LA VIVA LOCA

I keep my promises, people.

But first, the "sandwich spread:"

I thought the parsley was a nice touch.

And on Thursday, the Viva arrived:

Within 20 minutes of the delivery fellas' departure, I had discovered that the Viva is an excellent piece of furniture for checking e-mail, reading young adult fiction, and napping. (Mr. Banality does not believe in naps. Sad.) And we've already changed the configuration of the pieces twice.

What was maybe more exciting was that we also received a large box of nearly 200 fabric samples that go along with this particular line. Mr. Banality started a new project with them. While I napped.

Our house will be only slightly less noisy tomorrow than we had expected, as we have canceled our family get-together due to anticipated inclement weather. That sound you hear is the collective sigh of relief from me and my 16 introverted family members. Now we can spend the day in our respective homes, reading magazines and doing other things that require no contact with other humans.

There's a newish book out there titled, No One Cares What You Had for Lunch. It offers suggestions for interesting and thought-provoking blog posts. Obviously, I have not read this book. By the way, I had red curry with tofu for lunch. In case you were wondering.

on living in this place

"I know that you like it here because it's what you're used to. It's a lot harder for people who are used to living in cities."

That was what one of my colleagues said to me upon my arrival to this small town. When I moved here, I was all kinds of ambivalent about it. I had grown up in this state, and after I left, I swore I wouldn't be back. The bad food! The ugly clothes! The popularity of country music! Mr. Banality had to convince me to apply for my current job. When people heard that I was moving to this state, they either responded with confusion ("Why?") or sympathy ("Don't worry--I'm sure another job will open up somewhere else.") So, when this new colleague made this comment (in a very condescending voice, I might add), I didn't know what to say. Part of me wanted to yell, "Nuh-uh, I don't like it here either!" After all, I had just moved here from a large city and was lamenting this area's absence of sushi and used book shops. But another part of me was so deeply offended by the comment, which implied that I was a naïve simpleton who didn't know any better than to be satisfied, that I was speechless. That this colleague liked to sell herself as culturally sensitive was especially annoying.

I've given this a lot of thought since that day. It's true, growing up here didn't provide me with an understanding of the world beyond my small community. My parents chose to save my mother's schoolteaching salary and have our family live on my father's income as a factory worker. We didn't go on many vacations, we didn't talk about current events around the dinner table, we didn't go to movies. My parents thought that credit cards were despicable, so if they couldn't pay cash for something, they didn't buy it (their mortgage was the exception). We ate really cheap food, and very few things in our house were name-brand products. However, the values of this culture, with its emphasis on simplicity, hard work, and honesty, have served me well, and I'm not just talking about my own internalization of those values. My parents worked hard and spent very little money, and because of that, I am one of those rare people with advanced degrees who never took out a student loan.

So, you can see why I might feel insulted by my colleague's statement.

What I've grown to realize is that it does take a special kind of enlightened attitude to be OK in a place like this, and by "like this," I mean a place that doesn't fit your peer group's definition of "a cool place to live." You have to be high in the trait of openness (and not limit that openness to certain types of places and certain types of people). You have to be mindful and creative. If you're rigid, your ability to be happy here will be severely limited.

Take, for example, the recipe book I've mentioned before. Sure, I poke fun at its partially-hydrogenated-fat-laden dishes, but I also have a certain appreciation for this type of cooking. The growth in the processed food industry during the 1950's didn't benefit only the suburban housewives. This stuff that was cheap and fast and easy to make was a godsend for farm wives. They could throw together a casserole and then use that time that the Velveeta and can of cream of mushroom soup saved them to help in the field. Plus, rural folks were used to preserved foods--they spent the winter eating the vegetables they canned back in August. And these processed foods were more than acceptable to German, Scottish, Norwegian, and British palates. Hamburger Helper and haggis? Practically the same thing.

The "advances" in farming (bigger machinery, synthetic fertilizers) haven't made life more convenient either. They've made farming less profitable. Now, farm families have to rely on multiple sources of income, which means even less time to do those daily living tasks like cooking.

I'll just get back to my point: pizza made with Velveeta is not my thing, but I try not to belittle people whose thing it is.

I've learned a lot about openness from Mr. Banality. I was especially worried about how he would adjust to living here, and it was his turn to follow me. Mr. Banality is a problem-solver. He's a man of action. That guy gets shit done. I could get really smarmy here, but I won't. Let's just say that he's really good at making life meaningful and interesting, and I'm very lucky that I get to come along for the ride.

My mom has a pillow on her couch on which she embroidered the message: Bloom Where You Are Planted. I've always hated that saying because it seems so passive and helpless. She made this pillow after my dad decided they should move to a rural community in an area they hadn't lived near since they were children. For my dad, this was no big deal, but my mom left many friends behind. And, as you might guess, the friendship circles of the 60+ crowd are difficult to break into. However, I've reconsidered that saying lately, and I've found some new meaning in it. I'm not saying that I'm "planted" here forever, but while I'm here, I might as well enjoy the Snickers salad.

Yeah, I'm procrastinating

But the papers! Ugh! They are sooo not enjoyable to read. Things I have learned today:

1. Feeding squirrels is more fun than grading research proposals.
2. Doing dishes? Also more fun than grading research proposals.
3. The people who work at the natural food store need to take it easy on the patchouli skin care products. I do not like patchouli-flavored flour tortillas.
4. Next year, I will work harder to help students understand that random does not mean haphazard. The word random has been completely bastardized by popular culture.
5. The guy who lives across the street is apparently really mad at the snow drift in front of his driveway. Or maybe he's mad at the individual who suggested that he go outside and get rid of the snow drift. Hmmm.

