The Continued Adventures of Amazing Cheastypants

I Miss Handsome.

2011-01-29T23:26:00.000-06:00

Handsome is out of town this weekend, and I'm all on my lonesome in Austin. Boo. I am so wonewy.

He's off on his bachelor party weekend, and while I am aware that this is usually bad news (Vegas, strippers, missing teeth, and tigers in the bathroom), I'm finding it hard to worry. He and his buddies are out at a remote cabin in the deep woods of east Texas, and I saw the packing list. It read like this:

1. Ice cream
2. Meat
3. BB guns
4. Walkie-Talkies
5. Water balloons
6. Whiskey
7. Firecrackers

Hmm.

On second thought, if he comes back with all his limbs intact, I'll count it a minor miracle.

Wedding Bangs

2011-01-20T16:04:00.000-06:00

Hello, my poppets! Tick, tock, tick, tock, guess what's getting closer? Zat's rrrright, ze vedding deluxe grandioso y excelente! In these blustery days of Texas winter, Handsome and I have been busy planning away all the extra special things. Music, decorations, readings, special decorative flourishes, and more, and all on budget! The invitations are out, the RSVPs are pouring in, the caterer is standing by, the DJ is booked, Han's suit is perfection, my dress is at the tailor's getting perfectly shortened, flowers are under control, and the cupcake lady awaits our signal to commence a'baking. Our rehearsal dinner might be the most fun party ever in the history of parties (Texas-themed costume party!) and basically, I feel like a magic fairy just twinkled down from the heavens and tapped me with a sparkling wand of awesome. Have I really planned this all? Is it really going this well?

There is only one smudge, one slightly dark blip, on the Wedding Horizon of Bliss: the Amazing Cheastypants Hair has seen better days. Don't freak out, this isn't anything like living in Nicaragua, when the Amazing Cheastypants Hair was declared a Natural Disaster Area. It's fine, totally awesome, in comparison with that nightmare. It's just that... how do I say this? I have bangs.

The other night I went to my French Salon of Glorious Hair, where I frequently offer my services as a Hair Model. Normally, this situation is nothing short of fantastic. I pay $15 for a haircut that in the real world would cost around $100, and in exchange, I get amazing haircuts. Well, usually they're amazing haircuts. You see, sometimes they tend towards the trendy, and even the experimental. For example, I steered clear of the salon a few years ago when a few of my friends emerged with Euro-mullets and PTSD. But that phase passed, and I returned.

I don't even pay attention to what the stylist is doing to my head anymore, that's how reliably good these haircuts are. So last Tuesday when the lady described what she was going to give me, I vaguely registered her words (though I'm pretty sure I would have perked up and paid attention had she actually use the b-word), and blithely read my magazine, letting her snip away. Twenty minutes later I looked up, and I had bangs.

Bangs.

In all my 33 years, I have never, not once, not even remotely had bangs. In all honesty, I'd sort of assumed I would live my entire life without bangs. But now, 70-odd days before I am to be wed, and (more to the point) photographed ad nauseum, I find myself with bangs. BANGS!

I'm still deciding how I feel about it. On good days, I think I look sort of 80's chic. A cuter, flippier version of Ali Sheedy in the Breakfast Club. On bad days, there are no words. It's the curly hair, you see. If I don't blow dry it straight, the bangs look like curly fries stuck off the front of my head.

Grow, hair, I command you.

GROW.

OMG. Home Owner?

2011-01-10T15:01:00.000-06:00

Yes, you read that correctly. I, Amazing Cheastypants, teller of tales, trotter of globes, avoider of entangling commitments, am not only about to get married - a feat that causes a younger version of myself to fall in a dead faint to the floor - but I am 3 nanoseconds away from being a real-live, totally official homeowner. It's a little run-down, it needs a lot of loving, but it's bright blue, in the best neighborhood in Austin, and I get to live in it with my ineffably gorgeous Love Muffin, Mr. Amazing Handsomepants. I die with delight.

Before I dance and laugh and squeal my way through the next few months of my life, however, I feel that right now I ought to pause for a brief moment of silence in remembrance of the girl I used to be. A woman who wondered if partnering up for life was really worth it. A woman who started to get itchy feet if she stayed in any one place longer than 6 months. Not that I'd trade in all the experiences those itchy feet got me into, but really, Younger Me. You were missing out.

To infinity, and beyooooooooonnnnnnnd!

Wedding Whack-A-Mole

2011-01-04T09:50:00.000-06:00

I generally consider myself a competent person, a capable multi-tasker, an able manager of tasks. I am famously brilliant, unspeakably gorgeous, and ineffably glamorous. My wit dazzles, my cup of sparkles runneth over. My acres and acres of beautiful hair bounce and shine and flow about me wherever I go. One would think that with this constellation of blessings bestowed upon me, I might glide jauntily through life with nary a hiccup. And yet I am nearly defeated. This wedding-planning-hydra-headed nonsense might well kill me.

Now don't get me wrong - I am thrilled to be getting married. Beyond thrilled, actually. Transported. I am going to spend the rest of my life married to the best human being God ever put on the earth, and I occasionally pinch myself ferociously to make sure this isn't all just a lovely dream. So the wedding? Very much looking forward to that. The wedding planning, on the other hand... well.

Let's just say that now I understand why some people make this a full-time job. You take one question. As an example, let's take cake. Simple, no? No. Not simple at all, because for every question you answer, every conclusion you reach, 25 more pop up to take its place. You don't believe me? Watch.

Question 1: Do we want a wedding cake.
Answer 1: Yes.
Question 2: Or pie?
Question 3: What about cupcakes?

Question 4: How much does cake cost?
Answer: (75,000 phone calls and one dead faint later) Okay, so no cake.

Question 5: Now what?

[Insert four hours of internet research, 16 phone calls, 39 emails, 2 hours of recipe research, debilitating mental calculations, advanced maths, aimless puttering.]

Answer: Cupcakes. Genius!

Question 6: Who will make our cupcakes?
Question 7: What time can we meet the different bakers who want to make our cupcakes?
Question 8: What about this time? No.
Question 9: How about Tuesday? No.
Question 10: Something came up, can we reschedule?
Question 11: Are we still on for today?
Question 12: Have I answered all of the 47 emails in my inbox all asking about cupcakes?
Question 13: What flavor cupcakes do we want?
Question 14: Oh, some people feel really strongly about white cake? But I hate white cake. Now what.
Question 15: Oh, there are actually 92 different flavors of cupcake we could order?
Question 16: Which of the 92 flavors of cupcake do we really want to sample?
Question 17: Which of the 8 different flavors we sampled do we actually want to order?
Question 18: How do you feel about carrot cake? How do you feel about carrot cake?
Question 19: Buttercream or cream cheese icing?
Question 20: Do we still want to do a cake-cutting ceremony, because then we'd still need a cake.
Question 21: How much does a small cake for a cutting ceremony cost? (Gasp.)
Question 22: So I will make my own small cake?
Question 23: Betty Crocker, Duncan Hines, or The Joy of Cooking?
Question 24: How much time will I have to bake a cake the day before our wedding?
Question 25: Oh, you have a friend who wants to bake our cake for us?
Question 26: Do you want to call her or should I?
Question 27: Did she call you back yet? How about now? Now? Yes?
Question 28: What flavor do we want the cutting cake to be?
Question 29: Do we have cake stands on which to put the cupcakes?
Question 30: Rent or buy? (Borrow!)
Question 31: Honey, the cupcake lady wants to know what color cupcake liners we want to use.
Question 32: Options? White, black, brown, pink, silver....

It's like playing gee-dee whack-a-mole. If anybody has a serious thought about what color liner to use, please tell me. I respond well to authoritarian dictates.

An Echo Through the Ages

2010-11-29T08:28:00.001-06:00

Mothers always have a 'thing' that they say, don't they. I don't know what other mothers say. Maybe it's something sweet ("Well as I live and breathe!"), maybe something threatening ("Go cut yourself a switch."), or maybe something pleasantly odd. Like in the atrociously funny movie Bad Santa, where the doddering grandmother always says "Let me fix you some sandwiches." So weird.

My mother has a pile of them. If you asked why, she said "'Cause Y's a crooked letter and it can't be made straight." If you hollered when she brushed your hair and tore straight through a knot, she said, "Oh be quiet before I give you something to really cry about." (Not that she ever did - or would, for that matter - but still. She did say it.) If we were in the car and drove past a cemetery, she'd say (every single time), "I hear people are just dying to get in there." Hyuck, hyuck. And if you were fresh-mouthed at her...

The other day I was in the car with Captain Mommypants and my little brother Bug, who is six years old. Mom and I were trying to talk about something, and Bug was in the backseat rattling off his perpetual and incessant commentary on every single car we drove past. "Hey, Mom, did you see the Mazda 5? Hey, Mom, that was a Toyota Prius. Hey Mom, there is a bwue Mewcedes. Hey Mom..."

And our mother, who normally has the patience of a saint when it comes to her children's musings and chatterings, got frustrated that she couldn't hear what I was saying ("Hey, Mom...") and waved her hand in the air at him, and said in an unusually dismissive tone, "Yeah, yeah, Bug, keep it to yourself for a little bit, will you?"

This, it turns out, is the joy of children. Because Bug, outraged that she wouldn't listen to him, leaned forward in his seat, touched Mom on the shoulder, and said what is likely the number one most recognizable Mommy-ism our mother uttered over the years as she wrangled 5 highly spirited children into adulthood: "Mom," said Bug, in a censorious tone so like hers that he could have been a parrot. "Don't you EVER. EVER. Talk to me like that again."

Needless to say, I died laughing.

We Did Not Have Fun At All

2010-11-18T17:43:00.000-06:00

No matter what these pictures indicate, keep in mind that Handsome and I had a horrible, wretched, terrible, atrocious, awful time in San Francisco on our anniversary trip.

The weather was terrible.

The sights were banal.

We had one raging fight after another.

We didn't see any good friends.

We didn't do anything funny, or jump for joy.

We drank terrible wine.

We couldn't get back home soon enough, and kissed the ground of Texas when we landed, swearing never EVER to travel again.

It's All Handsome's Fault

2010-11-04T17:08:00.000-05:00

OK, I've figured out why I am so lazy about my blogging. I've decided (as you might have guessed by now if you read the title of this post) that the responsibility falls squarely on my beloved's shoulders. It's not that he stops me from posting - he would never do that. It's just that before I had my Handsome, there was nobody else that found every stray thought that crossed my mind as fascinating as I did. Except you all, of course. Which is why I wrote as much as I did. You were the void (and a lovely void you were, too) into which I sent all my mental chatter. Now, however, I chatter it out to the gorgeous redhead who shares my life (and finds me utterly charming), and by the end of the day, I just don't have this burning bubbling boiling overabundance of words that need to come out of me anymore.

In sum, this is a sacrifice I'm willing to make, no matter how much my father (hi Superdad!) and brother (hi Fairy King!) chastise me for failing to keep them entertained in 10 minute snippets throughout their weeks. However, I'm not going anywhere. I'm still here, life is still happening, and I'll keep blogging, albeit at a slower pace than before.

So.

On that note, guess what this weekend marks. No, not my birthday. Don't worry, that's still a month away, you have plenty of time to shop for gratuitously expensive presents. No guesses? Okay, I'll give you a hint. On November 6, 2009, I got in my car to go meet a boy I'd been chatting with over the interwebs. I didn't know it then, but my life was about to change. Big time.

The Scene: the outdoor patio of Paggi House, a charming downtown Austin restaurant.
The Time: 6pm, Friday, November 6.
The Cast: one Miss Amazing Cheastypants, running a little late on account of traffic, and one Mr. Handsomepants, standing at the top of the stairs, waiting to meet the girl he'd been telling his family and friends he was getting pretty excited about.
The Question: Does internet dating really work?

The Answer: Indubitably. I took one look at those blue blue eyes, and was smitten. I held his hand for the first time and marveled. I watched him cheerfully play with the herd of small children that joined our bocce ball game later that evening, and fell head-over-heels for Handsome. Then he leaned over between horseshoe tosses and kissed me, and I've never looked back. From the moment we met I've been in a steady state of wonder that anybody this perfect for me could possibly exist.

We're off to San Francisco to celebrate our anniversary this weekend. Wish us good luck, blue skies, and an abundance of delights.

My Family Reunion, Part VI

2010-10-15T11:12:00.000-05:00

This past weekend was ACL Fest (Austin City Limits Music Festival), and for the fifth year in a row, there was a substantial AmazingPants Kid contingent making merry at Zilker Park. Year One, me and Crasey. Year Two, me and Umulu. Year Three, me, Umulu, Crasey, The Fairy King, and Sweet BabyFace. Year Four, I was in Nicaragua, but the AmazingPantses carried on, and Year Five, it was all of us again. This year, Year Six, The Fairy King and Sweet BabyFace are way down in Australia (boo hiss), so it was me, Umulu, Crasey, and Handsome. We laughed, we danced, we drank birs, we jumped up and down and hooted and hollered. It was, as always, a grand time. In no particular order, some shots from the weekend. (TFK, SBF, we missed you dreadfully. Come back home now please.)

One-Armed Paper Hanger

2010-09-30T14:26:00.001-05:00

Right now I could kill somebody. No, maybe not somebody. In light of yesterday's masked gunman shooting at UT event, perhaps I'll refrain from that level of hyperbole. Actually, now that I think about it, I would officially like to retract the entire pith of that comment. I am not angry. I am a little frustrated that I just wrote a nice long newsy post and then lost it all in a fickle moment of computery madness (ARGH!!), but this too shall pass. I am a little stressed out at having to re-do 3 weeks of writing I lost when my hard drive died, and at having to do all this wedding planning stuff essentially on my own, as Handsome is neck-deep in GMAT studying, which, for the record, I am totally on board with. Study study study, I say, so that we have the best possible chance of staying in Austin for his MBA. And finding out yesterday that, due to some bureaucratic snafu, I am not technically employed by the University of Texas, which explains why my health insurance was abruptly terminated, why I had to pay 4x as much tuition as normal, why I haven't gotten any of said tuition reimbursed, and why I won't get paid on the first of the month without jumping through some ludicrous hoops. This was stressful. But I am not angry.

I am busy, yes. Between my internship at the Worker's Defense Project, my TAship at UT, writing a dissertation, planning a wedding (!!), taking piano lessons, cleaning the house, and all the other odds and ends that make up life, I feel, in the words of my excellent Granddad, like a one-armed paper hanger.

But life is good. The summer heat has broken, and I've been delving into cool breezes, blue skies, and sweaters!! I've got a fridge full of good food, a man who loves me, a rockin' family, and amazing friends. So in spite of where I started this extremely stream-of-consciousness post, I would like to state for the record that I am one lucky, lucky woman, and I would like to give the world a hug.

Wow. Just... wow.

2010-09-24T17:28:00.001-05:00

So I had about a gajillion posts all planned out, lo these 10 days ago. I was planning to do a special post to show off my surprise (see the parents coming to visit post if you're scratching your head) new skill. I was planning to do a post on creating a bridal registries, a theme I promise to revisit.

But then my hard drive crashed on my laptop. I lost about 3 weeks of work on my dissertation, and not because I didn't back it up. I totally backed it up. But the file was corrupted when I retrieved it from my external hard drive. Thanks, External Hard Drive! Still, no biggie, because in exchange for losing 3 weeks of (who are we kidding) slightly crappy work, I got a new free computer! Well, almost new, and almost free, which as far as I'm concerned is good enough.

Apple called it an equipment malfunction, so even though it was 3 years old, they just gave me a new hard drive for free. Whammo! And then they noticed that my plastic wrist board and keyboards were cracked and crunked up, and hey! That's an equipment malfunction, too! Whammo! New clothes for my laptop, free! So now I'm sure there's some inner workings that are still 3 years old. The battery, I think, and is there something called a motherboard? Maybe yes? I don't know what it is, but it's the only other computer word I know, so we'll call it that. Then I shelled out $170 for the new Snow Leopard X operating system, and hello, Nancy. This sucker is FANCY. Guess what, world, I can open docX now!

So I've spent the last week reconfiguring my programs, reloading documents and photos and music and putting them back in albums, and (this part actually was a total bummer) re-doing my entire calendar, which I keep on iCal, and was gone, baby, gone. Thank God I've got elephant genes and remember almost everything. Except, you know, for the things I forget. So if we were supposed to have lunch yesterday and I mysteriously didn't show up, now you know why.

Denmark. Just South of Buenos Aires.

2010-09-14T14:52:00.000-05:00

Last night as Handsome and I were snuggling before bedtime, the topic of baby names came up, and how, because his first name is his great-grandmother's last name, his name is all last names. And whoa, because I never use (and might drop entirely) my first name, my name is all last names, too! So we were saying it would be funny if we had any kids and gave them all family surnames as well, and we could be a whole family with no first names. I know, what a riot, right? So then this happened:

"Handsome, what was your grandmother's maiden name?"
"Ingdahl."
"Ingdahl?"
"Yes, it's Danish. Like Raúl Dahl."

(silence)

"Honey, did you just say Raúl Dahl?"
"Yeah, you know, the famous kids' book writer?"
"You mean Roald Dahl?"

(silence. Actually, not silence at all, because I was cackling like a banshee, but Handsome wasn't talking.)

"Roald?"
"Yes, Roald. Not Raúl. Heee hee hee, hooo hoo hoo, ha haa haaaaa! Raúl Dahl, the famous Danish kids' book writer! Haa haa ha!!! You're such a dumbo!!"

"Actually, Cheasty, I'm pretty sure it's Raúl Dahl. You remember. He wrote that famous book, James and the Giant Horchata."

I almost fell out of the bed I was laughing so hard. That, ladies and gentlemen, is why I love this man.

Animalitos Espiritítus

2010-09-09T16:56:00.000-05:00

There are, at this very second in time, about fifty ga-jiggity-jillion things running through my mind, all of which I'd like to write about. I'd like to tell you about the most amazing parents-meet-parents weekend of all time, ever in recorded history, in which my parents and Handsome's parents fell smack-dab in love with each other. I'd like to get your opinion on wedding colors, because having decided to marry a redhead with skin fairer than fair has put me in something of a pickle. Farewell, reds and oranges. Goodbye, yellow. Sayonara, blush and bashful. Also, I wish I could recreate for you the most ridiculous phone conversation in the world, the one I just had this afternoon with a shop owner when I called to inquire if I had perhaps left my credit card in his store, but I've decided that no matter how sharp my pen, or how razor-fine my wit, it is a task beyond my abilities. But none of these are going to happen today. Either a) I don't have the time to write it all down, or b) I haven't loaded up the pictures yet, or c) I'm lazy. You choose.

So this is what's on my mind. Spirit animals. It's amazing to me how some people just have them. You meet them once, get a gander at their face or their personality, and that's it, pow. You know what their spirit animal is. Like Handsome's mother, for example. A hummingbird, no doubt about it. Tiny, quick, talkative, loves bright colors, flits from thought to thought and topic to topic, but always comes back around to where she started. A hummingbird.

Or my Superdad. A beaver. Hard-working, strong, a man of the woods and the water. Makes for himself a strong home wherever he goes, loves to build dams. (Seriously, the man is obsessed.) If Superdad were a cartoon, he'd be a cozy old beaver, snug in his house in the dam, sitting with the newspaper and some reading spectacles by the fire, puffing away on his pipe.

My friend, the Samurai Warrior, a cat. My mother, a magpie. Can you tell I spend a lot of time thinking about this? I do. Quite a bit. Which is why it's so frustrating to me that I haven't the slightest clue what my own spirit animal would be. A long time ago, I thought maybe I was a tortoise. Once, a friend told me I was a terrier. Another time, somebody wondered if I were a cormorant. Cormorant? I don't even know what those do.

Anyway, I'm putting my mind to it. My new resolution to myself: find spirit animal.

Guess Who's Coming to Austin

2010-09-03T09:08:00.000-05:00

In light of the fact that Umulu just bought her first house (exciting!!) and I just got engaged to Handsome, Superdad, Captain Mommypants, and my little adorable wonderful brother Bug are coming to town for the Labor Day weekend. There will be trips to Lowes, viewings of potential wedding venues, a trip out to Handsome's home town so the parents can meet each other and practice being in-laws. We will laugh and hug and be happy to see one another, and I will surprise my parents with a special something I haven't told them about yet, but it will make them very happy.

Hooray!

Childhood Picture. Category: Awesome.

2010-09-01T15:51:00.000-05:00

This just in from Superdad.

That's me when I was 9 or 10.

"The name's Cool. Joe Cool."

Now I have but one burning question. Did my parents actually let me go out of the house like this? Cause if they, did, then double awesome.

I Am Doing Really Great

2010-08-30T15:19:00.000-05:00

Last winter I was at a friend's birthday dinner and struck up a conversation with another friend's charming boyfriend. The birthday girl that evening was turning 25 or 26, something like that, and because a great many of my friends are a wee bit younger than I am (a consequence of taking 5 years off before graduate school, rather than the one or two years more normal among this group), I often sit in on conversations about how OLD and OOOOOLLLLLDDDD and OOOOOLLLLLLDDDDD people feel who are not yet as old as I. This is funny to me, because a) none of us are old, and b) I like getting older. I get better looking every year.

So this man, let's just call him Captain Hilarious because he truly is a very funny man, asked me when my birthday was, and I told him it was in December. "Oh yeah?" He asked. "That's cool. How old did you turn this year?" I told him I'd just turned 32, and whoa nelly. You'd have thought I just told him I was the pope's daughter or something, he was seriously that shocked. Jaw on the ground, eyes bugging out, that kind of shocked. "Well," he blurted, looking me up and down like a State Fair exhibit. "Wow. I-I had no idea. Well." He nodded firmly. "You're doing really, really good." I laughed, thanked him, and told him what I just told you: I get better looking every year.

