Welcome Home, Zia!

Zia, Week One:

First of all, she is absolutely beautiful. She has gorgeous liquid brown eyes, deep amber in sunlight (just like Zeke's were, when I first met him), and lovely black lining around her eyes. Her fur is striped like a tiger, and she can camouflage into our living room rug pretty tidily. She folds her paws daintily when she rests, and has a very pretty prancing trot when she walks. At different times she looks like a fawn, a horse, a giraffe (it's the neck), a wolf, and some sort of swimming creature, possibly a mermaid. She has a sleek, waving way of moving through the air like it's made of sea. And of course, she always looks like a queen. Last night we had people over and Zia held court from our bed, letting people come in and admire her and pet her without deigning to join the sweaty masses.

She's not like any dog I've ever known. She prefers inside to outside, to the point that we sometimes have to fight her to get her in the backyard to go potty. Even stranger, she loves going for walks; she just hates going into the backyard without a leash on. She doesn't know how to play, doesn't have much of a prey drive, and spends most of her time snoozing. She sleeps a lot.

She's very shy but not really anxious; she won't approach you but she also won't pee in fear or bolt when approached by strangers. She's very patient when little kids hit her and when puppies jump on her. She stood absolutely still when I wanted to clean her ears with q-tips, but was not down with the tooth brushing. Her passive resistance rivals Gandhi's. She's very polite about it, but if she doesn't want to do something, she won't.

Her fur is soft like a bunny's. She likes to be scratched on the neck, right behind her ears. Sometimes when she's sleeping you can see her bottom teeth. She really likes hot dogs but in general is the least food-motivated dog I've ever met. I have a hunch that any time spent with Grandma will change this. She is careful to take every single step going down, but is very nervous to do stairs in the dark. She already feels completely at home at StoryStudio, where she has a big poufy bed to sleep on, right next to my desk.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, we'll wake up to find her lying on her back with all four legs in the air, completely dead to the world.

The end of her tail has a little tuft of black hair, like a lion's tail, or an elephant's. She has a matching pink collar and leash, but strangers still call her "he," probably because she weighs 65 pounds of pure muscle and her head comes nearly to my waist. She likes to look out the front window, especially when N leaves for work. We both go to the front window then, and watch until she's out of sight.

She's a tidy eater and a sloppy drinker. Her nose drips when she's nervous. She's not particularly interested in toys, but sometimes I come home from work to find her curled up with a stuffed bunny in her crate. She puts herself to bed between 8 and 9 pm, and if we're still up she'll come into the hallway every half hour or so as if to ask, "Um, are you guys coming to bed, or what? Because it's bedtime."

She's sleeping in my bed right now, stretched out with her head resting delicately on N's legs, waiting for me to stretch out alongside her and run my hand along her long, soft neck, until we both fall asleep.

Sea Turtles, An Ocean Full of Garbage, and Us

Ever since I saw an article about how one-third of sea turtles have plastic in their digestive systems, I've been eschewing plastic bags at stores. I've felt gross about plastic bags ever since I first learned about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch last summer, but for whatever reason, the article about sea turtles really pushed me over the edge. I guess the sea turtles put a face on the problem? Like before, it was "Oh my god, gross, there's a floating island of garbage the size of Texas in the middle of the Pacific ocean, ugh, humans are awful." And now it's "SEA TURTLES! They just want to eat some jelly fish! STOP DUMPING PLASTIC IN THEIR OCEANS!"

When I think about sea turtles, I always think about my favorite Roald Dahl book, The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More, which has a story about a boy who befriends a sea turtle. Maybe I wish I were that boy, whispering to sea turtles, riding them out into the waves, disappearing into the blue horizon. Notice how this story doesn't include a part where the magical sea turtle eats a Walgreens bag and dies?

Also, sea turtles remind me of Zeke. They're just these peaceful monsters with crappy eyesight who live to eat yummy food. In his later years, Zeke would sometimes appear like Jaws and slowly shark down on your hand, hoping it was full of food (or maybe hoping you suddenly had steaks for hands). I imagine sea turtles the same way: coming across a floating plastic bag, thinking "ooh, jellyfish!" and chomping down. (Jellyfish, by the way, are bastards. I am strongly in favor of anyone who wants to eat them.)

Anyway, so I'm done with plastic bags. And I encourage you to be as well. This morning I stopped at Walgreens to pick some things up and because I couldn't fit it all in my purse, I bought a $0.99 cloth bag to carry everything. The lady at the counter asked me if I wanted to bag everything in plastic before putting it into the cloth bag, and I looked at her with horror. What? NO! Are you on crack, lady? Do you not understand the point of a cloth bag?

Last week I told someone at the grocery store that he could keep his plastic bag. "They kill sea turtles!" I said. He looked... politely interested, maybe? Bored? Worried I'd jump across the counter and strangle him? I'm not sure. "There's a floating island the size of Texas in the middle of the Pacific ocean, and it's made almost entirely of plastic!" I said. "I did not know that," he said, channeling the guy from Wayne's World. I'm sure he didn't actually care. But I do.

The True Meaning of St. Patrick's Day, or: There's Nothing Irish About That Jagerbomb

In the years since I traded the safe and happy bubble known as My Wisconsin Childhood for the cold and cruel existence known as My Iowa New Mexico Illinois Stressful and Expensive Student-Debt-Ridden Tax-Paying Adulthood, I have learned a few lessons about the wide world. Never pass up an opportunity for free food. You don't really have to wait an hour after lunch before you go swimming. Showing your boobs can get you shiny beads and free beers, but not out of speeding tickets. And (shockingly) St. Patrick's Day is a much bigger deal to our family than it is to almost everyone else.

This last one I learned first when I lived in New Mexico, where the holiday registers just above Casimir Pulaski day on the radar. I remember about falling out of my chair when someone explained that she didn't like St. Patrick's Day because of the pinching. "Who ever thought of a holiday all about pinching?"

Pinching? PINCHING??