And one more thing: Mr. Banality will take something to the office potluck on Monday. It needs to be equal in impact to last year's dish (circus peanut salad), so the pressure is on. He's chosen a sandwich spread recipe from his hometown church's cookbook. It's made from five hard-boiled eggs, sweet pickle relish, pimentos, cheese (the recipe calls for Velveeta, but they don't make an organic version, so he's going to use cheddar), and . . . peanut butter. Add mayonnaise if it's too dry. I'll wait while you retch.

The recipe was contributed by a woman named Leota, but her nickname was Poodie. They just don't make nicknames like they used to, you know?

And speaking of cookbooks, I received one last week in the mail. I do public speaking things from time to time, mostly to service clubs, red-hat ladies, and adult Sunday school classes. They usually pay for my mileage. A women's club from a neighboring small town gave me their cookbook as a thank you gift. This community is the kind that isn't familiar with difficulties in planning holiday gatherings because everyone lives in the same town and most people are related to each other somehow. This might explain why the cookbook contains multiple recipes for the same things: tapioca salad, Oriental salad, pistachio salad, vodka slush (life must get rough in this little town), Mexican lasagna. The recipes use lots of Cool Whip, Miracle Whip, Velveeta, and marshmallows. My favorite "salad" recipe in this book (Cookie Salad) includes vanilla pudding, buttermilk, Cool Whip, fudge striped cookies, and bananas. And this is salad because . . . it contains fruit? Doesn't this seem like a salad an eight-year-old would create with a friend while raiding the refrigerator after school? I don't know, but I'm surprised that this particular community hasn't been completely wiped out by Type 2 diabetes and cardiovascular disease. Oh, and my talk was about changing health-related behaviors.

Maybe I'll have a dinner party sometime and use only recipes from this book. Simple Champagne-Looking Punch (or vodka punch for the lushes in the group), Snickers salad, Touchdown Taco Dip, Diet Coke chicken, cheesy potatoes--and for dessert, Oreo Balls. Let me know if you'd like an invite.

no drama before 11 a.m.

I was walking through the skywalk the other day when I overheard the following portion of a cell phone conversation:

"So, she kept calling me, so I finally answered it. And I was all, 'What do you want? Why do you keep calling me,' and she was all, 'You need to know that I'm 5 months pregnant' . . . OH, MY GOD . . . I know. It all makes sense now. It totally makes sense now. Why he has pictures of her on his phone, why he calls her all the time . . . He doesn't know that I look at his phone, but I do. . . . I know. So, I called him and was like, 'You are so busted. Carrie just called me and told me that she's 5 months pregnant."

It was 8:30 in the morning. Isn't that a little early for baby- daddy drama? Keep in mind that I don't hear very well. This woman was loud. Yikes.

This whole scenario was foreign to me. When I was a college student, the most dramatic relationship issue I encountered was that my boyfriend and I had incompatible tastes in music.

News that makes me giddy: The VIVA is supposedly coming on Thursday.

a neuroscience secret no one talks about

There is a homunculus who lives in my brain. He's very skinny and pale. And bald. And although I often refer to the homunculus as a "he," it's really sexless because it's not like he's going to reproduce or something. If it wore a bow on its head, I might call it a "she" instead, but it doesn't. It wears a rather baggy Speedo and galoshes. My brain is full of muck and goo--important to keep the feet dry, you know. My homunculus' favorite songs are "Life is a Highway" and the old Hy-Vee jingle. This is the only explanation I can come up with for why these two songs suddenly pop into my head for no apparent reason. My homunculus owns a very, very tiny red bandana, which he uses to wipe the perspiration from his brow when he's engaged in the difficult work of making my brain function. He packs the bandana into my frontopolar cortex when it's not in use, which is why I have a difficult time adding a column of numbers in my head.

Lately, the homunculus has taken up a new hobby. Somehow, he has found a very, very tiny wine glass, and he wets his slender, bony finger and runs it around the edge. Over and over and over again. This keeps me up at night sometimes.

I'll tell the audiologist about this when I go in for my appointment in January, and she'll probably just call it tinnitus. But I'll know the truth.

Hey, just because it's not a parsimonious explanation doesn't mean it's not true.

I wonder what he's doing now . . .

http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=1289634956



Oh, yes. I'm absolutely that petty.



And, for the record, he was never that fun in real life.

Speak up, sonny.

So, let's say that someone decides she needs a hobby. She tries out vocal jazz and thinks that it could be a fantastic choice. Then she finds out that she has progressive hearing loss. Is that ironic? Because that Alanis Morissette song has really confused me about the definition of that word.

After asking people to repeat themselves 4,000,000,000 times, I decided to go to the doctor. Beforehand, I Googled "hearing loss," and got all freaked out about something called otosclerosis. However, otosclerosis is a genetic disorder, and no one in my family has it. Probably just a buildup of earwax.

"It's not earwax," the doctor gravely reported, "Those ears are clean as a whistle." Then she stuck her primitive hearing test otoscope thingy in my left ear and told me to raise my hand when I heard the tone. Just like in elementary school! She left it in there for a long time. I waited for her to play the tones. What was she waiting for? Then she took it out.

Long story short: I have pretty significant hearing loss in my left ear and some in my right ear and I go to the audiologist in about a month to get a full assessment. Oh, and, as it turns out, my dad has otosclerosis, but he never said anything about it because he thought it was caused by noise exposure. This kind of oversight is typical of my parents, who are not obsessed with medical information like I am.

Anyway, I can get hearing aids or possibly surgery depending on the extent of the hearing loss and type and all of that. Until then, if we're chatting and you tell me a joke and I don't laugh, it's probably because I didn't hear it (well, it might be because I heard it, but I didn't think it was that funny).

