footnotes and beautiful human beings

First of all, my paper is printing, and it's delightfully punctuated by musing footnotes. At least that's how I feel about them right now, high on strong black tea and peanut butter. Essays at this umbilical cord-cutting stage always seem to glow with brilliance and wit, subtle argumentation, panache. It's not until later--usually halfway between turning it in and receiving comments--that phrases somehow clunk up and the footnotes shift to tedious interruptions. Dear me.

***

The class I teach is moving into a chapter on bodies, selfhood, and the limits of responsibility. Yesterday we discussed first perceptions of other people, how gender and age affect our judgments, and the students were divided. Most of them spoke of their own experiences of being judged (unfavorably) for their youth as camp counselors, sports coaches, and music teachers, or of receiving poor treatment at restaurants and stores. But they couldn't agree over whether public judgment improves throughout one's life or peaks in middle age. Some of them believed strongly that the older an individual, the more wisdom and thus the more respect from society. Others mentioned how we belittle the elderly, view them as less valuable or as entering a second childhood.

Much later (remember my Mondays?), on the bus home, we made a stop to let off a woman with a large stroller and to let on an elderly couple. Recognizing the mother's need for help, I watched the couple on the sidewalk meet each other's eyes, and then the woman bent to help move the baby safely from the bus to the sidewalk. Bundled in long quilted coats and fur hats, the man and woman had deeply creased faces and whispy grey hair. But once they were safely on the bus, I saw the woman turn to her companion and give him such a look of glee, such an eyebrow raised, shrug-shouldered, gorgeous smirk of delight, it took my breath away. The man returned her smile, and two blocks later I had to get off at my stop, reeling with the sharp loveliness of their companionship, their delight at interacting with other people. Oh, to be so blessed in fifty years.

Sula is a tricky little bit of lit

Well. I'm working on a paper about Toni Morrison's second book, Sula. Let's just say it's kicking my smarty-pants behind. Enough of that.

In the meantime, I am baking potatoes in the oven, and I've just this moment realized how formative the scent of baking potatoes was in my childhood. Tonight Josh and I will eat them, like we did then, with sour cream and salt and pepper, and a salad drenched in Italian dressing. Which means, of course, that I have an excuse to leave Sula for a while and wash some lettuce.

What is your dinner tonight?

gratitude attitude (friday edition)

Today, along with the hope of thirty-something-degree weather this weekend, I am thankful for:

* clanking, warming radiators

* emails from friends and family

* yesterday's 4:00 tea break

* gals coming over tonight for chili with lots of yellow bell peppers in it (and beans soaking on the stove in preparation)

* Betsy-Tacy books

* Michigan gala apples

* clean pants

my mondays

Oh, let me tell you about my Mondays. I know this is another post right in a row, but I am vegging, and Josh is reading, and I am full of words and soon will head to bed with my paper and pen journal. Right now I want to imagine having a friend or two sitting with cups of tea or coffee and listening to my rambling and doing a bit of rambling on their own. (I love your rambling, friends. Please, please ramble all you want. I read it and pretend it's in your voices and feel cosy and good.)

My Mondays start at 7:01, if I can sleep that long through the neighbors' alarms and slamming doors and courtyard laughter. I pick out clothes on Sunday night; I drink tea too quickly, balance my mug sometimes on the white sink in the bathroom while I shove pins in my hair (if it's not too cold to go without a hat). [Aside: there is no shame in eyeliner, right? It is okay to be a woman who wears eyeliner? That's not selling out? And perfume?] I eat cereal (right now it's Target brand cinnamon toast crunch; Josh picked it. I always pick the honey and oat mixers, which is Target brand for I forget what, but it's yummy and healthy. Ish.). I pack my lunch, unless Josh is up and manages to get to it before I do. Today he made me peanut butter and jelly on really delightful white bread with poppyseed crust.

I dash out into the brisk morning. I greet neighbors with a similar schedule, hold open the black metal gate (it creaks--when the windows are open in the summer I hear it creak and creak and creak and love to think of human beings coming and going and having hopes and feelings). I crunch and slide over the sidewalks to either train or bus (whichever seems more likely to arrive or depart first). Or, in the thirty-degrees-and-up instances, I walk a mile in my own shoes. I pass three coffee shops on the way. Two are independent. One is Starbucks.

On Mondays, I teach at 8:15, then I hold office hours. I fill my purple Nalgene at a drinking fountain (sorry to those of you, like Brandi, who are sure drinking fountains spread the Plague). I head to the library, to the cafe, for some coffee from the cranky middle-aged barista who scolds customers, invariably, and I sit at a table and drink it, eat my lunch out of my purple and grey lunch bag, watch the lake. Today I wrote late Valentines and read articles on Toni Morrison and ethics and aesthetics.