I'm telling you this story right now because my father just sent me another photo of agonizing awfulness, a photo that caused me to contemplate whether or not people believe me when I say that thing about getting better looking, or whether they think I'm just saying that like how a lot of old ladies develop their birthday-coping-one-liner over time. Blog, let me assure you. Even if that line does become my birthday coping one liner, it is TRUE. Here, look. 1992.

That's me and Superdad. And now, for a sneak peak at 2010:

I'm not saying I'm going to turn around and win any beauty contests any time soon, but given my choice between 1992 and 2010, I'll take today, please. All things considered, I'm doing really, really good.

All At Once, If You Please.

2010-08-27T08:32:00.000-05:00

Do you ever have a period in your life when you feel, not necessarily like plod plod plod, but that things are moving along at such a reasonable, manageable pace that maybe you ought to pick things up a bit, lest life get boring? This happens to me, sometimes. It's the consequence of my overweening fear that if I'm not busy and overcommitted, I am clearly missing out on something awesome somewhere cool. So at times like those described above, periods of relative calm, I always over commit myself. Clubs, committees, lessons, activities, projects, I do it all. Needless to say, this almost always backfires on me.

Like right now, for example. A week and a half ago, I decided in the lull before the semester started to reorganize my entire house, a project that always takes 3 times as long as you think it will. And then I started taking piano lessons. Handsome started studying for the GMAT every night. EVERY. NIGHT. And I increased my volunteer hours at the Worker's Defense Project. Then Handsome proposed, and a chaos of squealing phone calls and house visits and dinner invitations ensued. Then I got rear-ended (poor little Mazdie, she's having a rough go of it). Then the semester started. Then I looked around and realized that our house was becoming filthy and needed a good top-to-bottom scrubbing. Then I realized that if we don't get a venue NOW for the wedding, we will have to get married in the street in front of my house, because apparently 10 months isn't enough time to plan a wedding in Austin (jaw hitting the ground).

Excuse me, but I need to catch my breath. Oh, yes, and also: write my dissertation.

I Am a Mighty Thrower of Things, Question Mark.

2010-08-24T14:29:00.000-05:00

Over the past few days I've had cause to go back and look through some of my old pictures. I'm putting things in frames and puttering about, and finding photos of me and Handsome to put in the previous post, and this journey down memory lane has really taught me a thing or two. First, it taught me that I've got to stop making ridiculous faces when people pull out a camera. I'm not doing myself any favors. Second, it taught me that almost everybody in the universe is 700 feet taller than I am. Third (a related point), I should never ever take a close up picture with somebody over 6 feet tall. It's just two heads, one at the top of the frame, one at the bottom. The tall person usually has the top of their hair cut off, and my chin is in most cases mysteriously vanished.

So I've learned some things, which is good. Also, I've solved a mystery of long standing. I am a relatively athletic, physically competent human being, so it has always been a point of befuddlement that I am a horrific hurler. I can't throw anything to save my life. No matter how hard I try, baseballs, footballs, paper airplanes, rocks... they all get somewhere between 10 and 25 feet and fall kerplunk to the ground.

Then I found this series of pictures, and a light went on over my head. Aha! I thought. A clue! You see, back in May when I went to my friend's wedding in North Carolina, some of us girls went on a hike down by the river. As an inevitable side effect of there being stones, and a river to throw them across, we began a contest to see who could throw them the farthest.

This is a picture of JM throwing. She won the competition. Notice the length, the extention, the sheer athleticism of her movement!

This is H-SPO throwing. She did not win the competition, but still distinguished herself with a mighty effort. See also, extension, concentration of expression, and use of lower arm as a catapult-like thingy.

This is Pony throwing. She came in second. Roger Clemens could take notes from this pitching dynamo.

And now, for the piêce de resistance, I humbly submit for your perusal, The World-Famous Amazing Cheastypants Throwing Technique.

So. Any further questions?

Ding, Dong, the Bells Are Gonna Chime!

2010-08-23T10:01:00.000-05:00

Really, I should've suspected something was up. For the past few weeks Handsome has been unusually frisky and high-spirited. He's been charming and smiley (even more so than normal), affectionate and thoughtful (even more so than normal), and just plain sweet (even more so than normal). Last Saturday he disappeared for two and a half hours with no explanation whatsoever about where he'd been or what he'd been doing. Under intense interrogation he would reveal nothing except to reassure me it had absolutely nothing to do with Russian mail-order brides. Maybe, he hinted, it had something to do with bikes. Ah, yes, of course. Bikes. We just got bikes! And because I wanted so badly to believe that he was out ring shopping, I refused to let myself even consider that as an option, and let it go. Back of the mind, out of sight, adios, door closed. Silly, silly Cheasty.

On Friday he came home from work and said, "Hey guess what. I did some searching on the internets, and I found a restaurant that has a dessert you can actually eat on this cleanse diet thing." (Oh, how this stupid cleanse diet will haunt the rest of my life!)
"Really?" I asked, full of dubiosity. "What is it, a fruit plate?"
"No," he said, "It's a secret surprise. Go on and get dressed!"

I was excited, but completely befuddled. Thinking he might be taking me to a berry patch or a watermelon field, I inquired about wearing my overalls, and should I bring mosquito repellent? Nah, he said. Just wear something cute and comfortable, you'll be fine. So off we drove into the sunset, me still blissfully ignorant. So ignorant I didn't even put on mascara or wear nice shoes or any jewelry. Cause whatevs, you know? It's just dessert at some random place that I still secretly suspected was a watermelon patch.

"You're going to laugh when you see the place I'm taking you," Han said as we drove towards south Austin (cleverly covering his bases).
"Why," I asked. "Is it that epically bad diner we went to a few months ago?"
"You'll see," was all Captain Mysterious would tell me.

I did start to laugh when he pulled in the parking lot of our destination: Paggi House, the restaurant where we'd had our first date, where we'd first clapped eyes on one another. 'Funny,' I thought to myself as we climbed the stairs to their outdoor treehousey patio deck. 'I didn't think he'd bring me here again until he was going to propose. Hmmm. Well, whatever. I wonder what that dessert is?'

We got to the deck and sat down in a semi-private little couchey nook on a wicker sofa, and when the waitress came up to us, Han asked for the dessert menu. She gave us some glasses of water and walked away. I looked at Handsome, and for the first time wondered what was up. Why did he look so jumpy, so tense, so... nervous?

"I have a confession to make," he said then, clearing his throat. "There is no dessert. I made up the dessert because I wanted to get you here, where we first met." And then, dropping to one knee, he took a ring box out of his pocket, opened it, offered it to me, and said, "I wanted to bring you here to ask you if you would please marry me, Cheasty."

I don't really remember a clear sequence of events after that. I know my eyes teared up, I know my hands were trembling with excitement, I know the waitress walked up and almost interrupted Han before she realized what was going on, and backed away slowly, mouthing, "Oh. My. God." I know I kissed him and hugged him and kissed him and hugged him again, I know I said "yes, yes, yes, of course!" and I know people around us figured out what was happening and started applauding. I know the waitress came back with two glasses of champagne on the house and I know I broke the hell out of my diet by drinking the whole thing. I know there was a table full of 20-something girls having drinks nearby and one of them took pictures with her cell phone and mailed me the photos right then and there, so now I have 3 wonderful blurry pictures of right after Handsome popped the question.

I'm getting married this spring to the most wonderful man ever to live on this planet, and I'm the luckiest woman in the world.

P.S. 500 points to anybody who a) recognizes the song from which I took the title of this post, and b) sings the whole thing out loud, right now, wherever you are.

Childhood Picture. Category: Embarrassing.

2010-08-20T08:32:00.000-05:00

My father sent this to me the other day - one of many vintage family reunion pics of me and my sister. I particularly love how this photo captures us right in that full blown moment when half of your body is in childhood and the other half is experimenting with adolescence.

Cruel, Dad. Just cruel.

Little Boxes Full of Ticky-Tacky

2010-08-19T10:25:00.000-05:00

This week I am undertaking a monumental task, a task that challenges me to the very core of who I am. It is forcing me to become something I have never been, not ever before. Why, Cheastypants, I hear you murmur, whatever could this be? Are you not the very ideal of the Renaissance woman? Can you not leap tall buildings in a single bound and cook gourmet meals with one hand tied behind your back? Well, yes, naturally, all of that is true, but there is, it turns out, always room for growth. For example, it goes without saying that I am glamorous, sophisticated, unspeakably beautiful, and above all, always well dressed. But did you know that I am also an organizational maestro, a neat-freak par excellence? No? Well join the club. Neither did I.

That's not to say I don't enjoy a well organized room, or an exceptionally well planned schedule. I do, very much. And I will be right up front and say that I really don't like filth. A dirty anything will drive me straight to bedlam, dusty surfaces give me imaginary hives. Admittedly, I don't always jump right up and clean the minute I notice toothpaste buildup in the sink. Who's got time for that when there's work to be done and fun to be had? Instead, I schedule a top-to-bottom house cleaning every other week, and try to stay on top of it that way. And this works. It keeps me calm and balanced, and stops me from making other people insane.

Clutter, on the other hand, has never really bothered me all that much. Not a lot of clutter, but some. I tend to leave little nests of shoes all over the house, and my books inevitably take up large percentages of available flat spaces. My reading glasses are rarely where I think they are (Handsome found one of them in the laundry yesterday). My papers sit in stacks, and I forget to put them back in the filing cabinet. To combat this, I've always been something of a congenital thrower-away-er of things so that my habits of clutter don't turn into something more nefarious and scary. Ugh, hoarding. Gives me shivers.

So it is somewhat to my surprise to find that when it comes to Handsome and me, I am the person to whom the role of Designated Organizer and Neat Freak has fallen. I never ever EVER thought that would happen. Throughout my life I always chose roommates who were organizers, knowing that I would drift toward their magnetic north and be happier that way. Yet here I am, living with the man I love, and I find myself having mini heart attacks on a twice weekly basis over the boxes that are still unpacked in the study. Now I know, as the well educated daughter of a minister and graduate of countless Vacation Bible Camps, that love is patient and kind, but boy howdy. Paul never lived with somebody who has three big boxes full of papers. PAPERS. And photographs, and baseball cards and wristbands from concerts and busted hats and pay stubs from his high school summer job. Need I go on.

We've lived here in this house now for almost 5 months, and I'd started feeling like we'd only moved in maybe 95%, and then we'd stopped. What's more, I was becoming increasingly convinced that we'd initially made poor decisions about use of space and location of furniture in the home. I knew, I just knew, that if I reorganized the study, moved some shelves out, moved some other ones in, took apart the disorganized bookshelf in the living room and switched some other things from here to there, and installed the bigger shelving unit in the kitchen, that we'd magically have a super-duper house that was 20 times more space efficient and livable and pleasant than the one we've been occupying.

Thus began my Epic Never-Ending Odyssey Down the Tunnel of Doom With Teeny Tiny Light At End of Said Tunnel. The good news is that the Teeny Tiny Light gets bigger and bigger as I get closer to it. Initially, I thought I'd really feeped it up big time. I looked around after the first day's work, at the piles and piles of stuff strewn about in wild abandon and almost had an aneurism. But then I remembered that what looked like an exercise in delirious chaoticism was actually kind-of-sort of organized, and took a deep breath. Day Two, if anything, was a little worse, at least until Handsome got home that evening and put his gorgeous muscles to use by moving furniture about. Day three, Handsome sat down with one of his boxes and sorted through some stuff, and I sorted through my old files, and we threw out buckets of stuff. I anticipate great things in the future.

Today is Day Four and when I looked around this morning, I saw that the Teeny Tiny Light at the End of the Tunnel is considerably larger. Maybe even as large as our house, if I can squeeze it through. Wish me luck, world. Amazing Cheastypants, Organizer Extraordinaire, is on the job.

P.S. If anybody wants to come over and tell me what to do á la slave driver, you are more than welcome. As you can see by this blog post, I'm not exactly chomping at the bit to get started.

What, What, What Are You Doing?

2010-08-18T12:49:00.000-05:00

I have honestly never seen anything this creatively hilarious, not in a million years. The comedy group at Second City has started producing a series of videos called Sassy Gay Friend. In these little movies they take works of literature in which famous heroines meet an unfortunate end. Only in these videos, instead of meeting that unfortunate end, the heroines are saved by timely advice from a sassy gay friend. The sassy gay friend convinces Desdemona to flee before Othello can murder her, he stops Ophelia from drowning herself, and Eve from biting into the apple. There's one with The Giving Tree that is so surreally amazing I can't even describe it, and another with Juliet, wherein the sassy gay friend takes a moment to congratulate our heroine for having slept with Romeo before he convinces her not to kill herself. So those are the brief plot descriptions, but it can't do the things justice, not in the slightest. No, you're really going to have to watch them yourself, and then you too can start calling everybody a "stupid, stupid bitch." And you'll laugh.

Here's two. Go to You Tube for the rest, you stupid, stupid bitch.

A Quandary of Epic Proportions

2010-08-16T10:58:00.000-05:00

I think I mentioned a few posts ago that I'm doing a three week food sensitivity elimination diet on doctor's orders, right? Well I am, and so far have survived. I am allowed to eat the following things: rice, vegetables (but no tomatoes) and fruit. I can eat fish and chicken and 'game' meats during weeks one and three, but not during week two. I am not allowed any alcohol or caffeine. No soy product or gluten of any kind, no legumes, no dairy. Also, no fun. I have however, lost 5 pounds, which sort of makes up for the hassle.

It's been a little bit of a slog at times. Gone are the staples of my diet. (Alas, poor yogurt, I knew him well. Oh, oatmeal, how I miss you so. Lentils! I am having a hard time living without you. And wine, dear dear wine... there are no words.) But all in all, the great surprise of this diet is not how hard it has been to stick to it, but how good I've felt while on it, and how easy that has made this process seem. No doubt, the first few days were an agony of self-denial, especially when I went to a potluck dinner where people had outdone themselves. The orgiastic moans coming from everybody's faces as they ate nearly killed me as I sipped my water and nibbled on a rice cake. Nonetheless, it turns out that, yet once again, my mother was right. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, she always told me, and it's true. Making it through that potluck was tough, but it forged my steel, and I've managed quite well ever since.

Today is day 13 of the diet, and as I sit here eating my breakfast (half a papaya), I am reflecting on a few things I've learned and observed and wondered about.

1. No gluten, just glutton. First of all, good god, I can eat a hell of a lot more food this way. I never realized how much space breads and beans and tofu take up. I am hungry all the time. Yesterday for lunch I had a bowl of gluten-free oatmeal (mushy, slimy) and then a bowl of rice and vegetable stir-fry (yum!). This amount of food is mind-boggling for me. Normally I'd have a hard time just making it to the bottom of one bowl of normal oatmeal, but two bowls of food? TWO?? And the weirdest part - I was hungry four hours later. Really, really hungry. Last week I ate an entire quarter of a watermelon, by myself. For a snack.

2. Quitcher bellyaching. The other day Handsome and I were lounging around and he went to put his head on my tummy. I immediately tensed up because, ow, that always hurts. Except, you know what? It didn't hurt. It didn't hurt AT ALL. This was something of a revolutionary moment for me, the moment in which I went from resenting the hell out of this diet to thinking, hey, maybe there's something to all this! Because my belly is always sore. Not hugely sore, not even painful - just tender feeling in a not-so-good way. But no more! My tummy feels lovely, thank you very much, and Handsome may rest his lovely head upon it any time he wants.

3. Summer here, summer not. Thank God I'm doing this in August, and not in the dead middle of February. If my only options were winter vegetables and frozen fruits, I'd be much much much grumpier. As it is, I'm eating my weight in plums and papaya and watermelon and strawberries and peaches. The Hatch green chile festival is around the corner (yes, I'm counting the days), and the summer greens are robust and delicious. "Oh, how I suffer!" I moan while watermelon juice dribbles down my chin. "How I long for pound cake," I cry out, stuffing handfuls of sweet blueberries and raspberries into my mouth. I try to beg Handsome for some ice cream, but he can't understand me through the mouthful of fresh cherries. Oh well, I shrug, and reach for the bucket of sweet peas by my side, fresh from the garden.

4. Ze Qvandary. For the first half of this 21-day epic food journey, I couldn't even let myself think about the end, for fear I would break down and cry. Now, however, I'm over the hump. I'm on day 13, which means....(doing complicated mathematical equations in my head)... 8 more days! In 8 more days I am to begin the process of reintegration and elimination, and believe it or not, I've worked myself up into quite a tizzy over the prospect.

This is how it's supposed to work. On day 22 I pick one food substance I've eliminated it and aggressively reintegrate it into my diet. Say I choose tomatoes, then I would eat tomatoes for breakfast, tomatoes at lunch, tomatoes with my dinner. I do this for two days, and if I notice absolutely no difference in how I feel, then I move forward onto item two, whatever that might be.

However. (There's always a however.) If the food item does cause me problems of any kind (stomach ache, headache, rash, hives, or, I don't know, tuberculosis, for example) then I have to go back on the diet until I feel clear and easy again. Normally three days, and then I tackle the next food item. As you might imagine, this is causing me some level of anxiety. What do I want to integrate first? Because I don't want to have to go back on the diet for three days, I just want to chuckle through this list, leaving the irritants for last. On the other hand, how great would it be to dive face-first into a huge bowl of ice cream on day 22. Then again, don't I want to choose things that, if I am not sensitive to them, will greatly expand my current menu selections? Should I choose soy? I do love some tofu with my stir fry. Or bread? How about breads?! Spaghetti!!

Oh, sigh. At least I still have 7 days, 13 hours, and 6 minutes to think about it.

It's a Difficult Stage

2010-08-13T13:23:00.000-05:00

When I first laid eyes on L'il Mazdie back in October of 2003, I was dubious. I had never wanted a blue car, much less a blue car with black leather seats, much less a blue car with black leather seats and an automatic transmission. Automatic? Only soccer moms drive those. Black leather seats? What do I look like, a Wall Street tycoon? Blue? Only accountants and insurance agents drive blue cars.

I knew what I wanted. I wanted a convertible hybrid El Camino in cherry red with camel-colored leather seats. Sadly, I am still awaiting the moment a visionary automobile designer over at GM gets a whiff of inspiration and decides to market this highly sexy idea for a car. Until that time, I decided, I would look for the next best thing. I wanted the perfect combination of sporty, sexy, utility, eco-friendly, and fun. Oh, and cheap. Did I mention I was looking for cheap? As you might imagine, that last factor limited my search considerably.

Nonetheless, I sallied forth with pizzaz, determined to find the greatest car out there for the money. I looked high and low, and after being patronized at the Honda dealership and condescended to at the Toyota place, I ended up in the Mazda showroom, determined to slice the throat of the next salesman who asked me "where'd that pretty smile go?" when I sat down to discuss numbers, or looked around after shaking my hand and wondered, "are you here with... your husband? your father?" Grrrr.

Thankfully for the car industry (and for me and L'il Mazdie), I encountered no such road bumps, and very quickly was sold on a bright red Mazda Protegé 5 with tan leather interior and a manual transmission. Only... it was a little more than I could afford. Enter: L'il Mazdie, showroom floor model. See, it was the end of the model year, and what's more, Mazda was discontinuing the Protegé line. Mazdie had a few miles on her. Not too many, but still. You can always get a good deal on an aging floor model.

I smelled a good deal. So with a pang of regret I said farewell to my lovely red sporty sexy car, and said hello to L'il Mazdie at an unbelievable discount. My black and blue automatic un-dream car. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and for a while I resented her. I told her that her nose was too pointy, and her butt was too big. I mocked her behind her back to my friends. I even tried to name her Quincy. (I can hear you gasping out loud.)

But slowly, ever so slowly, L'il Mazdie started to grow on me. Her steadfast perseverance in the face of my animosity impressed me. Her capacious trunk, fold-down-able seats, great sound system, and sunroof started chalking up bonus points. By the time I packed her completely to the gills with everything I owned and moved to New Mexico with her, I was hooked. I quit pretending her name was Quincy. I bought her some beautiful red floral seat covers, hung some mementos from her rear view mirror, and put a University of North Carolina sticker on her rear window. We were in love.

And in love we have remained, through several cross-country moves, long road trips, grocery store runs, trips to the airport, and joyrides with friends. She eventually switched out her threadbare red seat covers for some hot pink ones, and let her flag fly. "What a fun little car I am!" she proclaimed to the world. For six long years, we were so happy together.

I should've been forewarned last month when she took off the pink duds and dressed herself up in.. (oh, I can barely stand to say it...) black and white zebra stripes. Zebra stripes? Really? What's next, L'il Mazdie, tattoos? She started throwing little screaming fits. Just in the mornings, only when I started her up, but still. And then she didn't like the battery she'd been perfectly happy with for the past several years, she wanted a new battery. I suppose all the other cars are getting them, hmmm? So I took her to the car doctor and he changed her belts and her oil, I gave her that new battery she'd been wanting, and I thought that would be the end of it.

But no. I'm afraid that L'il Mazdie, just two months shy of our 7th anniversary together, has gotten a good case of the Seven Year Itch. Two days ago, right before a rainstorm, OF COURSE, I rolled down her driver's side window and heard a loud SNAP! And then her window wouldn't go up any more. Permanently stuck in the down position, and at 102 degrees outside. Thanks, Mazdie. Thanks a lot. It started raining, so I drove over to the car doctor, and left her there with him. $250 later, she is in good working order, but my faith in her is rattled. This is the first time in all our years together that she ever broke anything on purpose, and I'm worried about what it might mean for our relationship.

