I give you our fridge, the day after Thanksgiving, unedited:

I was at the vet's office not too long ago with our dog, Luke, and the vet tech was asking me if Luke had any nicknames. I hesitated, then hedged. "Um, yeah. Yeah, he has a few." I hoped he would drop the question. If only I'd been so lucky. "Oh yeah? Well, what are they?" Oh, where to begin?

"Well, we call him Puppy, because he still acts like one. And, uh, we call him Poo and, uh, Poo Bear. And, well, then one day we decided that he looked like a donkey, so there's that. But then that warped into Bonkey, and now we call him Bonkey Moon." Needless to say, this precipitated a blank stare from the vet tech. I soldiered on: "You know, like the UN Secretary General, Ban Ki-moon?"

crickets

What's that? You're still using canned pumpkin for all your holiday baking? Good lord, why? Fresh pumpkin tastes much better and is fabulously easy to bake with! Follow along: First, get yourself a pie pumpkin. They'll be near the winter squash in your grocery store. They look like this:

Cut it in half (be careful!) and scoop out the seeds and strings.

It should look like this:

Place the halves face down on a tray and put them in a 325 degree oven. You'll know they're done when you can easily pierce the meat of the pumpkin with a skewer. Let it cool for a bit, then scrape the pumpkin clean.

Once you've done that, just whirl it in the blender and use it in your favorite pumpkin recipe! It's as easy as pie... maybe even pumpkin pie.

I'm cutting it sort of fine on this one, but I wanted to wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving, wherever you are. We spent a lovely day at my dissertation advisor's house and tomorrow we're going to have another Thanksgiving at our house, just the two of us. Happy holidays!

• Big Wheel. Big Wheels were pure awesome. My brother and I used to take turns riding ours up and down our driveway, getting frustrated with each other for taking too long of a turn!
• Legos. Are Legos not the most magnificent thing ever? And they're so timeless. I defy you, regardless of your age, to sit in a room with a bunch of Legos and NOT play with them. We had a huge bag of them when we were kids, and my parents would empty the bag on the living room floor and we'd all put together Legos for hours.
• Etch A Sketch. The must tantalizing, yet frustrating of childhood toys, yes? You could draw a house with a dog out front, but everything was connected with gray vapor lines, and when you showed your creation off to someone, they sort of had to squint and tilt their head to the left to see it. "Oh! Right! It's a house! I see it now!"
• Sylvanian Families. Did anybody else have these? I rediscovered them earlier this year and sent a set to my oldest niece. I remember that the accessories for the Sylvanian babies were so tiny, it's amazing I kept track of them.
• Cabbage Patch Kids. Ah, Cabbage Patch Kids. Can I confess that I had four of them? I still remember three of their names. And each of them had Xavier Roberts' signature on their butts! Remember that?
• Barbie. I couldn't, in good conscience, leave Barbie off the list. My Barbie collection, in all its plastic-y goodness, is still up in my parents' attic somewhere. I remember I used to get so frustrated when a Barbie's head would pop off (not a hard thing to do when you're a kid). Then you'd try to smoosh it back on to the plastic ball that the head was supposed to perch on, and inevitably you'd shoot right past it and Barbie would suddenly look like a linebacker. Good times.

It never ceases to amaze me what my students don't remember. I expect them not to remember the things I teach them. Cynical? Maybe, but it's based on experience. I also expect that they won't remember when things are due, which is why I constantly remind them of deadlines. But when I tell them that they don't have class tomorrow? I sort of expect them to remember that. Especially when I've announced it every class period for the last three weeks. And when it's listed on their syllabus, in capital letters. Yesterday one of my students came up to me before lecture and wanted to know what we were doing in class on Wednesday. When I told him we didn't have class, he was utterly and completely shocked (not to mention thrilled). /shakes head in dismay/

John and I were talking about a widely-publicized plagiarism case the other day, which I described as a kerfuffle.

John: A what?!?
Me: A kerfuffle.
John: That sounds like a made-up word! I think you just made that up!
Me: No! It's a word! A kerfuffle: it means a mess, a to-do, a...
John: It sound like someone sneezed.
Me: You can look it up!

