In Memorial

As most of you know, my dog-child of eight years, Sierra, passed away on Tuesday, November 11, 2008. I am not going to say too much, because if you didn't know Sierra, you just won't understand, and if you did, then words aren't needed. I will say that she was her typical happy-go lucky self that afternoon when I left to go to work. She was fine when Mark came home. She mucked about on the porch as she does most of the time until she laid down in her kennel and fell asleep for the final time. We suspect that she had a heart attack, as her heart was weakened from an earlier bout with heartworms. She likely died around 9 pm; she was still warm when I found her at 11:30. I went outside to give her the anti-inflammatory pill she's been on for almost a year now. When she didn't get up when I called, I walked over to her kennel to wake her up, discovering her curled up with one paw over her eye as if she was dreaming. She wasn't. My brother Andy and my mother came over, and Mark and Andy buried her despite the rain and the lateness of the hour. I have ordered a Husky statue to commemorate her final resting place, under an oak tree by the corner of the property. There is no reason for me to go into detail about my feelings on the event - I think most of you know how I feel. I will never forget my beautiful Sierra Linda.

The end of the world as we know it

The election last night, resulting in the victory of Senator Barack Obama, has sparked a lot of protest from a lot of people, including many of my closest friends and family. Statements ranging from the expected to the outlandish have been made, going even so far as to declare it the end of American ideology. I titled my post as such not because I believe that Obama's election marks the end of the world (as no doubt, many of you were hoping I would say) but because I think your ridiculous and unreasoned partisanship will be. If you want to see the death of American ideology, continue to be fractured. Continue your in-fighting and your out-fighting. Continue to mock, hate, and protest against people of the other faction. Continue your ignorant crusades and cross-burnings. (Please note: this is NOT just directed at McCCain supporters, but also at those who would be saying the same things if McCain rather than Obama had won.) If you think America is doomed, you may just be right. But instead of fostering partisan sentiments, we need to come together and support each other. Folks, it happened. Obama is our next president. Whether right or wrong, good or bad, it's fact. get over it and let's band together to help our neighbors and our fellow man to fight our way out of this slump. I'm ony going to briefly go on my rant about how most of you who protest the most violently against Obama don't even have the first clue what he believes in (which is not socialism, I hate to say. Socialism is far more extreme than what Obama has so far advocated.) I will concede that many of you do know what he advocates, and some of you will be negatively affected by it. You have a right to be angry. But many of you do not. Even still, we have to work together. I'm not saying conform. I'm saying that you need to stop whining. Instead of burning crosses (either real or metaphorical) form a coherent and well-informed (that being the key) statement of your grievances and find a way to have them addressed. That's what democracy is about. The people in power will not respect or listen to you if you speak in the language of hate, but if you learn to speak in the language of concern they just might. That's my two cents. (And no, I never said if I supported Obama or McCain. I won't say. It doesn't matter. What matters is that Obama is our next president.)

Insert Cuteness Squeal of Death

So it seems like everyone these days is having babies. Well. Not everyone. But a lot of people. Aaaaand they're having adorable little monsters. Not your garden variety kid. And if not everyone is having kids, it seems that everywhere I look I see cute kids, boy and girl, that get my mommy emotions going. The other day I saw the most ADORABLE little boy. He was about 2, and he was already flirting with the girls. It was way cute. A few days later, Mark saw a little blonde girl that made him think seriously about wanting a girl (which, if you don't know Mark, is amazing in its own right. He'd rather not have kids period, but he's dead set on having a boy if we do walk that path.) So, all that to say, I WANT A KID! Well. Not now. Not soon. But someday. When all of this graduate bullshit is behind me and I have entered into my chosen career. At this point I'm resigned to accept my likely fate as a mother of boys, because Mark's family is dominated by males. His father had eight brothers and no sisters, and all have had at least one boy, if not more. But if God would smile on me and grant me a green-eyed, black-haired little princess, I think I would be the happiest person on the planet. Well, I suppose that concern is years away at this point. We'll see.

Home

A few weeks ago at the ETHA meeting, the president of the association gave a speech in which she talked about "home" and what it was to her. She asked us all to think about what home is to us, and if we wanted, to share it with her via email. I don't know if I'm going to do that, but I figured I would at least clue you guys in on what went through my mind.

As most of you know, I just bought a new house. So the question of where "home" is has been fresh on my mind for a while. Moving is always difficult, because it takes a while to get adjusted to a new place. But it's also doubly weird for me being a first-time homeowner. Sometimes I feel as if the real owners are going to come home and tell us that it's time to go home. But when I closed my eyes and envisioned what I call home, I instinctively saw my house. But what I saw was not the front porch, where I spend most of my time, or the living room with our furniture. It was instead the dining room. Why the dining room? That's a good question. But you see, I recently got my grandmother's dining room furniture and put it in the room. We have her table and chairs and an antique china cabinet, complete with her china. We also have a painting she received upon her retirement from Bealls. So when I thought of home, I saw, more than the room itself, her furniture, and me and my family sitting around her table laughing and talking as we have done so many times at her house. Tears came to my eyes as I thought about my loving grandmother Elizabeth. But that is home. That is where I will always feel the most comfortable. It reminds me of all the good times we had. It is also a testament to the good times we will continue to have.

Backside of a bullet (You're gone)

Dedicated to Richard Andrew Church and Elizabeth Anne Rudd Church

Staring into my glass I see
not my reflection but
you. Your eyes staring
back at me, your hair
like blond waterfalls.
You were so beautiful.
And he took you away.

I was not even a day old
My mother, your sister,
She nearly died.
Lying in your grandmother's arms
He took you away from me.

In your mother's arms
now, she who never knew
you. Beautiful child of strife,
you left us on the backside
of a drunken bullet.

You're gone.

I don't hate God Mikefrey

So I was sitting at the bar last night, as I have done pretty much every day since, oh Thursday, and in between variants of vodka drinks, I pounded my open hand down on the small, round table and declared with determined force that I was going to write a blog entry entitled "I don't hate God Mikefrey." So for all of those in on the joke, here it is. I think that's all of 2 people. Maybe 3. But in any case.