L'il Mazdie, please settle down. I love you, and I was so looking forward to growing old with you. I hope you can work whatever it is that is bothering you out of your system soon. Can we snuggle?

I, Too, Deserve My Own Canadian.

2010-08-12T08:42:00.001-05:00

This post is dedicated to my marvelous brother The Fairy King, and his wonderful partner Sweet Babyface. I have no idea who Nancy Mallette is, or why she posted the following on her Facebook page, but dear lord, I'd like to thank her, from the bottom of my heart. Also from the bottom of my heart, everlasting and eternal devotion to the man who wrote the letter Ms. Mallette cites, James M. Kauffman, Ed.D. Professor Emeritus, Dept. Of Curriculum, Instruction, and Special Education, University of Virginia. As the daughter of a kick-ass minister (and rather formidable biblical scholar) who I know would agree with every word Dr. Kauffman wrote, I just want to say hurrah. Hurrah for ending the abuse of Christian and Judaic texts in order to suppress the liberties of millions of people the world over who want nothing more than the same rights any heterosexual enjoys - to live, to love, to be free. And, of course, to enslave Canadians. But can you blame them? Who wouldn't want their own personal Canadian?

*****

In her radio show, Dr Laura Schlesinger said that, as an observant Orthodox Jew, homosexuality is an abomination according to Leviticus 18:22, and cannot be condoned under any circumstance.

The following response is an open letter to Dr. Laura, written by a U.S. man, and posted on the Internet. It's funny, as well as informative:

Dear Dr. Laura:

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination ... End of debate.

I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some other elements of God's Laws and how to follow them.

1. Leviticus 25:44 states that I may possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?

2. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

3. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of Menstrual uncleanliness - Lev.15: 19-24. The problem is how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

4. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord - Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

5. I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?

6. A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination, Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than
homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this? Are there 'degrees' of abomination?

7. Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading
glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle-room here?

8. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?

9. I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

10. My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev.19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? Lev.24:10-16. Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair, like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14) I know you have studied these things extensively and thus enjoy considerable expertise in such matters, so I'm confident you can help.
Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.

Your adoring fan.

James M. Kauffman, Ed.D. Professor Emeritus,
Dept. Of Curriculum, Instruction, and Special Education
University of Virginia

Why I Love Austin: #1

2010-08-11T10:30:00.003-05:00

It's no secret that Austin is one of the more amazing places on earth. Blues on the Green, Barton Springs, the Broken Spoke, Zilker Park, bicyclists abounding, dancing and eating outside under enormous live oaks bedecked with white christmas tree lights... it's mighty nice. And Donn's Depot. Can I tell you about Donn's Depot, please? Because I love it.

Hmm. Now that I've said I want to tell you about Donn's, I'm not really even sure where to start. Well, how about this. Imagine, if you will, the following things: red shag carpets, railroad cars, pendulous cobwebs, a house band called Donn and his Station Masters, a free popcorn machine, a stripper pole (in the ladies' room), and an itty bitty dance floor, about which trot an enthusiastic assortment of smooth movers from 21 to 97 years old.

I'm not kidding about the 97 year old. He told me he was, right before he dipped me so low my hair touched the floor.

I love Donn's Depot. I love Donn and his Station Master's, I love that they play reliably good covers of classic country tunes like "Waltz Across Texas," "All My Exes Live in Texas," and "He Stopped Loving Her Today." I love that it's one of the rare places I've ever been where hipsters, yuppies, middle agers, and the geriatric crowd all gather in the same place, enjoying and participating in the same event. I love that they ask everybody for ID at the front door. And I mean EVERYBODY, even the silverbacks. I love that the drinks are cheap, the popcorn is salty and free, and the shag carpeting is the lurid red of a 19th century bordello. I love that at least half of the cobbled-together building is made from old railroad cars, and I love that when you look up at the ceiling you immediately look down, determined to never ever look up again, for fear of what might fall in your eyes.

And I love that, no matter how reliable the above-mentioned delights might be, every now and then, Donn's still manages to surprise me. The other night, for example, Handsome and I went there with our friends Bake and Toto for a wild night of dominoes, drinking, and dancing. I always love a good two-step, and the waltz... well, that goes without saying. I've loved the waltz since I taught myself to dance it by watching the "I Know You, I've Walked With You Once Upon A Dream" scene in Sleeping Beauty twenty million times on repeat.

But as the four of us sat there chatting and laughing and playing dominoes the other evening, I noticed something. The music was out of control. Where was my George Strait? My Porter Wagoner? My Glen Campbell, and Johnny Cash? Instead, Donn and the Stationmasters were leaning heavily on the synthesizer and playing a bizarre series of songs that included all of the following:

1. The Rose. (The Rose? Seriously? They wanted to channel Bette Midler's maudlin tune?)

2. The Girl From Ipanema. (Ha ha. They're kidding, right? No? Well... just... wow.)

3. Can't Keep My Eyes Off Of You. (doo dee doo dee doo dee dah doo, dee doo dee doo dee doooooo... I LOVE YOU BAAABY, AND IF IT'S QUITE ALL RIGHT I NEED YOU BAAAABY FOR ALL THOSE LONELY NIGHTS.....)

4. Suspicious Minds. (Ladies and Gentlemen, Elvis has left the building. LEFT. THE. BUILDING.)

5. Smooth Operator. (You know when Tweety Bird clocks Sylvester the Cat upside the head with a 20 pound hammer and Sylvester's eyes turn into spinning circley things and bells and birds clang all around his head? Yes? OK, that. That's my reaction.)

All I have to say is that the hipsters have something to learn about irony and counter culture if they think a weird haircut, multiple tattoos, and some skinny jeans are going to cut it. Let them first stand upon a stage and croon the words to "Smooth Operator" with nary a blush or giggle. Furthermore, let them do it as a grey haired middle aged man with a slight potbelly. And then, let them partner up and glide across the dance floor, executing flawless spins, graceful steps, and exhibiting a total enjoyment in the moment. That, my friends, is counter-culture cool.

As Handsome and I were dancing later that evening, he said, "Do you you ever feel, sometimes, like when you're in here, you've stepped into some parallel universe, like maybe a little piece of small-town Texas from 1984 got picked up in a vortex and splashed down on 5th street in Austin?"

I said yes. And I love it.

Here's a YouFace video of Donn singing one of my favorite songs of all time. The video quality is pretty bad, but it's a glimmer, at least, of Donn and his glories.

For Superdad and the Fairy King

2010-08-09T22:12:00.004-05:00

It has recently been brought to my attention that I am letting the blog lapse. In fact, Superdad called me from an airport in Brazil (what else, from an International Man of Mystery?) to let me know it had been two months, that is TWO. MONTHS. since my last post. My apologies. I fully intend to remedy this situation. I've been trying very hard lately to be disciplined, that is, DISCIPLINED!! about writing my dissertation from 9-5 each day. This attempt, naturally has met with greater and lesser degrees of success, but each time I considered writing a blog post, a Pavlovian reflex went off in my head, reminding me just how much time that would take, and how little actual, real, important writing would get done during the time I was doodling about in Blogolandia. But now, here I am, typing away in the little text window on my Blogger home page, and my, this feels nice. If I were an alcoholic, and writing this blog were beer, I would be slowly feeling the DTs drift away on a gentle breeze. Ahhhh.

So these are the things that have happened in the one and a half months since last I wrote.

1. I went on a two week trip to Nicaragua. It was productive, and a pleasant surprise. More later.
2. I went to New York City for a week. It was fun. FUN!!
3. I did not go to Cuba. Gnashing of teeth, cursing of infernal bureaucracy and its terminal incompetence. More later.
4. I have gone to many parties and seen some darn good movies. Thanks, Netflix online!
5. My parents sent photos you would not believe of the vegetables growing in their garden. 15" zucchini.
6. I have accumulated a million funny stories and weird happenings to tell you about.
7. I have undertaken a three week cleansing diet for food allergy elimination that is utterly unbelievable. Basically, I can eat rice, fruit, green veggies, and air. This is still in process. I have lost 4 pounds this week, if my scale is to believed. More news on this later, if I don't disintegrate into a puff of glittery dust before next we speak.

I have many stories, pictures, even video (!!) to post and share. I will do so. Sorry, Dad. Sorry, FK. I'm on it. To tide you over until that time, from my parents' garden, check out 'dem apples:

Inexplicable Things

2010-06-23T09:31:00.003-05:00

There are a fair number of things I do not understand in this world. I do not understand how to spell cappucchino (argh, foiled again), and I do not understand why, when Australia is more than 3x bigger than Greenland, Greenland looks 3x bigger than Australia on most maps. To be fair, I do understand that there are explanations (Italian, in the first case, Mercatur projection in the second), I just don't understand how those explanations work.

But this, that I am about to share with you? This I do not understand, nor do I believe there is a single logical, rational, or even irrational explanation for what follows. I received this in a fowarded email from my nutto little sister Crasey yesterday, and am inexplicably fascinated:

Apparently, a friend of Crasey's is getting married, and wrote the following note (verbatim) to her hairdresser:

Hi [name redacted],
I wanted to give you an updated list of how many girls will be getting hair and/or makeup on july Xth. There will be 5 for hair (including me) and 7 for makeup (including me). Do you accept checks for their payments? Who should they make it out to?
Thanks!
[Name redacted]

And this, apparently, was her response:

Hi [name]. Loken for to do your wedding. I well hav a assisten ef me your day wedding. I well col you getin clour. I wod leke to be paed in cach wf pasebol. I'm wk now I coll you tommor love [name].

Seriously? I neither understand, nor do I believe there is even an explanation because I've tried out every explanation I can think of, and none of them hold water. I am mystified, fascinated, and entertained.

A Modern Love Story

2010-06-11T14:44:00.011-05:00

I suppose I should've been alert to the fact that, when I started dating the most handsome and wonderful man in the universe, other, less moral individuals, might try to edge me out. They might mistake me for a milksop, the kind of woman who'd give up her man without a fight. I might have kept my eyes more wide open, and staked my claim more publicly, but even if I had, I never would've seen it coming from whence it came: my little brother Bug. (Don't be fooled by that adorable smile!)

Well, Bug, you'd better watch it, buddy. I am not about to give this guy up without a fight. So you can hold hands with him,

And you can frolic in the water with him, leaping and splashing and jumping about.

You can share your favorite little dog with him,

And you can even let him spin you around and around

and around and around in the water.

And when it's time for us to head back to Texas, you can cover him up with all the Guys so I can't find him and make him come to the plane with me.

But I'm older and wilier than you, young Skywalker. I see his hand, waving at me from behind Brown Bear. So I tell you what, little Bug. I'm also a nice lady, and I love you an awful lot, so here's a deal. If you promise not to steal Handsome away from me...

I'll share him with you.

And we can all live happily ever after.

The end.

Hard to Write

2010-06-08T09:15:00.004-05:00

I have been thinking about what kind of post I could write to talk a little more about Birdie, but in the interest of emotional health and stability, I think I need to wait a longer time. At this point it is still too painful. I will one day, when I feel more able, but that time is not now, so I'm just going to leave it at that. I'll be back in a day or two to tell you what else has been going on in my life. I'm managing to enjoy myself - I'm amazed at how easy it is to forget, to let go, and have fun, in spite of everything. It's just that every time I come home, she's not here, and my heart breaks all over again. I feel guilty for having enjoyed myself. And every time I open my blog, thinking about writing, this huge grief comes up and strangles the words right out of me. I know this gets easier, I know that with time I'll be able to talk and think and write about her without my throat aching and my stomach hurting and my eyes welling up with tears...

Just not yet.

Birdie My Love

2010-05-26T13:59:00.005-05:00

This morning at 8:30 am, the little dog whom I have loved with my whole heart, and who, in turn, has trusted and loved me with all of hers, passed away. Birdie my love. I am bereft.

Where Have You Been All My Life, Jane?

2010-05-20T09:38:00.002-05:00

Unlike most women of my age and stage, I had, until recently, neither read Pride and Prejudice, nor seen any of its various film iterations. But, Cheastypants, you ask in wonderment, whyever not? Are you not a great fan of romance? Why yes, of course I am, but that, you see, was the problem. At some point in my life, I had formed the entirely mistaken notion that Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy do not end up together at the end of the book. How this happened, I have no idea, but there you have it. So what's the point, I figured. All that heaving and angst and tension, all for nothing in the end? Not for me, thank you.

Well a friend of mine is getting married this weekend, and for her bachelorette bachellorrette bachellorette bachellorette EFF, HOW DO YOU SPELL THAT WORD shindig, she wanted to have a viewing of the 5 hour BBC miniseries of P&P. Good god, I thought. This is a test of loyalty indeed. Luckily for me, another friend was curious enough to inquire why I would rather go to the dentist, and when I told her I didn't see the point in spending 5 hours watching two people melodramatically not get together in the end, she laughed.

"Oh Cheasty, you're hilarious."
"Why is that funny."
"Ummm... wait. What?"
"I wasn't kidding."
"Hang on. You seriously think they don't get together in the end?"
"Yes."
"WHAT?!! How... why.... how... what the heck? How did you come up with that idea?"
"Um... What? Are you telling me they DO get together in the end?"
"YES!"
"Oh. Well, then. All right, I'll watch it."

But I still wasn't convinced. BBC? Five hours? Jane Austen? To paraphrase Joan Rivers, I'm not sure I even want to do something that feels good for that long. But Handsome and I were supposed to do something that evening, too, so I double booked myself and said I'd have to leave early. Whew, I thought. Well done.

Except I didn't plan for one little thing. I LOVED IT. Loved it, loved it, loved it, LOVED. IT. When I finally had to go, I wanted to cry. How on earth would I know what happened after this?

Lucky for me, I was able to borrow the DVDs the next day and watch the hell out of them. Oh, my goodness, I love it. I've spend the past couple of days re-watching my favorite scenes and generally fantasizing about Mr. Darcy.

Oh, sigh. I'm off to buy the book now.

A Boy and His Dog

2010-05-15T09:58:00.012-05:00

My little brother Bug is a cutie. Genuine, bona fide adorable. He's six, he's sweet, he's silly, and full of energy. He's got four siblings who positively dote upon him, and parents who believe that the sun rises and sets by his smile. He lives in the country on beautiful land, he frolics in fields and cavorts by the river. He runs his little legs off and swims in the pool. He's a happy kid.

Up until recently, however, in spite of this glorious childhood dreamworld, there was one little problem with Bug's life. Out there in the country he was all alone.

It's not that he wasn't having fun, for he certainly was.

He had buckets of fun. It's just that he had buckets of fun by himself.

But then came this little guy...

And it was love at first sight. Oh, the frolicking.

Oh, the running and gallivanting and hippity-hoppiting!

These two, in the slightly modified words of the deaf people on the elevator in Jerry Maguire, complete each other.

They are funny and sweet and utterly inseparable.

So little Bug is still having one heck of a grand life out there in the country, but now he does it with a friend.

Welcome to the family, Maddox.

Five Days of No Interwebs

2010-05-12T08:46:00.014-05:00

Seriously, when was the last time you went five days without internet access of any kind? I'm asking because I just did, and it was awesome. I've been in the North Carolina mountains - Transylvania County, Land of Waterfalls, to be precise - for a college friend's wedding, and oh my lady gaga, have I been having fun. There's a bunch of us from college that are good friends of such long standing that it's really more like we're family. We even have reunions. So while we went to the mountains for this:

And this:

And this:

We stayed around for this:

And this:

And a little bit of this:

And of course we walked about in places that looked like this:

And had fascinating conversations at beautiful waterfalls:

And generally basked in the glow of being with friends who know you well and love you fiercely. Which, for the record, totally rocks.

Too Much Awesome

2010-05-05T09:43:00.007-05:00

Hello there, my darlings, I'm back from the land of no blogging with a report of dazzling excellence. My mother, the inimitable Captain Mommypants, and my littlest brother Bug were in town. And it was Handsome's birthday. And the weather was spectacular. And we had parties. And we went on excursions. And we rode trains. And we played music. And we had so much fun. How much fun?

This much fun:

("Sunscreen? We don't need no stinkin' sunscreen." My poor little redhead.)

And this much fun:

(It's official. I know more protest songs from the 1960s than any other woman my age.)

And this much fun:

(Bug's favorite thing in the world is a hammock. Actually, not true. His favorite thing in the world is a pig, but hammocks run a close second. Handsome's portable one was a huge hit at the park.)

My mother and my main squeeze cemented their budding love for one another.

While Umulu and I generally reveled in getting both our mother and our Bug all to ourselves.

It was awesome.

Captain Mommypants and Bug Come to Austin

2010-04-30T12:25:00.002-05:00

Sorry for the quiet, but it's been an insane-o week. Captain Mommypants and my little brother Bug are in town visiting us this week, and between hanging out, playing music, eating good food, and trying to snatch little bits and pieces of work in the midst of it all, I've had little time to blog. Pictures and stories to follow, I promise, but for now I've got 2 hours to myself, and 52 six-page essays to grade. Go, go, go!

I Can't Title This Post

2010-04-26T09:15:00.005-05:00

Friday was one of the worst days. As anybody who's ever spent five minutes talking to me or reading my blog knows, my little dog Birdie is unequivocally the cutest little muppet in the world, but she's also something of a case. She's roughly 12 or 13 years old, mostly blind, almost toothless, nearly deaf, allergic to almost every food that dogs normally eat, and also sort of anorexic. She shivers and shakes as her primary form of communication, and needs a sweater when it's 80 degrees outside. But she's snuggly and adorable and hilarious. She hunts her own shadow and trips over her own extremely long legs and gets her tongue stuck hanging out of her mouth. To say that I am totally in love - perhaps even obsessed - with my little Bird is extremely understating the situation.

Lately, Birdie's been acting a little weird. Weirdly constipated, weirdly shaky, and then last week she went off her food for three full days. She's been sleeping like a maniac. So I took her to the vet and finally ordered the geriatric blood screen vets have been recommending that I do on account of her age. In spite of everything, all the signs, even the fact that a friend who's in vet school told me that Birdie looked like she needed to be on dialysis, I somehow had convinced myself that the blood screen would be totally fine and a complete waste of money.

But on Friday the vet called back and as soon as I heard his voice my stomach dropped clean out of my body. "Birdie's blood screen shows some worrisome elements..." he began in a funeral voice, and I felt my throat start to squeeze up. Birdie, it turns out, has an advanced case of kidney disease. Blood values that are supposed to measure between 7 and 26 in a healthy dog are at 132 in the Bird, and the list goes on. He recommended that I bring in a urine sample so they could eliminate the possibility of a kidney infection. What followed would've been hilarious - me, running around the back yard after Birdie with a tupperware container in my hand trying to catch her pee - if I hadn't been crying the whole time. But it wasn't an infection, it's kidney disease, and a pretty bad case of it. I spent the rest of the day coming to grips with the fact that this marvelous little dog, in whom I've invested every ounce of love and care I have in my spirit, and who, in return, has loved me fiercely, is terminally ill.

I have no idea how much longer Birdie will be with us. The vet gave one of those vague "maybe months, maybe a year..." kind of answers. Given her street-fighter mentality and fiesty spirit, I'm betting on the latter. This is, after all, the 7 pound toothless wondermutt who will take on a pit bull as if it were a mouse. The good news is that if you've got to go of something, kidney failure is about as easy a way to go as there is. Eventually she'll just get extremely lethargic as toxins build up in her system, she won't be able to eat anymore, and one day it'll be too much. But she's not in pain. This is the same thing my mother's dog Sheba died of. So we'll keep her happy, as healthy as we can, and comfortable until the end, and let her sleep in between us in the bed, because she loves nothing more than that. These last months will be the best months of her life.

The Nerds of Nerdville

2010-04-22T12:57:00.002-05:00

A few months ago, Handsome and I went to meet up with Penata and her boyfriend, The World's Greatest Carolina Fan (TWGCF) at a local bar. In the midst of drinks and merriment, I spilled a little (oops!) and reached for the nearest napkin, a decision that happened to change my life for the subsequent future. You're dying to know why, aren't you. Well. It changed my life because scribbled on that napkin were the names of 17 African countries.

"What's this?" I inquired, holding the napkin scrap up.
"Oh, just a game," said Penata. "We were testing each other to see who could name the most African countries in 60 seconds."

Instantly (and completely predictably), I was hooked. How many could I name? Seventeen seemed a paltry number, surely I could best it by a wide margin! No. It turns out I could not. I got 18, and one of them I only remembered because I had just seen it written on the napkin 45 seconds earlier. I was humiliated. What kind of educated person am I? I'm supposed to be earning a doctorate here, and I can't name even half of the African nations? That's just downright embarrassing.

So there you have it - thus began my latest obsession. Within a month we had a world map shower curtain, and another world map hanging in our bedroom. I have been steadily studying these maps a bit at a time, and I think I'm ready. Eventually my goal is to name all 47 in geographic order, but for now, my goal is to get most. Not all, just most. I think that's as much as I'm ready to commit to.

Before I begin, I would like to invite you to challenge yourself before reading the following. Close your laptop, grab a spare sheet of paper, and see what you can do from memory. Unless you don't think deliberate exercises in self-humiliation have a positive effect in your life, in which case, go ahead and study up first.

Now. Ready? I am on the couch, not a map in sight. I haven't looked at the map since yesterday, so this is as close to my natural state as I get. I have a timer, and I'm holding myself strictly to the honor code.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is a test. This is only a test.

