Is Paulie Walnuts the funniest name ever? Uh, just me?

I cannot believe that it is the last day of April. And I missed my step-mother's birthday yesterday. I thought today was the 29th. Oops. Awkward phone call later.

Anyways, April just blew by. It's really getting spring-y outside. And I don't mean spring-y bouncy, but spring-y nice flowers and green lawns. April showers bring May flowers. And what do May flowers bring?

Happiness to Ace. I like tulips. Hop to.

Speaking of things that I like, isn't it also amazing that my birthday is just a little over a month away? How time flies. If you need gift ideas, let me know. Also, if you would like the celebrations to begin early, I'm okay with that.

Speaking of celebrations, did anyone see The Sopranos last night? AJ got engaged! To someone way out of his league! And the engagement was called off five minutes later! And apparently the writing has gone downhill! Tony's gambling problem was a little too Lifetime television for women for me. Last night's episode was a bit of a snoozer.

Of course, I was a bit over-excited anyways. As could be gathered from me yelling at the TV. In my defense, I hadn't eaten much since breakfast and a Lean Cuisine isn't really filling. Nor is it really cuisine. So to spice it up, I decided to finish off half a bottle of wine. Again, without having eaten much. I might have been a bit tipsy. But I figured that was ok, since it is the Sopranos. I'm sure my neighbors enjoyed my self-righteous indignation over Tony's tantrum.

Oh, and I'm wearing jeans today. This fascinating piece of news is relevant, just FYI. The weather is beautiful, and I would prefer to be wearing a skirt, but I learned the hard way that drinking and walking around in the great outdoors don't mix. So my ankle is still wrapped. Thus the jeans to hide this. So I don't have to explain my idiocy to my students. I already accidentally might have compared my struggles with my neighbor's Christmas tree in my yard to segregation and racism in the South in the 1950s. Oops. So they don't need to see that not only am I inappropriate, but also a moron who doesn't know how to walk.

Hmm. I really don't have a drinking problem, although this post might convince you otherwise. Yeah, so, uh, we'll just leave that there for now. Happy Monday!

Father Knows Best

A bee flew into my hair yesterday. Just flew. Flew into my hair. It didn't sting me, or anything. It just flew in and flew away. And it's not like I have big Texas hair or Priscilla Presley (cerca 1967) hair. So I found that odd.

The only reason I comment on this is because I read a news story yesterday that bees are disappearing by the billions. Scientists are at a loss to explain this. I'm thinking it's because bees are just that dumb that they fly into hair instead of finding a nice flower or hive.

My other favorite story from recently is the Alec Baldwin thing. While I haven't been a big fan of 30 Rock, because it sucks (thank you Tina Fey, who cannot act) I'm pretty sure I'll be watching it now. Because Alec Baldwin cracked me up before what with all his comments on bi-curious shoes and stuff.

And a man who is clever enough to leave an abusive voice-mail for an 11-year old, well that's just Must See TV. Best quotes:

"You don't have the brains or the decency as a human being." (I wonder why she is screwed up, since her parent's divorce was so amicable, and they both seem like well-adjusted people.)

"I don't give a damn that you're 12 years old, or 11 years old, or that you're a child, or that your mother is a thoughtless pain in the ass who doesn't care about what you do as far as I'm concerned. You have humiliated me for the last time with this phone." (First, learn how old she is. Second, I like the image of her humiliating her with the phone. I realize what he meant, but I picture her giving him some inappropriate ring-tone, like "Dancing Queen" or "I Touch Myself" and the phone rings while he is giving an interview on the red carpet.)

And of course, where he calls her a "rude, thoughtless little pig" (Hi, kettle. I feel that you are just a bit black. Talk to you later. Love, pot.) Followed by his cleverly subtle threat to fly from New York to Los Angeles "to straighten your ass out when I see you." As Nazareth reminds us, though, love hurts. Love scars. Love wounds. And mars.

It's a tough lesson for anyone to learn. Especially an 11-year old. Especially from her father. Especially for committing the sin of turning her phone off. Well done, Mr. Baldwin.

A damn fine cup of coffee

Ok, quick recap of Santa Fe. Shockingly, the topic of Newsies did not come up. Sigh. I had to keep my love of Spot to myself. If you haven't seen that movie, (a) please don't judge me and (b) Spot is the bad-ass newsie from Brooklyn. Not some pansy dog.

Uh, so Santa Fe. Fun times. Good contacts. Got some good gossip from a colleague and former grad student of my school on some recent ethical lapses and past behaviors. A possible job opportunity. Delicious food. A hard-learned lesson that tequila at 7000+ feet above sea level is not equivalent to the usual dosages I enjoy back home.