A few housekeeping issues: Vietnam Movie Night. Saturday. Come. I'm renting Platoon, Full Metal Jacket, Apocalypse Now, and Good Morning Vietnam and we'll be hosting a movie marathon at the old homestead of Mark and Angela. Well, the new homestead. You get it. It's BYOB. Come out and have fun.

Now that that's out of the way I shall begin to expound on the last few weeks I've missed. It's mostly all the same, except that last weekend I was forced by the powers that be to work at the ETHA meeting. I spent three days working from about 8 in the morning until. I think I got done about 9:30 both nights. There was drama, stress, heels and pain, some flirting, and lots of coffee and alcohol. I got to bartend for the first time on the same day I delivered my first conference paper. I also witnessed an engagement. That's right folks. An engagement. My friend Melanie is now engaged to the wonderful (if not slightly nerdy) Joseph Pellerin. She said yes before he could even get the question out. I approve, and am very happy for the two of them.

So there's a brief account of the rather detailed experience of the ETHA fall meeting. If you've never been, you should consider coming at least once. I promise there will never be anything quite like it. The important thing about the meeting is that it gave me a chance to reevaluate my life. I finally feel like I have found where I fit in. I felt like at the meeting that this was something that I needed to be a more permanent part of, and I intend to come to the meetings from now on. I hope to be more involved in it. It also gave me a wake up call that I've been really just coasting through and I really need to get my butt in gear. So starting this week I'm going to do that. I'm going to get caught up and try to push myself to get my stuff done. I have several projects that have been on the back burner that need to be on the cooling rack, finished cooking and ready to present. So, my epiphany for the semester happened early. Here goes nothing.

Wake

The wind on my face, sun on my back. I close my eyes and fight to hide a grin, barely unable to hide the satisfaction. The water splashing on my hand as I lean over the side is an almost forgotten sensation. It is cold, but frighteningly comforting. The sound of the engine roaring behind me resonates deep in my chest. The jerk of the rope as Andy cuts across the boat wake feels dangerously familiar. I missed it terribly. In all of my daily routines, papers, books, and meetings, I forgot where it was that I had hidden my soul. But I found it now, and I will never lose it again.

This is the story of the hurricane

So it's been a few weeks. I would like to assure you all that we're all okay down here. Hurricane Ike came through last Saturday with a vengeance, bent on being at least as destructive as Rita. I think, at least in places, it succeeded. Our house weathered the storm quite well. Despite being nearly 100 years old and on pier and beam, it didn't budge even against the worst that Ike had to offer. Only the clattering of an occasional window screen gave a hint that anything was amiss. Until one looked out the window, of course. By 9 am we had lost power. By 11 am, Ike claimed its first victim, our red bud tree. The cats, nervous because of the pressure changes and antsy because they wanted to be outside, were the only active beings on the property. Sierra, under the influence of benadryl and a homeopathic anti-anxiety, sat comfortably in the garage workshop. Mark and I slept through most of the storm. We ventured outside a couple of times to take pictures and video of the happenings, but none of them turned out well at all.

After the storm, we packed up our freezer and the dog and braved the roads to get to Dad's. He, of course, had a generator. We stayed the night there and the next day, helping clean up a vast amount of debris. We finally ventured back home Sunday night and stayed there with no power until last night. The lights finally came back on around 5:00 pm yesterday. So here we are, almost a week later, with no redbud tree and a yard full of leaves and oak limbs that we're saving for firewood.

I don't hate Bob Geldoff either.

So my title has nothing to do with my actual post other than the fact that I don't, in fact, hate Bob Geldoff.  *It's an inside joke, deal with it.*  What I do hate, however, is this god-forsaken Mac that I'm working on.  It's a travesty of cosmic proportions.  Really.

Now that that's out of the way.  Um.  Hi.  My name is Angela, and I am an internet addict.  I discovered this recently, after being deprived for over two weeks.  I did get my DSL line hooked up to the box at the house, but no one bothered to inform me as to whether or not I needed a modem or anything of the sort.  So I assumed it would all be taken care of.  Apparently I was wrong.  The guy shows up this morning, and I greet him in my night clothes (which luckily did include shorts this time).  He runs the phone and DSL line to the box on the outside of the house.  He informs me that he's done, and that apparently someone else is going to have to run the wire to the jacks on the inside.  No mention of a modem.  Clearly, he has no idea.  So I call Mark.  Which reminds me, I need to search for a number for him.  Hold on a sec.  Ok that's done.  So hopefully, Mark will call them and find out everything he's supposed to know.

Well.  That was annoying.  It is also annoying to have to trap your own cat at midnight on a Monday.  So here's the details on that mess.  My semi-feral kitten, Irina, who lives in the hosue exclusively, decided that it would be fun to climb out the window.  I, like the genius I am, left the windows open and left one afternoon, not bothering to secure the unsecured screens.  Irina pushed one out and out she went.  Upon getting outside, she discovered that she didn't really like being outside after all and flipped.  She hid under the house in a corner by the chimney until last night, when she ventured out to see her Roman and then ran angrily back to her spot after she discovered that Roman's appearance was all a scam by us to get her out.  I tried food.  I tried tuna.  I tried those Greenies cat treats.  Nothing.  So I finally set the live trap with some tuna in it and left it.  About midnight, Mark heard the trap set, and went to see if she'd managed to get in.  She had.  So I now have a semi-feral, scared to death British Blue in a trap, sitting in her tuna, mewing so loudly that I'm sure every one of our neighbors thought we were sacrificing her to the Great Pumpkin a month and a half early.  My carpet still smells like tuna, and so does, apparently, her ass.  I coaxed her out and held her close to me so she would calm down while Mark fixed a pink SafeCat collar with a perdy little silver heart name tag on it around her neck, so that if this ever happens again she has some ID.  She has been eyeing me angrily ever since.  Moral of the story.  Don't trap your own cat.