Egypt
Lybia
Djibouti
Ethiopia
Eritrea
Sudan
Algeria
Morocco
Western Sahara (occupied Morocco)
Mauritania
Chad
Mali
Burkina Faso
Benin
Togo
Cote d'Ivoire
Ghana
Senegal
Guinea
Guinea Bissau
Congo
Democratic Republic of Congo
Central African Republic
Zaire
Zambia
Angola
Namibia
South Africa
Lesotho
Swaziland
Zimbabwe
Madagascar
Uganda
Rwanda
Kenya
Niger
Nigeria
Liberia
Sierra Leone

TIME.

Shit. I don't think that was even close to 47. Hang on, let me count. OK, 39. Unless I accidentally repeated some, and I know I got out of geographic order a couple times in there. What the heck did I forget. Dang.

Oh, well. There is always room and time for improvement. Let me know how you all do, if you take the test!

A Few Random Thoughts

2010-04-19T15:52:00.002-05:00

1. My fingers hurt from practicing the guitar. This makes typing a little more painful than normal, but only on my left hand. I will take this opportunity to not write my dissertation today.

2. It is April 19th in Austin, which normally is quite hot. I should be at Barton Springs in a bikini, lazily considering whether I should put on another coat of sunscreen (yes). Instead, I am inside wearing sweatpants and a sweater. I have a blanket on my lap, a pot of tea to keep me warm on the inside, and a green chile beef stew on the stovetop. I looked at the thermostat and it was 61 degrees in my house. I know all the folk in northern climes will either gasp, laugh, or keel over dead when they read this next thing, but I just turned on the heat. Surely in the history of Austin, this is an unusual day.

3. Just for the record, that last was not a complaint. The longer winter lasts, the shorter summer will be. Right now, I'm looking at only 6 months instead of the normal 7 or 8. Rejoice!

4. Birdie got a mani-pedi today. Absurd dog.

5. Handsome is so good looking and wicked smart. I am one lucky gal.

6. I have been floating on a tide of happiness since last Wednesday, after I lectured for a professor of mine and she said I'd done a "really excellent job." Considering this woman's life motto is "Tough but Fair," and the superlative form is entirely foreign to her, I practically floated home from school that day. I loved getting to teach a class - to design the syllabus for that section, select the readings, deliver the lecture, answer questions, engage their minds... After years of slaving away at one paper or article or project after another, it was a wonderful reminder of why I got into this field in the first place.

7. Every now and then I squeeze my eyes closed for a little bit. Then when I open them I look around me real quick to make sure this really is my life, and I really am this happy. Each time I do it, I am reassured. Yes, this really is my life, and yes, I really am this happy. I'd like to say thank you to whatever karmic fairy gods are out there sprinkling their magic dust upon me these last months.

Contrary to Public Opinion...

2010-04-18T09:59:00.002-05:00

I am still alive. Not posting, true, but alive and well. Sorry for the prolonged silence, but the Friday deadline for a chapter turned into a Monday deadline, and then Tuesday I had to lecture for one of my professors, and then the Wednesday for another one of them, and then by the time it was Thursday I was so tired (and blessedly without prior commitments) that I ran a hot bath at 10 am, and soaked in it for an embarrassingly long time while reading a frivolous novel. I followed that ridiculous exercise in self-indulgence with a 2 hour nap, after which I sat on the front porch and drank a glass of wine. To say the least, as a result of my indolence, the following few days were also on the far side of nutsville. So there you have it. More to follow, but it's Sunday and I'm not writing any more. Mostly because Handsome is making pancakes.

Naked Bike Guy

2010-04-09T14:33:00.003-05:00

There is a man in Austin who rides everywhere on his bike completely ass naked, except for a bright blue g-string banana hammock. I've seen him around before, and am past the point where I'm shocked, or even surprised anew each time I see him.

But.

He just rode right by my front window, and I have to report that while, due to this habit of excessive undress, he is normally a very tanned individual, he now looks like somebody basted him with butter and stuck him under the broiler for 50 minutes at 425 degrees. Not lobster red, just a very crispy and unnatural brown color, rather like burnt sienna with a dash of turmeric. I hope Naked Bike Guy is ok.

Nothing New, I'm Afraid

2010-04-07T13:51:00.002-05:00

Sorry to bum out this week on blog posting, but I've got a chapter due on Friday and no time for shilly-shallying. Or dilly-dallying, come to think of it. Wish me luck, and while you're at it, you might also do a dance of joy on my behalf, as I just learned that I've gotten enough funding for the summer that I can travel to Cuba and Nicaragua for brief research trips and still have enough left over that, if I live monastically, I don't have to TA for a summer course. WHICH MEANS. I am six weeks closer to being totally done with this beast of a burden. Huzzah!

A Little Visitor

2010-04-05T15:12:00.005-05:00

One of the nicest things about our cute and delightful little Casita Sonrisa is the office. An office, I say! A room for working and books and sitting down to do things for work that keep me out of sight of my bed, the refrigerator, and the back yard. It's marvelous. When I was living in Matagalpa doing research, a guy I became friends with drew me a picture of the city, nestled in among the mountains. I taped that picture to the door of the office and now when I need to do work, I simply announce to myself (and Birdie, because she needs to know as well), "I am going to Nicaragua!" Then I walk in the office, close the door, sit at my desk, and work. This is excellent. No distractions. Except...

Sometimes I get riveted by what goes on right outside the window I sit in front of. The other day, I watched a red-headed woodpecker feed her nest of peckerlings in the tree across the street. Last week a cat sat upon my porch and groomed herself in highly entertaining detail. And then just two days ago, a little teeny tiny baby opossum ("the other white meat," as we say back in North Carolina) climbed up on the porch and started sniffing around. Naturally, I grabbed my hunting rifle. Er, no, that's wrong. Camera. I meant to say camera. Yes.

As I was saying, I grabbed my camera and sprinted out to the front porch to take pictures. By the time I got there, however, something had startled the baby possum, and it was nowhere to be found. Undeterred, I looked about, certain it couldn't have gotten far. "Here, little possumy-wossumy! Where aaaarrreee youuuuuuu?" I heard a little hissing sound coming from the corner, and approached with caution. Are you in the box? No. Are you under the chair? No. Are you...

In the map? Yes.

There she was, inside the rolled up map of the world. She stared me down, swaying her head back and forth, hissing at me incessantly. You know that rule that applies to all of nature, how no matter how ugly an adult version of something is, the baby is always cute? Not true. Not true at all, when it comes to possum. Can you see her? I tried to get my camera to focus on the bottom, but was thwarted at every turn, so this is as good as it gets:

I think I'll call her Carmen Sandiego.

A Very Hard Worker

2010-04-02T12:40:00.002-05:00

I just wanted to issue a brief assurance, for any who might be curious, that I have not in any way been distracted by the glories of spring as it bursts forth all around me. I remain impervious to the blossoming flowers and budding trees, blind to the warm breezes and gentle sunshine of these long afternoons, and deaf to the chirps and twitters of birds as they celebrate the coming warmth. Instead, I remain steadfast at my desk, bent to my work with the seriousness of purpose befitting a graduate student hard at work on her dissertation. Rest assured, for work is my life. I shall not falter along this path.

In Which The Internets Show Me Strange Things

2010-04-01T10:50:00.003-05:00

So my amazing brother The Fairy King googled my name the other day while bored at work. Actually, he works in Australia, so technically, I believe it was "whilst" he was bored at work, but I digress. Anyway, I can't believe what he found. Back in 1987, my mother was interviewed and quoted in Working Mother Magazine in a curiously-titled little article called "Should We Tell Our Kids The Truth About Santa?" I mean, really. KIDS CAN READ. Don't put that on the cover and then mail it to some harried woman's house. She's trying to keep the shit storms under control, and this? This probably won't help.

The whole magazine seemed a little funny, come to think of it. They perhaps might better have called the magazine "Alarmist Parenting," or "Did You Know How Many Secret Horrors Lurk Out There Magazine." Then the articles entitled "Down With Office Parties," "Crying: Why It's a Career Crusher," and "Compassion: Are Children Really Capable Of It?" would seem more appropriate.

The story about my mother and me, and our little Santa anecdote? Cute as hell. Apparently, I was something of a winker back then. And yes, now my real first name is on the website, technically, and no, nobody but my family calls me that, so don't start.

http://books.google.com.au/books?id=aGEEAAAAMBAJ&pg=PA103&lpg=PA103&dq=Cheasty+Miller&source=bl&ots=sX0JBlvCuC&sig=DHg3Gho2NCLB30k0whnBUoY9uH4&hl=en&ei=5S60S4LsC9CHkQWojIyXDQ&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=7&ved=0CBoQ6AEwBjgK#v=onepage&q=Cheasty%20Miller&f=false

Miz Birdie Hunts Her Own Shadow

2010-03-30T08:11:00.001-05:00

Hmmm, I'm thirsty. I think I'll go in the bathroom to drink out of my special purple cup of water that Mom keeps in the corner for me. Doh-dee-doh-dee-doh. Oh, hey! Look at this puddle of bright white light. It's so beauuuutiful. I'm going to look inside it. Hmmm, what's that dark thing in the corner of the puddle?

Oh my gosh, it looks like me. Hello? Who are you? What's your name? What are you doing in my bathroom?

Helloooooo? Can you hear me? Why won't you talk to me? Hey! Where are you going?

Hey, Mr. Shadowpants, I'm talking to you! Come back here!

Hmph. Where did you go, Mr. Shadowpants? Are you under the bath mat? You can't fool me, I'll just keep on looking. I know you're in here somewhere!

Oh, Mom! Nothing. I mean, no. I mean, why, hello there. My, that's a fetching sweater vest you're wearing.

What do you mean, what am I up to. I was just leaving, is what. Sheesh. You're always asking questions.

In Loco Parentis

2010-03-29T09:50:00.001-05:00

Hello blog, this is Birdie. Cheasty wanted to write today, but she has too much work. Given that she takes such excellent and tender care of me, I thought that writing to you on her behalf was the least I could do. I'm not sure what else to say now, as I've used up most of my words. I still have a few left, such as: treat! Nap! Walk? Treat! TREAT! Rub my ears.

Treat?

Trifecta

2010-03-26T08:12:00.003-05:00

So here's the marketing scheme for any business in New Orleans. First, make a list of all the things people know and love about Louisiana and Cajun culture. Second, write down the name of your business. Third, pick a few of those words on your lists and smoosh them together. Presto: business name! This is the way (I can only assume) that you get places named "Jambalaya Guitar," "Cajun Nail 'n Hair," and "Zydeco Snack Bar."

But this is America folks, where more is better. So in my imagination, this is the way it happened: some clever dude must've sat up straight in bed one night, hand clapped to his forehead, and cried, "Eureka! Why stop at ONE traditional Louisiana thing? In fact, why add any single true identifier in the name at all?" And presto, before you knew it, businesses abounded that said nothing but the words: alligator, jazz, jambalaya, gumbo, cajun, creole, French, etc, all in combination with each other.

Like, for example, this:

I have no idea what this place of business does, or what "getting your tail bit" is euphemistic for (though I must confess, the mind reels at this world of possibilities), but this, my friends, is the trifecta of Louisiana-themed marketing plans for local businesses. Jazz. Gumbo. Alligator. Stand back and watch the money roll in.

The Big Easy, II

2010-03-23T11:08:00.007-05:00

Yesterday I talked about some of the fun things we did in New Orleans, but I completely neglected to tell you about Lubini, the Big Fuzz, and Little Cub, friends of mine from college we were visiting down there. Well, Cub isn't a friend of mine, he's the offspring of these friends of mine, and OH MY GOD, did he ever fall in love with Handsome. Fall in love as in, he wouldn't even hold my hand when we took him out to the park. All he would say is "Handsome, Handsome, Handsome, Handsome, Handsome, Handsome," and then he'd stare up at him with an adoring grin on his face. I briefly considered being insulted, but then I remembered behaving similarly when I first met Handsome, so I decided it was a perfectly natural reaction to his animal charisma, and let it go.

Lubini and Fuzz were working nights on the movie they're doing down there, so we didn't get to hang too much Thursday and Friday, but Saturday was a different story. Handsome and I did some walking and driving around the Garden District while they slept in the morning, and then that afternoon they awoke with great news. "Hey, Cheasty, we scored some free box seats to the NCAA tournament games this afternoon. Want to go?"

Ummmm... yes, please?

So off we went, silly grins in hand, to hobnob with the hoi polloi.

Folks, seriously. There's free food and beverage. Much beverage. And an uninterrupted view of the court. I'm not saying I'd want to see a Carolina game from way up here - in that case courtside, please - but for games I'm not passionate about, and with an active toddler in tow, this is the way to go.

Cub introduced himself to popcorn for the first time, and whoa, nelly. Let's just say he was double-fisting it.

So, yay, games. After that, we dropped Cub off with a babysitter and headed out for a late dinner at a divine tapas bar called Baru, which was the best meal we had all week. We had a little conversation, drank a little red wine, caught a little bit of those Cajun girls, dancing to Zydeco. (Are you humming along yet?) All in all, it was grand, but as with all good things, it was destined to come to an end. The next day we hugged our friends, said goodbye, and as Hansen and I headed home, Texas welcomed us back with a Lone Star sized sunset. It was good.

The Big Easy

2010-03-22T12:48:00.008-05:00

Howdy, blog, I'm back from the grandest long weekend in recent memory. How grand, you ask? Very grand. So grand, in fact, that I might have to break this up into a few posts. But I'll start with a quick summation: it rocked. Handsome and I, faced with a few days of Spring Break on my part, and an itch to get out of the office on his, decided to take off for the city with more nicknames than God: the Crescent City, Birthplace of Jazz, The Big Easy, Nawlins, NOLA, am I leaving something out? Oh yeah. New Orleans, Louisiana.

Somehow I had never been there before. I know, crazy. I couldn't believe it either, but it's true. We rocked up on Thursday night, and promptly dove head-first into an enormous plate of Cajun food. After, that is, we bought 20 oz. beers and walked around IN THE STREETS with them. Shocking! I felt so illicity! So yes. Gorgeous food, public alcohol consumption, and dandy music all about. Pretty much I felt like we'd landed in heaven.

These are the fun things we did:

When I asked my mother what we should do in New Orleans, it took her negative three point two seconds to scream BEIGNETS AND COFFEE at the top of her lungs. So okay. We went to the Cafe du Monde, and to be honest, I was a little skeptical on account of EVERYBODY IN NEW ORLEANS was there. Mass production for mass consumption? How good could they be.

Good. They were very good. Now I understand.

What else. Oh! Public transportation. Parking is CRAZY expensive in the French Quarter, so Handsome and I figured out the bus system, and it was so much fun. I know, I'm a nerd, and maybe totally crazy, but in my opinion, learning the public transportation networks in any city is just about the best thing ever. You can put down your tourist map and just saunter aboard. "Hello!" you can greet the driver. "Could you let me know when we get to Oopsie-Daisy Street?" And the driver will nod, and the doors will close, and you can sit there and stare out the window until you arrive. It's awesome.

We also talk a walking historical tour of the city from an older gentleman named Hal. We learned the difference between a gallery, a porch, and a balcony, we learned about the colonial-period yellow fever alert system, and we learned euphemisms for prostitute, courtesan, and concubine so exquisite that Handsome didn't at first realize what sort of "special relationship" Hal was describing. We saw examples of hilarious architecture (look, the marbles don't match!), and while Hal certainly told us that a woman named the Baroness Pontalba existed, thank God I'd stopped in the Cabildo museum earlier and knew this amazing story. Man, that lady was awesome. Ferociously ugly, but awesome. Her father-in-law shot her point blank with dueling pistols, blew off her fingers, and somehow she survived with bullets lodged permanently IN HER CHEST. I tried to wheedle some more salacious historical details out of Hal, but he wasn't having any of it because look - the Mississippi River!

Hal later redeemed himself for the mediocre tour, however, by taking a shine to Handsome and myself and calling in a favor to get us a table at his favorite French Quarter restaurant. Turns out they had one table left, up on the balcony (not the porch or gallery)...

White wine, shrimp etouffé, fried green tomatoes, coffee and creme bruleé. Good heavens. Half drunk and very full, we tottered off to a place whose name I kept mixing up. Eventually I settled on "Hall of Preservation Hall Jazz Hall" but I'm pretty sure I was needlessly complicating the issue. The Preservation Hall Jazz Masters play nightly in a teeny-tiny intimate setting - no mikes! - and it's awesome. They're having fun, we're having fun, it's just great old New Orleans Jazz music. I honestly expected Louis Armstrong to waltz on in the door at any moment.

Drunk on jazz, cajun food, and music, Handsome and I tottered back to the bus station that night, and... Not to leave you on tenterhooks, but I believe I'll continue this later. I've got work to do, people!

Nawlins

2010-03-18T09:27:00.003-05:00

Hey everybody, sorry for the prolonged silence, but SPRING BREAK! So far, so groovy. Also, 30 Rock. Handsome's been sick for a good handful of days, during which time we realized we could watch all seasons of this magnificent show online through our Netflix, and sad though it is to admit it, we're completely immersed. We might or might not have watched 7 or 8 episodes in a row the other day, (blushes), a fact made even more outrageous by the glorious spring that has sprung all about us. This addiction is hideous and must come to an end, which it will in approximately 15 more episodes.

In other news, we are off this morning on a jaunty vacation over to New Orleans, a place I have never been. Huzzah! Updates later, cats. For now, we're totes outie (as the youngsters say).

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

2010-03-12T14:37:00.000-06:00

Now first off, I'd like to start by saying that I mean absolutely no offense to my charming little Elf Palace. Darling, you will always occupy a cozy little nook in my heart.

However.

Blog, I'd like to introduce you to my newest love: Casita Sonrisa. Oh the joy, oh the utter dizzy delight of having space in which to walk around. Other rooms in which to go. FIVE WHOLE ROOMS, counting the bathroom! From 450 to 1400 square feet feels like an embarrassment of footage, a wealth of space in which to cavort. I am thrilled beyond belief. And not only that, but the house itself is lovely. 1930's craftsman-style architecture. In yesterday's post I rhapsodized about the glorious front porch, but look at this place. (Note: not done unpacking yet, and chaos still reigns - don't judge me!)

The kitchen is large and airy and has more counter space than I know what to do with. A dishwasher, which I have systematically forgotten to use, a full-sized refrigerator (!!), lovely original tile, and big glorious windows.

The bathroom inspires me to immoderate heights of enthusiasm. An old fashioned iron claw-foot tub! With a window! And a skylight! I've taken approximately 467,982 baths in the two weeks we've been here.

The bedroom: French doors leading out to the patio. I almost fainted the first time I saw it.

The living room. Skylights, windows, hard-wood floors, built-in bookshelves!

And last, but certainly not least, a window seat.

Even though we'll have to move out eventually, I'm going to love every minute of this.

My Front Porch

2010-03-11T14:22:00.003-06:00

It has always been one of my small ambitions in life to have a front porch. Nothing grand, just a small cozy front porch with a railing and some steps, and a roof, deep enough to put a few chairs and a table, or maybe a porch swing. In college I lived in a house during my senior year that had a porch, and it was grand. One of the many many gals who lived in that house was part of a bluegrass band, and sitting on the porch while she and the rest of the Steep Canyon Rangers practiced their tunes was one of life's enduring joys. Oh, the happy sunshiney toe-tappiness of it all - bliss! The Samurai Warrior lived in that house long before I made my move, and I remember sitting on the porch with beer in coozies, watching the people walk by. "Hey, you can't park there!" she would holler out to a man destined to get a parking ticket. And we'd giggle when, not five minutes after he gave us a dirty look and walked away, the traffic cop strolled by. Told ya! Tee hee! Front porches are fun.

Well, blog, I've finally done it. My new house has a front porch, and it is all I ever dreamed it would be. I haven't got a porch swing, or even anything more elegant than a set of $10 folding chairs to perch upon, but the other day when the sun came out and the weather warmed up, I rode my bike home from school, fixed myself a bowl of strawberries and blueberries, and plopped myself down on the front porch. After a few minutes I got nostalgic, so I called up the Samurai Warrior on the phone. "Hey, guess what I'm doing right now," I said. "What?" she asked. "I'm sitting on my front porch watching all the people go by." The Samurai laughed and said, "Hey, you can't park there!"

The Things I Learned This Weekend

2010-03-08T18:16:00.010-06:00

You know what I love about life? It's that no matter where I am, or what I'm doing, I can still learn things. Sure, maybe I'm not memorizing the capitals of every African nation or Latin verb declensions, and I'm nowhere near understanding how to graph imaginary numbers on non-existent polar planes (the actual title of a chapter from my high school calculus textbook), but still. I'm learning. Like this weekend at the wedding. I learned so much cool stuff! Like, for example, the following short list.

1. Numero uno of the things I learned this weekend was that (and this is pretty much scientifically true) I have the smallest hands in the known universe. Concomitantly, my friend's husband has the largest. I mean, look at this. Are we even the same species?

2. Second, I learned that, no matter how stressful and difficult doing my PhD in History might feel, the training and work schedule of medical doctors is much much MUCH worse. Want to know how I learned this? My friend Raquelita (see pic below) is in her first year of residency, and hasn't had a day off in a LONG time. She pretty much works non-stop, and when she's on, people's lives are on the line. If I get confused or make a mistake, maybe someday a reviewer will write a withering evaluation of my scholarship. Ouch! If Raquelita gets sleepy and writes "legs" instead of "leg," well. You know.