St. Patrick's Day is not about pinching, my friends. It is not about pretending you're Irish just to get kisses. Contrary to what this city will tell you, it is not even about being falling-down-drunk by noon while men dressed as giant leprechauns try to roll your drunk ass into the neon-green river. (And no, random drunk guy in cab, I will not make out with that pole. Get back in your cab and take that ridiculous hat off. You're not "Chirish," you're just an alcoholic.)

St. Patrick's Day is about food. Delicious, delicious food. St. Patrick's Day is the Thanksgiving of spring, and like Thanksgiving, it's a holiday about family and togetherness and abundance and gratitude for these modern days when our potatoes aren't rotting in the fields and we have career options beyond cop and barmaid. We gather our friends and family and feast on corned beef and cabbage, potatoes, carrots, turnips, parsnips, onions, and loaf after loaf of gorgeous secret family recipe Irish Soda Bread. We add love and tears and generations of irish-catholic guilt, and cover it all in butter. We listen to The Chieftans and we commune with our ancestors and if we happen to cut ourselves and bleed into the bread, all the better.

We do not butter our Irish Soda Bread.

We do not put caraway in our Irish Soda Bread.

If you refuse to try our Irish Soda Bread because you "don't like raisins," we will mock you. Preferably until you cry. Just try the damn bread! You'll love it. I swear. No, you don't need to butter it! Jesus! JUST EAT THE BREAD!

Last weekend, my mother overheard my end of a cell phone conversation with my sister in which we outlined many of these rules in increasingly agitated fashion. When I yelled, "BUTTER? What's wrong with you??" my mother snorted diet pepsi through her nose and said, "I'm so proud of my children!"

In my family, we do not paint our faces green and use our Holy Feast Day as an excuse to get piss drunk with a bunch of frat boys. (Because who needs an excuse? If you need an excuse to drink, you're probably not Irish.) [As I was writing this, my friend Jeremy was twittering an Irish snarkfest. "Yeah, I'm listening to the Pogues. Do you know who that is, Green Shirt?" and "No matter how drunk you get, there will never be ANYTHING Irish about that Jagerbomb." I love him.]

We do not pinch. We don't play tricks or dye our beer green. My dad usually does tell thematically appropriate stories (including, but not limited to: "How A Leprechaun Stole My Backpack In Ireland" and "The Old Irish Farmer Who Was Possibly A Leprechaun Who Messed With Tom Dunne's And My Head In Ireland," and of course, "I Kissed The Blarney Stone And That Means I Get To Lie All The Time"). We wear green, sometimes. If we feel like it. We listen to the Chieftains and the Waterboys and Van Morrison and the Cranberries and the Pogues and Sinead O'Connor and the Dubliners and Cousin Kathy.

We make corned beef so good our friends get hooked and start shooting it straight into their veins.

We make soda bread so good the entire county demands their own loaf, and we turn our kitchens into soda bread factories for one week out of the year.

We feast. With friends, with family, we gather and serve it all up with love and gratitude and this amazing horseradish sauce. We feast.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, everyone! (Except you, drunk guy. Get back in your cab and take off that hat.)

Prioritizing Writing, Or: At Least There's One Good Thing About This Crappy Economy

Every now and again I actually scrape together enough time to blog at work, and then post it here to create the illusion that I actually do sometimes update my own blog, aside from all the youtube videos of ladies singing about grammar and Jesus singing about gays. Of course, if I were really diligent about posting videos, I'd direct you to KITTENS! INSPIRED BY: KITTENS! which is both funny and terrifying.

Anyway:
Prioritizing Writing

Misheard Carmina Burana Lyrics

I haven't laughed this hard since Megan and I were little kids making fart noises when we were supposed to be asleep.



You're welcome.

One Billion Trillion Units(?) of Deliciousness

In other words, The Greatest Snack Food Stadium Ever Built:



One billion trillion, dude. One billion trillion.

On a similar note, and in case you've been living in a Bacon Cave (or would it be a vegan cave? A bacon-hatin' cave? Anyway, you know what I mean), the internet's crazy for the Bacon explosion!! Almost as popular as that goddamn Snuggie.

Happy Superbowl!

1000 Novels Challenge

My friend Jennie over at Biblio File is hosting her first blog challenge.

The Guardian's 1000 Novels Challenge:

So, the challenge is to read 10 and review books off the list between February 1st of 2009 and February 1st of 2010.

Of these 10, you must read 1 from each category and, if possible, 1 should be a book you have never heard of until you saw it on this list.

That's right, folks, I'll take this challenge! I will read 1% of the Guardian's novels to read before I die, and I'll tell you about them! And at least one of them will be a book I've never heard of! And it will be awesome!

Because seriously, how could you resist a challenge you can do in the bathtub?

Baby Got Good Grammar... Back

Sit back and allow Sistersalad to tell you a little something about grammar, with a little help from Sir Mix-a-Lot.

Oh, Aunt Basil!

Cross your fingers and send good wishes to my mother's dog Basil, known for many years as "your little brother" and also answering to: Beez, Beezil, Weez, Weezil, Waz, Wazzil, Beezer-Weezer, Beezil-Weezil, Weenie Boy, Baz, Bazzy, Spazzil, Beefaroo, Pony Boy, Hobby Horse, Sits-Like-a-Person, Aunt Basil, Beeazulbub, Buddy, Bubba, Nancy Boy, Wild Nancy, Princess Basil, and "Shut up, you crabby old queen."

Basil has a mast cell tumor on his right shoulder that will be removed & biopsied next week to see if it has metastasized. Poor Bazzy. It's been a tough year for Backes Dogs, and it's definitely too soon to go through another cancer dog grieving process.

Basil

Plus, even though Aunt Basil is indeed a crabby old queen, though he's punched through two windows, left rabbit legs in Mom's purse, vomited a turtle in the back yard, and got cracked out on turkey and bit Natalie, mostly he's a nice freckle faced boy, and he's got a good number of years in him. We hope.