All in the timing

It seems like just about the time I get my life back in a neat order the universe conspires against me. It can't just order itself in such a way that at the very least I am having one life-changing event at a time transpiring. But no. Why on earth would that happen? It's not necessarily bad this time. In fact most of it is good. But even the good stuff can only be handled one day at a time. I got the word today that we'll be closing at the latest Friday. We're hoping to get it done tomorrow, but we may not have the insurance taken care of. On top of that, my grandfather is dying. That's the bad. It's just a repeat of last year. Almost to the day. I don't know what I'm going to do if I lose another grandparent in my birth month. I suppose I'll handle it just like I did this time last year. We'll see. Also, Steph will be moving down here in a week. While I have some qualms about that (for both Andy's sake and hers) I am excited to have another woman to hang out with. I hope things work out for all parties, but I can't help but be nervous about it (even though Clint thinks I'm an evil, evil person for having adverse thoughts, but that's another story). To top it off, I'm getting even closer to graduation and a real job. It's all moving so fast. I don't know what to think. I want to cling to the walls of the ivory tower of academia, but I can't stay here forever. I don't belong here. I belong out there. It just scares me to think that.

Random tidbit for the day: All In The Timing is the name of one of my favorite collection of short plays. It's amazing. Check it out.

Dealing

You would think with my family history that I would come to expect certain things. For instance, it would be reasonable for me to expect to develop RA, diabetes, heart disease, RLS, and several other odd conditions. But I'm still having trouble coming to terms with the one condition I've managed to inherit - pulmonary supraventricular tachycardia. That's a big fancy word for an electrical disturbance that originates in the ventricular cavity and causes the heart to beat twice in exceedingly rapid succession and then feel as if it is skipping a beat. It's non-lethal in and of itself, but it causes excess blood to build up in the heart which can cause clots. It will also at some point in my life develop into A-fib (atrial fibrillation) which is potentially lethal. I started having severe tachycardia spells about three years ago and have been on beta blockers ever since. Normally the meds keep it under control, but every once in a while it strikes, leaving me unable to function for several days at a time. When it happens just once or on occasion, it's no big deal. But usually when a spell hits me, it will continue unchecked for four to six hours, draining my energy and making me feel as if an alien life form sucked all of my energy out through a suction cup placed on my head.

So why am I posting this ridiculously long explanation of a condition that you don't really care about? I'm curious. How do we deal with conditions that will affect us the rest of our lives? How do we go to bed at night knowing that some day this thing will kill us (if a bus doesn't first?) I haven't gotten to the point of dealing. I'm still angry. I'm still confused. I'm still incredibly disappointed that I will probably never be able to skydive, base jump, or any of those cool things I wanted to do as a kid because people with heart conditions aren't allowed. I know people with conditions that could kill them tomorrow, and they are happier than I was before I developed this stupid thing. Why can't I be there? I want to be there. I want to not care that I feel like crap right now, and that I won't be able to swim for a good week because I simply don't have the energy.

The House

So I've been telling you all about the house via facebook updates, etc but I haven't actually posted anything about it. About a month ago, I was casually looking through a couple of online real estate postings when I came across this cute little farm house in Lufkin. We decided to drive around town and look at a few properties, and we discovered that this property was off a small country road just on the Angelina side of the river. The location is ideal, since Mark works in Lufkin and I work and go to school in Nac. So we set up a time to view the house. And we fell in love with it. It's an old farmhouse, built in 1920 (at least part of the house - I think it was added on to probably in the 50s or 60s), has 2 bedrooms and 1 bath, and is 1400 sq. ft. The living room has a fireplace, and the living room and master bedroom have 12-foot ceilings. The kitchen is dated, but we can work with it. The dining room is perfect for my grandmother's furniture. The second bedroom is...well, tiny. It's going to be a computer room. The bathroom leaves a little to be desired, but it's nothing I can't live with for a while. Oh, did I mention the acre of land it comes with? And the 4 and a half million trees? Our entire yard is shaded, which is very nice (though it will be a pain in the fall). It also has a very cute front porch that extends across the entire front.

So there you have it. I'll post pics as soon as I can get them.

River Rats

Two weekends ago Mark and I went with my Dad, stepmom, Uncle Stephen and several of his friends to New Braunfels to float the Guadalupe. We left on Friday morning after rigorous negotiations with the realtor over our new house (more info later) and arrived at our hotel slightly after 3 pm. The original plan was to go to Schlitterbahn, but that didn't pan out as most of our party was running late.

So we later decided to hang out and chill on the patio. The hotel we stayed at overlooks the Comal River, which is apparently a shorter ride than the Guadalupe. It was nice to sit and watch the river go by, though. I never cease to be amazed at how unbelievably clear the water in Central Texas is. I miss it.

Later that night, after everyone had gotten there and settled into their hotel rooms, we went to Gruene to eat at the Gristmill and visit Gruene Hall, which is reported to be the oldest dance hall in Texas. The wait at the Gristmill was an hour, but we passed the time by drinking margaritas as listening to some guy play guitar in an outdoor waiting area while hostesses milled about, frantically writing names on a chalkboard and shuttling people in and out of the waiting area.

Dinner was, as expected, interesting. Of course with Dad and Stephen, one cannot expect it to be boring. Stephen even introduced my dad to his friend Josh as Henry, also known as "bitch". You can infer from the comment how the rest of the night went. Mark had a 'wurst burger and I had a grist burger, which is their basic hamburger smothered in queso. Both were exceptionally good.

After dinner we shuffled over to Gruene Hall, which is in the same outdoor complex as the restaurant, where Zona Jones and the Bastard Sons of Johnny Cash were playing. Now, I'm not much of a country music fan, but I did appreciate most of the music and even danced a few times with my dad. I couldn't, however, get Mark to dance. The atmosphere was nice despite the heat (it wasn't air conditioned but boasted several large fans). We stayed there for several hours and drove back to our hotel, whereupon Stephen, Dad, and several others went swimming in the river at about 1 am. I crashed.

And now for the river. We got out on the river sometime between 10 and 11 am. The day started out with confusion caused by someone getting one too many extra tubes for coolers. Somehow, we ended up with four extras despite having only three coolers. It ended up for the best, however, as one of our party members lost their tube on the second set of rapids.