Research Methods Successories

I've mentioned before that I give stickers to my research methods students. It started on a whim with some stickers I got from a catalog. I ran out of those, so I used stickers from my beloved Lucky magazine, the ones I'm supposed to use to mark the purses and scented candles and chunky sandals that I intend to purchase. I ran out of those stickers, too, so I made up my own. I was surprised that there were still some of these left at the end of class:

Come on. That's funny. At least a little funny, right?

Could it be that people didn't take that one because they don't really understand frequency distributions? Hmm. Probably.

Perhaps a similar reason accounted for very few people taking this one:

More than 99% confident that my awesomeness is not due to random error

Instead, all of these were gone at the end of class:

But not one person asked what the variable was that they scored so highly on . . .

The Perfect Gift . . .

You might think this is too good to be true. Mannheim Steamroller offers ringtones on their website.

Please go to this link and download the "Good King Wenceslas" ringtone toute de suite. Then hope and pray that lots of people call you because each time it happens, you will be filled with the joy that only this song (and maybe "Major Tom" by Peter Schilling--does anyone remember that song?) can bring.

Merry Christmas. You're welcome.

P.S. Last Mannheim Steamroller post. Promise.

My evil plan worked . . .

Misery loves company, so I've decided to get "A Wonderful Christmastime" stuck in as many heads as possible.

As they say in the Jack Chick tracts, "HAW HAW!"

Speaking of Chick, my HS jazz band took two field trips. The first was to see MANNHEIM STEAMROLLER. I know. Not a jazz concert. It was more like listening to a series of obnoxious ringtones.

The second was a masterclass with Chick Corea. High school students at a masterclass with Chick Corea! Can you imagine? He sat on a stage and drank herbal tea and talked about L. Ron Hubbard. I was so confused.

Then we went back to school and rehearsed "Owner of a Lonely Heart," which we proceeded to play at every home basketball game from then on out. Wow, was I a bad trumpet player.

I solemnly swear that when the Viva arrives, I will create a post about it in which I incessantly reflect on the hidden meaning behind our choice of the sectional over a less versatile form of seating. I also will discuss the possibility that the Viva is my totem. And, yes, I will call the post "La Viva Loca."

Enough

I got Time Indefinite through Netflix ages ago and just got around to watching it over Thanksgiving. The synopsis was as follows:

Director Ross McElwee documents the family drama that unspools when cultures collide on a personal level. In Time Indefinite, McElwee takes home his fiancée, a Jewish filmmaker who lives with him in Boston, and introduces her to his conservative family in South Carolina. Though genuinely happy for the couple, they're still taken aback by the news, especially as it comes at a time riddled with tragedy for the rest of the clan.

This seemed like it might be a good film to show to my social psych class. I was intrigued. As it turns out, the synopsis was completely incorrect. Cultures didn't collide. The fact that the fimmaker's fiancee was Jewish never came up. The family wasn't what I would call "conservative." "Conventional," maybe, but not "conservative." The news of the engagement didn't come at a time riddled with tragedy for the rest of the clan (the tragedy came later). And also, it took place in North Carolina, not South Carolina, and the last time I checked, those were different states.

Despite that, it was kind of interesting. It was mostly the filmmaker interviewing family and friends as he tried to come to terms with his father's death. This was fine, but I found myself tiring of the philosophical questions pretty quickly.

Not long after that, I read an article in Body and Soul (another fairly worthless magazine to which I subscribe) about "self-help safaris" in Kenya. These safaris (they have names like "Safaris for the Soul") combine game drives and interaction with local tribal groups with "intensive life-coaching sessions in which [participants] assess [their] past, create [their] vision for [their] future, and develop strategies to fulfill [their] goals." The cost was around $6000. I am vicariously embarrassed for these people. Is your totem the lioness or the warthog?

Maybe it's too much blog-reading. Generally, I appreciate it when people reflect on their lives, and I like to read and hear about real-life experiences (not to be confused with "reality" television), but excessive navel-gazing is making me roll my eyes more and more often these days. It might be due to a more general period of irritability I've been experiencing lately. I have dreams about annoying social interactions, and I'm exceptionally grumpy in the morning, as though I've been answering e-mail messages from students all night long.

And that's what I'd call "meta-reflection."

Sometimes it's good to know when to stop. Like with Christmas songs. There are a lot of Christmas songs, so please stop writing and recording new ones. That means you, Michael Bublé. That being said, Mr. Banality's cousins desperately need to add a few more cds to their Christmas collection because I've had it with being subjected to Mannheim Steamroller every year. On repeat. Over multiple days. Hey! You got your "Miami Vice" theme song in my Christmas carols! Ugh. No wonder people get depressed around the holidays. And I have learned to despise that Paul McCartney ear-worm, "A Wonderful Christmastime." And Mr. Banality wonders why I never want to stay more than three days.

Here's an extremely important question I've been pondering these days: WHERE IS THE VIVA?

Morning Banality

A couple of weeks ago, our dryer stopped drying things. I'm generally pretty lenient towards the appliances--I don't expect the refrigerator to tell me when the sour cream has gone bad, I don't blame the washer for failing to warn me that I need to remove felt tip markers from pockets before starting a load of laundry, and I don't expect the toaster oven to scrape the burned cheese off of its little heating element. But I can't get behind a clothes dryer that doesn't actually dry clothes, so we had an appliance repair dude come to the house, and he installed a new motor. The dryer dries again. However, it's now much noisier than it was before. It's not an altogether unpleasant noise. It's a very steady triplet/dotted-quarter/sixteenth/dotted-quarter/sixteenth rhythm. It's like I have a troupe of Irish step dancers in my basement.

