes, backpacks... I've even been known to buy toothbrushes and floss online. But shoes. Oh, shoes, how I love thee. For shoes, I turn to Zappos. They have a bazillion pairs in stock, they have great prices, and they do free overnight shipping. Free! Overnight! Shipping! It doesn't get any better than this. On Sunday, I was playing with Luke in the yard and broke my Columbia sandals. Woe to me. That night, I hopped on Zappos and ordered another pair. But for the last couple of days I've had to resort to my Teva sandals which, while they were nice when they were new, are now completely broken down. I might as well have been walking on pavement. (Why didn't I just wear a different pair, you ask? Because contrary to what John says, I don't have enough shoes.) And my back-- oh, my back-- has suffered the wrath of the Tevas. I'm barely able to stand, much less walk. But lo! Upon returning home from campus just now, a box from Zappos had arrived! And I'm not making this up: as soon as I slipped on my new Columbias, I could stand. I could walk! Jesusmaryandjoseph, I could have run (had I wanted to)! So thanks be to Zappos. Amen.

Is a direct approach the best? Or should we go along to get along? I tend to be The World's Biggest Weenie, so when someone does something that upsets me I tend to not say anything to that person, and then I go bitch about it to John. Take a recent trip to the vet, for example. I took Luke in for his semi-annual appointment recently and when the vet tech asked me his weight, I told him (97 pounds). The vet tech gasped and then proceeded to lecture me for several minutes on the importance of keeping one's dog's weight under control. First of all, Luke is a "giant breed" and he's all muscle. I defy anyone to find an ounce of fat on that dog. Second, the vet (who has known Luke since birth) has told me that as long as his weight is under 100 pounds, he's fine. Third, he had just eaten breakfast. When I weighed him later in the day, he was 95 pounds. No shit. So, no need for a lecture: the dog is fine. But instead of saying any of that, I simply nodded my head and patiently waited for the vet tech to be done. I wish I could be like my friend Dana (hi, Dana!), who has the guts to speak up when something or someone disturbs her. But I don't seem to have it in me. What about you? When a friend says something unkind, do you talk to her about it? What about if you're standing in line and someone cuts in front of you? When is it acceptable to pipe up, and when should we just let it go?

The other day, when I was on my hunt for teenage origami, I came across this veritable treasure trove of Extra Buttons! Buttons! Extra Buttons! buttons! So... very... many... buttons. And while, on the one hand, it made me go, "dude, what's with all the buttons?" and "I don't even OWN these clothes anymore!", it also triggered the coolest memory. When I was little, my mom had this canister of buttons, all different. And one of my favorite things was running my hands through all of those buttons, feeling them glide and slip between my fingers, their cool and polished surfaces floating beneath my palms. I wonder if she still has that button canister? For a five-year-old, there's no greater toy.

From No One Cares What You Had for Lunch, by Maggie Mason, #7: Examine your paperwork. "In celebration of adolescence, type in some of your old journal entries-- or better yet, post a photo. Did you keep any notes your best friend passed you in forth period? Those are equally golden."

Heh. Yes, yes I do have notes from high school. And, having read over them briefly, I can say with certainty that they are FAR too cringe-worthy to be posted here. Maybe another time. Instead, I'm posting a photo of two notes from friends in junior high and high school. I remember the note-folding craze, the letters that looked more like origami and less like notes slipped covertly from one friend to another. But I can't for the life of me remember how I did it! I barely have the dexterity to ice a cake-- how did I fold notes to look like that? Does anyone else remember folding notes with such craftsman-like precision?

In honor of Blog Action Day, I wanted to do a little write-up on the things John and I do around the house (beyond the basics, like recycling) and in our lives to help the environment. But before I get started, let me say this: the environment shouldn't be a partisan issue. It doesn't matter whether you believe in climate change and global warming, or if you think it's complete bunk. It doesn't hurt anyone to step a little more lightly on the earth. And, hey, you might even save a few bucks in the process! Here we go:

• Method detergent and environmentally-friendly hand soap. This stuff is awesome! We use Method laundry detergent. It washes just as many loads as those huge bottles of Tide sitting in your laundry room, but it takes up about a quarter as much space AND it's biodegradable and free of phosphates. It doesn't get better than that! We also use Natural Spa hand soap. Granted, you can't buy it at Target. Yet. (Though you can buy Method hand soap, which is just as good!) This stuff is all-natural, non-toxic, and biodegradable. Plus, it leaves your hands feeling and smelling great. Everyone wins.
• Appliance replacement. A year ago, we replaced our heating and cooling system. Then, this past April, we replaced our refrigerator and dishwasher. Don't even get me started on how much quieter these new machines are than the old ones. The more important thing, for my purpose here, is that we've cut our electric bill in half, folks. IN HALF.
• Know what else we've cut in half? Our junk mail. Earlier this year, we signed up for Green Dimes. The service costs pennies a day and it rids you of the bulk of your junk mail. Most importantly, though, the money that you spend on the service ( just $15-- think about how often you spend $15 without batting an eye) goes to plant trees. In the United States, 100 million trees are cut down annually just to make junk mail. 100 million trees for JUNK MAIL. If that doesn't make you sick, I don't know what will.
• Native shrubs and flowers. We plant native Florida shrubs and flowers because they demand less water and zero fertilizer. Most of the time, we don't even bother watering them, frankly. They do just fine with the amount of rain we get here.
• Flor. I have a minor stroke when I think about how much carpeting is sitting in landfills, taking up space, not an ounce of it recyclable. So, as we rip out our old carpeting, we're replacing it with Flor. By and large, Flor squares are made from recycled or renewable materials. They're also easy to clean. With soap and water. No harsh chemicals needed here, no sir. If you get tired of your Flor design and want to try something new, just send them back to the company and they'll recycle them for you. Easy as pie.
• Cutting consumption. We try really hard to think about what we bring into the house. Not just in terms of, is it environmentally-friendly, but also, is it something we REALLY want? Our house is crowded enough. Do we really need more books? Do we really want more clothing? Learning to live with less is, I think, an important part of stepping a little more lightly on the earth. It's not easy, I'll say that. It's especially hard with birthdays and Christmas coming up, since we live in a country of such rampant materialism. But definitely worth it. It gives you more room to breathe in your house, and it gives you greater peace of mind.
• Buying locally. Starting soon, we're going to invest in a local CSA (Community Supported Agriculture). We'll pay a certain amount of money and in return, every week, we'll get fresh, locally grown produce. Buying locally like that is important not only because it supports local farmers, but it's also important because it reduces the number of food miles your groceries have to travel. What does that mean? It means that when you buy from a huge grocery store, you're buying produce that traveled thousands of miles and burned gobs of fossil fuels just to get to your refrigerator. Sure, we can buy beef from New Zealand and artichokes from Chili. But what's the unspoken cost?
• Carbon offsets. Unfortunately, because we live so far away from our families, John and I do a lot of air traveling. Starting this year, though, we're going to buy carbon offsets to compensate for all that air travel. Basically, you calculate your carbon footprint and then buy carbon offsets to counterbalance those emissions.

These are just a few things we're doing in our daily lives to help minimize our impact on the earth and save our planet for the next generation. I've left out things like recycling cans, turning off lights, and using compact fluorescent bulbs because hopefully we're all doing those sorts of things (right?).

Now it's your turn: What kinds of things do you do around the house to step a little lighter on the earth?

So, last weekend we replaced the toilet in the guest bathroom. By "we," naturally I mean "John," and let me say that that little sentence doesn't nearly convey the sheer horror that was involved in the process. It's taken me a week just to be able to talk about it. Let's just say that the original toilet wasn't installed correctly, yadda yadda yadda, and a job that should have taken a couple hours took about ten hours and three trips to two different home stores. Yay capitalism. In any case, this brings me to my main point here (yes, there is one). We now have our old toilet and nothing to do with it. Naturally, living in the South, I considered turning it into a festive planter. But I'm not really ready to go that route yet. John suggested that we recycle it, which I think is a great idea. In theory. In practice, I'm thinking that we're missing a tremendous opportunity here. Halloween is coming up, after all. Is it technically recycling if we put candy in the bowl of the toilet and leave it in the yard for daring kids to dangle their greedy hands into? (Yes, it's clean, don't worry. Besides, that was John's idea.) What if we buy one of those disembodied forearms and super glue it inside the bowl, so that just the hand is sticking out? (My idea.) What if we can get the hand to wave at passersby? What if the hand were holding a sign that said, "Sorry! Out of candy!"? I think that in order to truly recycle, we have to think outside the box. Or, inside the toilet, as it were.

It happened again last night. I had another night terror where I'm convinced that something in the bedroom is firing darts at me. And in order to avoid said darts, I leapt out of bed with the skill and grace of a ninja and landed on the floor. On the other side of the room. You know, where the darts couldn't reach me. Apparently what actually happened (again) is that I flung all the covers onto my unsuspecting husband and hurled myself into the air, landing (somehow) on the floor by his side of the bed, bruising my knees/shins/elbows in the process. Is there a scientist out there willing to find a natural cure for night terrors? Anyone? Anyone?