And so we set out on our six hour adventure trip down the river. The river was pretty low, only flowing at 200 cubic feet per minute (anything below 100 results in river closure) so the trip ended up taking longer despite our best efforts to paddle a good part of the way. In some places, we were even pushed backward by vengeful wind gusts coupled with nearly stagnant water. The pileups that resulted were horrendous. It was a good thing I was in a good mood, or I would have been quite agitated at being so close to so many strange people. The trip was mostly nice and calm with few mishaps.

There is one particularly unfortunate incident that occurred as the result of inebriation. Toward the end of the river Mark went down a group of rapids rather drunk and ended up rolling down the rocks and coming out at the other end sans (400 dollar) sunglasses. He was quite upset. I was just glad he was okay. I tried somewhat desperately to pull him along with me so that he wouldn't drown, but succeeded only in tumbling into the river myself. I now have a large and painful bruise on my ass from literally bouncing down the river.

In any case, we finished the excursion with only a few minor scrapes and bruises and no one drowning. I am still blistered from the sunburn. Go me for being stupid and wearing a two-piece despite the fact that I am too fat.

In the belly of Sheol...(warning: religious content)

So I went to church yesterday for the first time in...well I can't honestly remember. Mark decided last week that he should use his expertise to help the church with their audiovisual ministry, so he went to the early service to help and then the two of us went to the late service. One of Mark's chief complaints about running sound or recording the service has always been that he can't worship the way he knows he needs to. He's too concerned with the way it sounds to listen to what's going on. My response to that complaint is that he's always concerned with how it sounds no matter if he's behind the mixer or not. But that's not what I really wanted to talk about. I wanted to make a comment about why I haven't been in church and hope that someone out there can at least sympathize with me, if they can't help me overcome it.

Ever since I graduated from ETBU, I've had this conviction that true Christians should live a life that reflects Christ in us. Now, I know what you are going to say. You are going to say that that's old news and that in any case I'm not living that life, so I don't have room to talk. Here's the difference though. I truly believe that living a life reflective of Christ does not mean living a moral life. If that's all there was to it, then we might as well hang it up because in terms of morality mainstream Islam has us beat hands down. I do believe morality is a part of it. But I believe most people stop there. They think that as long as they don't commit any aggregious sins that they are ok. But I believe the measure of a Christian is the condition of his heart, not the condition of his life. If we follow the letter of the law but do not help a brother or sister in need, then what are we? We are hypocrites. It seems to me that the majority of Christians are so concerned with living in their little bubble of morality, away from the dirt and grime of the world that they fail to see the people that are really hurting outside. I have found that the best ministry is a cup of chicken noodle soup and a couch to sleep on when the rest of the world has turned its back on a friend. My husband tells me all the time that I stop to help people that he doesn't even notice anymore. It seems like Mark isn't the only one that doesn't see them anymore. If we all took time out to look around and see that those people we call "sinners" are not that different from us, that they have real needs and real pain, the world wouldn't be so hardened against us.

The title of this post came from Bobby's sermon yesterday. He preached on Jonah and how God gives us second chances. The reason I titled this post the way I did is that it took me many months in the belly of Sheol to come to this realization. I didn't feel like I was getting any fulfillment from warming the pews every Sunday morning. And even though right now I probably am not living the way you think I should be, I'm more fulfilled dining with the tax collectors than I ever was sitting in the temple with the Pharisees.

Calling all google nerds

Anyone out there as much of a google nerd as I am? The reason I ask is, well, I have this google shared page and no google friends to share it with. So, yeah. If you're out there hiding, it's ok. There are others like you. Or, maybe I'm the only weird one.

Childhood Memories

Like most of you, I found myself Friday evening sitting on an uncomfortable piece of ground waiting patiently for the annual Fourth of July fireworks display. Mark, unfortunately, had to work, so Mom drug me around forcibly throughout most of the day despite her insistence that, even though I said it wasn't, that my leg was hurting and I shouldn't be walking. Moms are great like that. So Friday evening we drove downtown and parked, in spite of our suspicions that there would be no parking, behind the bank and walked down to the park on South Fredonia. I knew I was in for an interesting evening when my aunt upon being asked where they were located, not only could not name the street they were on but also specified that both of her grandkids were crawling around in the creek. I suppose it's a natural thing for kids to want to explore, but I found it humorous that these two children, born and raised in the city, felt it so necessary to play in a creek that one of them threw a fit when told to come up and watch the fireworks. I digress. The point of being there was to watch the fireworks, not wrangle children.

As the evening grew darker and the show finally got underway, I found myself in a sort of trance. It later became somewhat humorous to me that a 26-year old sat entranced by the flashing, booming balls of light that exploded into the night, heralding the day we declared ourselves independent. I felt almost like a child, watching wide-eyed and listening amusedly to Caleb's cooing and shrieking as each explosion filled the sky with sound and color. It was a much-needed trip back in time to when the fireworks were quite literally the most important event of the entire week. I remember not so long ago when I became excited knowing that the 4th was around the corner. I remember waiting the long, seemingly endless hours for the day to wind into night so that I could watch the display. Now the fireworks are almost an afterthought, an inconvenient end to a long day spent cooking, eating, cleaning, and worst of all, putting up with relatives. But despite its inconvenience, the fireworks still fascinate the child inside that is hidden by the dutiful adult.

Desperation

Ok, this has gone on for over a month now. I can't walk more than about 100 feet before excruciating, searing pain starts in my hip and descends all the way to my foot. It's like someone is taking a hot poker and shoving it right down the center of my leg. I've been to the chiropractor, I've been to the doctor. I'm on muscle relaxers and anti-inflammatory meds. I am depressed because of the pain. I want to sleep because of the depression and the pain, and the meds don't help me stay awake. My husband is consistently mad at me for wanting to sleep so much. I can't even go to the grocery store by myself because I can't lift anything. So forget about cleaning. Washing clothes? Yeah right. When I wasn't injured I had trouble making it up that hill to the washroom. My house is a wreck. I just want this pain to stop. Meh.

What is it that I DO?

