So... much... pain. Friday evening I moved all the furniture out of my office and into John's office across the hall, in preparation for Flooring Saga, Part V: Emily's Office. Saturday morning we dug in, ripping up carpet (still the most disgusting job on earth), cleaning up the concrete underneath, measuring and laying the underlayment, then installing the bamboo. Miraculously, we finished at 6:30 Saturday evening. Behold:

And, I've organized some of our flooring photos into one handy collection, which you can see here.

1. I eat the same thing for breakfast every morning: a bowl of cereal with cut strawberries, a glass of orange juice, and two slices of raisin toast.
2. On days when I work from home, sometimes I don't shower until 11:00. Okay, 1:00. (Hey, admit it! If you worked from home, wouldn't you work in your pajamas for a few hours?)
3. When I was 16, I sprayed Miracle Grow in my hair to get it to grow long quickly.
4. Very early in our relationship, John and I went to Dairy Queen one night. He got a banana split and I got... a Coke. Apparently I told him, "I just don't really like ice cream." (What?!? Who is this girl?)
5. In a similar vein, I apparently told him that I didn't like water, either, because of the taste. That's great. Now I sound like Victoria Beckham.

When I was in elementary school, we had one of those secretaries in the principle's office who was Not To Be Trifled With. She had a stern face, a pointed nose, a pursed mouth, and a glare that could make a 6th grade bully soil his undergarments. Her name was Mrs. Highberger, and if you approached her desk, she gave you a look through those half-moon glasses that suggested you'd better get to the point. Quickly. I made the mistake of calling her by her first name, Gloria, once. I'll never forget the tongue-lashing I got. I saw her last summer, while visiting my hometown. I must have stared, accidentally, because when she caught me looking at her, I got the Highberger Glare that iced my insides and made my palms sweat. Clearly, she's still got it.

I don't know if it's the same anywhere else, but panhandling is a huge problem in Gainesville. You almost can't go anywhere without being asked for money. We've even had people ring the doorbell and ask us to give them cash. But one guy in particular keeps cropping up.

• First encounter: several months ago, he approached us in the Best Buy parking lot. It was right at the beginning of the school year, the weekend that all the students move back to town. He claimed to be helping his daughter move, all the way from Ohio, and said that he lost his wallet. He just needed some cash for a night in a hotel, and would we mind helping him out?
• Second encounter: sitting at a stoplight (across the street from Best Buy, actually) about two months ago, he approached the vehicle in front of us and asked the driver for cash. Rebuffed, he started to approach us and John waved him on.
• Third encounter: A week and a half ago, John went to pick up a pizza we'd ordered. On his way out of the pizza shop, the same guy approached him and asked for a few slices. John acted like the guy was joking, and laughed it off. As he walked away, the guy shouted, "I'm not kidding!"
• Fourth encounter: Today, at the grocery store, the very same guy walked up to the deli, picked up a cooked rotisserie chicken, and walked out without paying.

Lest there's any confusion, allow me to state what may be obvious: this guy isn't homeless. From the looks of it, he's not hurting at all. He's just gaming the system and making a living of it. And it makes my skin crawl.

The other day, John was on the phone with his youngest brother Zack and I overheard part of their conversation. Who knows what, exactly, they were talking about, but I heard: "... and how much torque it applies, and you should be able to figure out its' efficiency." Clearly they were geeking out about some science-y engineering whatsit, but it got me thinking about how different we are. Case in point: when I'm on the phone with my friend Amy, our conversations are much more along the lines of: "No WAI!" "WAI!," coupled with lengthy debates about Lindsay Lohan's freckles or something. Opposites attract, is all I'm saying.

Because if so, I'm THERE! I'm on bed rest, day five. Well, John says it's day four and I say it's day five. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to, whatever. We'll call it day four and a half. In nearly five years of teaching, I've never been too sick to teach and yet Tuesday, I had to cancel class. There was absolutely no way I could have taught. No, not even if Steve Austin himself had propped me up at the podium. Today though, with herculean effort (and more than a little wailing), I made it up to campus to teach. Then crashed as soon as I got home. What is it about having the flu? It sucks every ounce of energy out of your body and leaves you whimpering and snot-nosed, looking more like death warmed over than not. Tomorrow morning I've got a Super Important Interview and I really have to be at the top of my game. When they ask me how my "academic interests" relate to the "changing world of women," I don't suppose they'd appreciate it if I looked back at them blankly, with drool coming out of the corner of my mouth.

