Superstition Drive-by

Yesterday, the electrical guys kicked me out of my apartment for a while so they could change a 110V socket to a 220V socket (long story, but it relates to my washer, which i'll tell you about another day)... Anyway, I decided to do a little recon for nearby hiking and camping spots. About 30 minutes down the Old West Highway, I found the Superstition Wilderness. Score. (click on the link for more pics)

In addition to the scenery, signposts were my other major form of entertainment. Evidently Arizona allows a little leeway on their adopt-a-highway signage. Either that, or whoever prints those gets really bored. Here are my favorites:
- In loving memory of John Denver
- The Eskew family, puppies included
- Dons of Arizona

I'm not even sure what that last one means, but I kept wanting to say, "Dons of Arizona, Unite" like those old "Wonder Twins, Activate. Form of Icicle" cartoons. Do a whole bunch of guys named Don actually take care of that mile of desert road? Or is Don some title like Count or something?

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

To Recycle? Or Not?

I bought recycled toilet paper the other day, which seemed like a good idea at the time. But today it occurred to me that a thin piece of paper rubbed on someone else's ass might be the one thing I don't want recycled.

How do they actually recycle that stuff anyway? Is there some giant filter in the sewer sifting the 2-ply and 4-ply from turds in the stream? I don't know... Kind of makes you go hmmmm...

Epigraph

No, not epitaph. Epigraph.

I am working on finishing my capstone for my master's (oral defense on Monday)and came across this piece that I wrote for a class with Aaron Levy, a friend of mine who's a big part of the reason I'm at ASU. I like this piece, kind of reminds me of why I'm doing this whole Ph.D. thing...

“When I find nothing by me, much may have been done in me.”
-Francis Thompson (poet, sometime opium addict, pursued by the ‘Hound of Heaven’)(‘Discovering Francis Thompson’, Gregory Allen, Mount Carmel 49,2 (1992) pp. 81-92)

I hope that Anne Lamott is right; I hope publishing is overrated. That’s partly because I haven’t published. I mean, I have a few by lines, some poems that a few of my friends and professors like, but my name’s not hanging out on the spine of a book battling dust allergies in some library or anything. Not that I don’t want to publish. I do. But some days, maybe most days, especially if I haven’t written for a while, I’m not sure I have much to say. I’m not sure I have anything to say. But I show up and, as a teacher, I ask my students to show up too. And I ask them to trust me, to write, which to them is the same as asking them to die. But they do—write a little… and die a little… and head straight for the center of things. The days go on, and we write every day at about the same time. Partly it is to trick ourselves into forming a habit, partly it is a debt of honor, a sort of prearrangement with ourselves. And we write with the stubborn hope that if we just keep showing up, eventually it will come.

Sometimes it takes a lot of figuring out what we don’t have to say before we ever land on what we do have to say. Sometimes it takes three pages to get to one sentence. But it is always worth it. Worth the struggle, worth the waiting. It’s hard to say what exactly it is we’re waiting for. It’s different for all of us. But we always recognize the start— that choke in the throat that comes from the fear and thrill of saying something true, something the rest of us are too scared to say or see, but something we all feel glad and a little relieved to have heard. It is a sort of settling into ourselves, a coming home. After a while we start to relax and take ourselves less seriously. And in an odd sort of way, that means taking ourselves more seriously. Finally, we get into it. We are writing. At our own pace we finish one piece and move on to another. And it turns out that this thing that we had to force ourselves to do is what we most needed. We needed to hear ourselves, to hear each other. And somehow, when we manage to say something right and true and say it well—and it doesn’t always happen, there are no guarantees—it feels like we’re living up to something, like we’re coming alive.

Besides, it was either that or:

When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth.
-Vonnegut

Dapple Dandy Pluot

Hello, my name is Jennifer. I was a virgin pluot eater. Not so much any more.