I suppose everyone has to evaluate their choice in profession at some point in their lives. I suppose historians do this more often than others do. So I've been asking myself lately, what is it that I DO? I mean, I know what I do when I come to work. I sit down at a computer, open a word document, stare at it blankly until inspiration hits me, and then in a burst of activity create from nothing a wonderful exhibit that will at some point be arranged neatly downstairs. But why? Why do I do this, aside from the obvious, Jennifer told me to? Well, I interpret. What do I interpret? The past? Who am I to tell people what their past was like? Everyone has their own unique past, even in a collective sense. Everyone experiences the same events differently. So why would a person choose to take time out of their day to subject themselves to my interpretation of their past? This is a question I think as public historians we have to keep near and dear to our hearts, because we are, essentially, doing just that. I think we have to make sure that we keep the avenue for self-interpretation open, and force as little of ourselves into our work as possible. Difficult? Very. But imperative? Absolutely. People will not want to come to our facilities if we do not engage them in their interpretations and allow them to absorb our work on a unique and personal level. Every person should get something different out of our work. They should be able to relate their own pasts or their perceptions of their past to what we tell them and show them. Now, I just have to set about the task of figuring out how to do that.

New Monitor

Angela finally has a new monitor! Yes. It is a very nice 22-inch widescreen flat panel LCD. I looooove it. It is so pretty. Now if I can just get the other hardware I need to have a badass computer again, I will be even more happy. Oh, and you can see my desk now. It's amazing what getting rid of 2 CRT monitors will do for your desk space.

Real Life, Or Something Like It

If you know me at all then you know I've constantly got some novel or other sort of fiction project on the back burner at all times. In the 15 years or so that I've been interested in writing I have yet to turn out anything significant. But I think that is all about to change. I think I may have found my niche. Well. Possibly anyway. I was doing research for my latest and greatest project and I began thinking to myself how cool it would be to write an historical fiction narrative. So I sat up late one night and hashed out a character list and a half-baked plot line. I am not issuing any details of the project just yet. I prefer to keep you all in suspense (all one of you) until I have something worth sharing. I suppose I'm as well-suited for the project as anyone. A fiction writer trained as an historian. We'll see how it goes.

Picasa and news

My picasa site:
http://picasaweb.google.com/lumberjill.angela

My shared items:
http://www.google.com/reader/shared/00160687882115769875

Writer's Block

I've been sitting at work for over an hour now staring at a blank word document. I've decided that when it gets to the point that I can't write text panels for exhibits, I really need to do something about it. So I took a minute and came here so I could just write without worrying too much about what I said. So, forgive me, but for the next few minutes you're going to be privy to the inside workings of my mind. If it doesn't make sense, then you'll understand now why you don't understand me.

The coffee this morning was terrible. Bitter. It was even almost weak. That's an accomplishment for dark roast. I wonder if the woman ever cleaned up the spill from where my lid wouldn't fit. Stupid lids. My hand still hurts from the burn.

Reading the news only makes this condition worse. I thought perhaps it would inspire me to be a better person but all it does is cloud my brain. I really am tired of the god-forsaken iphone. I'm tired of hearing about Obama's Veep search committee and how McCain tramples womens' rights. No doubt he does, but when I read it ten times in an hour I want to rip someone's eyes out. I got the message the first time.

Pain. Some people consider it the bane of human existence. I consider it a catalyst for growth. Living in constant pain has helped me accept a few things about myself. It helped me find the strength I thought I lost. Now if I can just find a way to harness that pain into productive thought so I won't be sitting here staring at a blank word document. I don't get paid to be in pain.

Is there such a thing as loving too much? I don't know. I've been debating this one a while. It seems to me that loving too much is only a problem for the person who does it. That person is doomed to live a miserable existence marred by recurring pain and dejection. Loving someone that loves you back is hard enough. But loving someone who never intended to get so close to you in the first place is torture. They never intended to be there for you when you were falling down drunk. They didn't mean to catch you. It just happened that you fell on top of them. And you, you were always there for them, even when they didn't want you. 3 a.m. runnings of the washing machine and all they can say for themselves is they are sorry.

Pins and Needles

If you ever wondered what it would feel like to take a thousand needles and shove them into your leg at the same time, I can assure you it is not pleasant. That's what my leg feels like on a daily basis these days. Apparently when picking Sierra up to put her in the Jeep, one of my vertebrae decided it didn't want to stay where it was. So it decided to put pressure on that nerve that I never can spell that goes down into your leg. You know, that major nerve that once injured causes a lifetime of wonderful burning effects all the way up and down your bipedal limb. Ok, so it's not all that bad. I'm told that spinal decompression therapy is going to relieve much of my pain. I hope this is true, for everyone else's sake at least. Because everyone knows I'm a poor sick person. I hate not being able to walk around and do things. I'm severely resenting the notion that for even a few days I might have to rely on someone else to do things for me. Perhaps it is a lesson in humility. God knows I need it.

In other news, I finally decided to get off my arse and do some work. So for the next few months there's a possibility that I will be buried so deep in the archives and other such referential materials that I won't notice you even if you come at me with a sharp object. So if I neglect anyone, please forgive me. It is certainly not out of lack of desire to speak to you. Oh yes, and my monitor died last week. So I'll be on the laptop for a while, which means if I disappear it's because I lost my power supply. That is all.

Summer days

So I've probably told some of you about my new summer job. Perhaps some of you I have not. Earlier in the semester I was hired on as a graduate assistant at the East Texas Research Center for the summer. So, you're wondering exactly what that entails, right? Well here's what it entails. For the summer I will be doing research for History Day 2009. (ZOMG - Real research people with USE?!?!?!) I hardly know what to do with myself. So basically, I get paid to dig through collections here in the archives and put together topic ideas for students who might be interested in competing in the regional history day competition. It's so exciting! It's like getting paid to treasure hunt. Or, well. Sort of. I'll also be putting together some exhibits with my researched material at some point. This is seriously the most fun job I've ever had. I love it. Do I really get paid for this?