Traveling home yesterday, on what my friend Amy calls the Flying WalMart Tube of Death, I caught a nasty bug. I don't know for sure what it is, but it came fully equipped with a fever over a hundred degrees, a bad cough, and that thing where your skin hurts. Send help. And cookies.

It's now 5:45 and pitch black in Binghamton, New York. I seriously can't remember the last time I was awake and vertical at 5:45 in the morning. What's even scarier is that I've been up for over two hours. Srsly. Some thoughts on the Binghamton trip before we board the plane:

People in Binghamton are SO NICE. It's astonishing to us because people at home are such jerks 99% of the time.

That said, although I had the opportunity to come to grad school at SUNY Binghamton, I'm glad I'm at UF.

Five years of graduate school have paid off: I'm able to speak intelligently in groups of really smart people! AND I know what I'm talking about! It's a March miracle.

That said, there are other smart, funny conference participants sitting in the gate area and I can't bring myself to talk to them. It's too damned early to talk shop.

Three days without internet is REALLY HARD. I missed blogging, I missed reading blogs, and I missed my email. For all I knew, Pioneer Woman had posted another installment of her on-going series (she hadn't) or Tiffany had posted again (she HAD!).

That said, reading blogs after three days of no internet is like opening Christmas presents. Everyone has a new post!

Wandering around downtown Binghamton, we noticed a lot of empty storefronts and the fact that not much was going on in that area of town. We couldn't figure out why until last night, when we drove in the opposite direction from downtown and our hotel. What we found was like all other suburban sprawl you've ever seen: WalMart, Lowe's, Dress Barn, Ann Taylor Loft, and dealership after dealership.

Whoops! Boarding time!

John: We should take the Game Cube with us to New York!

Me: That's a GREAT idea!

John: ... .....

Me: Wait, were you joking?

John: Uh, yeah.

Recent home improvement projects have gotten me thinking about the crappy places I used to rent. For your pleasure, then, I've come up with this brief trip down memory lane:

Age 19: I sublet a small studio apartment near campus. The kitchen and bedroom are in the same room. The bathroom is larger than the living room. When it rains, the living room floods.

Age 19: Over the summer, I share an apartment with my best friend Janell in a complex we affectionately call Booty Call Central. The apartment is palatial compared to the studio I inhabited previously. Janell and I have an awesome summer together. At the end of July, we're loathed to leave the place.

Age 19-20: I live in a two-bedroom apartment with a former high school classmate. The apartment, while spacious, is over a mile from campus and in a questionable neighborhood. While we live there, a woman gets murdered a few blocks away. Somehow, that's not nearly as creepy as my roommate's enormous collection of dolls. They're the first thing you see when you come in the door and they're nothing short of disturbing.

Age 20-21: I'm back in the same apartment at Booty Call Central, living with a coworker from my campus job. We start out on friendly enough terms, but that quickly disintegrates. I live for Fridays, when she drives back to her hometown and I mourn the end of each weekend, when she returns. When her fiancee comes to move her out at the end of the spring semester, I'm not sorry to see her leave. I may even do a little dance.

Age 21-22: On the Craptastic Scale, this place is second only to that first studio apartment. It's a one-bedroom; my last two roommate experiences have convinced me to live alone. The living room carpet is gold shag, the dining room carpet is orange/brown shag, and the bedroom carpet is blue-green shag. During the winter, the icy wind blows through the apartment unchecked. One day when I come home, the doorknob falls off in my hand. The base of the kitchen cabinet under the sink has a hole in it; the cat falls through a few times and explores the super-spooky basement.

I vote we do away with daylight savings time. Who's with me? All day yesterday, I tried to adapt to the new time but with each passing hour, it felt stranger and stranger. Three o'clock felt like two o'clock. Five o'clock had stealthily turned into six o'clock. And don't get me started on dinner time, which felt like a normal eating time, but in fact took place at 8:30. From time immemorial, farmers have been using the sun to gauge their workdays, laboring from dawn to dusk. And somehow, in this modern age, we insist on tinkering with the clock twice a year. So riddle me this: do we still need daylight savings time? If so, can we at least get a week off to adjust to the new time?