The words "mani," "pedi," and "hairdo" make my skin crawl. I've no idea why, but they're like nails on a chalkboard for me (a sound which, ironically, doesn't bother me).

I hate watching movies. In the theater, rented, or on tv, I can't stand it.

If I have leftovers at a restaurant, I usually ask for a box, even if I didn't like the food. Why? Because I don't want to hurt the kitchen staff's feelings. (Who is this girl?!?)

I'm a gum chewer. Always have been. Gum was my candy of choice as a kid. I'd take any spare change I could scrounge up, walk down to Dutch Maid, and buy as much Apple Super Bubble as I could. (I'm actually pretty sure that stuff causes cancer. I bought a big bin of it a few years ago, as a present to myself, and I had to throw most of it away; it was stashed in our pantry and no matter what container I shoved it in, or how many layers of Ziploc separated it from the rest of us, we could still smell it.) I find myself chewing more and more gum these days, as I'm writing The Dissertation. I'd go through a pack a day, I'm sure, if I let myself. I'm like a gum vampire. It takes very little time for me to chew all the flavor out of a stick of gum, and then inevitably I'm left wanting more. I think it must be a bit like smoking. Go with me on this. My dad quit smoking years ago, after being a smoker for most of his life. He still says that when he's working on something, he feels like he needs a cigarette in his hand in order to concentrate. I think it's like that with me and gum. So there you go: you want this dissertation finished? Get me gum for Christmas.

So! The economy's down, I'm sure you've heard. And not only is this affecting everything from grocery prices to the impending collapse of our auto industry, it's also affecting the History job market. Lo! Who would have guessed? It seems that universities are, ah, more reluctant to hire redundant American History professors in a recession. Weird, right? I know this because job searches are being cancelled left and right, left and right, people! For a long time it was limited to jobs to which I didn't apply (note proper grammar! please hire me! AM SMART!). Now, though, the ax has fallen: University of Massachusetts Amherst, it appears, has cancelled their search. Considering that I never got any confirmation from them of any kind, and considering that I'm probably not, ah, Amherst material, I'm not too fussed about it. But it was one of the only ten jobs on my application list, leaving me wondering about the other nine. And (AND) some colleges are actually shutting down. Shutting down! Closing! No college, no more! I think it's pretty safe to say that, Great Depression aside, there's never been a worse time to try to find a job, sell a house, and completely reconfigure a life. Yay me! Let's all keep our fingers crossed for those last nine searches, yes?

Maybe it was the pinchy boots I was wearing. Maybe it was the headache from grading papers. Whatever it was, I couldn't help myself. We were talking about the Civil Rights Movement in class yesterday and I wanted to get my students thinking about whether or not it was a success. The last question I posed to them was, "have we solved the race issue in this country?" I got a lot of varying answers and after awhile my British student raised her hand. She chose her words carefully, but essentially said, "it's known in other countries that America is quite behind in that regard, there's just so much racism." Her comment prompted another student to ask her if black people are treated differently in England than in the US, to which she said, yes, they're treated just the same as everyone else. At that point, another student interrupted:
Him: "Yeah, but it's not like you guys would ever elect a Middle Eastern Prime Minister! Would you???
Her: "Well, no, I suppose not..."
Him (getting more aggressive): "Yeah, that's what I thought. You guys really hate Middle Easterners over there."

Internet, it was out of my mouth before I knew it: "[snort] Whereas in this country, we love them."

Do you remember when the dentists would come visit your elementary school? (Did this happen at anyone else's school?) At our school, they'd bring toothbrushes and small tubes of toothpaste for each kid, and talk about the importance of brushing and flossing regularly. But the thing I remember the most is those pink disclosing tablets. (Warning: the link takes you to a relatively gross photo.) Remember those? You'd chew them up, swirl them around in your mouth, and then the pink would show up on your teeth wherever you hadn't brushed thoroughly enough. I can still remember exactly how those things tasted. Ahh, memories!