Mr. Banality was in the City of Brotherly Love this weekend for a professional conference. When he's out of town, I realize that the house makes all kinds of noises that I don't usually notice. The hot water heater mumbles, and the refrigerator whimpers like a puppy (maybe it is trying to tell me something about the sour cream after all).

hiatus from blogging, but not from banality

Forgive me, readers, for I have sinned. It's been 11 days since my last blog entry.

This isn't terribly surprising. The poor, unfortunate Banality Blog can now join my jazz scat etude book, embroidery needles, and yoga mat on the Island of Misfit Hobbies. The novelty wears off quickly for me.

The truth is that I spend way too much time with my computer as it is. In a typical 10 or 12 hour work day, I spend at least 5-7 of those hours using my computer. So, this blogging thing was a stupid hobby choice from the get-go. Mr. Banality was happy that I had started to spend more time on my next career as a torch singer because he assumed I would be working with other musicians, but now he's disappointed because the "other musicians" live inside my computer. (They keep good time, and they never complain about running a song for the 100th time, but they never want to go out for a few drinks after rehearsal.)

Onto recent banality: I mentioned before that I have a mystery subscription to Lucky magazine, "the magazine about shopping and style." Sometimes I imagine that somewhere out there I have a very shallow benefactor who enjoys engaging in random acts of not-terribly-useful-but-entertaining kindness.

Anyway, included with this month's issue was a supplement called Movies ROCK. I was looking forward to reading more starlets' descriptions of the yummiest lip gloss and the joys of having a pop of neon in an otherwise neutral palette. Instead, this supplement included an article about Tommy, the 1975 rock opera. Here's a quote from the article, written by James Wolcott:

Physically abused, sexually molested, chemically vandalized, this Tommy--"the first autistic hero in the history of opera" (Goldman), who shuts down after he's witness to the primal Freudian scene of seeing his mother's lover murder his father after the father catches them in flagrante delicto--is a Kasper Hauser-ish specimin whose victimization and exploitation supply the crucible of redemption and the catapult into stardom.

Um, k . . .

Lucky magazine, shouldn't you be telling me what Heidi Klum has learned from Project Runway or which off-the-shoulder dresses I could wear for day? Keep your high-falutin', source-citin' Vanity Fair crap out of my inane shopping magazine! Sheesh.

And, in case you were wondering, the answer to Question 1 from above: "Being a designer is hard!" The answer to Question 2: Me, wear an off-the-shoulder dress? Are you effing kidding me?

Viva La Viva (a.k.a. how I got duped by social psychological phenomena)

You've been waiting to hear news of our furniture situation. What? You haven't? Oh. Well, you're getting some anyway. Banality at its most banal.



Mr. Banality and I have been discussing our living area and how it's not great for entertaining because it's somewhat uncomfortable. We'd like to have a living room that makes people want to hang out for hours rather than a living room that makes people keenly aware that their backs hurt and that they shouldn't have taken so much eggplant tapinade because, frankly, it doesn't taste that great.


We had multiple discussions about this. The result of the first discussion was that we had our 120-year-old couch reupholstered. I'm not exaggerating. It's an old couch. We had it recovered in a dark brown hemp fabric, with enough left over for Mr. Banality to make several purses, bags, and a skirt, which I happen to be wearing now. When I sit on the couch, it looks like my thighs are missing. No wise cracks about that, please.


Next, we looked for additional seating. Should we get a couple of nice chairs? With ottomans? Should we get a loveseat? Some sectional pieces? Unfortunately, we have what is considered odd taste here in the heartland. We aren't that excited about ultra poofy recliners that look like shar-peis and have built-in cupholders. Not trying to be elitist--we just don't like the way they look. We looked for things locally, but our local furniture store has to make a living, you know? They can't stock furniture for weirdos like us. We then took a day trip to the nearest funky university town and found only really expensive things that weren't quite right anyway.


We looked online, and that's when we found the Viva:

It's a sectional by designer Todd Oldham for La-Z-Boy. Oh, that Todd Oldham. He's so quirky and fun, and now he's creating designs that normal people like us can afford! This might work. We considered getting a corner section and an armless chair, which we could put together as sort of a chaise longue for reading and then separate for entertaining.

We went back to our local furniture store last Saturday. They carry La-Z-Boy merchandise, but mostly of the shar-pei variety. They directed us to a store that we hadn't visited the last time were were in the funky university town. Why did we miss it the first time around? It's in a pole barn. And the ugly pieces were showing in the front windows. And they had "fall harvest sale" posters. And it's called Town and Country Furniture. So, come on. You can't blame us, really.

Our local furniture fella called them last Saturday, just to make sure that they did carry the line (he is really a decent joe, that local furniture guy), and then Mr. Banality also called last Monday to double-check. We traveled there this past weekend, thrilled with the prospect of finding some decent seating. Mr. Banality crammed a piece of flooring and some cloth that matches our walls into one of his couch-fabric bags so that we could choose fabric for the Viva, if we decided that we wanted to get it. We began to vividly imagine ourselves reading on the corner section + armless section, all huddled under a throw. We could clearly see our friends having humorous and relaxed conversation while seated oh-so-comfortably on the individual pieces that we would spread out during one of our fabulous get-togethers. Yes, the Viva would do quite nicely. Maybe not the perfect solution, but a good solution for now.

We arrived at Town and Country Furniture and sat for quite a while on another Todd Oldham piece (they did not have the Viva in stock) while poring over the fabric samples. Was apricot too risky? Oatmeal too light? Garnet too close to the color of our walls? We finally made our decision: herb.