Keepers of Time

Some of you are probably aware of the garden my dad and his wife keep during the summer, but if you aren't, there's a fairly large section of the front lawn dedicated to growing peas and corn. Well, it's getting that time of year already. The snap peas are ready to be picked now. So this evening after dinner, Dad, Sharon, Mark, and I went out to the pea patch, got our buckets, and went to work. There were three rows, and Sharon, Mark, and I each took a row. Dad set about pulling up the grasses and weeds growing in between the bushes. After gleaning about half the row of their small, green pods, I stood up to rest. I looked out over the red earth and the orange sunset, wiped my brow, and pulled my thick black hair up under Mark's cap that I stole from him. I looked at my husband and father, each dutifully tending to his task, and my mind raced back to when I was a little girl in the same fields with my grandmother. With her linen pants and big straw hat on, she would carefully attend to each plant on each row until her back would give way and we would have to stop. Afterward we would take the overflowing bushel basket or baskets home and set about stringing and snapping each and every pea before washing, blanching, and freezing them.

And so it is that my grandmother, who lived through some of the most trying times the century knew, continued to practice the skills that got her family by on what little they had. It is a skill, and artform, that has all but died in our age of convenience and contrivance. I couldn't help but think of her as I divided out my six gallons of peas and brought them home to do just the same thing. I know that somewhere, my grandmother is looking down on me and she is smiling because at least one of her grand children took something that was so basic and fundamental to her and made it a part of their life. I feel as if I'm keeping alive part of the past, like I'm taking something out of time and putting it in the timeless. It makes me feel a deep connection with her and with those who came before. It makes me proud.

Waking

I realized today that I hate you
That all I wanted was to hurt you
Because that's what we're really good at.
Hurting.

I woke up this morning to a lie
The same lie I believed every
minute of every day
of my whole, entire life.

I saw you with her and
It broke my heart
Wide open, like a melon
Smashed on the sidewalk.

You felt the need to hurt me
Why I don't know.
I will never know.
But I know that you hurt more.

You took my sanity
And gave me confidence
I'm not sure if that's right
or Wrong. But I know it's truth

We are ghosts in the night,
Angels or demons, I'm not sure which.
Empty, hollow and
yet full of passion, love, hate, anger.

Lovers torn apart
by our own ambitions.
You were always wrong for me
But somehow right.

I realized today that I love you
And always will.
We hurt each other
But then you carry me home.

Take me home...

Why it takes women longer than men to shower

My husband and I were at the store yesterday buying a few things, and I needed to pick up face wash, so I did. Well, he felt the need to ask me why I had to buy two different face washes, and that sparked a discussion about the differences between men and women and their morning routines. So, for your reading enjoyment - here is why it takes us so much longer than men. When I get in the shower in the morning, the first thing I do is wash my face. We already established that I use two - one with salycilic acid and one with benzoyl peroxide. If I don't use both of them (and in the correct order) my face looks like a pepperoni pizza. And no one wants that. And I use an exfoliating sponge that I have to wash out in between soaps. The next thing I do is actually shower off. I also use two body washes. The first is a moisturizing body wash (so my skin doesn't feel like alligator scales) and the second is feminine wash (well...). And of course in between using the two I have to wash out my bath puff and that takes time. If I have to shave, well that add another 10 minutes because I simply cannot see in the shower to shave. So if I rush myself you can guarantee there will be blood all over the floor from me attempting to amputate a foot. If I don't have to shave (which I don't do regularly enough) I can move on to washing my hair. Now, guys just don't get this. I can't JUST use shampoo or a 2-in-1. It just doesn't happen. I use specifically designed for brunettes shampoo first, which takes FOREVER to work through my ridiculously thick hair and even longer to wash out. Then I use one, sometimes two conditioners depending on how dry my hair is. If I have to use multiples, I usually use one that requires I leave it in for 2 to 3 minutes. And yes, it takes a mountain of conditioner just to work through my hair. It all get soaked up, because again, my hair is chronically dry. Hokay. Shower's over. Now I get to brush my teeth, bandage any cuts from shaving, put on deodorant and all that fun stuff. More hair stuff. If I decide to go with it straight, I just use two styling products - hair oil and lotion cream (again for the dryness). Then I get to blow-dry it. Yay! That takes another 5-10 minutes. And then if I have to use the straightener we're there for 20. If I go with it curly I have to use mousse and gel in addition to the other two products. But then no drying, so we're good. Oh yes, I forgot about the whole lotion thing. I use Lubriderm on my arms and legs, but that takes like 30 seconds to apply so it's almost not worth mentioning.

Allright. Now I'm ready to get dressed. If I'm not going out, there's no makeup involved, so we're done. Makeup takes about 5 minutes on average because I wear so little. And you know what? I'm still done in the same amount of time it takes my husband to SHOWER. Just to shower. So guys next time you think we're taking too long to get ready, think about all that crap we have to go through just for you. Think about our soft, silky hair or our smooth skin and think about all the work we had to do to get it that way. And don't complain next time we take longer than you think we should. Kay thanks.

Just. Wow.

You ever find yourself in a situation and have no idea how you got there? It seems I have been doing that on quite a regular basis lately. I haven't exactly figured out why yet. It just seems like the harder I try to maintain normality the more it slips away. One problem fixes itself only to manifest another. I suppose that's just how life is. A string of problems which end in more problems. I'm still looking around going, "what the hell happened?" I almost feel like I'm on the tail end of a bad storm, looking at the ruins of a house or something. Of course, I over-exaggerate. It's not that bad. It's just confusing as hell. You wake up one day with your life in order, expecting certain truths to remain as such, and the next morning, it's all completely different. I guess a lot of my problem is that I take these things for granted. I take for granted that I'll wake up next to the same person with the same cats and dog piled around me and go outside to find the same Silver Dodge and Steel Blue Jeep out in the parking lot. I just assume that when I go to dad's that the family will be intact and that Mom will be in her little cubby hole at John's. And then one day it just doesn't play out that way and you think, "what the deuce, where did this come from?" I guess I should just get used to it.

Small town Southern...woman?