We dropped Zack off at the airport last night, and this morning the house feels strangely empty. It's always that way after a guest leaves, but somehow it's more palpable this time. Maybe that's because, from Friday through Monday, our house was filled with nonstop chatter and laughter from these two guys. They had the best time, and I don't think I'm overstating it by saying it was John's Best Birthday Weekend EVER. Both Friday night and Saturday night, John and Zack sat hunched over our coffee table, putting together... putting together... well, to be frank, I'm not sure what it was. All I know is that at one point, a faint electrical fire smell filled the room, prompting John to say, "well, that didn't work!" And both nights I slipped off to bed, completely unnoticed and unmissed, which is exactly what I'd hoped would happen, Scout's Honor. At one point on Friday night I looked over at them while they were working furiously on The Gadget, and I couldn't stop smiling. I would have taken a photo of the two of them, but I thought that would interrupt their brainwavery, so I opted not to. Sunday, The Gadget having been finished, we took Zack to Blue Highway Pizza, otherwise known as The Best Pizza In Gainesville (Well, Except That It's Not In Gainesville). That evening we hung out and talked, and I was none too surprised when the evening slowly devolved into hysterical giggling about the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (whose acronym is PNAS... I'll let that stew for a minute). Monday was mostly focused on getting Zack to the airport, and everyone was understandably subdued. We'd had an awesome weekend, but we all wanted it to last longer. (Right, Zack? ...Zack?) Once we got to the airport, I couldn't help remarking out loud that it felt like Zack had just gotten here, and everyone agreed. John and I had a quiet drive home, talking every now and again about how nice it was to see Zack. When John remarked that he'd forgotten to tell Zack something, that he just didn't have enough time, I knew exactly what he meant.

I've got lots to say about John's birthday weekend with Zack, but right now I'm grading a mountain of papers. So instead, I'll leave you with a LolCat, courtesy of I Can Haz Cheezburger.

About four years ago, when we'd lived in Gainesville only a few months, I made an appointment with a... erm... lady doctor for a checkup. Since I was a new patient, she had a number of basic questions for me, starting with occupation. When I told her I was a graduate student working towards my PhD, she snorted and said, "well, if you think that's best!" I smiled politely and decided to give her the benefit of the doubt; she probably thought she was being clever, not rude. Ahem. When she asked my age (26 at the time), she also asked if John and I had kids yet. I told her we didn't and her eyebrows shot up. She then went on to lecture me that we should start having kids if we ever wanted them, that my chances were slip-slip-slipping away (while, it went without saying, I wasted my time in graduate school), and she suggested I start taking folic acid in preparation.

What strikes me now, years after the incident, is that I didn't say anything to this woman. At the time, I decided not to make an issue of it because she probably thought she was being helpful. But I think it's important to speak your mind when you feel strongly about something. In this case, I feel strongly about my right to decide if and when I want children, and this woman-- whether she knew it or not-- was badgering me. So why didn't I speak up? Was it shock? Social etiquette? Shyness? It still puzzles me.

"Isolated showers" versus "scattered showers": is there a legitimate difference?

There's a line in Working Girl that says, essentially, "Never underestimate what the American people will put in their mouths." And perhaps that was never more true than today. Please look, won't you, at an item I saw in the grocery store earlier this week: Batter Blaster. If you can't get to the link, or can't be bothered to click on the link, allow me to describe it to you. It's pancake mix in a can, a can much like a Reddi Wip can or even-- dare I make the comparison-- an Easy Cheese can. (HORK) When you go to the website, a 1950's-esque jingle sings out, "Make a better breakfast faster: Batter Blaster!" And what's that? It's organic! That means it's good for you, right? As long as you can get over the stomach-churningness of it all, that is.

We were talking about Communism in class yesterday and I got the students talking about freedom of speech. I asked if freedom of speech was always protected, or if the government would consider certain speech incendiary (which, of course, it does). One of my students raised his hand and said, "well, sure, you can take anything somebody says and twist it to see it a certain way, just like girls do." To which I said, "...what?" "Yeah," he said, "girls are always twisting guys' words around." And I had no choice but to say, "are you calling me fat?!?" You see how versatile the phrase is, then.

Last night I dreamt that my friend Sally took a horse to a nearby car dealership to trade it in for a new car. Hey, they're both modes of transportation, right?