Biking, Blogging, and Barfing: A New Year's Round-Up

So apparently writing a blog is not much like riding a bike. Which is actually a good thing, because the last time I rode a bike I nearly got hit by a Netherlandian bus. I was in Amsterdam at the time, which explains the presence of the Netherlandian bus. I mean, it would probably be a better story if I were biking in Madison and got hit by a Netherlandian bus, because then you’d be like, Where did that Netherlandian bus come from? and I’d be like, I KNOW! What the hell! and you’d say, A Madison bus would never hit a biker! and I’d say, I KNOW! but a Chicago bus would, because one drove over this lady just last year, and that’s why I haven’t ridden a bike since –

Actually, you know what, I take that back. The last time I rode a bike was in Madison, when I lived on Rodney Court, and it IS a better story, but one my attorneys have advised me not to share publicly. Buy me a beer and I’ll tell you sometime.

Also I used to ride on Lisa Otte’s tandem bike in college, but that mostly involved me putting my feet up and letting her pedal us both.

The point is, you’re supposed to be able to ride a bike forever once you’ve learned, but clearly the same isn’t true for blogging, because for the last six weeks I’ve had no idea what to write about. None. Though obviously telling stories about biking is a rich vein to mine.

So, last six weeks, in brief: My sister came to visit for Thanksgiving! and introduced me to the delight that is Hacker-Pschorr. I had to work the whole weekend, but she played with Natalie and then helped me move a podium to StoryStudio, where it is already much beloved. I made the rounds of the usual 10,000 holiday parties, missing only Kate’s birthday because I was sick (happy birthday, Kate!) but making it to Jere & Erin’s tree trimming party, Chris’s Festivus party, our own Annual Cookie Exchange Party (now with more 100% more Circles of Celebration!), StoryStudio’s holiday party, StoryStudio’s Open House, Dan & Kelly’s Christmas Eve LOTR marathon (straight after working xmas eve at the dogstore; I ate some turkey and promptly collapsed into a snoring heap in the papysan chair), and finally Natalie and Molly’s Quiet Christmas Morning Tiny Party, Guest-Starring Mamabackes. And in the middle of all those parties, I also managed to buy a few xmas presents (including some awesome art & a lobster shirt from Threadless, who live in the same building as StoryStudio and are pretty cool), dyed my hair black just because I always had a hunch I could pull it off, worked a million retail hours at the dogstore, bought myself a new sweater (it's blue!), managed to land a position as a poet-in-residence with the wonderful Hands On Stanzas program (and no, regardless of what my father may have told you, I am not the Poet Laureate of Chicago), got a promotion at StoryStudio (Assistant Director, woo!), and even read a few books.

And then the New Year came, and with it came the ebola. I lost a week of my life – one fifty-secondth of the new year – to a hideous death flu contracted from my mother, the birthday girl. It was ugly. Let’s not speak of it ever again, except in reference to “the sickest I’ve ever been,” and hopefully told only as legendary war story, as in, “You think this is bad? This is nothing compared to the 2009 Death Flu,” and NOT “wow, I’m even sicker now than I was with the Death Flu of 2009!”

Anyway, so this is exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid these last few weeks: you’re so good to come back to my mostly defunct blog, checking in on me to see if I have anything interesting to say to distract you from whatever boring task you’re trying to avoid, and all I can give you is a long list of randomness and then a story about barfing.

But since you've been such a good, diligent reader, and because you've been so kind to overlook my sloppy and excessively parenthetical blogging ways, instead of the very predictable, pedestrian conclusion-with-a-half-assed-promise-to-do-better-in-the-new-year, I offer a picture of the present I bought myself today. Because I’ve coveted it for months, and because it’s adorable.

Happy new year!

Wordle my nerdle

Zeke Wordle

Given that my primary obsession from about 2000 to 2003 was the problem of making visual art out of words, how is it possible that I didn't know about Wordle? The site allows you to enter a web address, body of text, or del.icio.us user name, and from there generates a random word cloud based on the number of times certain words appear in the text. I used the text from Teacher's Pet to generate this one. (Click on the image to see a larger version.)

Shoplifting Dog

Apparently it's a slow news day in Utah.....

Santa Lost a Ho

Happy Holidays, everyone!

Cabinet of Nerds

December 17, 2008
Rock Bottom Brewery, Chicago

Nat: ...and that is why I love licorice the best.
Me: Can I interrupt you? What is this song?
Music: La la... female of the species is more deadly than the male....
Nat: Hmmm. I don't know.
Me: It's from high school. I haven't heard this song in like 10 years. Who sings this?
Nat: Let's see if we can guess. [listens intently] Yeah, I got nothing.
Me: 1996, I think.
Nat: I don't know. I'm going to guess it's 1998 trying to sound like 1996.
Me: Okay, fair enough........... what is this song?
Nat: It's definitely familiar.
Me: Maybe it's a one hit wonder.
Nat: Or the B-side of a one hit wonder.
Me: Yeah, maybe they had a more popular song, and this was their under-appreciated second single.
Nat: That sounds right.
Me: Or maybe this was the hit. This was the wonder.
Nat: Also possible.

Text Message
Dec 17, 9:56 pm
From: Molly
To: Rory, Doug, Leonard

Who sang that female of the species song ca 1996?

Dec 17, 9:58 pm
From: Doug
To: Molly

Space


Me: It was Space.
Nat: Oh. Guess we're both wrong.


Dec 17, 10:08 pm
From: Rory
To: Molly

Space is the name of the group. Man I LOVE that song!...is more deadly than the male... shock shock horror

Dec 17, 10:15 pm
From: Molly
To: Rory

What year?

Dec 17, 10:19
From: Rory
To: Molly

'96

Dec 17, 10:19
From: Molly
To: Rory

I am awesome.

Twofer Monday

With special guest star Neil Patrick Harris! Also, Jesus.

Prop 8 The Musical


I Love the Gays

Dear Zachary: a letter to a son about his father

Dear friends: you should probably go see this movie. Chicago, it's now playing at the Gene Siskel Film center downtown, scheduled for this week only. Courtney, Sara, Megan, and everyone in Portland, it's at the Hollywood Theatre next week. Albuquerque folks, it's playing in Santa Fe on the 28th. Everyone else, you're on your own. But really, if you have the chance, see this film. It's good, and so, so sad.