This weekend I went to Tacoma, the ugly, red-headed step-child of Seattle. Perhaps I shouldn't actually mock it since it had a great downtown with some good historic preservation and (more importantly) delicious restaurants. Learned some gossip on goings-on at a state historical society that is going to be having some issues soon. Conferences are just full of Chatty Cathys.

So since I've been in and out of town, I have yet again let this site fall behind. I wold have posted earlier today, but I have three major deadlines this week for work. And probably watching Season Two of Twin Peaks while working on a chapter for the dissertation wasn't the best of ideas. Lord knows what kind of David Lynch-inspired weirdness found its way in. If in my overview of the Dawes Act I find a mention of Leo needing new boots, we'll know who to blame. Damn you, Netflix.

So traveling has been good for the last few weeks, if only for the reason that I can escape the non-stop screaming of my neighbors. Which means I can actually sleep instead of listening to a yelling match over who has ruined whose life. Funny, they never include my life and lack of sleep in that particular fight.

If I came there would you let me call you home?

Do other people trick their animals? This most recent trick wasn't mean, just to let you know. For that we'd have to dig deep into my past to what I like to call the "sock incident." And by deep in my past, I mean a year or so ago. And by incident, I mean when someone convinced me it would be hysterical to put a sock over my dog's head and then call her to see how well she adapted to her new blindness. In case you're interested, the correct answer to how hysterical it was: freaking. Freaking hysterical.

Back to the most recent. My cat does not enjoy it when I go out of town. I'd probably be more sympathetic to this if I didn't live in Pullman and have to leave whenever possible. And by have to, I literally mean that. Pullman slowly kills people. Or something less melodramatic.

Anyways, when my cat sees me packing, she gets a bit sad. And a bit creepy. And a bit loud. No animal howls like mine when she is less than pleased. So I have to resort to tricking her. Meaning, for my trip tomorrow, I had to get my suitcase out yesterday. After eying the bag with suspicion all day yesterday, she figured out that it was just for show. Clearly, since I wasn't putting anything into it.

When she goes outside later today, I'll quickly pack. Yes, I spend time thinking of these things. This is how I occupy time.

I take off for New Mexico tomorrow morning. I'd be more excited since I'm going to Santa Fe, but the professor I'm going with probably won't get any of my Santa Fe-themed Newsies jokes. Of which there will be a lot. But who knows? Maybe he will get them, and we can bond over our shared love of Jack. Actually, that might creep me out to levels unthinkable. Maybe I'll just have to learn to not to make my super-funny references to one of the best movies of all time. I should be on good behavior anyways, considering I'm an am-bastard of my department. I have $20 that says very few of you get why that is so funny. But it is. It really, really is.

So, Santa Fe. What are the odds I'll get some sun? Slim to none, since I have to be inside most of the time during the day. Maybe I should pack my clubs just in case I can escape for the conference. Tigress Woods goes to the Southwest type of thing. Oh, and I'm allergic to jalapenos, but I'm guessing that won't stop me from partaking of the delicious local cuisine. I do so loves me some spicy food. How quickly do we all think I'll get sick when I "forget" that they make me sick and convince myself that just a bite won't hurt me? Or two? Or three? Or that if maybe I mix some jalapenos with some margaritas, the two will cancel each other out?

Hmm. Maybe in lieu of the golf clubs I should pack some Pepto.

So the razor, but not the shampoo?

So I had a discussion yesterday on what exactly I can and cannot carry onto a flight. I couldn't remember if I was allowed to bring my nice big bottle of saline solution or if I was going to need to go buy a smaller thing of it. This story is off to a kick-ass start, am I right?

I went online to check to see how small (or big, for the Pollyanna's out there) any of my little travel things can be. Three ounces, just FYI. How big is that, by the way? Damn, and it's ounces, too, so I can't make my snide comment on how the dumb Europeans mess everything up with their stupid metric system. Ounces are all us, and I really can't picture 3 liquid ounces. Hmm.

Anyways, then I got to thinking if my liquid foundation counts. Because according to its packaging, it's four ounces. Do you think I'll get bumped for taking an extra ounce of my Clinique foundation with SPF 15? Wow. This isn't where this post was going. I was going to mock the TSA website for this their nice little summary on why specific items are banned or limited in carry-ons:

The ban on liquids, aerosols and gels was implemented on August 10 after a terrorist plot was foiled. Since then, experts from around the government, including the FBI and our national labs have analyzed the information we now have and have conducted extensive explosives testing to get a better understanding of this specific threat.