I make no secret of the fact that John and I aren't exactly in love with Gainesville. I get a lot of questions about why we don't like it and, to be honest, it's hard to pin down. Off the top of my head, though, here are a few reasons:

1. I know I complain about the traffic around here, but it's honestly abysmal. Not only is it shocking to see so much traffic in a town this size, I can't tell you how many times in just one week I almost get smashed into by some reckless moron. I expect that when we go back to Kansas City (where it rarely happens, incidentally). But in a town of about 110,000? Every. Damned. Day.
2. Good restaurants? There are but a small handful. If, however, you want chain food (Chili's, Applebees, Carrabba's), you're in luck.
3. Ditto with shopping.
4. Panhandlers.
5. Public transportation? Hardly. There's a bus system, sure. But we live just a few miles from campus and, by bus, it would take me an hour and a half to get there.
6. Say it with me: economic backwater.
7. Cultural wasteland.
8. Unless you like Gator sports (which I do, don't get me wrong), there's very little to do here.
9. No real sense of community.
10. Gainesville is really isolated. It's two hours to Jacksonville, two hours to Orlando, and two hours (and change) to Tampa.

Honestly, though, this laundry list doesn't really get at it. It just sounds like a litany of complaints. The only thing I can really say is, it's a feeling. And Gainesville doesn't have the feeling of a nice place to live. It's bearable, yes. But not what I'd call nice.

I think that's the thing that's been so striking about moving to The South, that revelation that people here are real assholes. No, seriously. I'd always heard that The South is full of the nicest, friendliest people on earth. And after living here for four long years, I have to say that that's complete crap. A few weeks ago, John and I were in a left turn lane, headed home. Despite the fact that we had a green turning arrow, the guy in front of us was at a complete stop. John gave a quick tap to the horn, the universal sign for "if you hadn't noticed, the light's been green for several minutes." The driver hopped out of his vehicle, grabbed his crotch, and screamed "SUCK MY BALLS!" at the top of his lungs.

So yeah, it's a feeling.

So, the other night I had a dream about sorority girls. (No, not that kind of dream-- that's not how I roll.) Anyway, these sorority girls were trying to induct me into their sorority. And I kept protesting, saying things like, "Nooo! I value individuality! I like who I am!" But they were like the body snatchers, these sorority girls, and they wouldn't take no for an answer. Considering that most of my dreams of late have featured various sinister characters trying to kill me with medieval weaponry, this was a welcome relief-- though no less bizarre.

Dear Gainesville,

We need to talk. I know our relationship has always been rocky, but I have to say, you're not really doing your part. Particularly when I'm driving and you do that thing-- you know-- where you ride my ass incessantly? Yeah, that. Can you stop that? Can you possibly stop riding my ass so close that it seems like you're trying to snort cocaine out of my tailpipe? That would really help our day-to-day relationship, I think. Oh, and another thing. I hope it's not asking too much. But could you stop pulling out in front of me? I know you're trying to show me your dangerous side and while that's understandable-- I know some girls really go for that-- it really makes me hate you. That's why I start cursing like a sailor when you do it, but maybe you haven't noticed. I'm not trying to bail on you-- I'm in this at least for another couple years. But I'd really love it if you'd meet me halfway on this. Just think it over.

Sincerely,

Emily

From No One Cares What You Had For Lunch: 100 Ideas for Your Blog, by Mighty Girl Maggie Mason. #42: Make your timeline.

Age ?: I take one of my brother's stuffed animals off his bed. It's a homemade bunny, with a tail made from real rabbit fur. It's quite flat, but I adore it. I hold its butt in my right hand with my pinky, my fourth finger, and my thumb. With my middle and index fingers, I grasp its tail. Bunny goes to bed with me every night, and comes to breakfast with me every morning. Every night at bedtime, all family members get involved in the hunt for Bunny, as I've taken him all over the house with me during the day. Over the years, Bunny goes through several surgeries to give him a new tail, since I wear out each successive one.

Age ?: My mom refers to my dad as Jim when she talks to us, as in "go ask Jim" instead of "go ask your dad." My brother and I get in the habit of calling our dad Jim, and it still sticks. Sometimes I wonder if it makes him sad that nobody calls him "dad."