If you haven't heard the Alan Jackson song "Small Town Southern Man" you're really missing out. I know many of you don't like country music. Hell, I don't really like it myself. But the song is just amazing, especially if you're southern but even if you're not. It got me thinking about my own upbringing, and though I can't really say that the song reminds me of my dad, it does in many ways remind me of my grandmother. Some of you knew my grandmother. Most of you didn't. Let me start out by saying that she could be (and often was) the most harsh and demanding woman you could ever meet. But she could also be the most gentle and loving person. One thing I can say for sure is that she always picked us up after we fell and dusted us off, even if she had a few choice comments to make. Most of you know that my grandmother passed away last semester after a long and arduous tenure in the nursing home. I've been thinking a lot about her ever since she died and how she impacted my life, and I realized that I am in many respects a product of her raising moreso than I am of my parents. I was typing an email to a friend earlier today and I started getting a little carried away and eventually deleted much of what I wrote, but I think this is an appropriate venue to share some of that. So here are my thoughts on me.

My grandmother raised me on cornbread and honey and taught me to treat other people how I wanted to be treated. She never let me slide - when I deserved to be disciplined she made me cut my own switch off of the tree outside. She demanded the utmost in behavior and respect. I said yes ma'am to her even though I seldom if ever addressed my own mother in this fashion. She raised me to work. She taught me that hard work will overcome any trial or tribulation. She didn't have much use for alcohol or cigarettes, which often became a source of tension among certain members of the family. Grandmother was the last of a generation forged by the fires of necessity and want and shaped by the hands of war. She knew what it meant to be without and never wanted her family to know the same. She taught us how to can and preserve and to save everything we could for later. Now I'm not going to gush about the greatest generation and how there will never be another generation with the strength of those who endured the second World War. I am however going to gush about what they taught us and how we aren't teaching our children what we learned from our parents and grandparents. I see that I am the last of a generation who cares more about others than they ever could about themselves. People younger than me only seem to care about themselves and what they can get. It seems that the values I grew up on are just not being taught any more. And it saddens me. And it's not because we don't know them anymore. It's not that we forgot. We just simply don't care anymore. Somehow we got it in our heads that we only get hurt when we care. And so we taught our kids not to care so they wouldn't get hurt. I think we need to look back to the values of my grandmother and learn something we forgot we knew from a small town southern woman named Elizabeth.

Story book lives

You know when we were kids, and we all dreamed of what it would be like to be grown up/have a job/be married/have a house? Do you remember what it looked like? I don't remember exactly what my story-book life looked like, but I know it involved being married, having kids, having lots of animals, and living in a nice house with a nice yard and a fence around it for the dogs. Hell, forget childhood. I wanted that yesterday. But I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about what exactly I want and what I need to be happy, and I've discovered that the story-book life doesn't exist. No amount of perfection, of things falling into place for me exactly as they should will make me happy. I think that's a large part of my problem. There was always something else to fall into place, and as soon as it did I would be happy. But it never happened. All the pieces never fall into place. And even if they do it doesn't guarantee happiness. I was depending on something happening to make me happy. But I've discovered recently that happiness isn't built on fulfillment. I will never reach that point of fulfillment in my life where I feel like I've achieved everything I set out to do. And so it doesn't make sense to base my happiness on something so elusive. My life is far from story-book. I'm not even sure there's a happily ever after for me and Mark. There might be. It's too early to tell. Story-book princesses don't look like me. They don't talk like me. They don't act like me. But I'm here, and I'm learning to be happy even though my life is far from where I thought it would be.

So here's my question to you. What was your story-book life, and how does that affect your daily routine now? Are you aspiring to live that life or have you forsaken it for your reality?

GTT

I suppose the title GTT (Gone To Texas) isn't really applicable since I'm already in Texas, but in any case I'll be in Austin this weekend from Friday to Sunday. So if you're in Austin and want to see me, call me or Hung. I'll likely be with him, and even if I'm not he'll know where to find me.

Bizarre Happenings

I intended to post on this last Saturday, the day it happened, but other things got in the way. So here goes. This last Saturday I got up about 5:30 am and began a drive to Jasper to attend an ETHA symposium on the building of Toledo Dam. First off, it's amazing that I even saw 5:30 am. The drive itself wasn't too bad. I went by way of Zavalla instead of San Augustine, the way Drs. McDonald and Sosebee both told me to go. I should have known better. I shouldn't say that, I guess. Anyway, I'm 10 miles outside of Jasper and actually on time for once, when I see a flicker out of the corner of my eye. It's a truck, upside down, in the ditch, on fire. So I stop, whip out my cell phone to call 911 (not that it did any good - I had no service) and run to the scene where about five people are carrying a woman from the vehicle. I would like to report that I had some vitally important role in saving the woman's life, but alas, all I did was stand there. Luckily, there was an off-duty EMT that stopped and took care of her until the ambulance took her. I didn't even manage to locate the woman's dog, whom she was immensely worried about. But at least I stopped. I wish I could have done more.

Another bizarre happening occurred yesterday morning as I was getting dressed for work. An elderly woman called my cell phone and asked to speak to someone I assumed was her grandson, and couldn't understand why I couldn't go to his class and get him on the phone. I patiently explained to her for nearly ten minutes that she had the wrong number. Over and over again she made statements such as "but he goes to school up there!" So finally I figured out that she thought she was speaking to someone at TJR Elementary. I informed her politely that this was not TJR Elementary. Even still she couldn't believe she had the wrong number, but finally she just hung up. I sat on the edge of my bed in amazement for another few minutes, unsure of what had actually transpired.


In other news, I have a job for the summer. I will be working in "the archives" as I like to tell people in order to sound important. In actuality I will be working the desk at the East Texas Research Center. But "the archives" sounds so much cooler and...well, important. Now if I can just make it through this semester...