Are you really still reading this? Wow. Anyway, we approached the counter, and the salesperson who had helped us (and who also happened to talk with Mr. Banality on the phone earlier that same week) informed us that La-Z-Boy was discontinuing "some" of the Todd Oldham designs. The boss had crossed out the models that had been discontinued. Apparently, La-Z-Boy was in the process of "phasing them out." The boss had made this revision on Monday. Which was the day Mr. Banality had called to inquire about the Viva.

They were all crossed out. Every single one of them. We were disappointed. We looked at the regular La-Z-Boy catalog and the Lane catalog and looked at some of the things they had in stock. We were disgusted by the offerings. WE WANTED THE VIVA. Suddenly, the Viva was clearly the most perfect form of seating ever invented, and we had to have it. The salesperson said that she would call on Monday to find out if it would be at all possible for us to order the Viva, even though it was being "phased out."

We were not optimistic, but we agreed that we would jump on the chance to get the Viva if we could. Scarcity and all, you know. We were flooded by the regret-inducing counterfactuals. If only we had come by the first time we were in the funky university town! Reactance also was strong: how dare La-Z-Boy deny us the opportunity to have furniture that could improve our social lives! How unfair! They can't even spell "lazy" correctly! We now wanted the Viva more than ever.

We drowned our sorrows in a lunch of tempeh and veggie burgers and barley (we were in the funky university town, after all) and then headed home. We tried to make other furniture plans; we tried to look for other options, but they just weren't the Viva. The Viva had been our last hope.

The woman from Town and Country Furniture called today. We could order the Viva. We did--the corner section and the armless chair (oh, and the ottoman, too).

We'll have you over when it arrives. We hope you'll like it. We know we will.

FYI: Today is Halloween

So, why was beggars' night last night? This town is messed up. I was home early, for once, and I was typing away on my computer when the doorbell rang. It was my 4-month-old goddaughter, dressed in a monkey suit, accompanied by her mom. What I suddenly realized was that while I do not like monkeys dressed as people, I do like people dressed as monkeys. Especially baby people dressed as baby monkeys.

As I stood in the doorway, gushing over the unbearable cuteness of this baby and wondering, "Is tonight beggars' night?" a smallish vampire climbed my stoop and rang the bell. My friend was laughing at me because I was panicking. I had nothing in the house suitable for a trick-or-treater. I quickly ran through the options: a handful of chocolate chips? an ancient throat lozenge? a butternut squash?

I said to the boy and his mother, "I'm sorry, we just got home and aren't ready for trick-or-treaters yet." I don't know why I used the royal "we." I guess I thought it would make me seem like less of a loser if I didn't have to own this oversight all on my own. The woman gave me a scornful look--the kind that communicates disgust over failure to comply with basic social norms; the kind of look you reserve for someone who cuts in line or picks their nose in public. I wanted to yell, "You're the freak, lady! You're all freaks! It's not even Halloween!"

This problem happened last year as well, and I couldn't bear the thought of disappointing my Spanish professor colleague's kids again, so I quick like called Mr. Banality and ordered him to bring home candy. Which he did. But he didn't buy fun size Snickers or those super sticky peanut butter candies that come wrapped in black and orange paper and pull out your teeth if you attempt to chew them or even (*shudder*) Smarties. He bought Werther's Original butterscotch candies. One bag was in the sugar-free version. Another was coffee flavored. Apparently, I am married to a senior citizen.

I did get a kick out of the sugar-free Werthers because they have a warning on the back that "excessive consumption may have a laxative effect." And I secretly liked thinking about greedy little kids excessively consuming them and facing the consequences.

This little evil streak that I have when it comes to trick-or-treaters comes from my bitterness about beggars' night around here. Honestly, I think that the trick-or-treaters around these parts are lazy little bastards. I believe this because in my neighborhood, when I was a kid, you had to tell a joke before you'd get your treat. Most kids used the tried and true jokes they'd heard on a local TV station's cartoon show, Duane and Floppy. Between Warner Brothers cartoons, children in the studio audience would stand in line to tell jokes to Floppy, a dog puppet, and Duane Elliott, a man with long sideburns and wide lapels who had his hand stuck inside the dog puppet. There were two jokes that were popular on the show:

Why did the man put the car in the oven? Because he wanted a hot rod.

and

What's the biggest pencil in the world? Pennsylvania.

Thus, those became the most popular jokes on beggars' night. Those were the days, I'm telling you. Safety be damned. Forget about reflective clothing and trick-or-treating only at familiar houses. And kids wore those plastic clown and princess masks that completely obstructed their vision and made them sweat profusely--the masks with the little hole by the mouth that children couldn't resist sticking their toungues through repeatedly, making them look like mental patients on too much Thorazine. The masks often made it impossible to actually understand the joke, but the content was predictable, so the interaction often went like this:

CHILD: Buh thlth mm bd crrn ih vnn?
PERSON AT DOOR: I don't know. Why?
CHILD: Bcz huh wntd hr od!
PERSON AT DOOR: HA! HA! A hot rod! That's a good one! Here you go--take a couple. I really like your completely black costume. I didn't even see you as you were crossing the street to come over here!

If I have kids, they'll tell jokes on beggars' night. And people will think they're weird, I'm sure, but how could they not turn out weird anyway, what with a parent who doesn't have a supply of candy ready for trick-or-treaters on October 30th?