Dogs, 2; Chickens, 1. Oh, and Gays? ZERO

So, Tuesday was amazing. Being in Chicago was absolutely incredible. It was like everyone was having their birthday on the same day. But not just any birthday: the BEST birthday. That one birthday you looked forward to your whole LIFE, the one where you finally got a PONY.

Happy Birthday, America!

And not only was Obama totally eloquent and poetic as always, but then he went and promised his daughters a PUPPY? In his acceptance speech?!? Best president ever! The only thing better would be if he promised EVERYONE a puppy! Hey Obama, we ALL worked hard to get you elected! We stood in lines for hours! We TOTALLY deserve a puppy!! That would be great, too, because then we wouldn't have to move. We'd be like, Sorry Landlady! I know our lease says No Dogs, but this is from the PRESIDENT. President Obama! It's our fundamental right to have a puppy!

Ahhh.... a girl can dream, right?

Speaking of fundamental rights, though, I have to say that the happiness of the election has been tempered by the total shittiness of Prop 8. The title of this blog is Bittersweet, but it's rarely so apropos. For the last two days, I've have this tight feeling in my throat like in middle school when your friends all suddenly decided they didn't like you anymore and wouldn't let you sit with them, but wouldn't tell you why. Years ago, when I used to teach "bully proofing" in middle and high schools, my students nearly always agreed that the kind of psychological exclusion bullying was the worst by far. Today I'm reminded of it, and though I'm so, so pleased by the presidential election, and so happy about President Obama, my happiness is being choked out by this feeling of sitting by myself at lunch, wondering what I did wrong.

It's hard to join the overwhelming national celebration of falling racial barriers when, at the very same time, laws are being passed to discriminate against a large group of Americans. I mean, how could the people of California seriously stand in the voting booth and think, "I am totally voting for Barack Obama! It's about time we had a minority in the White House! Hell yes! This generation is so much more enlightened and tolerant and awesome than any other generation in American history! Oh, and while I'm here... I think 18,000 marriages between loving, consenting adults should totally be annulled! What, they want equal rights? Who do they think they are? This is America!"

Ugh.

Meanwhile, those very same voters overwhelmingly passed Prop 2, granting rights to chickens to stand up and stretch their wings while waiting to be fricasseed.

And then, in a kick-me type comedy of bad timing, the Chicago suburb Oak Park is hosting a Mass Wedding Ceremony this weekend, just to rub it in. Great, Oak Park, thanks for reminding thousands of Chicagoans that they can no longer head out to sunny CA to get married.

Oh, and did I mention that this Mass Wedding is for DOGS?

It's a Mass Dog Wedding. Because they can get married. Just not gay people.

So here's the thing. Personally, I have no problem with the event -- it's a fundraiser for a local shelter, and you know, whatever it takes to raise money for pooches. But. I'm thinking that the Mass Dog Wedding in Oak Park will certainly be mobbed by protesters, right? Because the reason states keep passing straight marriage only laws is to "protect the sanctity of marriage." Because the sanctity of Brit's various marriages, and Madonna's inevitable third marriage, and the sacred unions of the hundreds of people who get married at Graceland Wedding Chapel each year is so sanct that it needs constant protection from evil gays who also want to have three different hubands and get married by Elvis!

But seriously, California and everyone who voted for Prop 8: surely, the mass dog wedding makes FAR more of a mockery of your sacred institution than the weddings of committed, consensual, adult human beings who actually love each other?? Right? I mean, you have to protect marriage from all threats, not just the threat of a wedding with two brides and no grooms. So get your asses out here and protest this shit, because otherwise I'm going to start suspecting that you don't care that much about marriage after all, and you ACTUALLY JUST HATE GAY PEOPLE.

Boo to California, Florida, and Arizona for ruining what should have been an amazing, perfect week for me. And props to the Obamas for thinking about getting your puppy from a rescue organization instead of a breeder or puppy mill. I'll take a rescued puppy too, please. If you're in town, we could even get them dog-married.

November 4, 2008

We know the battle ahead will be long. But always remember that, no matter what obstacles stand in our way, nothing can stand in the way of the power of millions of voices calling for change.

We have been told we cannot do this by a chorus of cynics. And they will only grow louder and more dissonant in the weeks and months to come.

We've been asked to pause for a reality check. We've been warned against offering the people of this nation false hope. But in the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope.

For when we have faced down impossible odds, when we've been told we're not ready or that we shouldn't try or that we can't, generations of Americans have responded with a simple creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes, we can. Yes, we can. Yes, we can.

It was a creed written into the founding documents that declared the destiny of a nation: Yes we can.

It was whispered by slaves and abolitionists as they blazed a trail towards freedom through the darkest of nights: Yes, we can.

It was sung by immigrants as they struck out from distant shores and pioneers who pushed westward against an unforgiving wilderness: Yes, we can.

It was the call of workers who organized, women who reached for the ballot, a president who chose the moon as our new frontier, and a king who took us to the mountaintop and pointed the way to the promised land: Yes, we can, to justice and equality.

Yes, we can, to opportunity and prosperity. Yes, we can heal this nation. Yes, we can repair this world. Yes, we can.

And so, tomorrow, as we take the campaign south and west, as we learn that the struggles of the textile workers in Spartanburg are not so different than the plight of the dishwasher in Las Vegas, that the hopes of the little girl who goes to the crumbling school in Dillon are the same as the dreams of the boy who learns on the streets of L.A., we will remember that there is something happening in America, that we are not as divided as our politics suggest, that we are one people, we are one nation.

And, together, we will begin the next great chapter in the American story, with three words that will ring from coast to coast, from sea to shining sea:

Yes we can.

One Day More

Les Misbarack

I VOTED!

...and it only took me two and a half hours!