Back in January, before the Nomination Process That Wouldn't Die got underway, Florida held its primary. But John and I didn't go vote. Why? Because Florida Democrats were told that our votes wouldn't count since Florida had been stripped of its delegates for breaking the rules (holding an early primary). No biggie, right? Oh, but then the Nomination Process That Wouldn't Die really got going in earnest. And it looked like they were going to go ahead and count the Florida votes anyway. WTF? I know I didn't vote, most of the people I know didn't vote, and many, many, many Floridians didn't vote. Having been told that our votes wouldn't count and all. Now, finally, it seems that Florida (and Michigan, for the record) are considering do-over primaries. There's a lot of disagreement about this. Florida and Michigan have been told that they'd have to come up with the money themselves to pay for the second primaries, and politicians are saying that they don't want to use taxpayer money to do that. Others are saying that the do-overs shouldn't happen because there already was a primary, and those votes should count. I, for one, would welcome the opportunity to vote. I'm a state resident and a taxpayer and I firmly believe that enabling citizens to vote, and to have those votes count, is one of the most basic tenants of our democracy. Seating the delegates from January's unbalanced primary would make a mockery of the process.

It never ceases to amaze me that people in the beauty industry- an industry based on the premise of making women feel attractive- would risk business and potential good word of mouth just for the chance to put customers down. A few weeks ago, I went to a new (to me) salon for a haircut (with Candy, if you'll recall, though it turns out she spells it 'Kandi'). In any case, the haircut turned out great, and Kandi was really nice. As I was paying, though, the salon owner (the OWNER!) and the receptionist made fun of how I look. I won't even bother repeating what they did, since it was such a cheap shot. They thought I hadn't seen them laugh at my expense, but I did. I felt like I was in junior high all over again, not pretty enough or rich enough or, frankly, bitchy enough to hang out with the "cool" crowd. And that feeling stuck with me for several days. I couldn't shake it. But honestly, what upset me the most was not what these women said or did. It's that I let it bother me. I enabled them to make me feel beneath them. And I'm thirty!!! Isn't there a point at which we get over this crap?

Growing up, my mom taught me to "walk down the middle of the road; that way, they can't get you." I was never really clear who "they" were, but it seemed like really good advice and it stuck with me. John (being John) is quick to point out that while "they" might not be able to get you, cars certainly can. But that doesn't faze me. To this day, I still walk down the middle of the road so they can't get me.

This timeline picks up where my first decade left off.

Age 11: My mom and my brother and I walk up to the Humane Society one day, to look at the adoptable puppies. We say we're just going to look, there's no harm in looking, and we won't bring home a dog anyway. Once there, we see a tiny fuzzball of a dog, so sweet and so cute, and clearly in need of a home with two kids. We adopt him on the spot and call my dad to come pick us up.

Age 12: My best friend moves away to Virginia. Even though I know we'll keep in touch, I'm crushed. When we fall out of contact a few years later, I'm not surprised.

Age 13: I'm in the sixth grade. The teacher asks us a question about the Bible. He brings in the first-grade teacher to recite a Bible passage for us. Everyone chimes in to add to the conversation, but since I've never read the Bible, I keep my mouth shut.

Age 14: My new best friend and I are having a discussion about swearing. We decide that at our age, it's probably okay to say "crap." But surely you have to wait until you're older to say "shit." We feel very wise.

Age 15: I have a crush on a boy at school who flunked the 8th grade. Note to self: set higher standards.

I've said before, here, that graduate school is a very lonely experience. But it's not just the work that brings solitude. It's also, for me, the incredible distance from friends and family. When I think about the last four and a half years that we've been down here, more than a thousand miles from home, one thing that comes to mind is all the times when I desperately wanted to be back in Kansas. Sometimes I wanted to be close to the people who needed comforting while they dealt with tragedy. Death, prolonged illness, suicide, divorce, and more. But other times I wanted to be back for reasons that are much more elemental. To smell the air, see the trees, and immerse myself the familiar. For a number of reasons, we're not likely to be able to visit this summer. And while I know we'll be back at Christmas, I also know that until then I'll look out my office window every once in awhile and wonder what home looks like right at that moment.