Favorite part? Besides the horrible passive voice in sentence one, how much do we love "After a terrorist plot was foiled"? Foiled? As in thwarted? As in, "I'll get you, Batman, if it's the last thing I do!" Could the TSA have come up with something besides a cliche from the 1950s? Is Mugsy running the TSA with Maxwell Smart heading up the x-ray check-points to dash the clever ruse of those evil terrorists? Ah, foiled by the old bomb-in-the-3.5-ounce-mouthwash-trick again. The swan swims at midnight, but Peter finds a friend in the old barn by the river.

I also enjoy the "experts from around the government, including the FBI." I prefer to think that it's just the "experts" from the USDA or the USPS. Actually, the post office people probably are experts. And how much fun would it be to conduct "extensive explosives testing"? No? Just me? I think I'm a bad-ass when I get a sparkler on the Fourth of July, so I'm guessing I would be in seventh heaven if I got to conduct "extensive explosives testing."

If I make a joke about "extensive explosives testing" at the airport, how delayed do you think I'll be? I'm guessing just enough to miss Scrubs, but not enough to get the "fun" search. Any takers?

The only good bunny is a chocolate bunny

Happy late Easter!

I've decided to make Easter resolutions. I said goodbye to my New Year's resolutions a long time ago ('round about January 2), so it's time for some new ones. And Easter is all about new life, starting over, and chocolate, so what better time?

I've resolved to limit my pitchy-ness to once per day. For those who don't know, I apparently get "pitchy" when I get stressed. Meaning, my voice gets high and strained. And I have a bit of stress in my life, so my voice is often high and strained. So no more.

Which leads to resolution number two: not to let the stress get to me. Too much. I will be leaving work at work, and not thinking about it after 5 or 6 pm, and only working one weekend day. And, apparently, I am not to "stress the small stuff." I think the real quote is "sweat the small stuff," but I don't like that. Sweat is blech-y.

Resolution three: Not to let one aspect of my life carry over to the others. This harkens back to good old resolution number two. Work is for work. Home is for not-work. Friends and others don't need to hear about work. Home, unfortunately, is also for listening to neighbors scream at each other and leave trash on the yard. But, hey, I'm all mellow and stuff now after following resolutions one and two, so it doesn't bother me. I'm trying.

That's it. I'll work on those. Luckily, I don't have too many flaws, so I don't need too many resolutions.

Want to hear my Easter miracle? I won money on a slot machine. Some of us celebrated the holy day by going to a casino (just for brunch) and I won some money. Okay, so I only won $4.60, but that's a box of Girl Scout Cookies. Which I could have used while watching the Masters Tournament. I cheered for Tiger, if only because he shares a name with my over-weight cat. They were both a disappointment this weekend.

Once back into Pullman (man, I really love to leave Pullman--see how much happier I am?), I rounded out my weekend (which was excellent in general) by watching The Sopranos. And Bobby couldn't have really kicked the shit out of Tony. We all know that.

Dressed for success

Odd comment from Laura: "Wow, this hospital is pretty nice. It's got good natural light and is quiet. I could study here."

Laura, for the record, wasn't the patient. I really hope she wasn't serious about studying at the hospital, because I would never see her. I have issues with hospitals. I'm hoping she was joking.

We were at the hospital visiting a friend whose appendix burst. Burst! On her spring break! How hard does that suck? I'm guessing pretty hard. Although, she did inform me that she gets to keep the hospital gown, and that's a pretty sweet score. Feel better, Shae.

In other Pullman news, Maryanne and I saw a dog dressed up the other day. Ok, while I enjoyed little Rocky's sweatshirt last week (see below post) and occasionally little Belle-vis had to wear a sweater in the winter (it was cold and she had no hair), I really don't appreciate animals dressed up. And by dressed up, I mean in outfits. And this dog (and it was a bigger dog, nothing precious like a Pomeranian or Chihuahua, so I'm guessing it was mortified) had on a shirt (SHIRT! And it looked like a button-up, dress shirt), a hat (like a yacht hat) and, dear Jesus save us all, a flowered lei. A lei.

After snickering about the dog getting "lei-d" I was just embarrassed for it. A maybe a tad bit envious that the dog was more fancy than I was. Please insert your own joke here about the last time I got lei-d.

Hey, speaking of creepy jokes, so I had to present yesterday on this project I did last year. It was about national parks. On the way to the presentation, I was talking about spicing up my talk with references to Elvis (because the ties between parks and Elvis are so clear, such as: they are both national treasures, they are a huge part of our nation's history, and they are both hot. Wait, that's just Elvis.). Maryanne made the huge mistake of saying she didn't think I could do it, and challenge accepted.

I stopped myself with three very subtle references to Elvis (and by subtle, I mean painfully blatant and semi-awkward for the audience). I could have done more, but I reined myself in. That was my controlling the crazy, for those who were there.