The Line to Vote at Welles Park

I went over to Welles Park on Thursday, knowing I'd have to wait in line for a while -- I figured a half hour, maybe an hour. When I got in line, a man said it was about two hours from the tree. The tree? I wasn't even AT the tree yet! I thought about cashing it in then and waiting until Tuesday, but it was such a beautiful day, and I didn't actually have anything better to do, so I decided to stay and wait. And wait. And wait.

Two Hours From the Tree

It could have been fun, if the people around me had been fun. I tried to make friends, thinking about how fun it would be to say we'd become friends waiting in line to vote in the 2008 election. But the woman behind me did NOT want to be friends with me. We stood next to each other for two hours and fifteen minutes, without break -- one hundred and thirty five minutes, each one slower than the one before -- and she REFUSED to befriend me. The man behind her seemed like he would have been friends, but by the time I was desperate enough with boredom to try to befriend him, he'd been beaten into submission by Silent Lady's aggressive silence.

Inside, the Line Snaked Up and Down the Hallway

I wrote in my journal for over an hour, standing awkwardly, cradling it against my left arm, but after ten or so pages I was sick of myself. No wonder Silent Lady didn't want to befriend me. I was BORING. Eventually, I decided to bag writing, and started texting my friends for moral support. I'M WAITING TO VOTE. IT'S HOT AND SMELLY IN HERE. I'VE BEEN HERE OVER AN HOUR ALREADY AND I'M HUNGRY AND TIRED. They wrote back, "IS IT SMELLY BECAUSE YOU'RE THERE?" and "SUCKS TO BE YOU!!" My sister wrote, "IN OREGON WE GET TO MAIL OUR BALLOTS. HA." Not exactly the kind of moral support I was looking for, a-holes. But thanks.

When I finally got to the part where I got to hand my voter information to a sleepy volunteer, I was very nervous that they'd make some sort of fuss about it, but it all went through just fine. Not so for the woman in front of me (not Silent Lady - this woman was more like Justifiably Angry Lady). The poll worker who took Justifiably Angry Lady's info said that according to the system, she'd already voted "like NINE times!" JAL said, "I haven't voted yet, but I've been waiting in line for over two hours, and I would really like to vote now." The volunteer called the head of the polling place over, and she fired off a bunch of questions at JAL: "Did you apply for an absentee ballot? No? Well, you must have been living abroad in the last few years. Did you move recently? Well, you must have applied for an absentee ballot. That's the only explanation. Or you were living in another country." JAL planted her fists against her hips. "I haven't lived in another country, ever, I've been living in the same place for five years, and I did NOT apply for an absentee ballot. AND I've been waiting in line to vote for the last two hours!"

By the time I left, after doggedly working my way through the 15 page ballot, and double checking my answers like it was a school test, and printing out a paper trail of evidence that I voted, and getting my receipt of voting to put in my scrapbook, JAL was still standing there, waiting to vote. Yikes.

These are strange, hopeful times. If you haven't voted yet... have fun standing in line on Tuesday! Bring a book, catch up on old Newsweeks you've been meaning to get through. Hand out snacks to your fellow voters. Make friends with the people around you (unless they're Aggressively Silent).

Vote. Vote. Vote.

An Evening with Jonathan Kozol

That's right, JONATHAN KOZOL!! I MET him!

Here's how you know whether or not you're an education nerd:
If you're currently squealing with excitement and jealousy, you ARE.
If you're scratching your head and going, Jonathan Who? then you are NOT an education nerd, not even if you're an educator yourself. In fact, if you're an educator or an educational administrator, and you haven't heard of Kozol, then you have some major catching up to do. Also, for the record, if you're an administrator and you've never heard of Kozol, then you must stop rolling your eyes at how lame and uneducated your staff is, because please. You need to read Kozol. And then stop being such an asshole.

Anyway... KOZOL!!

Jonathan Kozol

Several weeks ago, I told my awesome (and certified Major Education Nerd) friend Evone that Kozol was coming to Chicago. Her immediate response was to start looking for plane tickets. Then she turned to her school and talked them into letting her take professional development days to fly to Chicago and see Kozol speak. That's right, Evone is such an education nerd that she flew all the way from New Mexico just to listen to little 72-year-old Jonathan Kozol wave his arms and talk about poor kids for an hour and a half. And it was WORTH IT.

He had to roll up his sleeves and show us his little old man arms

For forty years, Jonathan Kozol has been the voice for poor children in this country. He has taken an unrelenting look at the economic disparities built into the public education system, and with books like Savage Inequalities and The Shame of the Nation, he's exposed the underlying racism and classism in our schools. In fact, Kozol argues that our schools today are more racially segregated than they've been in any year since 1968, the year Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. Truly, it is shameful.

As teachers who have worked with children in rural poverty, particularly in this climate of ruthless and constant high-stakes testing, Evone and I were both thrilled to hear Kozol discuss the ways in which NCLB and high-stakes testing hurt children of poverty. I mean, it's awful, and it's absolutely heartbreaking, but at the same time there's always something so thrilling about hearing someone else put words to your experiences, reassuring you that you're not alone. The woman next to us was literally responding to him as if he was a preacher in the House of Education. "Yes sir," she kept saying. "Amen. Uh-huh! Uh-huh! Amen!"

A part of me wanted to Amen and Uh-huh right along with her, but I was too busy nodding and taking notes.

Mostly, Kozol talked about his latest book, Letters to a Young Teacher, in which he exchanges letters with an optimistic young teacher in an inner-city Boston school. The teacher, Francesca, is an example of what a difference a wonderful teacher can make in the life of a child. Unfortunately, as Evone and I both know firsthand, many such teachers across the country are being hamstrung by administrations and legislation pushing for less love and more "rigor" in the classroom. Many wealthy suburban schools can afford to ignore the mandates of NCLB, because they can afford to lose federal funding. Poor urban (and rural!) schools, on the other hand, absolutely cannot. Therefore, says Kozol, teachers in wealthy, suburban schools can afford the time to allow students to ask the big questions, to jump on teachable moments, to diverge from the lesson plan and wonder and wander and discover and explore. Teachers in poor schools, however, can't afford to do anything but drill, drill, drill. Not when a drop in test scores means the loss of your job. Not when people from the district office and the state department are sitting in the back of your classroom, giving you the evil eye if you deign to allow one off-topic question.