I tutor writing from 1:00 to 4:45. In these sessions I try to be personable and charming, honestly. It's so hard to work with someone on your writing when that someone is a stick-in-the-mud grammar dictionary. I try to be more like a brush-in-the-pastels encourager with a bit of grammar thrown in. By the end of a session, I like for my new writing buddies to be calling me by my first name and making eye contact and cracking jokes about their commas. This is the best kind of scenario, and it happened three times in a row today, so I was sort of delighted even while I was exhausted by the time the shift was over.

Then I come home. Then I make dinner and eat it. Then I goof off--or work really hard--until I head to my flannel sheets. Which I'm about to do.

And that is Monday.

What's yours like? I'm waiting for your ramblings, friends. The kettle's on.

feeling mushy about Josh

So once upon a time -- a bit short of two years ago, I was sitting here, staring out over the Aegean, halfway between our amazing hotel and the small town where we ate moussaka and pizza and very salty purple olives.

For Valentine's Day/Engagement Day, Josh painted me a lovely picture to remind me of it. He also made me dinner and hid a rose in the refrigerator while I wasn't looking (I was reading Toni Morrison with my glasses off):

The dinner was really very lovely: chicken with spicy cocoa marinade, rice, salad, and hot cocoa afterward. Not to provoke outrageous fits of jealousy or anything, but I'm really blessed to have this guy in my life.

So far today, I have

(1) taught class -- I marked drafts last night, so we had a great deal to talk about.

(2) been to Bible study -- we discussed Isaiah 28-29 (tricky stuff), ate amazing banana bread with coconut in it, drank strong coffee, played a bit with the little ones (E tried to put a sugared walnut in my mouth, but it had already been in his, so I ended up with a sticky wet smear all over my cheek).

(3) filled two grocery bags at the market -- tonight we're having fettuccini with maranara (jarred) and alfredo (homemade) sauces at girls' group. A shameless plug: http://www.reusablebags.com/ sells these bags, and while I'm totally into making my own, these are really heavy-duty bags with a lifetime guarantee.

(4) eaten popcorn and cheese for lunch (don't worry, mom, I'll sneak in some fruit this afternoon).

(5) vacuumed.

(6) dashed down the stairs to meet the mail carrier, accept my package of three more Toni Morrison books, and give her a very late Christmas gift card.

(7) sat down at my desk to start some more research on Song of Solomon and write an abstract for conference submission.


A little moment to share: Walking along the icy sidewalk today, I passed a young man with a travel mug, who trailed behind him this strong and mysterious aroma of Earl Grey tea. That was probably the hilight of my day.

flash

Either we have lightning in the snowstorm or one of my across-the-courtyard neighbors is taking photos of the snow.

I keep meandering back and forth between hope that tonight's class will be canceled and desire to dash to campus and hear what everyone has to say about The Grandissimes. Welcome to my life.

It's Ash Wednesday. I'm antsy rather than contemplative, jolting up out of my seat and away from my desk at odd intervals to tidy up a corner or flop on the bed or get a drink of water. I keep hoping to think about brokenness and the need for Christ's painful journey to the cross, but my gaze drifts to the wildly dancing flakes. I could make a tidy and pithy connection between the two, but for now I'll just say that we're all full of pleadings and tensions, or at least I am.

Sleet and Ginger Ale

Thirty degrees feels dramatically warmer than zero. I enjoyed it on the way to class this afternoon. The walk home, however, was freezing rain, and the bus only caught up with me four blocks from home. Go figure. My hair is still drying, as are my jeans.

I have Old Fashioned Chili simmering on the stove, thanks to The Women's Bean Project (via Mark and Katie). We'd forgotten about these soup mixes, but last week I made the split pea soup and it rocked my world. I've never liked split pea soup in any form before (especially with the hunks of ham ... ::shudder::), but this curried concoction was an absolute delight. I'm going to have to figure out how to make it myself -- does anyone have any recipes?

And almost snow day

We awoke this morning to the sound of the snowblower echoing up through the courtyard at 6:00. I was hopeful for school closings, but the muffled gorgeousness of the city at 7:40 was quite worth a trek through drifts and unshoveled sidwalks a foot deep. The flakes have tapered off, leaving us in a quiet white world punctuated by scraping shovels and children's laughter.

I am reading The Grandissimes by George Cable--New Orleans in 1805, feuding families, secret romances, murder, the like. And this is my job!

This afternoon I was struck by the beauty of gleaming coffee beans in a dark blue canister, waiting to be ground and brewed.