I knew I wanted to do something really special for John's birthday. I wanted to get him something that he'd always remember, something that would be really meaningful to him. But I couldn't come up with anything that seemed to fit the bill. Over the summer, though, it came to me. This past summer, we made the decision not to go visit family and friends in Kansas. There just wasn't enough time and money to make the trip. I knew that John had basically made his peace with that decision, but I also knew that he would miss seeing his youngest brother, Zack. Those two are more like best friends than brothers. And they're so alike. Just last night, they were on the phone talking about battery-powered gadgets, and I overheard John say, "yeah, but who really knows what Batman has under his tights?" They're two peas in a pod, in other words. So for his birthday, I got John the best present I could think of: I got him Zack. This Friday, Zack will come to stay with us for four days. Together, the two of them can geek out, talk shop, and even build a solar-powered Rube Goldberg machine if they want to!

Happy Birthday, John. I hope you know how much you mean to me. Have fun with Zack, just don't burn the house down, okay?

About a month ago I opened the mailbox and groaned inwardly: I'd received a jury summons instructing me to show up, well, today. In theory, I'm all about the Civic Duty. In theory, I think it's one of the greatest responsibilities of living in this democracy. In theory, I think it's something everyone should experience at least once. In Theory. In practice, uh, this isn't the best week for me. Can I get a substitute? A pinch juror? A note from my mother? Because really, there couldn't be a worse week for this to happen. Today, Monday, is jury selection day. I'll find out when, later in the week, I have to show up for the trial. Tuesday is Veteran's Day, so presumably there won't be any trials that day. Wednesday I teach: not such a great day for me to be in a trial. Thursday is good! Thursday I could be a juror! Except, you know, for the fact that it's one of my only writing days. And Friday isn't good either, for reasons I'll blog about tomorrow. So today I have to be the Privileged White Girl that goes up to the judge, hopefully not twirling my hair and playing with my iPhone (I don't have an iPhone), and says, "I can be a juror, but only on Thursday." Oh, good. Sign me up.

Update! I've been excused from jury duty! Although I really do believe that it's something everyone should experience, I'm completely glad my number didn't come up this time because it really was going to wreak havoc on my schedule. Now I can go back to eating bonbons and sleeping in late. Kidding!

My advisor was in Michigan recently, and she came back with a present for me. It's a notepad that I can keep by my bedside for those 2 am strokes of dissertation genius. It was so nice of her to think of me, and even nicer that the notepad has something to do with my research:

It says, "Insanity is hereditary. You can get it from your children."

Obviously, everyone knows we're in a recession slowdown. Our dollars don't stretch as far as they used to, groceries are more and more expensive (have you looked at your grocery bill lately?!?), and gas prices are high (though, admittedly, not as high as they were-- I don't think any of us misses paying $4 a gallon for gas). But what's so weird here in Gainesville-- and maybe it's the same elsewhere, I'm not sure-- is that chain stores are going out of business. It's the strangest sight. The Wendy's down the road closed a few months ago because they couldn't afford the rent anymore. Albertson's grocery store, across from Wendy's (hmm...) closed about a month ago. And just today we found out that Linens N' Things is going out of business, even though it's only been open for about two years! I always thought that a recession slowdown would put small, locally-owned establishments out of business first and not nationwide chains, but that doesn't seem to be the case here. Is it the same where you are?

Editor's Note: This rather lame NaBlo post brought to you by a very long week and a very, very trying Friday. Witty posting to resume in the future.

So, there's no place in our house that's safe for drinks. Allow me to explain. We've got a narrow table next to the couch, which would theoretically be a great spot to place a beverage. But our gymnast cats use it as a vault to launch themselves onto the couch. As if that weren't problem enough, Luke's very waggy tail can easily take out anything on that table, leaving it doubly-bad for drink placement. But lo! We have a coffee table! An ideal place for a beverage, no? Well, no. Again, Luke's very waggy tail would take out any drink on the coffee table faster than Godzilla could level Chinatown. "But, wait," you ask, "don't you have a dining table?" Why yes, yes we do. And yet, somehow, Luke's very waggy tail has been known to destabilize the table enough that drinks topple to their doom. I find that there's no safe place for a drink to exist in this house. I have no other choice, it seems, than to transition us to spill-proof sippy cups.