Brave Raquelita soldiers on diligently, but this Thursday when she arrived in Austin for the wedding pretty much the first words out of her mouth were "beer" and "now." So we went over to the Samurai Warrior's house where tacos and beer were awaiting us in the back yard. I was over in the corner talking to another friend, when we happened to glance over and see that Raquelita was standing by a big cooler full of about a dozen different kinds of beer, and she was on the verge of crying. Actual real tears were in her eyes, and her lower lip was all aquiver. "Why Raquelita, what's wrong?!" we cried. A lone tear slipped over the edge, and with a waver in her voice, Raquelita said, "Oh, there's just s-s-s-s-so m-m-many wonderful beers, and I just c-c-can't drink them all, and I don't even know where to start!"

I mean, wow. To be so stressed that the sight of beer and the time in which to drink it brings you to tears? Not for me. Nonetheless, being the good friends we are, several of us bolstered her spirits by proposing that she drink all the beers, and worked out a nifty plan to do it in alphabetical order. As you can see, this helped relax her considerably, and in no time at all, Raquelita was swinging from the chandeliers.

3. I also learned that being a bride looks like a whole lot of fun. I don't know that I've ever seen the Samurai Warrior smile so much, or look so completely pleased with the world. That might have been the nicest part of the whole evening.

4. Lastly, I learned one very important take-away lesson. In spite of my advancing years, rapidly multiplying numbers of gray hairs, and spreading road map of sexy wrinkles... in spite of all that, I'VE STILL GOT IT. I don't know who took this picture, what we were doing at the time, or why it looks like I might be Shiva surrounded by my adoring minions, but this picture is going to the top of my short list of "Photos I Want Engraved On My Headstone." A list, by the way, that I had never thought of compiling until just this moment.

Weddings! Guests! Crazy!

2010-03-07T19:14:00.003-06:00

Still short on time, but before I forget, WOW WHAT AN AMAZING WEEKEND. I was a bridesmaid in my friend The Samurai Warrior's wedding, while Handsome and I played host to a few friends from ye olde rowing days in college - GREAT friends - who were also guests at the wedding. In short, the weekend was spectacular. I am now exhausted and in dire need of cleaning house and continuing the long process of unpacking our home, but hello out there. I'll be back tomorrow with pictures and tales of wonder.

Before I go, however, let me gift you with what is perhaps the funniest photo of the weekend. Yes, I'm on top of a human pyramid, no, I don't particularly remember getting up there, and who the heck is that photobomber. I have no idea.

Captain Chaos Strikes Again

2010-03-02T16:36:00.003-06:00

Hey peeps, just a heads up to say hello. Handsome and I (and the Bird) have been moving this weekend into a fabulous new place, and are up to our ears in packing boxes. The internet guy is playing hard to get, so I'm posting from my super-stalker post in the way back of the back yard where I'm borrowing one bar of signal from an unsuspecting neighbor.

Thanks, Unsuspecting Neighbor!

All that is to say, more coming soon. Exciting adventures, scintillating gossip, and scandalous tales -- just think of all you have to look forward to!

Salacious Bird

2010-02-25T16:01:00.006-06:00

I got an email yesterday from the fabulous Kate, pointing out that in spite of Birdie's adoptive status and mystery background, it is still possible to discover something of her genealogy.

"Dear Cheasty," wrote Kate. "Now you know I love Birdie, but... I do think that second picture of her [on yesterday's post] looks a bit like Jaba the Hutt's pet, Salacious Crumb."

I didn't want to believe it. My adorable Bird, related to such a repugnant creature?

But then I looked at the picture Kate was talking about.

Oh, dear. I guess from now on it'll be Uncle Salacious Crumb.

Bird of My Heart

2010-02-24T12:23:00.012-06:00

You remember Birdie, don't you, blog? That wee blind, deaf, toothless, and anorexic mutt who picked me out of a lineup last April? Some days I think she's the sweetest, most angelic, snuggliest and cutest animal in the whole entire universe. Those are the days when she gazes at me through her cataracts as if I were the greatest person in the world. Or when she snuggles up on my lap, tucks her nose in my elbow, and sighs like she's found the meaning of life. Or when her tongue gets stuck sticking out the front or side of her mouth. (So cute!) Or when she frolics like a puppy for 45 seconds - right before she remembers that she's 12 years old and really would rather snuggle up in my arms with the sun on her face.

And then there are those days when I think she's a demon from hell sent here by Mephistopheles to drive me right to the brink of insanity. Mostly those are the days when she refuses to eat, gets the pooping sickness, hogs the bed, has smelly breath, or has an allergic reaction to the world and stays up scratching all night, all of which normally culminates in an exorbitantly expensive vet bill. Grrr. I hate those days.

But lately, Birtilda's been having a lot more good days than bad. She's even started eating, and has put on enough weight that you can't see her ribs through her fur anymore. Huzzah! Not that she's all that excited about it. All in all, Birdie plays it pretty cool. As long as she's sitting on a lap, or is squished in between me and Handsome (who's started calling her Wedgina, on account of that latter predilection), she's happy.

Most of this winter has been shockingly cold for Austin, So the Bird's spent a lot of time snuggled up under blankets on her little bed by the window. On really cold days, I have to drag her around the block to get her to go on a walk.

But on a recent trip to Handsome's cabin at the lake, Birdie really let her flag fly. It was sunny and warm, and we were able to let her out and off the leash, and man did that little dog have fun. She frolicked and gamboled, cavorted and capered, bounded and bounced and played until she'd used up every little bit of energy in her soul. She investigated every nook and cranny. She didn't walk, she pranced. She didn't nibble, she ate like a horse, and when she fell asleep, she didn't just nap - she slept like the dead.

We took her with us out in the boat, and words cannot describe how fascinated and confused she was. "What is that on the other side of this wall? Is it water? Why is there so much of it? Why doesn't the ground stand still? Why is Handsome holding those sticks. Doesn't he know I want to get in his lap?"

"Ah," says Birdie. "Now this is more like it."

Next Up: Flying Pigs!!

2010-02-23T11:04:00.005-06:00

A few months ago somebody asked me if I'd ever re-start the blog, and while my answer was circumspect ("who knows what the future may bring"), internally, I was more emphatic ("when hell freezes over"). Well today, my poppets, I am pleased to report that hell froze over. It is snowing in Austin, Texas. This leads me to the following conclusion: I am restarting my blog. I've been thinking it over for a while, hemming and hawing in the way I am wont to do, but this is just too much. The universe, I feel, is offering me as clear a signal as it is possible to give.

So.

In short, here is an update. I'm feeling a little more on top of my life than I'd been feeling when I hung up my proverbial spurs back in October or whenever that was. My dissertation is under way, and my personal life is... well. Sorted out, I guess would be a good way to put it. Where before there was angst, now there is calm. Where before I felt stressed, now I feel happy. These feelings have a lot to do with the fact that I've got a chapter done, I feel like I've hit my stride with ye olde dissertation, and I've got both an article and a chapter in an edited volume in the works. I am on top of it.

But it also has something to do with a fellow I met.

Blog, I'd like you to meet Handsome. You will be hearing about him more later.

More to follow, I promise, one post at a time.

Hanging Up My Spurs

2009-10-07T15:35:00.003-05:00

It's not that I don't want to write. It's not that I'm "over" blogging. I do want to, I just can't. I love this blog. I love writing in it, I love thinking up what I'm going to write in it. I've got a million stories built up in my head that I would love to sit down and write. But if I'm going to finish this dissertation in anything remotely approaching the alloted time in which I will be funded to write, I've got to focus my energies.

This would've been a cleaner break if I'd just stopped for good when I said I would earlier this summer, but I found upon quitting that I missed it too much. Well I still miss it, but I've got an assload of work to get done - work I actually enjoy doing, which is a nice change from the status quo - and I can't sit at the library and daydream about blogging right now. So I'm sorry, blog, and I'm sorry, me. But this pony is going to take a nice long nap in its stall. It may come out once or twice every now and then when something just too good comes along, or if i get a chance to take another cool trip, but I can no longer maintain the pretense that I'll post tomorrow. Too many interviews to transcribe, too much work to get done right now. In lieu of cheastypants, I'd like to direct your attention to a little blog written by a student (friend of mine) who is studying abroad in China. It's fantastic, and makes me laugh out loud. It's called Keller's Cogitations. Go, read, be merry.

Adios, mundo mio. Talk to you all later.

Oh I Have Dreamed Of Days Like These

2009-09-24T12:49:00.002-05:00

I'd just like to say at the outset that I am fully aware that should I happen to re-read this post at any point this winter, particularly in February, I will likely want to retroactively perpetrate great damage and pain upon my own body. But today, I just can't help myself - it is cold outside! Perhaps I should qualify. By "cold," I mean in the sixties, which I am well aware is laughable to many hale and hearty residents of northern climes, but I stand by my statement. It is cold. Huzzah! It is cold and rainy and overcast. Oh joy! There is no sun in the sky, and when I stepped outside yesterday wearing only a thin sweater (well, pants and shoes, too), I became instantly chilled. What bliss! I slept the past few nights with the windows open under a snuggly blanket, and Birdie curled up as close as she could physically get without actually being under the covers, or inside my skin. Ahhhhh. For the first time in months, I am not hot, and so today, in spite of the obvious climatological foreshadowing of an utterly miserable and wet winter season, I and my acres and acres of beautiful bouncy hair will do a celebratory dance of joy. Watch me sparkle, world.

Out of the Closet, Birdie.

2009-09-23T09:47:00.006-05:00

Well, my poppets, it is as I have long suspected. My cute little dog Birdie is in the closet. I grew suspicious when she peed like a boy dog, and my suspicions solidified into a theory when she marked territory every two feet on our walks around the neighborhood. But today, my suspicions were confirmed. Birdie is in the closet, and I don't know how to make her feel safe enough to come out.

This morning after our walk, Birdie was lounging about on the couch, curled up on her favorite fish pillow. A pillow, I ought to note, that my friends and I call the "gay fish pillow" due to it's festive rainbow color scheme.

I was making toast for breakfast in the kitchen, and I guess the toaster got a little overzealous in its toastiness, because next thing I knew the smoke alarm was going off right overhead. And Birdie, my deaf little doggie, who probably hasn't heard anything since the New Kids on the Block were popular... well let's just say she HEARD that smoke alarm and it scared the ever-loving shitballs out of her. She jumped about three feet high in the air, spun around in a tight circle a few times looking for the attackers, and then, seeing nothing (cause she's blind), leapt off the sofa, streaked across the kitchen, and darted into the back corner of my closet. She has been there now for 30 minutes, and nothing can induce her to leave - not snacks, not snuggles, not her favorite blanket.

Can you see her? She's that little black munchkin hiding under my dress. Here's a closer look.

Come out of the closet, Birdie! It's safe out here, I promise.

Lend Me Your Mean

2009-09-21T12:39:00.005-05:00

Friends, Romans, countrymen: lend me your mean. Yes, I said mean. Bring me your impishness and your mischief. Loan me the evil glimmer in your eye. Assist me, if you will, and help me whet my killer instinct, for I find myself sorely lacking in this time of need. You see, my dears, I have been attacked by fiends disguised as good friends, and though in the past I have fallen short of prankster glory (see last year's insult-a-thon and email-bomb with my good friend Mutt, a story I strongly encourage you to read or re-read, just for the sheer glory of the experience), this time I shall not fail, I shall not fall short, and I will prevail. But to do so, I fear I need some help.

First let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up. I was dining the other evening with my friends Bake and Toto, a married couple who pride themselves on puckish pranksterism. At some point, the word douchebag came up, and though the conversation about using the term as an insult meandered hither and thither, in the end I mentioned that it would be nice if just once we, as a culture, could come up with a gender-neutral way of insulting each other. For example, why douchebag? Why not, I offered, just call each other "enema face?" We chuckled and chortled, ultimately deciding that while enema-face did have its charms, it didn't come trippingly off the tongue, and ought to be discarded. After dinner we parted ways, and when I came back to my car (which I had foolishly left at Bake and Toto's house) later that night, it was to find that somebody had decorated my car.

And then on the side:

ENEMA FACE? And as if that wasn't bad enough, they MISSPELLED ENEMA. Enima? I hear from unconfirmed and anonymous sources that they did this on purpose, correctly divining that I would be mildly embarrassed to drive through the streets of Austin with ENEMA written on the back of my car, but ENIMA? Oh, god, may the earth swallow me whole. Actually, if you look at the picture, you can see where I tried to move the shaving cream around to make the "i" into an "e." I failed.

The PORN STAR and shaving cream on the door handle was a nice touch, I have to say. In fact, the whole trick was neatly done. No permanent damage incurred, and the whole thing was very funny, with just a kick of public humiliation thrown in for good measure. I love these kinds of games!

So that is where I stand. While I did "accidentally" dump half a pitcher of water onto Toto's lap the other day (actually, that was quite good, if I do say so myself), I must exact retribution that is swift, just, and more-or-less merciful, while still getting them back good. I'm great at pranking folks I live with - short sheeting, saran wrap on the toilet, toothpaste on the potty seat, rubber bands around the hose nozzle at the sink so it squirts the person in the shirt, etc. But I fear right now I am out of my depth. I lack the killer instinct for really getting somebody good, sadly. What on earth shall I do?

Hello, I'm Mr. Right.

2009-09-18T11:43:00.003-05:00

A friend of mine just sent me this link with an inquiry as to whether he ought to do a similar video profile to pep up his dating life. All I have to say is GOOD LORD WATCH THIS VIDEO IMMEDIATELY. Also, having just signed up for a little eBay dating myself, I am now officially terrified. Are all men this nutto? Seriously? Perhaps I should implant a GPS tracking device under my skin so that in case some crazy dude who thinks I'm a "Donna Juanita," whatever in the hell that means, (watch video) kidnaps me, forces me to cut my hair in a mullet, and brainwashes me into singing backup for a nightclub act at a local strip joint under the alias "Chesty LaRue," ...well in case that happens at least somebody will be able to track me down and rescue me.

For Mary Travers, Wherever You Are.

2009-09-17T12:22:00.006-05:00

I was born in 1977, so strictly speaking, I had very little personal knowledge of the issues and themes that motivated the 1960s political folk music movement. Free love? Civil Rights? Anti-war protests? Bob Dylan? By the time I became aware of music beyond nursery songs and lullabies, the social costs of free love were about to catch up with us in the form of the AIDS virus, the Civil Rights Movement had passed its political apex, the Vietnam War was over, and Bob Dylan was reinventing himself as a Born Again Christian. But largely thanks to my mother, the inimitable Captain Mommypants, I might as well have grown up 20 years earlier. How many other girls of my generation can speak with any degree of fluency about "the 27 8x10 color glossy photos with the circles and the arrows and the writin' on the back?" Let me tell you, not so many, and I'm in a position to know.

One of my mother's favorite groups (and thus, one of mine) was Peter, Paul, and Mary. We played those tapes until they shredded, and once they shredded, we just bought more. I grew up on that music. So when I heard on NPR this morning that Mary Travers had died, I felt... well I felt bereaved, there's really no other word for it. I put down my Cheerios, picked up my little dog, sat on the couch for a few minutes and just let myself feel sad, because something wonderful lived in that woman, and what she shared with the world, what she shared with me, shaped the world we live in, and shaped the person I became. I guess a lot of people are going to write meaningful obituaries that speak about her professional accomplishments, so there's no need to rehash those details here. Instead, I'm just going to post a few videos of PPM performing some of my favorite songs, and let you know that this morning while I biked to work I put my Peter Paul and Mary playlist on my iPod and as I listened to Mary's beautiful voice, I cried.

I cried when I listened to them sing Puff the Magic Dragon. In fact, that's when the crying started, right when they got to the line, "Jackie Paper came no more."

I cried through If I Had a Hammer, because my god, do we need people who feel this strongly speaking out today.

and Blowin' in the Wind, because... well, just because. It's blowin' in the wind.

In my early 20s I worked as a backpacking guide for a state-run "hoods in the woods" program in Utah, and I'd bribe my kids to be good with the promise of a lullaby at night. They had a choice of any number of Peter, Paul, and Mary songs, but their favorites were 500 Miles and Blowin' in the Wind. My favorites, too. So when I cried through 500 Miles I was crying for Mary Travers, but I was also crying for those young men in the wilderness, many of them well on their way toward becoming hardened thugs, and all of them desperate for a little bit of love.

Most people my age broke their concert teeth on the New Kids on the Block or MC Hammer, but not me. My first concert ever was Peter, Paul, and Mary. And trust me. There was nobody at that amphitheater more excited to see these folk legends than I was. I remember at one point a jet flew overhead while Mary was introducing a song, and she had to stop speaking. She waited for the noise to quiet, and then held up her hands to the audience. "If there's one thing I've learned in all my years," she said, "it is that often it is better to simply wait. Because this, too, shall pass." The audience laughed as she'd intended them to, but that particular piece of wisdom stuck in my 14 year old mind like a burr. So Mary Travers, wherever you are, thank you. Thank you for gifting this world with wonderful music, for caring and working hard for important social issues, for trying to make the world a better place. But thank you also, just from me, for telling me that "this too shall pass." You have no idea how many times that has helped me get through the harder parts of life.

That's all I've got for today, so I'll leave you with one last song, should you want to listen. It's one of my favorites, but not a famous PPM recording. It's called The First Time.

Kindergarten Kidlet

2009-09-14T15:00:00.013-05:00

Dear Bug,

Well my little brother, I was talking to our mother on the phone yesterday and I found out that you've recently started kindergarten, and I just want to say WHAT THE F&CK. Kindergarten? KINDERGARTEN? Do you not even realize what that means, Buggo? It means you're getting old. Growing up. Becoming a Big Boy. I am suddenly terrified, for I know what happens when adorable little boys go to school. First they become kids, which isn't really so bad. The learning and writing and spelling can be kind of cute. But after kidhood comes adolescence, which occasionally is still nice, but then (oh, shudders), you will eventually become a teenager. Teenager! Outrageous! I won't have it, Bug, I'm just letting you know that right off the bat. I like you the way you are - silly and sweet and unselfconscious and stubborn and absolutely delightful. What's going to happen when you go to school?

Will you still want to go camping with me? Will you still stay up all night reading Dick and Jane over and over and over again?

Will you eventually become so self-aware that you don't pee in public anymore?

Will you become sufficiently self-contained to sit still and patiently while Mom cuts your hair?

I hope you don't become too self-conscious to kiss your sisters whenever they demand it.

I hope you don't ever get "too cool" to snuggle up with me and Big Dog for a nice afternoon snuggle-book.

Sigh. Oh, Bug. I'm glad you're growing and learning and becoming the wonderful person you will one day be. More than anything I just regret that I'm missing so much of it, all the way out here in Texas. I'm aware that I can't really force you to stay five years old and adorable for the rest of your life. I know that one day you'll get braces, and then your voice will change and eventually you'll probably think that video games are more fun than exploring in the woods (though dear lord, I hope that day never comes). I know your voice will change and you'll crush opponents on the football field and then will come algebra and back hair. And in all likelihood, you will still be an absolutely wonderful teddy bear of a human being, a person who makes everybody around them happier just by being there. I know this, and I promise I won't try to freeze you in time too much, but only if you promise me one thing:

DON'T CHANGE!!!

I love you, kiddo. Happy kindergarten.

Your adoring older sister,
Amazing Cheastypants.

Galosh.

2009-09-10T18:03:00.002-05:00

OK, I have some very important news. Ground-breaking. Earth-shattering. But you have to promise not to tell.

No, I mean it.

Really.

If this news gets out I'll never have another peaceful moment, especially given the global implications. Ok, lean closer. (Whispering) I just discovered that I can control the weather.

Seriously.

Want to know how I figured it out? OK, I'll tell you. I thought to myself a few months ago,"Wow this drought is misery. It's hot, it's dry, it's hot hot hot hot, dry dry dry dry." And then I thought, with a philosophical shrug, "Just as well, really, since I don't have galoshes. If it rains my feet will get all wet!"

But then I thought, "Hey! Maybe that's all the weather is waiting on? God doesn't want it to rain until I'm sufficiently prepared." And naturally I felt guilty at the thought of all those crops withering in the field, rivers drying up, fish drowning on land, and the extra algae growing in Barton Springs.

So I bought galoshes. And guess what - it promptly started raining, and hasn't really stopped for the last few days.

Told ya.

New Lunar Module Launch Goes Sadly Awry

2009-09-04T12:46:00.002-05:00

Cape Canaveral, FLORIDA -

NASA officials announced today that a technical malfunction at the launch of their new lunar module caused the module to land, not as planned, on the moon, but instead on an unsuspecting citizen's face in Austin, TX. "We at NASA would like to express our extreme regret to the victim, Ms. Amazing Cheastypants," said NASA spokesperson Johnny Rocket. "I can only imagine that having a lunar module embedded in your face would cause both physical and psychological pain, and I want to assure Miss AmazingPants that our scientists are working round the clock to design a strategic removal of said lunar module."

In Austin, Amazing Cheastypants, a graduate student at the University of Texas at Austin, seemed bemused by the situation. "I am beyond shocked," commented Ms. AmazingPants to the media at a press conference this morning. "It happened while I was sleeping, I guess, though how I slept through a lunar module landing on my face, God only knows. When I woke up I thought it was just an enormous zit!" As the assembled press corps chuckled in commiseration, Ms. AmazingPants cradled her face gingerly to support the weight of the lunar module, embedded in her left cheek, about half an inch away from her nose. "In a way, I'm sort of relieved to find that it's a lunar module, because if I were still getting zits this big at 31 years of age, I'd be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Knowing it's just a $14 billion piece of scientific equipment makes me feel a little better about myself, though I do regret the waste of so many taxpayer dollars."