Okay, I need to work now. Interestingly enough, I am working on my Elvis lecture for next week's class. I have embraced the crazy.

Seriously, do these things happen to others?

Funny story from a few weeks ago. And by funny, I mean disturbing. And something that would only happen to me.

I was watching TV (and Scrubs really needs to stop sucking and pretending it's Grey's Anatomy--we don't need the "life lessons." I don't enjoy them on Grey's Anatomy--which is horrible, yet I kind of like it--and I don't enjoy them just because Dr. Cox is learning them with me) and I received a phone call. Background: Belle is my dog that died last summer, put to sleep by the WSU vet center.

And with a set-up like that, how could this story disappoint?

Phone: Ring, ring (actually "Pop! Goes My Heart!")
Me: This is Ace.
Person: Is this Ace?
Me: . . . Yes.
Person: Hi, Ace, this is Matt from the WSU vet center. We were calling to see how Belle is doing and how you would say we did in our treatment of her.
Me: Uh, she's dead. The vet center is actually where she was put to sleep. So I'd say she's peaceful* and your treatment, clearly not the best.
Matt: . . .
Me: To be fair, I guess it was pretty good until the whole "There's nothing more we can do" portion.
Matt: . . . Uh, yes . . . Uh, oh here, I see that in your records here a few lines down. (Awkward laugh) Guess I should have read that first.
Me: . . .
Matt: Uh, so overall, though, okay?
Me: Sure. Do you need something Matt?
Matt: Well, the WSU vet center works hard to provide wonderful care facilities for your pet--
Me: But she's dead.
Matt: (totally undeterred) And at a low cost. To do this, we rely on donations.
Me: This is a fund-raising call?
Matt: Uh, yes.
Me: You called me at 8:25 at night, remind me of your failure to fix my dog** and then hit me up for cash?
Matt: Yes. Again, I apologize for the earlier incident.
Me: (Racking my brain to remind myself if he had apologized, and then concluding he considered his awkward laugh a good enough version of an apology) Hey, ass-hat, by earlier incident do you mean my dog's death or your retardation failing to read through my file and reminding me of her death? (Ok, so that was inner-monologue)
Matt: Typically, we ask for $250.
Me: !!!
Matt: WSU vet center is--
Me: Does my file also show I'm a grad student? Does it show that technically I live below the poverty line?***
Matt: Oh yes, here it is. . . A graduate student. So what can you give?
Me: I could give your boss a call and tell him that Captain Cock-sicle made the worst fundraising phone call ever.

Ok, my actual answer was, "I could give $25," but I really wanted to say the other thing.

It was a fairly traumatic call. Luckily, I had a witness. Laura heard most of it, because I cranked up the volume on my phone. Of course, my righteous indignation might have appeared less righteous and more giggly, because I was so stunned by the whole thing that I kept laughing.

So that was fun. And then Laverne went into a coma. Not the best Thursday night ever.

*I believe, and not just because a cartoon says so, that all dogs go to heaven.
** Okay, so I might have been a bit unfair here. They did do everything they could, but come on.
***I'm hoping it doesn't show my credit card bill or mention my proclivity for buying things I can't afford.

Going the Distance

Wow, my poor little blog is slowly dying. So sad. I've been a bit busy, and sadly this is not a top priority.

But I'm currently waiting for someone to call back, and I'm at a bit of a standstill on a specific project until the phone rings (and I don't want to work on my other projects until this gets done later today), so I can kill some time here. I have TWO stories/posts for today, so there. Two, because I don't want to toss them together.

What have I been up to? After coming home from D.C., I remained in Pullman for a few days before a hectic road trip. I needed some archival info from the University of Utah, so I hopped in my car, and quickly completed this research. My time was severely limited, so my apologies to people in Pocatello and Utah that I had about five minutes to visit.

Since getting back, I've been working. I did love taking a long celebratory lunch a few weeks ago after finishing a major project. Thai food tastes so much better when the stress level is severely decreased. And I need to remember, when telling friends that it is time for a celebration lunch, to be clear I mean "celebrating" and not "Sella-brating" lest they go to the wrong spot. My bad. And that's for you, Castaspella.

Last week I also met a little black pug named Rocky. He was wearing a sweatshirt, which I found adorable because I pictured him triumphantly running up stairs. And when I told him his whole life was a million to one shot, I got crickets from Laura, from his owners, and from the cashier ringing up my pita. Not my audience, clearly.

But now I want a pug to play with my future/imaginary long-haired chihuahua. So all of you need to constantly and consistently remind me of the fact that I am the worst pet owner ever. Except for maybe those owners who dress their dogs in outfits that match their own. And those who name large dogs Tiny and small dogs Max. Ass-hats.