My friend Sally and I have this joke that revolves around one of us saying, "Are you calling me fat"? It's completely stupid, but it puts us into hysterics each and every time. The conversations that end in "are you calling me fat" are usually completely nonsensical. Like such:

Emily: Gosh, it's really hot outside!
Sally: Really? I don't think it's that warm.
Emily: Are you calling me fat?

OR

Sally: I really liked the flowers you sent me the other day.
Emily: That wasn't me.
Sally: Are you calling me fat?!?

It's a great joke, and I highly recommend you take it for a spin sometime. Although, I have to warn you not to use it on people you do not know, or people whom you only know in a professional setting; it has to be with a friend. You don't want to spring this one on an unsuspecting stranger, or on your uptight boss.

I'm beyond words tonight. I'm over the moon. I'd hoped to be able to find a way to describe how I'm feeling, but I just can't. It's been a long eight years. The hope of eight years ago, voting for Al Gore and being disappointed. The determination of four years ago, voting against Bush and once again being disappointed. The privilege of helping to elect a president who not only understands the difficult time ahead, but also the audacity of hope... is something I can't even describe. We've got a lot of work to do. Let's all roll up our sleeves.

Walking into the grocery store last night, I caught a whiff of my mom's perfume. It's an unusual perfume, by which I mean that it's not a fragrance many women wear, so it's something I come into contact with only around my mom. Anyway, I just about lost my shit right there, in Publix. It's the job search, I'm sure. It's longing for something familiar and comforting. We always knew it was a long shot to get back to Kansas. We braced ourselves for that reality, and came to terms with it. And yet, as October has slipped quietly into November, and the job ads are fewer and further between, it's hard not to feel a pang of disappointment that the Kansas thing probably won't pan out. We will probably always live a distance (big or not-as-big) from our families.

As soon as I got home last night, I called my friend Amy to talk me down from the ledge. "Well of course you're upset! You've got, oh I don't know, your job search and your dissertation to worry about! And as if that wasn't enough," she wisely observed, "you were at the grocery store! That's enough to push anyone over the edge!"

What's so funny about elections is the doomsday rhetoric that they engender. This is true of every election, but perhaps especially this one. "If McCain wins," some people say, "I'm moving to Canada." Or, "If Obama wins," others fume, "the terrorists win." Sure, I understand that this is another manifestation of how deeply divided this country is. But isn't it sort of funny? Because in a real way, life won't fundamentally change for us regardless of who's in the White House. Life goes on, day after day. We'll do the same things we've always done: read the same newspapers, go to the same coffee shops, run the same errands. Sunriiiise, sunseeet. It really begs the question: does it matter who's in the White House?

Everybody knows that peanut butter and apple is a classic snack combination. But have you tried peanut butter and banana? Growing up, peanut butter and banana was a staple in our house, and nobody made it better than my mom. She'd slice the banana lengthwise, spread peanut butter one one half of the banana (not an easy task on a slippery banana, I tell you), then sandwich the peanut butter half with the other half. Then she'd cut the banana crosswise, making bite-sized pieces that I'd eat with a fork. Each piece was a perfect ratio of peanut butter to banana. If you haven't tried it, you simply must. It's snack heaven, I tell you.

I tend to do jobbie stuff first thing in the morning, even on weekends. John is usually still asleep, the house is quiet, and I can poke around without distractions. Two of the jobs to which I'm applying are at Northern Midwest Non-Flagship State University. The university itself looks pretty neat, the job description sounds ideal, and I'd be lying if I said these two jobs weren't near the top of my list. When I was still reading history blogs last year, I found a woman graduate student from Columbia who'd gotten a job at this very school. At the time, she went on and on about how much she loved the school and the town. This morning I checked her blog only to find, alas, that she's no longer blogging BUT! She still updates her Flickr photos. I clicked on her Flickr badge, which took me to a set of photos she'd snapped in Northern Midwestern State and oh... oh my. It looked like Kansas, people. It looked so much like Kansas, in fact, that a lump formed in my throat as I pictured John and I back in the Midwest, back in a place that makes sense to us. I've applied for jobs further flung than I wished I'd have to, and while any job would be a thrill, a job in the Midwest would be a dream come true. It's been five long years in Florida, and the prospect of getting back to the Midwest, apparently, makes me get all misty. I can't wait until John wakes up so I can show him the photos, and we can dream together.