My Grandmother is in a Comma...

It's nearing the end of the semester. When I used to teach in front of students (as opposed to narrating powerpoints, which is what I've been reduced to), I would tell them to warn their grandparents, other close family members, and friends, that this point in the semester posed a serious threat to their health, and possibly their lives. I know this because at the end of every semester (and sometimes in the middle, as well), students are hit by tragedy. Their grandparents die, their childhood friends are killed, a relative is stricken with something that requires the student to maintain a bedside vigil... Of course, all of these things prevent them from taking the final or writing that last paper. So, I would warn them, at the beginning of the semester, that they may want to advise family member to take more precautions then usual around midterms and finals. Some would laugh. Some would not warn their family members and then, as predicted, something would happen. I would then ask for the obituary. I'm serious.
You can imagine how this sort of thing is universal. So, every semester, my husband and brother (both of them teach as well) compare notes on this sort of thing, and on students in general. A few days ago, my brother received an email in which a student told him that her "grandmother is in a comma" Now, call us calloused, but we laughed and laughed. He even said, "this is funny on so many levels". Then we started rehashing old student stories. Like the student who wrote the following in an email to me:
You are probably very surprised that I am emailing you considering I know that you received my previous email where I fired at you good with both barrels. I will admit that I was under a lot of stress and still am.
Or the student who plagiarized my husband's paper and handed it in to him. Or the student who plagiarized a paper on plagiarism.  
I wouldn't say I'm cynical. But I do think it's important for all of you who know and/or are related to college students: dangerous days are ahead. You may end up in a comma.

A Sylvia Plath Thanksgiving?

For some reason, I feel like I've known about Sylvia Plath since I was born. That probably says something about my upbringing, or at least the influence on my life of my older sister. I also feel like I've known the words to the songs on "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Heart Club Band" since I was born. That would be my parents, formerly known as hippies.
About Sylvia, though: I find her really depressing, and not something that I'd pass on as great poetry/literature (mostly because she--and her most famous heroine, Esther Greenwood---are soooo depressing), but I will admit that she appealed to me during my teenage years. In any case, one line of her poetry (actually introduced by Emcee) has stayed with me. It's from her poem, Tulips:

The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,

 And comes from a country as far away as health.

Now, what does this have to do with Thanksgiving, you say? The stomach flu. On Thanksgiving. One of the cruelest hands dealt to me, because the whole point of the holiday is to eat. Now, Providentially, I had anticipated my limitations this holiday, as far as hostessing, etc., and had ordered the entire meal from Wegmans. So, we were not that put out, although poor (Type-A) David studied and studied the instructions sheet and was in the kitchen for 4 hours, reheating the pre-cooked meal. But, I felt pretty lousy all day, and went to bed early. And all day, on Thanksgiving Day, 2010, health was as far away as a distant country. 

My Waterloo

            I am merely average in my housekeeping. I may actually be sliding slowly on the spectrum towards "good", but I doubt that I will ever be envied for my abilities. Nonetheless, since I've had my third kid, I've hit a nice stride: beds are usually made, floors and rugs are vacuumed, if not daily, every other day, and I like to the kitchen to be cleeaaan. If possible. My husband even comments that our house looks like a hotel, because of a general lack of clutter (don't look in the closets, David. He's blissfully unaware of many unseemly details of our life. Like our bank account). I even felt confident enough, a few months ago, to let my bi-weekly cleaning lady go. A good canister vaccuum and a Swiffer-like mop were pretty much her equivalent.

         But, regardless of how much my housekeeping will improve, there is always my Waterloo: The Armoire. (Yes, say it: "Armoire". Don't feel silly that you can't really pronounce it. No one can). The armoire sits in my living room, and is high enough so that the kids can't reach the top. It also is an arm's length from the door. So absolutely anything and everything gets put there: anything small that you carry into the house and anything that you don't want the kids to get a hold of. Right now, just looking at it from the couch where I write, I see a baby video monitor, vaseline, a camera., a change jar, Aveeno baby sunscreen. a pen jar, keys, and a basket of stationery. And that's just the first row. 

         So, why is this my Waterloo? No matter how clean my house is, the armoire always has stuff (junk) on it. It always defeats me. And it's no small defeat. It's in the main room of the house and absolutely everyone who enters (legally) sees it. So, the house may be tidy and clean but the armoire betrays me every time. 

         The funny thing is, I feel like I can blame this (too) on my genes. My sister bought my mom the print
 "An Irish Dresser" and I see a definite resemblance between that and my Waterloo. At least in terms of housekeeping abilities...(the camera shutter is slow or I would have caught our chicken passing in front of the armoire).

  

This great American Country

           One of my secret loves is country music. It's not actually a secret from those who know me, but I suspect I wouldn't be classified as someone who likes country music. When I hear certain songs on our local station (FYI: 106.5), though, I just, well, feel patriotic stirrings. They actually played an instrumental, twangy version of the Star Spangled Banner the other day (my kids asked what the song was and I tried to stop the tears from falling as I explained what it was about. I was driving and it just seemed a little weird and traumatizing, not to mention dangerous, to let myself go, emotionally).
          Anyway, I don't love all country music (I can proudly say that I just had to google a billboard chart to find Taylor Swift's name, so that I could explicitly distance myself from her), but I also don't know quite how to categorize what I do like. I think it's probably most accurate to say that I love it because it's American (except for that Aussie, Keith Urban, who I don't really like, anyway) and, from there, it's safe to say that I prefer the more outlaw end of country: Johnny, Willy, Kris, Waylon...Toby. But, then, that would exclude George, who I think deserves every single of those 50+ number ones. George, with his lifelong commitment to Norma, and his latest hit, "I found God today" would not hang with Willie. So, it's outlaw overlapping with Americana.
        It's really patriotism, though, that draws me to country. I heard a song the other day (Toby, in fact) about not messing with the US because this "big dog will fight when you rattle his cage" and it made me proud to be American. Not that I'm into wars. But, that's the American spirit: it's feisty, proud and independent. It's the person who owns their little brick ranch house, which is meticulously kept. Who considers the bank more of a foe than a friend, and doesn't want to borrow any more than they have to. Who clips coupons (that's just seems sooo American!), holds more than one job if they have to, and has a respectful fear of addiction. I don't know why I added that last part: GW Bush is in my sidebar and his struggle with alcoholism just seems very American.
        So, right now, while my CD player is broken in my car, and I'm waiting for a windfall so that I can replace it, my kids are getting a good dose of country. Because some of the songs are "adult", I alternate with classical, which just might cause someone's head to explode.