It's hard.

Anyway, Kozol was just lovely. He was incandescent. He was a beautiful spirit, and his was a call to action beyond a mere year in TFA. ("God did not put poor little black and hispanic children on this earth to provide fodder for brief moral interludes in the lives of white college students.") Change in this country must be real and lasting, and it must come from all of us, especially those of us who can speak for the millions of children without voices, who are being trained to fill in bubbles and comply without questions.

Evone asks a question

Afterward, we went down to meet him, to shake his hand and thank him. Organizers of the event stood around him, fussing for him to stop spending so much time with each teacher and student who had a question. They needed to move him into the event next door, they explained, where wealthy stakeholders had paid extra to drink champagne and make liberal small talk with him. The irony of it was rather painful, but Kozol ignored his handlers and happily chatted with us, congratulating the woman in front of us for dropping out of grad school and giving out suggestions of ways to advocate for children.

Finally, they pulled him away and we rode the elevator down to the street and stepped out into the chilly autumn night with his final words ringing in our ears: "Old trees, and the joyfulness of children, will outlive us all."

Hatred & Racism at a Palin Rally in Johnstown, PA

If you're feeling remotely good about this country and its people today, you might not want to watch this video.




I always thought that "Of the people, by the people, for the people," was an incredibly inspiring, hopeful phrase. It's been my touchstone for understanding this country and its government for years and years. We're not supposed to question our president? Sorry bud, of the people by the people for the people says differently! The little guy can't make a difference? Community organizers are stupid? Not according to a little phrase I like to call Ofthepeoplebythepeopleforthepeople!

This year, it occurred to me -- for the first time -- that maybe "The People" are not MY people, and maybe the gaps between us are more like canyons. If The [racist, hateful, vitriolic] People are going to run this country, then maybe my touchstone phrase no longer works.

Some days it's awfully hard to keep the faith, isn't it? But I return to another touchstone, this one a quotation from Anne Frank:

"In spite of everything [and I do mean everything, you ignorant racist bastards], I still believe that people are really good at heart."





Sigh... let's hope she's right.

Permission

Grammar Therapy

I am such a nerd.

I know this about myself, and I'm totally fine with it. I've made my peace, as Leslie would say. I've made my peace.

One of the many manifestations of my utter nerdiness is my interest in grammar. I wouldn't say I'm a grammar nazi, or even a grammar queen. More like a connoisseur. I'm interested in language, in general, and in finding ever more perfect ways to express myself, in specific. In person -- in speech -- I don't care too much about grammar, because we have so many ways of conveying meaning: through body language, through facial expression, through tone of voice and gesture and pitch. Grammar's job is to help language be as meaningful as possible. In speech, it's not as needed. On paper, it's far more important.

Still, it makes me sad to think about the people in this world who feel crippled by their lack of knowledge and skills when it comes to grammar and punctuation. I've never been in this particular group myself, but I HAVE been a member of the crippled-by-lack-of-knowledge-and-skills-in-MATH group, and I'm sure that they're equally unfun. Somewhere along the line, someone made you feel stupid about your inability to correctly capitalize a letter or factor a polynomial, and there's been a part of you that's just a little broken, ever since. I get that. I know.

So when Jill asked me to teach a grammar class at StoryStudio Chicago, I told her I didn't want to teach anything traditional. I didn't want to add to the grammar stress people are already carrying around in their hearts. Instead, I decided to create a class I'm calling Grammar Therapy. I'm thinking of it as one part grammar and punctuation instruction to three parts giving yourself permission to make mistakes sometimes and regaining the confidence you need to write without worrying as much about grammar and punctuation.

Also, we'll probably make some fun of the French.

Anyway, it's going to be fantastic, and if you or anyone you know needs a brush up on grammar & punctuation or permission to split the occasional infinitive, come on down.

Name That Name!

Because everyone from college is now having babies or thinking about having babies or thinking about NOT having babies -- in other words, going through their late 20s and early 30s -- the Grinnellians started talking about baby names the other day. Specifically, Secret Future Baby Names, those names you hold close to your heart for future children, names that are so beautiful and perfect that merely uttering them aloud would certainly spark a tsunami of babies with the same name. Secret Future Baby Names must be kept secret, or they run the risk or becoming the next Hannah, Madison, Emma, or Nevaeh:

Popularity of the name Nevaeh, 1880-2007

So then we were talking about our favorite secret baby names that have been RUINED by popularity or pop culture or whatever, and the lovely Sarah Aswell posted a link to this site, which generates bar graphs showing name popularity.

God, I love bar graphs.

So obviously, the first thing you do is search for your own name:

Molly

Mmm-hmm. Interesting. Looks like there were only about 2,000 Mollys the year I was born. Then there's some sort of weird spike around 1991, which I'll attribute to all the women who loved John Hughes movies as teenagers hitting their twenties and having babies. Still, the Molly trend isn't nearly as big as I'd feared, which is fantastic. I like being the only Molly people know. I was always the only Molly in school until my junior year of high school, when suddenly there were THREE Mollys in the freshman class. I numbered them and announced to each of them that they would be known as Molly #2, #3, and #4 henceforth. I, of course, was Molly #1.

Except... I'm not actually a Molly on the Census, I'm a Mary.

Mary

It looks like a boa who swallowed an elephant. Anyway, whew! Glad I wasn't born between 1920 and 1960! How embarrassing to be one of 70,000+ other Marys! No, I was born in the Carter administration, and there were only like 10,000 of us that year! That's practically zero!

Comparing the two, it's clear that no matter how much I worried about the growing popularity of Molly in the 90s, I'm still more unusual as a Molly than as a Mary. Especially considering how much time I spend hanging out in nursing homes.

Popularity of Mary (in green) Versus Popularity of Molly (in orange)

The next one is for those of you who grew up in the 70s and 80s:


Jennifer

Yep. That about sums up third grade, Jenny L, Jenny B, Jenny S, Jennie W, Jennifer L, and Jennifer B.