When asked if she was experiencing any health side effects from the embedded lunar module, Ms. AmazingPants responded that, physically, she was feeling just fine. She did express concern, however, that the module was beginning to exert a gravitational pull on other parts of her body. "It's fine right now," she commented, "I'm just feeling and looking a bit 'perkier,' and I'm certainly filling out my push-up bra better than I did yesterday. I wouldn't want this to continue, however." When pushed for details, Ms. AmazingPants said, "Let's just say that if my boobs begin to orbit my face, NASA's going to be in a whole world of hurt when I get done with them."

Further Revelations About My Amazing Dog Birdie.

2009-08-30T22:33:00.017-05:00

My little dog Birdie, as anybody who've been reading this blog for the past few months knows, is a 12-year-old wondermutt rescue dog. She's deaf, she's blind, she's missing most of her teeth, and she's practically anorexic. Her tail has been broken and badly set in three identifiable places, and her hilariously long legs manage to be simultaneously bow-legged and splay-footed. She looks like a cross between a muppet and a Dr. Seuss character, has difficulty keeping her tongue in her mouth, is allergic to nearly every food group on the planet, and is generally the most awesome little dog in the world.

In spite of her multiplicity of handicaps, anybody who's ever met my sweet petunia could tell you that she's a champion at an astonishing number of things. These things are, in order of importance, 1. being cute. 2. melting my heart with her cuteness. 3. loving to ride in the car (cutely). 4. following me around like I'm her personal guru (guru, to her, being the person who feeds her lamb, the only food she will eat). 5. loving me with her cute little eyes. 6. hogging the bed (not so cute).

I know, I know. She's pretty amazing. But in spite of all this greatness, I still haven't told you what her number one skill is, the skill that elevates her out of the realm of mere "champion" and into the stratosphere of OLYMPIC champion. That's right, I said OLYMPIC. I mean, I knew she was cool, but really. Imagine my surprise when President Obama called me up the other day.

"Hello Ms. AmazingPants," our commander in chief said to me. "In times of need such as this current economic crisis, our country needs a hero - somebody the people can look up to, a goal our children can dream of, a greatness for which we might strive. It has come to my attention, and I know this must come as a surprise to you, but we believe that your dog Birdie might be such a hero for the American people. Will you allow her to serve her country in its hour of need?"

"Of course, Mr. Obama," I replied, "but I must confess I'm a little in the dark. What exactly is Birdie supposed to do?"

"Well perhaps you've heard that the International Olympic Committee has recently added a few new sports to its Summer Olympic roster? You know, boxing, golf, that sort of thing. Well one of the new categories is Long Distance Sleeping, and we've heard from our sources in Texas that Birdie is a vastly talented sleeper."

It's true, blog. Mr. Obama had heard correctly. Though Birdie is all that is sprightly and adorable when she's awake, that is a narrow window of time, indeed. At Mr. Obama's urging, I did some quick calculations. Birdie is generally awake only from 4pm to 11pm every day, with brief windows of awakening for a morning walk and subsequent delicious snack. That is 7 hours. If you multiply 7 times 7, you'll find that Birdie is only awake for a cumulative total of two days out of every seven. Framed in another way, Birdie sleeps for FIVE DAYS out of every week. Faced with these impressive statistics, there was really only one thing I could do.

"Mr. President," I said, "You may consider Birdie and myself at your service. I ask not what my country can do for me, but what my amazing dog can do for my country. We will proudly join the American Long Distance Sleeping Team in 2012. The Stars and Stripes will wave proudly above the winner's podium, I can promise you that."

I got off the phone and ran upstairs to tell Birdie the news. Naturally, I had to wake her up from a delicious nap.
"Oh yeah?" she yawned, "That's cool. Can I go back to sleep now?"

One year ago on Amazing Cheastypants.

Unders In My Icebox

2009-08-26T10:52:00.008-05:00

When I was a kid, my sainted mother had what, at this far remove, seems like endless patience with us children. All one hundred and five of us. During the summers when she was in graduate school we'd all be home for summer too. We'd have friends over. We'd have fights with those friends. We'd laugh and cry and break things and paint on the walls -- ACCIDENTALLY. We howled and galumphed, shrieked and sang, ran and fell and crashed into things, and through it all Captain Mommypants kept her cool. Though she'd often look up at the ceiling and announce to the heavens, "That's it. I'm changing my name and moving to Australia," we all couldn't help but notice that she never really did change her name. Or move to Australia. Nope, she stayed right there with us in North Carolina, and on the days when we were truly unruly, she simply locked us out of the house with a cooler full of water, a handful of plastic cups, and a roll of toilet paper.

"DO NOT COME BACK IN THIS HOUSE UNTIL I RING THE DINNER BELL, YOU BUNCH OF BANSHEES!" she'd bellow, steam billowing from her ears.
"But Moooooooooom," we'd whine musically, en masse. "What if we get hungry, or get a cut on our knees, or have to go number two?" (Frantic batting of very cute eyelashes, dimpling of plump and pinchable cheeks.)
Mom would take a deep breath and cast about for the frayed remnants of her patience. "If you get a cut, you may come inside to clean it. If you have to go number two, you may come inside to use the toilet. But if you flush before I can verify that you did indeed go number two and weren't trying to pull a fast one on me, you will spend the rest of your life folding laundry. Now GO OUTSIDE AND PLAY." And the door would slam rather emphatically and we'd be stuck outside in 94 degree heat and 80% humidity for the rest of the day. Which, in the end, I'm awfully glad we were. Sure, my knowledge of pop-80s television shows and music is sadly deficient, but we had so much fun playing in the woods that, really, who cares. Plus, I built up a rather nifty and thoroughly useful immunity to the heat.

Did you catch that last bit? The part about the rather nifty and thoroughly useful immunity to the heat. Yes, well. Ahem. About that. (Commence noisy weeping.)

We here in Austin are on our 66th day of over-100-degree heat today. SIXTY-SIX DAYS. That's NINE WEEKS. TWO MONTHS AND A WEEK. We have broken, at this point, every known record for egregious heat conditions on the books for Austin since they first started keeping records back in 1854. Hottest June on record? We killed that record. Hottest July? Mark it down. Hottest August? Already done it, and the month isn't even over. Hottest summer? You betcha. That's 66 days, and that's not even counting the dozens of days where the temperature stayed at 99 or 98, which is still effing hot. And that rather nifty and thoroughly useful immunity to the heat I once possessed? It is currently lying on the ground outside, a badly-beaten quivering pulp of jelly, having offered what turned out to be futile resistance to the overwhelming ass-kicking Mother Nature is handing it this summer.

In my never-ending quest to find an adequate coping mechanism, I've tried just about every trick on the books. I soak a bandana in cold water and drape it around my neck when I walk the dog. I spend inordinate amounts of time at Barton Springs, submerging myself in the perpetually 68 degree water (ooooh, shivers of deliciousness). But you know where the best help has come from? You're never going to guess:

Marilyn Monroe.

See, told you. I bet you didn't guess Marilyn Monroe. I know, who would've thought it, but it's true! Have you ever seen The Seven Year Itch? Here's a really short scene that captures the ethos of my life this summer: the desperate search for ways to stay cool.

Marilyn offers a few other solutions over the course of that movie, most of which involve traipsing about New York in all of her scantily-clad glory (remember the subway scene?). There is one solution, however, that I've found quite effective, and I'm here to share it with you today, my sweet petunias, so that the next time you're concerned that the blood in your head might boil your brains, you too can try it. Marilyn Monroe recommends keeping your unders in the icebox."(Imagine it: breathy voice, suggestively waggling eyebrows, twitching lips, sultry smile: "Oooh, I keep my unders (pant, pant) in the icebox! (Squeal, giggle.) It's simply delicious!")

Unders in the icebox, I thought, the first time I saw that movie. Why that's preposterous! Whoever would do such a thing? Well I'll tell you who, blog. Me. I finally got hot enough that I thought, hmmm, what was that thing Marilyn Monroe said about keeping your unders in the icebox? Why I think I'll try it!

And it was lovely, blog. Just lovely. For the 3.5 nanoseconds before my body heated them right back up again, those cool unders were amazing. However, I recommend not freezing bras that employ... how shall I say this delicately... gelatinous structural supports for the poorly endowed? They turn kind of lumpy when they freeze. Not that I would have any experience with that, mind you. Pure speculation, that's what that was. Harumph.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

2009-08-24T16:29:00.004-05:00

So I know what you all are wondering. What on earth does a girl as intelligent, talented, sophisticated, and unspeakably beautiful as Amazing Cheastypants do when ennui creeps in? Oh many many things, I assure you, my darlings. Occasionally I will author a Pulitzer Prize winning book. When the excitement from that wears off, I've been known to fly to exotic locales in my trusty Piper Cub to set up enormous nature preserves which, naturally, I endow with a hefty bank balance to ensure long-term viability. I remember fondly one winter vacation when a film I made won both the Sundance and Cannes Film Festivals, and then there was the unspeakably wonderful time when I spontaneously tried out for Madame Butterfly at the Paris Opera and was cast as the lead soprano. Oh, the applause was thunderous, and the critics' reviews were thrilling to read! But alas, being a first-rate opera singer was not my destiny in life, and so I left it behind to continue pursuing my dream of becoming a jewel-bedecked professor of History. This summer, however, I started to feel that tickly feeling again, that get-out-and-conquer-a-new-world impulse that has so often driven me to greatness. You'll remember, of course, that I took a brief hiatus from writing this blog? Well, my sweet petunias, this is why: I needed a little free time to practice for the 2009 European Indoor Cycling World Championship, which (it almost goes without saying, really) my partner and I won. Naturally.

Would you like to see the video? Yes, yes, I thought so. Well here you go, poppets. Enjoy! I'm the one on the left.

Overheard In Austin

2009-08-19T14:46:00.003-05:00

The other evening as some friends and I were walking back to our cars after a lovely late-night swim at Barton Springs, I overheard something I cannot get out of my head. Has that ever happened to you? You hear somebody you don't know say something you don't understand about somebody or something you are completely unaware of, and WHAM! You're hooked. Well it happens to me all the time.

For example, a few months ago I was in the airport and I spent an eternity trying to figure out what on earth a certain young lady had done to the older gentleman by her side when i heard him to say to her, "I cannot believe you just did that." I think it was the way he said it that grabbed my attention, really. No disgust, no excitement, no quiet resignation. It was completely flat, as if he were a robotic voice. "I-can-not-be-lieve-you-just-did-that."

Well? WHAT?! WHAT DID SHE DO?! Are they related? Is he her father? Maybe he is her father's best friend and they are embarking upon a torrid and taboo affair of love. And she... I don't know. Left her parents a note, telling them what she was doing... AND WITH WHOM. "Oh great, now not only am I going to jail, but your father will kill me. I cannot believe you just did that." Maybe he's her science teacher and they were on the way to the National Science Fair Championship of the Universe and she... I don't know. Forgot to pack the baking soda. "Oh, great. Now the model volcano won't erupt. I cannot believe you just did that."

Ach. So many possibilities, so few answers.

Well this is what I heard the other day, and for the life of me, I cannot figure out what they might have been talking about, so I'm enlisting your help, blog. It was a group of men and women in their twenties, slightly hipster-hippie looking, and one poorly-shaven young guy said, in tones of incredulous certainty, "No, sex makes it worse!" Got that? Incredulous certainty. That's what's got me going around in circles. I mean, if it were... I don't know. Something that OBVIOUSLY sex would make it worse, then he wouldn't have sounded so incredulous, would he. Moreover, his comment sounded as if he were answering somebody's suggestion that perhaps sex would make "it," whatever "it" is, better. Like he's tried it and, much to his surprise, sex made it worse. I am truly stumped.

So.... what were they talking about? On your marks, get set..... Go.

A Little Wonderment For Tuesday

2009-08-18T16:01:00.003-05:00

Normally I find inspirational posters and videos and cross-stitch thingies completely annoying. Especially that one with a kitten clinging desperately to a branch that says, "Hang in there!" That one makes me gag and want to hit things repeatedly with a crowbar. I mean, for God's sake WON'T SOMEBODY PLEASE SAVE THAT LITTLE KITTEN FROM DYING.

This video, however, is a different story because it's COOL! I mean, yeah, you can totally ignore the last 20 seconds where they gently lecture you that if you have not failed you've never really lived - because honestly, I'd prefer to believe that I will encounter nothing but uproarious success in my life, over and over and over again. But all the stuff they tell you as the build-up to that? WOW. I mean, really. Who knew? Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go write that novel I'm always saying I'll write one day.

Here's a Little Secret

2009-08-14T13:50:00.002-05:00

Today I'm making soup and cleaning house, and it occurred to me that I might be sitting on the greatest secret of all time. You want to know what makes house cleaning fun? I put on my favorite musicals while I do it, so as I'm on my hands and knees scrubbing the wooden floor, I'm singing along at the top of my lungs with Fraulein Maria as she yodels "I Have Confidence." While I fold my laundry I dance along with Marion the Librarian, and while I dust the furniture or rub leather conditioner into my battered old couch I'm humming along with Judy Garland as she finds love during "Clang Clang Clang Went the Trolley."

What can I say. I might be a nutter, but at least I'm having fun. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm about to miss "76 Trombones," and so I must run. Want to watch it with me?

Grant Me One Wish...

2009-08-13T14:38:00.002-05:00

So here I sit, putting myself through the nauseating and slightly self-abasing process of applying for grants, fellowships, and other forms of funding for the next year of my graduate schooling. I can never decide whether I find the process amusing in a "hey, let's all play make-believe and imagine how marvelous this project could be!" kind of way, or whether I find it depressing. Because instead of actually working on my dissertation, I'm spending inordinate amounts of time convincing people to give me money next year so that I can continue to work on my dissertation. I mean, if I weren't working on grants, I would be working on my diss, so maybe if I weren't doing this I could finish this year and therefore have no need for money for next year? Yeah, well. Wishful thinking.

My anorexic dog Birdie, on the other hand, recently discovered a food she likes (hint: baaaaaaa) and ate herself into a coma this morning. So far she's been sleeping curled up on the sofa in the exact same position for 4 hours and 20 minutes, and that's only counting from when I first noticed that she hadn't moved in a long time and got up to check her for a pulse. All's well, but the Great Birdie Watch of 2009 commences. I'll let you know if she ever regains consciousness, or if she will happily snooze forever, dreaming of all the little lambs that died to feed her carnivorous appetite.

A Great Face for Radio.

2009-08-12T09:47:00.003-05:00

Ok, so the radio idea I mentioned in my last post. This is a work in progress, and believe you me, I am open to suggestions of any and all sorts. Here's my plan. The world is huge, right? It's huge and diverse and has fascinating histories of all sorts, so wouldn't it be cool to learn about some of the coolest stuff on the planet? People all over the world spend their professional lives digging up obscure things to write dissertations, articles, and books about, and the vast majority of those dissertations, articles, and books sit on shelves and collect dust, except when some other person researching an obscure topic reads them to further their own work. All in all, it's a great big world of knowledge that nobody outside the ivory tower is actually learning, and that is just plain wrong. Because while each individual article or PhD topic might sound a little abstruse ("Notes on a Balinese Cockfight," anyone?), when you take the time to ask a few questions, it often turns out to be fascinating, informative, and widely applicable to the world we live in today.

Here's an example: my sister Umulu wrote an honors thesis in college called something like, "Changing Concepts of Time in Post-Bolshevik Russia." When she first told me her topic, my initial reaction was, "Gawp. What the eff does that even mean? No, never mind, don't tell me, it sounds boring." Well I couldn't have been more wrong. It was fascinating. I just had never thought about what it might mean for an agricultural society to be forced - literally forced by a powerful central government - to make a rapid shift towards industrialization. Their concept of time, which previously had revolved around seasons, cycles, and circadian rhythms, became immediately subject to factory whistles - minute and second hands on a clock. In short, looking at thematic portrayals of time in literature, periodicals, propaganda, and art illustrated a greater point about how Russian peasants acclimatized to rapid industrialization and profound social change. Or, if that doesn't tickle your fancy, I have a friend that's studying astrology in 16th century Mexico, and another that's writing about PIRATES!

So that, in a nutshell, is what I want to do. I want to find people that are researching cool ideas in history, anthropology, art, musicology, science, etc, and interview them. Nobody is going to read their dissertations, but if I can get them to simplify the ideas, take it out of academic jargon and just talk about it in every-day normal human language, wouldn't that be cool? We could talk about their research process, future plans, and how the whole shebang applies to modern life. What an amazing way to learn!

So here's where I need your help, if help you are willing to offer. I'd like to know the following things:

a) Whether the idea sounds good, or like a giant snooze. If it sounds like a giant snooze, how could I make it more interesting?

b) What should I call the program? I had an early plan to call it "Shit You Didn't Know About Places You've Never Been," but then I realized you can't say "shit" on public radio, so there went that idea. I also toyed with calling it "A Great Big World," or maybe, "The Continued Adventures of A Great Big World." Or... yeah. That's all I've got for now. Help?

Rejuvenation Station.

2009-08-10T12:15:00.004-05:00

Anybody out there? (Tap, tap, tap).

Is this thing on?

Hello?

Testing, testing, sssssibilance, sssssibilance...

OH! There you are! How nice.

My precious petunias! Many thanks for waiting patiently while I sorted out my general state of ennui. Now I am better! I had a little bit of a personal crisis of confidence, or maybe it was a crisis of inspiration? Definitely it was a crisis of OH MY GOD I've been in grad school for four years - FFFFOOOUUUUUURRRR YYYYEEEEAAAAAAARRRSSS - and I'm still a freaking gee-dee emmer-effing student. The following are the ways I would have defined my current job recently. STUDENT: one who is in no way in charge of her life. STUDENT: one who is in the process of being beaten down to a quivering intellectual pulp, only to be awarded a fancy degree when the last smidgen of resistance has collapsed. STUDENT: one who occasionally freaks the hell out and needs to regroup so as to maintain the illusion of control over his or her own life. The problem with a PhD program is that by the time you've been in for FOUR YEARS and are ready to just about scream bloody murder, to say screw this, I'm out of here, is it all right if I just turn in a one-page summary of my research findings... well, that's when it's got you by the short and curlies, because for the love of all that is holy, are you really going to walk away from four years of work? I mean, come on! You're over half-way there! Just duck your head down and keep plugging away. So I had to deal with that.

Want to know what I came up with? OK, I'll tell you. I am not a student. I mean, yes I am a student, but I'm not a STUDENT. The problem was that in the past few years what with master's thesis and comprehensive exams and 9 month research trips in Nicaragua that I really couldn't wait to be over, I'd gotten so good at keeping my eyes down and my steps plodding that I forgot all about HOW AWESOME life is, and, concomitantly, how awesome I am. I am Amazing Cheastypants! This world is a crazy and excellent place! I love to travel and learn! I have a fantastic family and wonderful friends! I am so lucky! I love to dance! The air sparkles when I walk through a room, and my acres and acres of beautiful bouncy hair bring gasps of joy and wonderment to people everywhere! Naturally, I have a biased opinion of my own grandeur and excellence, so feel free to disagree, but this is my blog, and if I can't toot my own horn here, then what's the freaking point.

Anyway, this is what I came up with. I will continue to work on the dissertation, and in two years folks will be calling me DOCTOR Amazing Cheastypants, but in the interim, I need to do something to harness my creative juices, celebrate the things I think are awesome in this world, and build a space in my professional life in which I AM THE BOSS OF ME. So I think I'm going to start a talk radio show. I'll tell you all about it in my next post.

A Hiatus, Until Further Notice

2009-07-23T14:40:00.004-05:00

Hey blog, I wanted to give proper notice that I'm putting Cheastypants on hiatus. I don't know for how long, but for right now, I kind of want to stop. So I'm stopping. If I decide to start 'er up again I'll make the rounds of comments and emails and facebooks and whatnot to let you I'm posting again. Thanks so much for reading - I'll still bop about my favorite blogs to say hello from time to time. Happy summering, y hasta luego!

The Amazing Adventures of a Deaf, Blind, Toothless, Anorexic Bird Dog

2009-07-14T15:29:00.013-05:00

You are not going to believe what my dumb dog Birdie did the other day. In a fit of whimsy while hanging out in my sister's back yard, I let her off the leash to explore. Because really, how much trouble could she get in, right? Ha. Joke's on me. I keep thinking she's normal, you know? Like she isn't blind (did I tell you about the cataracts the vet just told me about?). Or deaf. Or toothless. And have I mentioned her strange eating disorder? It turns out 14-year-old stick figures aren't the only creatures that yearn to be runway models. Birdie is sittin' pretty at 30% underweight, and no matter how I entice her, will not snack up on anything other than chicken, which, it turns out, gives her hives. But every time I think to myself OH GOD WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO, I look at her cute little cute cute cute cute cute little face, and I completely forget to worry. Look. Here's a picture of her being cute. Please ignore the devil eyes. Cataracts, it turns out, are reflective.

Not only cute, but look at her tongue! CUUUUUUUUUTE!