Beings in Time

Being a history major, it's often easy to lose concept of time. That may not make sense to some of you, who would assume that history majors have a more solid concept of time due to the fact that we deal in dates. That assumption is false. Rather than dealing in dates, we deal in concepts of time. It is not so easy as one would think to establish a timeline of events on the spot. Because we tend to think about the world in general as a series of events, one after the other, it's easy to compress thousands of years into a single thought. I am guilty of doing that in my own life. I get so caught up in the moment, what's going on right now, that I fail to think too far into the future. Simple manifestations of this problem include forgetting to pay bills because I didn't realize it was, in fact, the middle of April. However more complex problems arise out of this because I fail to notice how much people change over time. For instance, when I think of my cousin Cassidy, I think of her as a six or seven year old child. But she is now fourteen and is rapidly becoming a young lady. This is a problem when you are involved in any sort of significant relationship with any other person. I have failed to notice how much Mark has changed over the last six years. I have failed to notice how much I have changed. Change sneaks up on you when you aren't looking for it. People I once loved dearly I now pass on the street like two ships in the night. And it often never occurs to me that we haven't spoken in years. It is a sad symptom of a greater problem. The problem is that we are beings in time but we are not focused on the passage of it. We don't feel the passage of time because we are locked in it, and so we live our lives oblivious to the forces that shape us and change us. And at some point we look around and notice that the temples of our lives are in severe disrepair and we don't know where to start. I only hope that I can fix my temple before it's too late.

Who I Am

Recently I've done a lot of thinking about what it is that makes me who I am. Some of you know the circumstances surrounding my unfortunate descent into the immensely uncomfortable realm of self discovery, while others may not. Suffice it to say that if you don't, it's none of your damn business anyway. So while I was thinking I was reminded of a story from my childhood. When I was eight, my best friend and I thought it would be fun and cool to go through the Haunted House one year on Halloween. We were tough and rough and nothing could scare us, so we never once thought about freaking out. So the two of us set out on our adventure. Now, typically, my friend was the leader. She was always the strong one, the one pushing us through whatever came along. So I figured that if one of us freaked, it would be me. However upon entering the house, I quickly discovered how fun role reversal can be. My friend froze. I, being scared out of my mind, wasn't sure what to do, but I knew we had to do something. We couldn't go backward - there were people behind us. We couldn't just stay there because well, staying in the midst of adversity is just plain stupid. So I took my friend by the hand and literally drug her through the rest of the house. So that's who I am. I'm that person who, when everyone else fails, is left holding their hand and dragging them through whatever crap we might happen to find ourselves in. And I discovered something else. He isn't ready for that.

Sharing the Road

This afternoon I went out to Dad's for a little bit of relaxation in the sunshine as it was a GORGEOUS day. Mark finished work on his hoist for the hard top and we switched out to the soft top. We left about six to get ready to go out, and as we were driving down the road I came across something I had never in my life seen. At the end of the road, an entire flock of ducks sat casually situated between the ditch and the middle of the pavement as if they were having afternoon tea. Now, I have come across flocks of other birds casually chilling before, but they usually take flight when they see or hear us coming. But not these. Oh no. We had to come to a complete halt because said ducks sat in the road looking at us as if to say, "we were here first." I looked at Mark, who looked at me, and we both looked back at the array of mallards and plain females and burst into laughter. It was the hardest I've laughed in quite some time. Finally they all took flight and meandered through the sky to a nearby pond that they must be calling home for the summer. I must say, I have never had to share the road with a flock of ducks.

One Sentence Stories

I recently stumbled upon a site where people could publish what they called "one sentence stories". The purpose of course is to communicate an idea in one sentence, and I thought it was brilliant. So I stayed up most of the night coming up with some of my own. I thought I would share some with you.

My grandparents were divorced longer than they were married, but when she died, his soul died along with her.

I was surprised when my 86-year old, baptist, ultra-traditional and conservative grandfather cried when I had his ex-wife's name tattooed on my back.

I hate you for loving me, but I hate myself more for loving you.

I remember once looking into your eyes and seeing the most gorgeous woman in the world reflected in those blue orbs.

I used to be jealous of her until I realized that she is the girl men play around with before they come home to women like me.

The worst feeling I've ever felt came after the realization that I would never again wake up to your face.

It struck me as ironic that the man who once inspired terrific fear in my heart, now only inspires pity.

I always knew I was scared of heights, but I didn't realize exactly how afraid I was until I made it to the zip tower.

Jealousy is like three year old cologne: neither are relevant but they can both ruin a marriage.

Light At The End

For the past few months I've had this incredible sense of impending doom hanging over my head with the feeling that at any moment, it's all going to come to a sudden, terrific halt and I will have wasted the last few semesters. Today I moved out from under that cloud. Dr. B graded and returned my practicum and I did much better than I anticipated. For those of you with whom I don't speak daily, this practicum of mine has been on the back burner for a semester and a half, looming dark and fearsome with all kinds of implications for the advancement of my studies. It sparked a major controversy that almost put me in the hospital with severe hypertension. It served as a source of guilt and shame. It took an incredible amount of self discipline and self deprecation. And it's over. I got a B. For all the sweat, tears, and mental anguish I've spared over this thing, it turned out to be nothing. I know in my heart of hearts that I'm capable of making an A. But I am more than happy with the B, primarily because it's over half a semester late. But it's there. It's done. I feel like I can breathe easier and kick myself in the pants to get the rest of my work done.

Now for those of you that expected some sort of insightfully witty commentary, I shall share with you my musings for the day. I've been in a sort of funk, for lack of a better word, for some time, and I have been unable to identify what said 'funk' is all about. But today I think I figured it out. I'm bored. I wake up at the same time every day to the same person and the same cat. I get up and follow the same routine. I go to work and scan the same slides. Ok so not the same slides but you get my meaning. I'm missing the point. The point of what? you ask. The point of living. What is the point of living if you don't enjoy it? Why do I get up every day if I don't have at least some expectation of excitement? So I've decided to change a few things about my life. We hold the keys to our own fulfillment, but most of us don't even know we have them, much less where we put them. So I've set about to find these keys. I'll let you know when I find them.

New Blog

So I've recently decided to join the twenty-first century in a number of new and exciting ways, and I supposed that having a real blog should be one of those ways. First, text messaging, then, the world! Or...not.

For those who are curious, my back is feeling much better. I'm able to drive on my own now. I'm still taking the muscle relaxers in the evening so I can get some sleep. Aside from the dull but constant pain, I'm able to mostly get around by myself. I wanted to close this first post by saying something clever, but the drugs have clouded my brain, so I'll just close by saying, I'm here.