Things I Learned Today

When I was in high school, I had a crush on a boy who was my friend. I didn't tell anyone about it because I was fairly certain that he "didn't think about me in that way," and we had all of our classes together, and I didn't want him to find out that I liked him and then things would be awkward. He played bass guitar in his brother's band (why yes, I have always had a thing for bass players). His brother's band was called The NEVVER (so eighties, no?). Their music was reminiscent of The Doors and Rush, with lots of variable time signatures and minor key signatures. The lyrics of one song were randomly generated by computer (the members of the NEVVER were computer geeks--big surprise, I know). One line was, "The wimp drops the tape/the tape falls on the bus." It had a triple/duple meter thing going on. Anyway, sometimes I suspect that my students generate papers in the same manner. Exhibit A:

"Since most research has been done the fact of conducting research of students that are in high school and college, it would seem to be logical and necessary."

I think you see what I mean.

Another thing I learned today:

"The phenomenon of criminal behavior has existed among humankind for centuries, and yet, despite its long history, criminal behavior has escalated into an uncontrollable frenzy."

Sweet Lord Almighty! Hide your valuables and your women and children--criminal behavior has apparently escalated into an uncontrollable frenzy!

Mama's Got a Brand New Bag

I used to work at a small, private, liberal arts college in Ohio. The students there were very fashion-forward and dressed up to go to class. It's very different from my current place of employment, where one time, a guy in the front row of the lecture hall sat with his sweatpants around his ankles (yeah, he was wearing shorts underneath, but it was still disturbing), and just last week, a student came to class wearing Sponge Bob Square Pants pajama bottoms and bedroom slippers--and not the kind of bedroom slippers that can pass for shoes, but the really fuzzy ones.

Back when I was at the school in Ohio, I became very confused when I began to see a number of fashionable young women carrying this type of bag:

My first thought was, "What the . .(?)" I predicted that if I were to look inside one of these bags, I would find a plastic rain bonnet, a Medicare card, and a lint-covered Wint-O-Green Lifesaver. But a trip to a "boutique" revealed that these bags were designer bags. They were Vera Bradley bags. And they were très chère. Oh.

Well, Vera Bradley needs to watch her back because there's a new sheriff in Mature-lady-bag Town, and his name is Mr. Banality. While cleaning out my grandmother's house, my mom found a piece of quilted fabric that she thought might make a nice bag. After holding onto this fabric for 10 years or so, she decided to send it to my craft ninja husband to see if he could do anything with it. And could he ever. Check it:

Vera Bradley, you just got OWNED.

My mom is going to love this bag. First, even I have to admit that it's painfully cute. I love Mr. Banality's decisions on color and the mix of the print and solid. [Insert squealing and clapping about here.] But the real reason that my mom will love it is because she adores Mr. Banality. He's like the child she's always wanted, one who shares her interests and treats her with a modicum of respect. Whatever.

Also, like me, my mom gets giddy when people do thoughtful things for her. Finally, her friend has an authentic Vera Bradley bag, and I'm sure that my mom will be beside herself when she gets to show off the Mr. Banality original. Her very tiny rebellious streak will make her thrilled to inform her friend that not only was the bag created from fabric found in an elderly woman's house and a thrift store (and that the small bit of new fabric in the bag is organic), but also that it was handcrafted by her gender-role-defying SON-in-law. *gasp*

So, I have a couple of days off later this week, and I am planning to spend those days basking in Mr. Banality's reflected crafting glory. And figuring out Band-in-a-Box. And maybe grading some papers.

Sorry! We're CLOSED.

I'm an anxious person. This isn't news to anyone. During daylight hours, I do a fine job of avoiding a constant state of panic by using nifty cognitive strategies. Hey! Psychology is useful, as it turns out.

But things are different in the middle of the night.

After a few hours of sleep, my frontal lobes shut down for the evening. They apparently cash out for the night, turn out the lights, and pull down one of those metal gates, which will be locked until morning. My limbic system, in contrast, is OPEN 24 HRS. That joint is always jumpin'.

Say, for example, that some noise wakes me up at 1:30 a.m.. What was the noise? Probably the axe murderer who's wandering around the house. My feet are itchy. Why are my feet itchy? I have lymphoma! What now?!

My ability to consider parsimony is greatly impaired at 1:30 a.m.. Mr. Banality is not home yet. Where is he? Two possibilities: (1) he and his friends have decided to play a third game of Ticket to Ride or (2) he is dead. I decide that the latter is highly probable. I call Mr. Banality. He is alive.

Something stirs in the frontal lobes--maybe it's the cleaning crew that steam cleans the upholstery up there in the middle of the night--and tells me that I'm being ridiculous.

I know this is correct. I am being ridiculous. I am ridiculous. Which, of course, means that I will be an absolute failure as a parent. You see, last week I watched a video describing a study of nature vs. nurture in the development of personality among baby rhesus monkeys. Like human babies, they're born with temperaments. Some are anxious; others are daring. They're very cute little creatures:

In the study described in the video, the researchers paired anxious babies with easy-going foster mothers, and the babies became less anxious. There was no discussion of the opposite pairing: easy-going babies and anxious foster mothers. Perhaps it was too unethical to even consider pairing a baby rhesus monkey with an anxious mother. You can see where my night-time brain was going with this line of thought. Clearly, I should not be allowed to adopt a child.

Mr. Banality arrives home and talks about how great our friends are. Do our friends hate me now? I'm fairly certain that they do. He plops into bed and quickly falls asleep, while I toss and turn and wait for the groggy, first-shift frontal lobe employee, armed with a cup of coffee from the Cinnabon in the nearby food court, to raise the gate and open for business.

Favorites

I swear that I don't know why I get Lucky magazine. Literally. Lucky gets delivered to my mailbox, and I never ordered a subscription. This used to happen with Ladies Home Journal, which led me to discover that Ladies Home Journal is the crappiest magazine on the planet. The writing is horrible, and their makeup and hair people make everyone look like anchorwomen from the early 90s.