A little more about that tongue later, but first I'd better get back to answering the cliff-hanger with which I began this post. Off your tenterhooks, bloggers, I'm about to tell you what on earth my dumb dog Birdie did the other day when I let her off the leash in my sister's yard. The cast of characters involve the following: a hole in the fence and a patch of briary burrs. In North Carolina we called them "hitchhikers," but people in Texas look at me like I'm speaking another language when I use that term. They are pea-sized burrs that stick to your pants as you walk by them, scratch you up when you try to pick them off, and most importantly, bury themselves deep in doggie fur. DEEP in doggie fur. Birdie essentially face planted right in a particularly prolific hitchhiker bush, and when I finally looked over the fence to see if she'd climbed through, she looked up at me and her black face was light brown. I mean, completely, entirely, 100% carpet-bombed with hitchhikers. You know in the movies when somebody gets a pie in the face and then they're left with a whipped cream face-mask? It was like that, except not whipped cream. Hitchhikers. They were also dug in deep in her legs, stuck in her paws, and covering her cute little underbelly. Birdie was a total mess. Umulu and I got some scissors and started cutting them out of her fur, but the task was overwhelming. I heeded one of my dear Aunt Mary's famously effective maxims --"this is one of those situations that will become enormously less stressful if I simply throw a little money at it." -- and a professional groomer took care of the rest.

I was worried about how close a shave they'd have to get her. Birdie's long silky hair is one of her finest features. Will she look silly without it? The answer, in case you were wondering, is NO. If anything, she's actually even cuter, which I hadn't thought possible. And the best side benefit? I had long suspected that she wasn't entirely gifted at keeping her tongue in her mouth, but the long hair obscured my view of what is one of the most hilarious things I've ever seen. Blog, let me introduce you to Birdie's tongue.

I think it's because she doesn't have any teeth to keep it in. Sometimes it pokes out the front:

And sometimes when she's feeling tired, it sort of slips out the side:

Can you see it? Here's a close-up:

I can't take too many pictures or it makes her self-conscious. Look at this face. You know what she's saying? Hey, Mom, quit it. Are you making fun of me?

Don't Let The Clerical Collar Fool You

2009-07-09T14:55:00.009-05:00

My mother hates me. That's the only explanation.

It started so harmlessly. Picture it: a cool day in North Carolina, and I hadn't brought enough warm clothes with me when I came home, so I asked my mother to borrow a sweatshirt. Sure no problem, here you go, and then WHAM. The old sucker punch, the one-two hit to both eyes. 'Oh, honey, I love you so much. Hey, so-and-so, go get the camera. I want a picture with my favorite oldest daughter.' I was bamboozled, there is no other way to put it. No sooner had she gotten a camera aimed and her arms around me when the ungodly howling began.

"WAAAAAAA-HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! YOU'RE WEARING A DUKE SWEATSHIRT AND I'M GOING TO GET PHOTOGRAPHIC PROOF! I'M GOING TO FRAME IT AND PUT IT ON THE WALLS OF OUR HOUSE!!! YOU WILL NEVER LIVE THIS DOOOOWWWWWNNN!!!"

I struggled and protested to no avail.

BLOG, I AM A CAROLINA GIRL. THIS COULD END ME.

I'd like to take this opportunity to also denounce my father, who did nothing to stop it, as well as my little sister's dog Theo (look in the bottom corner) who, rather than springing to my defense like a fanged avenger, quietly snuck away.

I've heard of some dastardly parental acts in my day, and while it's true that my mother never sank so low as to force me to watch The Watcher In The Woods, nonetheless, she clearly has no love in her heart.

In Which Our Heroine Gets To Know Kate

2009-07-07T12:47:00.013-05:00

Hello my dear blog, I am sorry for having abandoned you for MORE THAN ONE WEEK. Gasp. How on earth did that happen? I feel like I ought to be ashamed, but honestly, I kind of don't. It was a crazy week with many wild things going on of an unbloggable nature, and they demanded my full attention. But here I am, nestled safely back in the bosom of my internet, and have I got some pictures and stories to share with you. First of all, you're never going to guess who I went to visit last week. No, don't read the headline, just guess. Give up? Okay, I'll tell you.

KATE!!

Can you believe it? This utterly lovely and charming blogger is a REAL LIVE PERSON! AND SO AM I! AND WE MET!! Doesn't it just blow your mind? Kate makes the third blogger I've met so far, and I have to say that as a group, I believe bloggers are generally pretty great. Matter of Fact Mommy (blog now six feet under, sadly) was hilarious and fun, Frank was clever and charming and handy, and Kate, well. Kate was nothing short of supercalafragalisticexpialidocious. Kate was up in Dallas visiting her parents WHO ARE AWESOME, BY THE WAY, and since I live in Austin and love road trips, and since I had an afternoon off, I popped Birdie in the car and off we hauled ourselves up to The Big D. I had a blast. I got to meet Isaac, the infant I've been in love with for the past year (pictured below with his doting grandmother, and who, as photographic evidence proved, looks EXACTLY like his mother in her baby pictures). His little blond curls are everything I had hoped they'd be, his smile would light up Times Square, and he does the cutest little speed-walkey thing I've ever seen. Sigh. (Repeat to self: do not reproduce yet, do not reproduce yet, do not reproduce yet...)

Kate's mother is a fire cracker, and we had a great time drinking wine, trading stories, and generally having fun. OH. And lest I forget, she gave me a GIFT BASKET for coming up to visit! Unreal, right? I love Kate's family. Except her Dad, who while I fully acknowledge that he is funny, handsome, smart, and a genial conversationalist, he shamelessly indulged in a torrid love affair with my dog right in front of my face, and for that I might never forgive him. Poor Birdie, she fell like a ton of bricks for this good looking fella, and has been heartsick for him ever since.

Ok, so clearly I'm kidding about the never forgiving him part; I really liked him tremendously, and it was completely cute how she followed him around and jumped up to cuddle in his lap. Who would've thought - my little Birdie having a thing for tall mustachioed gentlemen? I think if he'd jumped off the side of a tall building, Birdie would've gone right after him, howling the doggie version of "Aaaaaaaas yooouuuuu wiiiisssshhhh," as she fell.

And speaking of handsome gentlemen, though not yet tall and mustachioed, check out the awesome and amazing Aiden. I don't even know where to start in describing how much I liked this guy. First of all, wow is he well-mannered. When Kate introduced me he was playing a VIDEOGAME, which he promptly put down, stood up, smiled his charming smile, and told me how nice it was to meet me. Gawp. I heart this young man. OH! I almost forgot. Not only well mannered. Also sports a mohawk. HOW MUCH FREAKIN' COOLER CAN A LITTLE DUDE GET.

Of course, it being a hot day in the Texas summer, and there being a swimming pool in the back yard, we pretty quickly jumped into swimsuits and spend the rest of the afternoon splashing around.

Sorry I have no more pictures for you, but honestly when Kate gives you her OH NO YOU DON'T look:

Well. A girl's gotta know when to put away the camera and just have fun, so that's what we did. We went for a walk, plopped ourselves down in the swimming pool, and voilá! Just as Kate and I became internet buddies quickly and easily, so we fell into real live friendship, and it was no time at all before we were sitting in the pool like old girlfriends, talking about all the things girls sit around and talk about. You know, mid-term congressional elections, FDIC-insured bonds, the relative merits of 1991 Ferrari Testarossa versus the 1996 re-modeling... Oh, wait. No, that's wrong. I meant menstrual cycles, childbirth, and relationships. Yes, that was it. (Ba-domp-chaaaaa! Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week.)

All jokes aside, Kate really is a rock star. She's funny, smart, self-deprecating, wise, and easy to be around; visiting her and her family was one of the highlights of my summer. Oh, and for those of you who read her blog and are wondering if it is even remotely possible that her husband Andy is even half as wonderful as she claims... Yes. Yes it is true. But don't let her fool you with her modesty: Andy got just as lucky as Kate did the day she clapped eyes on him, marched home, and told her mama she'd met the man she was going to marry. Kate, thanks for a wonderful visit. Here's to many more years of internet stalking each other!

UPDATE A FEW HOURS LATER: oh my lord, I forgot completely to tell you about the presents Kate made me. That's right, I said "made me". She's such a crafty wonder. She made me a new makeup bag (HOW DID SHE KNOW I NEEDED ONE?) in the funnest prints you could possibly imagine WITH MY NAME EMBROIDERED ON THE HANDLE. And a change purse with my initials! Kate, you're a miracle. Thank you thank you thank you!!!

It Must Be All Those Acidophil-asanas

2009-06-29T13:48:00.003-05:00

Do any of you remember my charming Granddad and his Julie? He's hilarious, for those who are too lazy to click the link, and I love him dearly. Our phone conversations are frequent and far-ranging in topic, though they occasionally veer off into the realm of the ridiculous. Like take today, for example.

Cheasty: Hey Grandad, how are you?

Granddad: Well hey yourself! How's it going? What's new?

Cheasty: Oh I'm fine. Not too much going on, I'm just heading to join a friend for yoga.

Granddad: Oh, yeah? That's great. Yoga's good stuff.

Cheasty: Tell me about it. In the year since I started yoga I've grown half an inch!

Granddad: No kidding! Wow! That's amazing. I wonder why it isn't working that way for my Julie. She's shrinking.

Cheasty: Julie does yoga?

Granddad: Yeah, every day. She loves the stuff!

Cheasty: Wow, I had no idea they had yoga in [small little West Virginia town].

Granddad: Are you kidding? This town isn't that podunk. Now, some of the fancier wines and cheeses I've got to find elsewhere, but we definitely have yoga. Why, Julie's having a yoga in the kitchen right now!

Cheasty: (laughing helplessly)

Granddad: Hey, so why is it you think all this yoga is making you taller?

** For the record, Granddad does know the difference between yoga and yogurt, he just misheard me. And also to set the record straight, it's not cause his hearing's going, it's because "all you young people mutter all the time." He's undoubtedly correct.

A Second Home in Antarctica

2009-06-25T13:08:00.002-05:00

I don't know how much more of this I can take. Yesterday's temperature was 105 degrees, with humidity that ranged between 35 and 70%. I'm not sure that there's even a word for what that makes the heat index, other than "broiler." Ugh. I took my dog Birdie for a walk at 3pm and she made it about 100 feet out the door before she started panting, 150 feet out the door before she stopped dead in her tracks and looked at me with pathetic eyes, and 151 feet before she made an executive decision and beelined it for a nearby tree to lie down in the shade.

This is ridiculous. I'm moving to a place with permafrost and a perpetual snow cover.

National Day of Hero Worship

2009-06-23T13:12:00.002-05:00

Most people, when asked who their heros are, will name someone like their Mom or their Dad, or their Great-Aunt Judy who rode her bike from Austin to Little Rock 45 times in one year just cause somebody told her she couldn't do it. I, also, am a big fan of my parental units (HUGE FAN!), I admire them tremendously, and they are indeed my personal heroes. But when I was a kid, I often looked elsewhere for inspiration, for role-modeling, and for guidance. You want to know who my heros were?

1. Davy Crockett. I dreamed of being a wilderness explorer, and plus his picture on the cover of his biography was CUUUUTE! In my games I often pretended I was Davy Crockett, tramping around the vast unexplored American West with a rifle, a Bowie knife, and a coon-skin cap. No doubt the romanticized version of his life I read as a kid left out the less-than-savory aspects of his character, but to me he was the very spirit of adventure.

2. Amelia Earhart. I know, I'm not the only one. But seriously, this woman was amazing. I read her biography, too, and I read a passage that described her running in to a meeting with "windblown hair." I had no idea that was merely a polite way of saying "messy." I thought that if your hair was in the wind enough it would take on some fantastic qualities that were immediately identifiable as "windblown," and furthermore, it must be extravagantly romantic to have windblown hair. God bless my mother, who never asked why when I spent the next six months hanging my head out the windows of moving cars.

3. Claire Huxtable and Julia Sugarbaker. You know them, right? The mother on the Cosby Show, and the main character on Designing Women? God bless women who know how awesome they are, and aren't afraid to tell it like it is. While I can occasionally approximate eloquence in the written word, when it comes to spontaneously expressing my thoughts verbally I am at a complete and total loss. If one day somebody thinks even in passing that I am one-tenth as cool as either of these fictional characters, I will faint dead away with glee.

The following link will take you to the greatest Julia Sugarbaker moment of all-time, though embedding has been disabled (bummer):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bVl4bmGcn3c

So what about you all? Who were your heroes (non-familial) when you were growing up? Who did you intentionally model yourself after? Why? Tell me all about it, or write a post on your blog and then let me know to go read it!

FAME!! I'm Gonna Live Forever!!

2009-06-22T11:44:00.003-05:00

Oh, just guess what I got in the mail this morning. A package with 4 copies of an academic journal, The U.S. Catholic Historian!! I know, not normally the sort of thing that sends me into trills of upper-octave exuberance, but LOOK!!

Left column, third one down. Open to page 45.

I'm published! IN PRINT! I've had other stuff published on-line before, but this feels unbelievably cool.

Bad News

2009-06-21T11:47:00.001-05:00

Little Lucky didn't make it. He died last night.

In Which Our Heroine Seduces Frank Irwin

2009-06-19T17:12:00.007-05:00

Dear Matter of Fact Mommy and other lovers of Frank Irwin. I'm sorry. I know you all love him. I know you all dream of the day in which he will be yours. I am sensitive to those feelings, and I truly regret having to break your collective heart, but what's done is done, and I have to let you know. Frank Irwin is mine. He's the yin to my yang, the bi to my cycle. My apologies, but it was written in the stars.

Frank and I both live in Austin, I discovered recently, and being that I'd already broken the seal by meeting MOFM back in April, it seemed like a good idea to meet this dapper fellow, especially given that he likes bikes. Cause I likes bikes, too! So when he floated the idea of meeting up sometime, I said "Okay, Frank Irwin. Meet me at Quack's Bakery at 3pm on Friday. I'll be the unbearably attractive brunette in the corner. You'll recognize me by my acres and acres of bouncy beautiful hair, and also the fact that the air around me seems to be sparkling, though you can't exactly figure out why." But how was I to know which of the many good looking men who come through Quack's would be Frank Irwin? I wrote to him with instructions. "Will you please bring a book of poetry and a pink carnation so I can recognize you when you come in?" In all honesty, I was joking, but guess what Frank showed up with this afternoon:

What, can't you see the title of that charming little book? Here's a closer look:

Yes, that would be a book of dirty limericks, and it's a good thing he brought it with him, because before Frank Irwin showed up I was sitting there wondering which guy would be Frank Irwin. What on earth would Frank Irwin look like? I started to get nervous when a deeply creepy gentleman in a muu-muu and ladies' slacks came in and started looking about him as if he were looking for somebody. Oh, no! I thought. That must be Frank Irwin and he's so creepy! Keep your head down, Cheasty, maybe he won't see you! After a few moments of dead panic, I was relieved to see Deeply Creepy moving on out. Oh, sigh of relief. Frank, it turns out, is not deeply creepy. Rather, he is very nice, beardedly handsome, and charming, though his taste in poetry is decidedly low-brow. Here's a sample:

There was a young vampire named Mabel,
Whose periods were long and unstable.
On the night of the full moon
With a rusty old spoon,
She would drink herself under the table.

Or how about this?

There once was a woman named Alice
Who used a dynamite stick as a phallus;
They found her vagina
Up in North Carolina
And the rest of poor Alice in Dallas.

This is one of my favorites:

There once was a dentist named Stone
Who saw all his patients alone.
In a fit of depravity
He filled the wrong cavity,
And my! How his practice has grown!

I laughed my ass off when I sat down to read them just now, and these limericks, plus the fact that Frank Irwin bought me a chocolate cupcake, have cemented my deep and abiding love for Frank Irwin. Ah, that Frank Irwin. He sure does know how to win a girl's heart. :)

Scary Movies

2009-06-17T08:52:00.002-05:00

I'll just say it right out front: I am a complete and total clucking molting chicken when it comes to scary movies. So much so that I've rarely watched any all the way through. I saw The Sixth Sense and may or may not have almost peed myself and flipped the couch over when I tried to climb over the back because I got so scared. And The Sixth Sense wasn't even the scariest movie I've ever seen. No, that honor belongs to a movie called (da da daaaaa) The Watcher In the Woods.

When my sister Umulu and I were little kids (maybe 8 and 6, or 9 and 7 years old, something like that) we got invited to our next door neighbor's overnight slumber party birthday party. Oooh, thrills! It was an evening of high excitement - pizza! cake! ice cream! games! pop corn! MOVIES!! That night as we 15 little girls snuggled down in our sleeping bags, our friend's mom put on The Watcher in the Woods, and Umulu and I have borne the scars ever since. We completely wigged out. A watcher in the woods? Oh my God, WE HAVE WOOOOOOOODS!! Eventually our friend's mother called our mother to come and get us, cause we were evidently raising quite a ruckus in our panic, crying and shrieking.

For years, The Watcher in the Woods has been the high-water mark for both of us in sheer terror. In high school Umulu, in a bold show of bravado, managed to sit through a movie called The Children of the Corn, which I had heard on good authority was the scariest movie ever made. Afterward, she was telling me all about its horrors in somewhat gory detail, and I asked her. "Was it as scary as The Watcher in the Woods?" She paused and considered. "No, not even close," she assured me.

We also used Watcher as a litmus test for bad parenting. So-and-so has a horrible mom, we would hear. She beats her kids! Or what's-his-face leaves his kids home alone with piles of cocaine on the kitchen table. Yeah, we'd scoff. But answer me this: do they make their kids watch The Watcher in the Woods? Cause that's baaaaaaad.

Well guess what Umulu and I did this week. [Oh, God, I can't even say it. It's too, too horrible and scary for words!! Pull yourself together Cheasty - this attitude is completely unbecoming an adult. Oh, sniffle, hiccup, sob. Ok. I can do this.] We, um.... we, [gulp]... we rented... The Watcher in the Woods. Aaiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!

To be fair, we'd googled it previously. Turns out, it's a Disney movie. And only rated PG! Ha, we'd marveled. Who knew?! I bet it's not really that scary, huh huh. So I Neflixed it, and this Monday Ums brought over a pizza and we popped it in the DVD player and cued it up. "Should I press play?" I asked. "Um, well..." Umulu replied. "Yeah," I said, and started to laugh. "I'm completely terrified to watch this." "Me too!" cried Umulu, and we gave in to a good fit of nervous giggles. Finally we agreed that if it got scary, we'd just turn it off. No use scaring ourselves silly, right?

You want to know how long we lasted? Eight minutes and 14 seconds.

Meet Lucky

2009-06-15T15:50:00.005-05:00

Hey, blog, I'd like you meet a little dog named Lucky. Technically, I have to admit that Lucky isn't actually his name yet, but I'm pushing hard and I feel strongly that Captain Mommypants will eventually cave in - er, I meant to say agree. Yes, agree. So Lucky it is, until further notice. Why Lucky?

Mom has two dogs, you see, both standard poodles. Zoe and Obie. Obie (the black and white one) is a boy, Zoe (the black one) is a girl. And as you know, birds will be birds and bees will be bees. One thing lead to another and before we knew it, Zoe was having puppies. Oh, the excitement! We were all so thrilled, because Zoe is the nicest dog alive, so cuddly and loving. She's got a favorite toy - an egg-sized stuffed animal of a black-and-white dog - that she carries around in her mouth everywhere, always being so gentle with it, keeping an eye on it. And Obie is as sweet and handsome as ever a dog was sweet and handsome, gallant and strong and full of energy. I don't have any good pictures of either of them, but here's one I snapped recently. Coincidentally, I took this picture on the same day I looked at Zoe and said to my parents, "Hey, I think Zoe is pregnant!"

This past weekend she went into labor, and the family was all a'twitter. But Sunday morning I called home for a status update, and found out that Mom had just rushed Zoe into the vet hospital because the first puppy was stillborn, she wasn't pushing, and her amniotic fluid was coming out a disturbing blackish color. A surgeon did an emergency C-section, but they were only able to save one of the five puppies, the runt. He weighs 6 oz., and survived only because of the dedicated surgical staff who gave him oxygen, rubbed his little body, and gave him sugar-water to get him going. We've got him at home now. Captain Mommypants is feeding him from a bottle every hour or two, keeping him warm, and snuggling him up because Zoe is so exhausted and in so much pain that she sniffed Lucky when Mom held her out to him, licked him once in a half-hearted way, and turned her head away.

My heart breaks for Zoe, and for the four little puppies that didn't make it, but oh, thank the Lord this little guy made it. Good luck, Lucky. I'm rooting for you.

The Great Tornado Watch, 2009

2009-06-14T18:51:00.002-05:00

I have now surpassed any and all of my prior claims to absolute idiocy. Deleting all my research notes on my computer? Yup, that's dumb. Eating moldy food because I'm too cheap to turn on the lights and too lazy to check why the tabouleh tastes so weird? Yes, that's asinine. Running downstairs naked to fend off an intruder with a filing cabinet as my only weapon? Perhaps not my brightest plan. All in all, I think I have what any random observer would agree is a well-established track record of doing embarrassingly dumb things, so it is with a healthy dose of a mixed cocktail of emotions that I am about to tell you the following story.

Picture it: it's a Friday night, and because both my sister Umulu and I are unutterably gorgeous and extremely popular with boys, we're spending the evening making dinner and watching a documentary at Umulu's house. The previous evening, an enormous storm with two-inch hail and four tornados had passed through town, so among the many charming topics of conversation was a jolly recounting of many childhood traumas involving hurricanes and tornados in North Carolina. Also, we reminisced fondly about the storm last year that had all our friends apologizing for calling us pansies. Ah, that was fun, and isn't it nice that last night's storm didn't do anywhere near that level of damage? Oh, yes, chortle, chortle, let's watch the movie now.

So there we are, totally engaged in the movie, when all the sudden we hear some freaking loud thunder. Umulu pauses the movie. "What was that?" she asks. "Um, thunder?" I answer. But I answer with less than total confidence because while it certainly does sound like thunder, it's REALLY LOUD THUNDER, and what's more, it appears to quickly be drawing closer to our house. Louder and louder, closer and closer, and then Umulu's face goes pale. "Oh, shit, Cheasty, that's not thunder. That's a tornado."