Finally, my niece's name, Elodie:

Elodie

Twenty-two? Twenty-two Elodies, total, between 1880 and 2006?

So I guess there's good reason I had never heard this name until the day after she was born, when I got an email from my step-mother announcing Elodie's birth. "Elodie Esmee Cummins born October 21, 7 pounds 5 ounces!" My first thought was: "So... I can tell people I'm related to ee cummins?" It wasn't until I talked to Sally that I even knew how to pronounce it. Ay-lo-dee? Ell-uh-dee? (Most people use the second pronunciation, but her father uses the first. Elodie herself says "Ell-dee-dee.") (Have I mentioned that she's COMPLETELY ADORABLE? Not that I'm biased, of course.)

Anyhow, the name quickly grew on me, and now I think it's kind of perfect: absolutely unique, but not too weird or hard to say. It's just like Melody, without the M. Easy.

And yes, I looked up my Secret Future Baby Name. The bar graph would blow your mind. You can search for it yourself, as soon as I print up the birth announcements for Future Baby Backes....





...in about ten years.

Busy Like Kim Kelly

Okay, okay. I know you've all been terribly neglected and you don't even know what to do with yourselves. I know you've been obsessively checking this site every day, hoping... wishing... that maybe.... It's not that I've forgotten you, I swear. It's just that I'm so goddamn busy, all the time.

Even now.

Because I don't have time to write some thoughtfully scathing-yet-fond review of some aspect of life in Chicago, or even point out that I realized last night just how well you can see into my apartment from across the street, and started wondering just why it is, exactly, that those homeless guys always sit precisely across from my apartment in lawn chairs... and oh my god how many times have they seen me naked??

What was I saying? Oh right: I actually have to run in a few minutes -- I know, lame -- but in the meantime I'll answer some of your most frequently asked questions:

Q: Are you dead?

A: No.

Q: Are you sure? Because in your case, no news is NOT good news.

A: I swear! I'm just really effing busy these days.

Q: Yeah? So... what's so important that you can't take a few minutes and update your damn blog?

A: Well. First of all, I got a second job, because one job is not nearly hardcore enough for someone as hardcore as I. Also, because I'm poor. So in the last month or so I jumped from working about 25 hours a week to working about 50. Pretty awesome.

Q: Are you writing? Aren't you supposed to be writing? That is why you quit teaching and gave up your job security and health insurance and my ulcer is so much bigger whenever I think about you, isn't it? ISN'T IT? YOU'D BETTER BE WRITING!!

A: I am. I am! I keep learning this pesky little lesson about how much happier I am when I'm writing. It's a pain in the ass lesson to learn, certainly, but it's good to know. I'm currently working on my second novel, which is in the early stages of being a complete and utter mess. But I'd like to think that in the end, it will be kind of neat.

Q: What about the other novel? The one that you're supposed to publish so you can send me to Cabo and get me out of this godforsaken grey winter hell?

A: First of all, it's actually only October. No need to panic just yet, even though yesterday the sky was awfully gray. Incidentally, did you know that they spell "grey" with an E in the Queen's English and an A in American English?

Q: Really? That's pretty interesting.

A: I know. I kind of like the E. It seems softer. Like a bunny.

Q: I love bunnies! Wait... are you avoiding the question?

A: No.

Q: Well? The novel?

A: Right. It's in my agent's hands. She and I had coffee a few weeks ago and it was quite lovely. She is a very charming person. Except when she goes through my manuscript with a red pen.

Q: Uh... isn't that the point?

A: Probably. I'm actually very grateful for all her hard work. Thanks, Becca!

Q: Did they fix your roof yet?

A: We think so. It looks fixed... sort of. At least there's not a hole in the ceiling anymore.

Q: So, are you moving?

A: Hope so. Sometime in the near future?

Q: Are you asking me?

A: No, just expressing uncertainty. Why, do you have an awesome apartment for us?

Q: Sorry.

A: That's cool.

Q: So, if you HAD been blogging in the last few weeks, what would you have written about?

A: Lots of wonderful things. We saw Judy Blume & Lois Lowry & the guys who wrote the book about the gay penguin read at a Banned Books Read Out downtown a few weeks ago, and it was fantastic. I've managed to catch all the debates so far, though I'll have to miss tomorrow's because I have a class. I got an Obama shirt in the mail the other day, but I think I'll have to give it to my dad because it's weirdly giant, and invites many awkward jokes about Obama's face and my boobs.

Q: Creepy.

A: I know.

Q: Anything else?

A: That about sums it up, I think.

Q: Wanna play Wildlife Prairie Park?

A: Shoot, I'd love to, but I have to run. Oh, there is one more thing:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JACKSON GALE!!

Q: The end?

A: The end. For now.

George Drake Players @ The Playground

Tonight! George Drake Players, the smartest, most awesomest Grinnell Alumni Improv team in Chicago, at The Playground Theater, 8pm.


They bring it with the funny.

No Duping!

This afternoon, I took a stroll around the block while waiting for a conference call that never came. It's a gorgeous, warm September day, not a bit like winter, regardless of what my subconscious thinks. (A few nights ago at Kate's, we were talking about something or other and I said, "Now that it's winter...." and everyone looked at me until Natalie patted my hand nicely. "It's not winter yet, Molly. It's not even fall." Not in my head, though. One cold weekend and it's winter, forever, until next June.)

Anyway, so I came across this sign:

No Duping Allowed!

And I thought, well, that's good. I wouldn't want to be duped right now. I'm glad to know that I'm in a dupe-free zone, though I don't know how wide the no-duping range is. Could I be duped on the next block? Across the street?

After snapping a picture, I turned around to see this sign directly across from me:

Elephants! Performing Elephants!

Oh my gosh! I thought. Could there REALLY be ELEPHANTS in that old warehouse, just a few blocks from my office? Could I go pet them on a bad day, offer peanuts to their little prehensile noses? Could they snuffle my blues away? ELEPHANTS???