But back to Lucky. My husband (let's call him Mr. Banality) despises Lucky magazine. It does blatantly state that it is "the magazine about shopping," and admittedly, that's pretty gross. But, I will read any magazine that comes my way, and I get a kick out of Lucky. So, thanks to the person in Harlan, IA (or wherever the subscription fulfillment center is for those middle school fundraiser subscription things) for giving me a complimentary subscription.

Lucky has a feature in which celebrities remark on their favorite material things. It usually goes something like, "I love (obscure and hip designer)'s stuff--all of her designs are so classic but edgy at the same time. When I wear this (cocktail ring/halter top/caftan), I feel so glamorous." The quotes are wonderfully inane, but then I find myself creating similar narration while walking around my house.

Like so:

This picture represents a sample of the 40 or so thermometer/refrigerator magnets in my collection. They have terrible convergent validity. I'm not sure what property they measure, but I'm pretty sure it isn't temperature. I've gotten most of these from family members and friends, and I love the idea that even when hundreds (sometimes thousands) of miles away from me, people who are dear to me are thinking of me. Very egocentric, I know. I should mention that these are usually gifts to me and the Mr., but I'm the one who claps and squeals with delight when we get one.

My iPod and iPod dock have changed my life, and I don't mean that in the overly dramatic way that I admit might have characterized my description of the Malory boots. I used to buy four or five cds a year, and since acquiring the iPod, I've expanded my music collection significantly. I also listen to music more often than I used to, which makes me happy. And even though this is my second iPod (the first one died) and iTunes keeps effing up my library files and losing my playlists, I will remain faithful to the iPod. Because it's just good design. Huzzah for my in-laws, who were kind enough to get it for me.

Sunsilk 24/7 Creme is awesome, although not really in the original sense of the word. But it's a good leave-in conditioner. I was first introduced to this magical substance when I received a sample of it as part of a consumer survey. It arrived in a white bottle with a black label marked, "MOISTURIZING CREME." When I finished the study, I begged the people at the consumer research place to tell me what it was, but apparently they have a robot that answers their e-mail because the only response I received were messages reminding me of my participant ID and password. So, I kept an eye out at the Walgreens for new hair products, and there it was. It probably takes a barrel of crude oil to make a bottle of this stuff, and they probably test it on baby bunnies, so this likely will be the last bottle I ever buy.

Yes, I'm including footwear in my list of favorite things. I'll wait for you to get over the shock.

I bought these shoes at a bizarre overstock-type store in Maine. I was shopping with friends, which is rare for me, and they really liked these. As did I. These shoes are incredible. A couple of weeks ago, a student approached me after class and said, "Dr. Banality, your shoes are good. We couldn't concentrate in class because we were so distracted by your good shoes." Good shoes might interfere with good pedagogy, but who cares? I have tenure. These are by Kenneth Cole. Perhaps his socially responsible business practices redeem me for fraternizing with the evil that is Helene Curtis.

**Added bonus advice for the day: Do you read Serbo-Croatian? No? Then you might reconsider including in your bibliography a journal article titled, "Etiologija Serijskih Ubojstava" (it has something to do with the etiology of serial killing, by the way). Also, you're not going to be able to actually conduct a study on serial killers in your advanced methods class, so you might consider a different topic.

The gift of the mundane

I was reluctant to start a blog, not only because I should spend less one-on-one time with my computer rather than more, but because the blogosphere is already saturated with "observations", "musings", and "random thoughts." Why would anyone want read mine?

My hesitation was also fueled by social comparison. I read a number of blogs, and a good percentage of them are written by people who are dealing with chronic and terminal illness. I started reading these blogs when I was investigating ideas for student projects for one of my classes. I thought that blogs would be engaging for students to read because, unlike memoirs, they're updated in real time and aren't completely retrospective accounts of experience. However, the thing that makes blogs appealing content for a student project (a lack of editing), also makes them difficult to read in a few sittings. The reverse chronological order, lack of background information about the author, and references to relationships, medical procedures, and inside jokes that are never described in full make them difficult to follow.

I still check in on these blogs once a week or so. I read about Liz, who writes about recovering from lung cancer and struggling with an unhealthy relationship. Brainy has ALS--I've read his posts as they've moved from optimistic descripitions of alternative treatments to anxious discussions of impending dependence on others to the now brief, ee cummings-like entries about the prospect of asphyxiation. Kate describes in arresting detail the guilt and pain she experiences over delivering twins early and the immense grief of losing one of them who never left the NICU. Tom has cancer and shares the change in his self-image from capable husband and father to deteriorating patient. Leanne, who was diagnosed with lymphoma when she was 20 weeks pregnant, writes about the terrible day when the pregnancy was terminated so she could have chemotherapy and radiation treatments, hopeful that she could continue to parent her three-year-old daughter.

These are people who are sharing their private experiences with tragedy and loss. And I'm writing about boots. Do you see the problem here?

However, a remarkable thing about these health-related blogs (that is not true of memoirs in book form) is that peppered among the reflections on self-concept, mortality, and life's meaning are posts about completely and utterly mundane topics. Liz writes about her red cowboy boots and her doberman named Superman. Brainy makes reference to sexual dreams about Senator Clinton. Kate asks for advice on how to lose the baby weight. Tom provides pictures of a vacation to Ireland. Leanne writes about her three-year-old daughter's latest adventures. These individuals are dealing with issues that most of us would expect to be all-consuming, yet these authors not only notice the ordinary events of life, but take the time to write about them. These are people who recognize that life is precious and fragile, and they choose to acknowledge the details that many people view as filler.