And BOOM! Just like that, our old training kicked in. Out of the room with all the windows, grab some pillows and blankets as we run, slam shut all bedroom and bathroom doors, and the next thing I know we're kneeling in tornado-drill position, arms over our heads, facing the corner of the interior hallway to her house, holding hands and trying quietly not to panic as the sound gets even louder.

Then the sound gets marginally quieter. And then even quieter. And soon we can still hear it rumbling in the distance, but the danger seemed to have passed. "I'm going to go look outside and see what's happening out there," I whisper to Umulu, and, squeezing her hand, I crawl off through the darkened house for the front door. Which I open onto a perfectly normal street scene. A car drives by. A girl walks down the street with her dog. A band is practicing a screaming guitar solo a few houses down. True, the sky is weirdly leaden looking, but there's not so much as a leaf on the ground, nor is there the slightest hint of a breeze. Umulu creeps out behind me. "Umulu, there's not even any wind," I say, and we stare at the world outside the door in total mystification for a few moments longer. Then a lightbulb goes on over Umulu's head and she slaps her hand to her forehead.

"Oh, God, Cheasty," she laughs. "The Texas Biker Rally is this weekend."

Yes, folks, it's true. What we thought was a tornado was really just a whole hell of a lot of motorcycles making their way downtown. Sigh.

These Are The Things That Keep Me Awake At Night

2009-06-11T13:18:00.002-05:00

So here's my impression of me last night at 4:21am. "Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. (snore, sniffle, roll over) Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."

Now here's my impression of me last night at 4:22am. "Oh my god I just heard dishes clank downstairs. Oh, my god, is there somebody in my house? Oh my god, I did I forget to lock the door last night? Oh my god, why did I get a deaf dog, you stupid useless mutt WOULD YOU PLEASE WAKE UP AND GROWL IF THERE IS SOMEBODY ACTUALLY IN MY HOUSE." All of this was in my head of course, because even at 4:22am I am not stupid enough to make noise when I am awakened by the sound of a potential intruder knocking over one of my cups into the sink. I made an effort to calm myself down and evaluate the situation.

Option A: there is nobody in the house, it was just one of those gravity things that made the noise. Or maybe a mouse. I could have mice, I suppose. Yes, I'm sure it was just a mouse.

Option B: there is an intruder in the house, it is likely a strung-out crackhead, he is likely armed, will most probably rape me if he knows I'm here, after which I will be lucky if he doesn't shoot me in the face when he's done. I am upstairs, I have no clothes on, nor is there anything I can use as a weapon up here. No baseball bat, golf club. Not even a pocket knife or a flashlight. And my cell phone is downstairs, too. Great. It would be best to be silent, all things considered, and allow the junkie to steal what he wants to steal and get out.

So I laid there for a while. As I laid there I remembered the time I was camping out in Utah and had set my sleeping bag beneath a scrubby pine tree. In the middle of the night I woke up and saw coyotes in our campsite going through our food, and realized that there was some sort of large animal in the tree right above me. I laid there and debated my options for a while, then decided there was nothing I could do about it, so I rolled over and went back to sleep. The fact that I could do that amazes me when I think about it now, cause there was NO WAY I was going back to sleep last night, though the thought did cross my mind to try.

Then I heard a sound. A sound that sounded like the door opening. Or closing. I have no idea. I might even have just made it up in my head, but whatever it was, it shook me out of my frozen state. "Oh, that is just enough!" I roared in my head. "If I'm going down, I'm gonna go down fighting." I leapt out of bed and turned on the lights. I grabbed a blanket with the vague idea of throwing it over the asshole's head, and then picked up a nearby metal filing cabinet (empty) and ran down the stairs with it up over my head, ready to brain the shit out of whoever was downstairs.

Naturally, there was nobody, though checking behind the shower curtain was about the scariest thing I've ever done. Ugh. And I HAD left the door unlocked, moron that I am. Anyway, I'm going to buy some mace. And maybe a dog that isn't deaf, because little old Birdie slept through the whole thing except the part where I ran down the stairs naked, holding a filing cabinet over my head. Because of course there had to be a witness to that piece of excess idiocy.

You Can Call Me "Buckets."

2009-06-08T23:07:00.004-05:00

I went to see that new Disney/Pixar movie "Up!" last night, and if you haven't seen it yet, a) stop what you are doing and go watch it, and b) stop reading if you don't want to know anything about it before you go see it. It was wonderful. Surpassingly lovely, sweet and funny; it made me laugh, and it made me cry. In fact, for quite a while I couldn't stop crying, even though the movie was making an effort to make me laugh after the crying was supposed to be over. I cried buckets.

Hi, my name is Amazing Cheastypants and I cry at movies. While I don't exactly hide this information from people, neither do I go about broadcasting it (current moment excepted) because of exactly what happened last night.

There I am, totally wrapped in the moment when Carl loses Ellie, tears running down my face, throat aching, nose stuffing up, and thoroughly enjoying it. Not that I love crying, it's just that I love seeing a movie that so totally pulls me in that I can actually feel what the characters must be feeling. And then my date leans over and starts laughing and teasing me. "Hey, it's just a movie!" "What's wrong with you?" "Ha ha, I can't take you anywhere," and so on. I gamely laughed along with him, but here's what I think, world.

WHAT'S WRONG WITH CRYING AT MOVIES?! What's so funny and mockable about feelings?

I know that whole women's studies schtick about how we live in a patriarchal world, how men's skills are more valued than women's, etc. And, well, I guess it's true. I mean, why is crying at movies embarrassing? If we valued women's abilities more than men's, we'd all be sitting around bragging about how much we cried when we saw Beaches for the 45th time, not sheepishly admitting it. Our men would proclaim with pride that they choked up with tears of outrage when it looked like Brett Favre was about to sign with the Vikings. Well, I say enough. It's time to claim it. I am a crier. I emote, I empathize, I well up with tears. I cry at movies, and WHAT'S MORE, I love crying at movies. In fact, I challenge the world to a cry-off. Go ahead, let 'er rip, but I doubt you can defeat me. They don't call me "Buckets" for nothin'.

Oom-chica-oom-chica

2009-06-06T08:09:00.000-05:00

Wow. Further proof that everybody in the 1980s was snorting cocaine.

So really, I have two questions. One, why God? And two, where can I get a bathing suit like this?

Thoughts on Universal Health Care -UPDATE.

2009-06-04T16:00:00.009-05:00

Oh my ever-loving shitballs, enough is enough. Obama, at this point I almost don't care what you do, how you do it, or how many people you need to kill in order to get it done. Just give us some universal health care options before I go out of my freaking mind. This was my day today. And by "today," really I mean "the last three days."

One. In which Amazing Cheastypants, being once more employed by the University of Texas, realizes that she is once again eligible for real-live, honest-to-God health care benefits, including dental (oh joy!) and vision (oh, bliss!).

Two. In which Amazing Cheastypants realizes that nobody knows how this transition is supposed to take place. She calls the office called "Insurance Office" and asks. "Oh, I don't know how to get the insurance going," says a very nice woman who really was trying to be helpful. "But what I can do is refund your money for the [unbelievably shitty] student health care coverage you'd purchased to cover you through the summer." Sweet! At least one part of this job is easy. "So what do I do to make that happen," I ask. "Is there an on-line form?" Oh, heavenly peals of laughter! No, of course not. No. What I had to do was submit two written letters IN PERSON, one from me, and one from my department stating that I was an employee in good standing and therefore eligible for benefits. So I called around, found the appropriate person to get the letter from the department, wrote one myself, and trotted over this morning to get 'er done. Excellent! Now I just have to wait for mysterious bureaucratic wheels to crank, and at some point in the next 6 months I should get a refund, but nobody knows whether it'll be credited to my credit card or issued as a check. And if it's issued as a check, who knows whether it'll be mailed to my home, or my mailbox on campus? Only The Shadow knows...

Three. In which Amazing Cheastypants decided to commit hari kari in a very public fashion, as clearly the fates are conspiring against her. After flailing about uselessly on-line and on the phone, I still didn't know where to go to get my insurance kicked in again, so I resorted to calling my old insurance provider where finally somebody knew that I was supposed to go to HR. No, not the office called "Insurance Office," interestingly enough. HR. Whatever, fine. Why the two aren't just part of the same office, God only knows. And why the left hand knoweth not what the right hand does... well, that's one of the great mysteries of life, I suppose. I am but a speck in a mysterious universe, and so on. So I walk into HR with the printed out forms I had to fill out - because they couldn't just reactivate my old account WHICH THEY STILL HAVE ON FILE. No. I had to do all the paperwork again, and they're starting a NEW file for me, not to be confused with the OLD file on me. But whatever. At this point I'm feeling pretty good. I have penetrated the unpenetrable, discerned the undiscernable. I have the right forms, I am in the right office, I AM THE CHAMPION!!

Four. In which Amazing Cheastypants figures out that she is NOT the champion, and in fact, will never be a champion. "Oh, I'm sorry," says the lady at HR. "Your appointment isn't for four and a half months, therefore you are not eligible for health benefits." Oh, no no no no no. "Wait, I don't understand," I say. "I have a letter right here in my hand from my department saying that I am eligible. In the past when I have been a TA, I have been eligible. TAing is a benefits-eligible position. What am I missing?" "Well, it's the four and a half months thing, you see..." she begins to explain, at which point all I'm hearing is "wa wa wa wa wa wa," like Charlie Brown's teacher. I interrupt. "Please." I say. "I have a TAship now. I will have a TAship in the fall. I will have a TAship in the spring. When I have TAed in the past I've been covered throughout the summer even though I wasn't working at all. Now, why am I not eligible when I AM WORKING IN A BENEFITS-ELIGIBLE POSITION?" I waved the letter from my department around my head rather dramatically, just for good measure. She hemmed and hawed for a bit. "Well, maybe you could have your department code you for eligibility and then we could do it?" GREAT! I ask her for explicit instructions as to how to do that. "Oh, don't worry," she says, "they do stuff like that all the time. They'll know exactly how to do it."

Five. In which, naturally, my department does not know how to do what she wanted them to do. "Code you?" asks my department. "She wants us to code you? What does that mean?"

Six. In which, despite my absolute best efforts to make sure that I have the best insurance options available to me, the best insurance to which I AM ENTITLED as an employee of the University of Texas, I somehow at the end of the day find myself completely uninsured.

Gah.

UPDATE, June 6. Oh crap. June 6th is somebody's birthday and I can't for the life of me remember who. Oh, well, moving right along.

Seven. In which the University wins, and I have to buy back that student insurance. Red tape is not to be messed with.

In Which the Honeymoon Is Over

2009-06-01T16:46:00.005-05:00

Um, excuse me, please. Did any of you people out there know that dogs are ungodly expensive creatures to maintain? Well? Did you?

ANSWER MEEEEEEEEE!!!

Oh, dear, hold on, I think I need to put my head between my knees for a moment. I feel faint. (pant, pant, pant.) ONE HUNDRED FORTY FIVE DOLLARS AND NINTEY THREE FREAKIN' CENTS. Oh, my god.

ONEHUNDREDFORTYFIVEDOLLARSANDNINTEYTHREECENTS!!!! Seventeen dollars EACH for some stupid SHAMPOO and, if you can believe it, CREAM RINSE that is supposed to help with the incessant itchies, because not only is my unbearably cute little rescue mutt old, deaf, and toothless, apparently she also has a raging case of allergies. CREAM RINSE?! Seriously?

I just spent more on my new dog's ITCHY SKIN and AVERSION TO NORMAL DOG FOOD than I have on myself in... oh wait. Well, nevermind. There was that recent shopping trip and the very very excessively cute dresses, but still. I'M NOT A DOG.

I was literally on the verge of calling the whole thing quits as we walked to the check out. Fine, you know? Let her scratch. But then she looked at me like, "Sigh. I love you, Mom. Hold me?" and I was toast. I paid, we got in the car, she crawled up in my lap, and promptly fell fast asleep, exhausted by the vet-induced trauma. How can you say no to trust like that? I guess if it gets too expensive I can just stop... um... eating? Yeah, that's it! I'll quit eating. I've been wanting to lose five pounds anyway. Ooh, and then I can get a new dress as my reward! Oh, I like this plan already.

Meet My New Dog

2009-05-31T10:54:00.004-05:00

About a month ago I wrote a blog post about my new dog, who at that point was nameless. I contracted with a rescue organization to adopt her when i returned from my east coast travel extravaganza, and last Tuesday her foster dad dropped her off at my Elf Palace. Ladies and gentlemen, I solicited your help in selecting a name for this 8 pound WonderMutt, and your commentary was both enlightening and hilarious. Strong favorites were Pocket and Ethel Merman. In fact, I had decided to name her Ethel Merman before I got her, but once I met her and got to know her a little better, well. Blog, I'd like you to meet my new dog, seated here on my sister Crasey's lap. Her name is Birdie.

She's named for a character in a novel called Raney, by Clyde Edgerton. If you have not read this absolutely delightful little book, I suggest you do so immediately, especially if you've ever spent more than five minutes in the South. Kate, I think you in particular might enjoy it. Crasey and I read this book aloud to each other every few years, just to make each other laugh. If you click the link, it'll take you to a google books site where you can read the first bit of the book to see if you like it. Anyway, when you get to the part where the old man calls his wife (whose name is Birdie), you'll understand why I named my stone deaf little pooch Birdie.

Anyway, she's awesome and I am so glad she's mine, even if I do have to cook her special meals of chicken and rice just to get her to eat. She hates her dog food. Oh my god, did I really just type that? When did I become somebody that would cook special food for their dog? Next thing you know I'll be giving up pedicures to send her off to a doggie day spa. Somebody stop me!

Wedding Madness

2009-05-28T09:38:00.018-05:00

OK, I'm back. Wheeeeeeeeeee!!!! Let the games begin. This past weekend was a madhouse of wedding planning, wedding, reunions between long-separated friends, excellent parties, drunken revelries, awful hangovers, fun shopping, and lots of chocolate cake. I could start just about anywhere and still tell stories until I'm blue in the face, so I think tonight I won't start, as I'd like to get some sleep sometime. Instead, I'll just give you a quick summary, show you a few of the pictures I took this weekend and hope they make you smile.

Rosie, my sister Umulu's best friend and an old family friend of the AmazingPants clan, got married on Saturday to a luuuurvely guy, JB. The crowd was small - just the bride's family, the groom's family, our family, and a few friends, but it was wonderful. Captain Mommypants, being a minister and all, performed the ceremony in Umulu's backyard. Yes, she really is that short. And she's still taller than me, dammit. Umulu was the maid of honor, Crasey was the wedding plannner, I was the photographer, and the wedding party was an absolute blast.

Crasey did a magnificent job setting up a lovely reception area on a miniscule budget:

Here's the three AmazingPants sisters. I'd like to point out that even in two and a half inch heels, I'm still shorter than both my sisters, one of whom is in flats. Damn my shrimpy legs!

So it was lovely. People hugged and smiled and wept and danced, and told lovely stories of times gone by. Friends reunited with people we hadn't seen in 15-odd years and marveled at how we'd all grown and changed. The DJ did a fine job, the wine and beer were plentiful, and as the evening wore to a close we all sat around laughing our asses off at nothing anybody could remember the next day. But the greatest thing of all? How many of you remember Fancy Nancy, aka the Cupcake Princess Monster? If you don't remember her, click the link on her name to be introduced to the most excellent little girl in the known universe.

And how many of you remember my little brother Bug? If for some reason you're unaware of how totally cool my little dude is, click the link and prepare to be thoroughly charmed. Also, look at that shirt he's wearing - the guayabera I brought him from Nicaragua! Oooh, he looks so yummy!

Well believe it or not, Fancy Nancy and Bug had never met before this weekend, and there was much speculation about how they would get along. Would they be jealous of each other and compete for attention, would they ignore each other's existence? No. No, they did not. You know what they did? They fell in love. They fell in love and danced all night long.

I know I'm verging on being one of those people who is unreasonably convinced that their child is the smartest, cutest, most adorable blah blah blah, and these aren't even my children, but OH MY GOD THEY WERE SO CUTE. I love this next picture: look at Umulu, Crasey, and Rosie's faces as they cheer on Bug and Fancy Nancy to disco greatness.

Ah, love. Ain't it grand?

Please Excuse My Absence

2009-05-20T17:16:00.003-05:00

Hey blog, sorry about the disappearing act. I'm still trying to bust my laptop out of the hospital and am borrowing a friend's now that I'm back in Texas and don't have access to my dad's, my aunt's, or my cousin's computers. Sad to tell you, but I think I won't be posting for a little while, unless just quick little blurbies here or there. The AmazingPants Clan is congregating in Austin. Some are here, some are on their way. There will be a wedding, there will be barbecue, there will be swimming and playing, and singing old Irish folk ballads. I will be back online after Tuesday, when most of them go home. Hasta miercoles, and have fun interneting without me!

Va-va-va-BOOB!

2009-05-17T20:00:00.000-05:00

Today, I am sadly disillusioned. Also, vastly amused. A friend of mine is in Iraq right now (non-military) and in my email today I received a photo he took in the grocery store over there. Please click to embiggen, and observe the products he's so attractively modeling.

I always thought that if you had to wear a burka, at least the advantage might be not needing to worry whether your boobs were sufficient unto the task set before them. Apparently I was wrong. Also, I had no idea about garlic's augmentative capacity in the mammary region. This is brilliant news! I shall increase my intake of garlic immediately, and hopefully by Christmas I too shall have breasts the size of soup tureens. Huzzah for garlic!

Thank God I'm A Country Boy. Er, Girl. I Meant to Say Girl.

2009-05-14T18:29:00.007-05:00

You want to know what one of my favorite songs was when I was a little girl? Those who know me are likely to guess Cher, or an old show tune, but no! My precious posies, let me introduce you to the joys of "Thank God I'm a Country Boy," by John Denver. I am still awful fond of this ditty, but as a child I loved it deeply. Luuuuuurrrrved it, even. We lived in the suburbs, of course, nowhere near the country, but I dreamed of riding horses and having a garden and chickens and being all farmy. My favorite imagination game when my mom put us to bed too early (a hilarious story for another time) was "You are disappearing into the wilderness for a year and you can take only what you can fit in a [backpack/wheelbarrow/ox cart]." Yes I said ox cart. I'd lie there under the covers and play that game over and over in my head. Now would be the appropriate time to laugh.

Well today's post is just a small nod to those childhood dreams. I finally got my parents to plant a garden, so I spent most of the day today weeding the damn thing. I turned the compost heap, looked at the barn for a while, sat in the meadow and chewed a piece of grass. Then I took the dogs on a long tramp through the woods, over to the pond and the river, up through the forest. And oh my good lord, somehow in my dreams of bucolic nirvana, I just never realized about the snakes. I found FIVE SNAKES in the woods - four black snakes, which are fine. But the sixth one? It was a 3 foot long copperhead (highly poisonous) coiled up and poised to strike in the middle of the path. The dogs, which are largely senseless creatures, wanted to play with it, of course, except the little old guy Theo (Crasey's little prince of her heart, whom she left in the care of our parents when she took of for travels in Southeast Asia). Theo is 13 years old and nearly blind. On top of it all, he's...

Well, look at that face. He rules the AmazingPants family with a jaunty wave of his tail, and Crasey pretty much things the sun rises and sets out of his ass, so we all live in terror that something might happen to him while Crasey's gone. Zoe and Obie, the big dogs, wanted to play with the copperhead (AARRGHGHHHH, WHY SO DUMB!!!) so I called them back to me, brandishing a hoe in one hand. But Theo is not one to sit idly by while some other dog might be getting an ounce of attention. HE IS THE KING IN THESE PARTS, DAMMIT! So when I called the other dogs, Theo, who was trotting about, blithely oblivious to the fanged death awaiting him only 3 feet away, decided he wanted to come and check it out in case treats were to be distributed. Streaking across the forest floor, he just leaped over the copperhead as if it were any other branch on the ground, and my heart stopped. I watched him expose his soft little underbelly to the poisoned fangs of a killer snake, and began rehearsing a conversation in my head that started something like this: "So, Crasey... remember Theo?" Oh, shudders. Luckily, the snake didn't know where to bite first, and Theo got safely to my side. I snatched him up in my arms and hustled us all out of the woods.

John Denver, why didn't you tell me what it was really like? Why sing to me of cakes on the griddle and your find old fiddle or your grandma's feather bed? What good is a utopian dream if I find out that really, there are killer snakes.

Hitch Up the Covered Wagons

2009-05-13T07:03:00.002-05:00

I'm heading back to North Carolina today after an excellent trip to New York City. It's a long trip in the car, but never fear - I have a book on tape. Well, CD, really, but who's counting. It's Lolita, by Nabokov, a selection that made sense at the time but now makes me wish I had an option B. Well I suppose I could always listen to the soundtrack from Oklahoma! four or five times on repeat, which is how I kept myself entertained on the drive up here, but frankly I think it might be criminal to continue inflicting my version of "I'm Just A Girl Who Cain't Say No" on an unsuspecting populace.

So here's the bad news. My little brother Bug has scarlet fever. Scarlet fever? I thought that'd died out back in the 1800s. He should be fine, but I'll be glad to get home to give him a hug anyway. Poor little guy had a fever of 103 degrees and probably felt like, as my sister would say, "inside-out-flaming-asshole."

So wish me safe travels, and for Bug a speedy recovery. Talk to you all soon!