And then I realized: I'm standing in a NO DUPING ZONE! It's totally illegal to trick people here! Therefore, there MUST BE ELEPHANTS IN THAT WAREHOUSE!


I am SO going to befriend them. Elephants!

2008 Debate BINGO

From Mother Jones Magazine, a BINGO card/drinking game so you can play along at home:

Debate BINGO card

Two for Wednesday

Two links that made me laugh:

Hamlet as a Facebook Feed, which probably isn't very funny if you're not a Facebook person, but is absolutely hilarious if you are,

and

Are You an Elitist? 18 Ways to Tell for Sure: "You recognize and appreciate more than 50 percent of the references and enjoy at least a quarter of the featured profiles in the New York Times Arts section. Also, you read the New York Times. Also, you read."

Bon Anniversaire, Bittersweet!

Or: Still Ranting After All These Years

This week marks the Five Year Anniversary/Blogday of Bittersweet. Happy five years, Bittersweet!

I meant to celebrate on the actual day -- September 8 -- but once again I find myself deeply immersed in rewrites. So it's a very merry belated blogday, this time around.

I'm sure you haven't noticed, but I really like anniversaries, birthdays, turning points, and so forth. I like to stand on top of a hill and look back to where I've been, to chart the road I've already traveled. Five years ago, when I started this blog, I'd just moved from rural Iowa to Albuquerque, New Mexico, which felt extremely cosmopolitan at the time. The mere proximity of such luxuries as a pet store! a movie theater playing more than one film at a time! more than one bookstore! and a mall! All within a ten minute drive! seemed incredible, after five years in Grinnell, where we had to drive 100 miles round trip just to go to a Barnes & Noble. Of course, ABQ didn't feel very cityish for long, particularly after I started working out in the East Mountains & commuted out of what little claim to cityness we had in ABQ, trading the city for the mountains every morning. I never worked in the city, in the four years I lived in and around Albuquerque.

I've been thinking about this distinction lately, city vs. country, thanks to the Republican Convention. Last weekend, we were in Iowa for a wedding (my third Des Moines wedding in four years) and, as always, I felt something in my heart take a deep breath and relax the second we crossed the Mississippi River.

You asked what land I love the best, Iowa, tis Iowa,
The fairest State of all the west, Iowa, O! Iowa,
From yonder Misissippi's stream
To where Missouri's waters gleam
O! fair it is as poet's dream, Iowa, in Iowa.

See yonders fields of tasseled corn, Iowa in Iowa,
Where plenty fills her golden horn, Iowa in Iowa,
See how her wonderous praries shine.
To yonder sunset’s purpling line,
O! happy land, O! land of mine, Iowa, O! Iowa.

When I first moved to Iowa, the state tourism motto was "Iowa: You make me smile," which at first I thought was ridiculous, then sort of hokily charming, then adorable, and finally irrefutably true. Iowa, you do make me smile.

I grew up in a town of about 6,000 people (it's bigger now -- probably close to 8,000) and spent a large part of my childhood running around in cornfields. From there, I moved to a town of 10,000 in the middle of rural Iowa. I have been accused of constructing my identity as it suits me: I can be a country mouse from a small town in Wisconsin, or I can be a liberal hippie kid from just outside Madison, depending on which better serves my argument. I can be a country girl who moved across the country with her dog and whatever fit in the back of her pickup truck, or I can be a boho city dweller who jumped off the obvious career path to live in Chicago & be a writer. In fact, I am all of these at once, and none of them exclusively.

How many of us can fit into one demographic only? Not many, I'd wager. In fact, we all have multiple identities, fluid constructions of self that change from year to year and conversation to conversation. Generally, I'm a country mouse, happiest out of the big city, among the cornfields and wide skies of the rural midwest, but the fact remains that I've also lived in Boston and Chicago and Albuquerque, and though I may have come off as a bit of a hayseed at times, in the end I've done just fine for myself in cities.

So what's up with this utterly false divide between "small town values" and "big city liberals"? Why are the republicans pretending to value people from small towns and trashing people from cities? I may be a city dweller these days, but I don't think that my values have changed a bit over the years. Growing up in a small town meant knowing that anytime you do something wrong, somebody's going to see you and call your mother. It means that your life is witnessed and valued by a community. It means that you're held accountable for your actions and remembered for your successes. It means that you're accepted for who you are -- yes, even the gays, and the jews, and the blacks. It means that you're responsible for the wellbeing of your neighbors, that you look out for each other, that you share the excesses of your garden in good years and show up with hot dishes in times of trouble.

But the thing is, this country is far too big to work in a small-town way. It would be fantastic if we could apply the "small town values" of caring for each other and helping one another out on a larger, nation-wide scale. With 6,000 people, it's not hard to keep track of who needs money for chemotherapy and who could use help shoveling their driveway; with 301,139,947 people, it's nearly impossible. On a nation-wide scale, affordable health care would certainly help. Early childhood education, strong public schools, and a national living wage would help. Doesn't it seem that so many of the programs the democrats are accused of "wastefully spending" government money on are the very ones which stand in for small town values?

I may live in Chicago, but I'm still a small town girl. I'm still a country mouse. I've been a cornshucker and a pickup driver, I like country music & bluegrass, and I fervently fervently believe that the job of a society is to take care of its weakest members, whether that be a small town raising money for a friend's chemotherapy or a national government giving money to workforce training and support programs. My values are small town values, goddammit, and they're ALL ABOUT TAKING CARE OF PEOPLE and not about taking care of corporations. I resent the hell out of anyone who tries to claim my small town values to push an agenda that's uncaring and doesn't offer the same rights to all citizens.

Five years ago, I started this blog as a way to keep in touch with my family and friends after I moved 1,500 miles away from them. Today, I maintain it to stay connected to them and to the many friends I've made along the way. Essentially, it's about communication, about pulling the strings a little tighter, about keeping our community close. We're a wandering society, and these days we're too far apart to meet in the local coffeehouse or church basement to catch up with one another. And yet, we're still looking out for one another, still doing our best to help our neighbors and friends when they need a hand.

Happy five years, everyone. Thanks for reading.