Age 3: My dad reads to me every night before bed. I always request the same books: the Berenstain Bears. My dad could probably recite these books verbatim, he's read them so often. But he never complains-- he just makes up his own storyline to go along with the pictures, which winds up being much funnier than the original story. My dad is a riot.

Age 4: Christmas Eve. My brother and I walk out into the candle-lit living room, where all our presents are, and I see one chair covered in homemade doll clothes. My mother has sewn, knit, and crocheted all kinds of doll clothes by hand. It's still one of my all-time favorite Christmases.

Age 5: My mom is taking a public speaking class at the university. If I let her practice her speeches in front of me, I get to play with her high-heeled shoes. It doesn't get any better than this!

Age 6: I start half-day kindergarten. We learn about colors and shapes and numbers. I'm irritated at how slow the other kids seem to be.

Age 7: I'm assigned to do a group project on Ecuador. I immediately decide that "the equator runs through Ecuador, so that's how Ecuador got its name." It seems so obvious, so clearly correct, I don't even bother to fact-check it. I am a genius.

Age 8: I'm in second grade and my teacher, Mrs. Havenstein, is the greatest. I ask her opinion on everything. But when I ask her opinion about decisions I'm trying to make, she always answers, "it's up to you." I wish I'd understood then what she was trying to teach me-- I'm still bad at making decisions.

Age 9: In school we do a lot of reading out loud, where one student is asked to read a passage while the other kids read along silently. Many of my classmates stumble over big words that I already know how to pronounce, so I say those words out loud for them. Yeah, I'm that classmate.

Age 10: We routinely have to play kickball at school. I hate kickball. To me, kickball is a fate worse than death. I can run like the wind, but I can't kick the ball to save my life. Can I have a pinch-kicker, please?

Joke's on me, I guess! Because after I announced that today I would post "something so provocative, so unexpected, so startling that ye shall be driven to comment," it dawned on me: oh, crickets, now I've got to think of something provocative and shocking to say! My life isn't exactly full of secret agent activities, after all. Nor do I rub elbows with Hollywood's elite. Hell, I have a hard enough time getting out of the house to rub elbows with Gainesville's service industry! But here goes nothing: PostSecret.

PostSecret isn't my brainchild; it's been around for a long time. But since I'm too lazy to draw up my own homemade postcard and write something provocative on it, I'll just take the easy route and use my blog. (Bet you never knew I was so practical, eh?)

The only problem with me doing PostSecret is that I'm not a very secretive person. (John and my entire family just died laughing.) But I'll give it a whirl. In exchange, I ask that you use the comment field to post a secret of your own. Come on, you can do it! It can even be anonymous! In no particular order:

1. People think I'm a great listener. And while it's true, I think it's mostly true because I'd rather listen to someone else talk about themselves than to have to talk about myself. So when people ask me how I'm doing, nine times out of ten, I'll just say "fine" and leave it at that.
2. I think about death a lot. Specifically, I spend a lot of time wondering what happens after a person dies.
3. People who tell you that if you die in your dreams, you'll die shortly thereafter in real life are lying: I've died many, many, many times in my dreams and I'm still kicking!
4. This isn't completely fair, since John knows this one, but I'll go with it anyway: I have a sinking feeling that when it comes to graduate school, I have everyone snowed. I've made great headway in graduate school, yes. But I've got a sneaking suspicion that pretty soon, people are going to figure out that I'm not as smart as they think I am. And then they're going to kick me out.
5. When my dog, Alex, died in 2000, I cried for 12 hours straight and then on and off for several days. The pain in my chest was so great that I swore I'd never get another dog. Five years later, when we saw Luke at the rescue place, I knew it was time to move on. But I still can't think about Alex without crying.

Okay! That's all the time we have for Ritualistic Unburdening. Now it's your turn. Go!

Lurkers and would-be commenters, brace yourselves! Tomorrow brings us 2007's Great Mofo Delurk, when blog lurkers everywhere shall be cajoled, seduced, and otherwise shamed into commenting on blogs across the Internets. How will I participate, you ask? Well, I've already sown the first seeds, by giving my blog a Shiny! New! Title! And tomorrow I will build on that glorious foundation by posting something so provocative, so unexpected, so startling that ye shall be driven to comment. In the spirit of the Great Mofo Delurk, though, I too must comment! And so I will also take the good advice of my friend Dana, who says that you can't get phone calls if you don't make phone calls. But instead of making phone calls (which we all know I suck at), I will comment on all the blogs that I read in a given day! (Note to self: start early.) So consider yourselves warned!