There is a somewhat popular saying that goes, "Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away." I hate that saying. It promotes the idea that we should center our lives around those big moments and kill time through the rest of them. Of course, an alternative approach would be to make each moment a breathtaking one, but then we'd be breathless all the time, and that's no good either. Why not appreciate the non-breathtaking moments for what they are?

So, I'm pro "random thoughts, musings, and observations." I think blogging has encouraged people to do something enormously valuable--to ponder and celebrate the minutiae that make up most of the moments of our lives.

But enough of the serious talk. Back to the banal.

This is wanting

I wouldn't say that I'm materialistic. I mean, I probably am, but I wouldn't say that I am. I have an appreciation for interesting objects, which I prefer to think about as a part of a whole joie de vivre thing. Not buying it? Yeah, me neither.

I like these boots, for example. These are "Malory" boots by Anna Sui. They have Arthurian scenes on them. They're navy blue. That combination of characteristics makes them entirely unnecessary, which is part of what makes them so appealing to me. I'm quite confident that in these boots, I would be unstoppable. They were part of Anna Sui's collection that was available last year at about this time, so I'm guessing I couldn't find them now if I wanted to buy them, which is probably for the best because they were a bit spendy.

This chair is called the Sexy Relaxy chair. It's by Dutch designer Richard Hutten. Everyone should have at least one chair that's both sexy and relaxy, wouldn't you agree? To heck with the right to keep and bear arms, speedy trials, search warrants and the like--what about the right of the people to own whimsical furniture? Those founding fathers really had their priorities screwed up.

This is the "Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly" t-shirt design from threadless.com. I'd like to buy this shirt and save it to wear when I, myself, am an old lady. Because enough with the red hats already--it would be really awesome to be an old lady who wears shirts like this. I am the old lady who swallowed a fly, bitches.

This is not a Flock of Seagulls album cover. It's Band-in-a-Box, a fabulous software program that allows you to type in chord progressions, choose a musical style, set a tempo, pick a key, and voila! You have a backing track. You can print out a lead sheet and guitar tabs. You can even program in handclaps. Handclaps! You can mess with second endings, codas, etc.. You can change the instrumentation from piano to ukelele, if that's your kind of thing. This software would be useful for me because right now, my primary strategy for working through tough sections of new music is to play the piece on my French horn, then transpose it for a C instrument (which I guess is what I would consider my voice to be). Wow. Upon typing that last sentence, I am suddenly overwhelmed by my dorkiness. Pity me. Anyway, with Band-in-a-Box, you can use the computer keyboard as a piano keyboard if you want to, but I've tried the demo version, and honestly, I think it would be difficult to rock out as much as the dude on the box cover is.

**Ooh, I just noticed that my demo version of Band-in-a-Box has expired, which means that I might be acquiring one of the aforementioned things I want in the near future. Unfortunately, not the boots.

Escape (The Piña Colada Song)

I've helped a few people write personal ads. I like to think that because I know a little bit about interpersonal interaction, I'm good at it. I have absolutely no evidence to support that notion. During one of my last years of grad school, I helped my roommate write a personal ad. I gave him feedback that one part of it might be a little intimidating for women. His response was, "So, are you saying that I should place an ad that you would respond to?" I was sort of embarrassed by that, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense--why wouldn't I want my friend to date someone like me? I get along pretty well with people who are like me. Although the personal ad was a bust, my roommate did end up with someone who is very much like me (me). But I haven't changed my personal-ad-consulting strategy. Be forewarned that if I help you with your personal ad, this is the result:

Cry Me a River

This one time, at jazz camp . . .

Seriously, I did go to jazz camp this summer. It was actually a "jazz fantasy camp," but it's hard enough for me to admit that I went to jazz camp, let alone the fantasy part of it. Very mid-life crisis, which I'm not ready to have quite yet. (I expect to live at least into my mid-eighties because my grandparents all lived to that age, and they ate a lot more bacon than I do.)

I hadn't sung in front of anyone in years before this summer. I'd rarely sung in front of my husband except to belt out made-up restaurant jingles about E. coli. I'm not exactly sure what possessed me to go to jazz camp in the first place. I had wicked performance anxiety. When I sang in front of the group for the first time, the instructor asked me, "Are you Julie London?" I smiled and assumed she was paying me a compliment. I didn't know who Julie London was.

That's not completely true. I did know about this Julie London:

the actress who played the sassy Nurse Dixie McCall on Emergency!, which was one of my favorite shows to watch after school when I should have been socializing or participating in team sports or whatever. In one episode, a kid got his head caught between the rails of a bannister and the paramedics had to oil up his head in order to get him out. My sister had a crush on Randolph Mantooth, who played paramedic Johnny Gage. Meeeow.

Anyway, after being compared to the singer Julie London multiple times, I needed to at least find out who she was. It turns out that before the actress Julie London took on her role as the tough but loveable head nurse at Rampart Hospital, she was quite the torch singer. Check out this video of the vocal stylings of Ms. London:

First, how much does this video kick ass? Second, if the way I sing remotely resembles this, then I'm pretty happy.

Some Advice

Dear Dude in My Class,

If you have chosen for your literature search project a scholarly article titled, "Broken and Becoming God-Sized: Contemporary Metal Music and Masculine Individualism," and then if you just skimmed through it because you assumed that I surely wouldn't read it, you have made a big mistake. And you obviously don't know me too well.

Thank you, though, for not choosing as the article for your in-depth analysis the one titled, "Heavy Metal Carnival & Dis-Alientation: The Politics of Grotesque Realism." Because I'm much less interested in GWAR.