So, what is a pluot, you may be wondering... Well, it is apparently the life's work of one Floyd Zaiger, this dude who was born in Nebraska and grew up in Iowa and spent his life on a quest to use genetics to create the perfect fruit. Not much to do in Iowa. I think we all thought that, but this confirms it. So our friend Floyd played with the birds and the bees and cross-pollination till he got this 3/4 plum, 1/4 apricot thing that tasted kind of good. According to wikipedia, which we all know to be highly trustworthy, "the pluot, like the aprium, is derived from the half-plum–half-apricot hybrid called the plumcot." Plumcot? That sounds vulgar. I might have to add that to my road rage, name-calling list. I think "plumcot" will fit in nicely. Like, "What's your plumcottin' problem, plumcot? Gaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh (long and sighed out, Napoleon Dynamite-style), Plumcot!" Yeah, that should do the trick.

Road Trip

This pic taken not by me from nearby Camelbak Mountain where I have not been has absolutely nothing to do with this post except that it's a far-off view of Tempe where I now live and where I took my first AZ road trip today on the Commuter Bike 2000 (think of it as the non-magic version of the Nimbus 2000... equally cool).

Several things of note happened on my short outing:

- I learned that here I can legally ride on the sidewalk and that I don't have to wear a helmet while riding my bike. Really adds a bit of freedom, excitement, and oh yeah, danger to urban biking. Just what I always wanted!

- A really hot guy at the Sunflower Farmer's Market showed me how I could bungee a crate to the rear rack of my bike for grocery shopping. Yay, hot guy!

- I bought a beer on Sunday (just because I can) (consider this my shout out to my peeps in Georgia who still have to plan their beer trips around a six-day week), and since it IS Sunday I chose the Monty Python Holy Gr-Ail.. I figure this is a beer I can offer the Sisters (they're coming out of the woodworks now-- I met two more today--) and they might not be offended. You know, because it's a holy ale. :) Except it is from the Black Sheep Brewery. And the label does say it's tempered over burning witches. Hmmm. Maybe I should hold off on offering them this beer.

- Twenty-five-year-old Anthony downstairs informed me that he dated a 38-year-old when he was 21, and it worked out great. Aaaaannnd? Don't hint around Anthony, get to the point... (sooooo not my type, mom)


-I met two more sisters, the ones who live "across the concrete" as they put it. (We share a staircase) (Guess Edna lives somewhere else in this complex?) These two girls both called themselves Sister-something also. That whole sister thing is a little distracting. I can't remember any of their names because I get stuck on Sister. I don't hear anything else after that. Although I realized a little too late that they're all wearing official name tags. How convenient. I need a crutch in a situation like this. Maybe I should join in the fun and pull out some of my own homemade "Hello my name is..." stickers... I'm all about helping a sister out! Ha! Maybe they get tired of having to remember everyone else's names.

It turns out they're Mormon. Anthony told me. Kind of wish he hadn't. Takes a little of the fun out of finding out. Now what? Maybe I should start leaving beers anonymously at their door. I asked Anthony what he calls them, and he said he doesn't. He avoids it and says, "Wuzzup?" which is exactly what I plan to do until I can come up with a better strategy.

Serious Food, Silly Prices

The Sunflower Farmer's Market is my new mostest favoritest place. Everything is fresh, and they have stuff you can't get other places, and they're not kidding... the prices are silly. Yesterday, I bought 38 things-- I didn't count; it was on the receipt-- and I'm talking like 5 avocados is one thing... Anyway, 38 things were like $44. Crazy, insane! Insane, crazy! And fresh yummy stuff!!! And it's right around the corner from my apartment-- yay! So, I'm excited about that and about the new handy-dandy recipe holder book my sister (La-la, not the one next door) gave me, so I've been cooking a lot the past few days. (I know this surprises you, Mary Lou) :)

Sidenote: this summer I took a class and a different group of us brought breakfast everyday. One day, I brought in this sort of southern breakfast casserole, and Mary Lou asked who made the sausage casserole. I hesitantly raised my hand, and she cried out, "YOU!? You made that?" like she was shocked and appalled and that was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard. I think she might have thought I was lying, er I mean, kidding. But then she realized I wasn't and tried to back out of it by saying to the class, "I mean would you think she'd made that? I mean, look at her!" BAHA!!! That was one of my favorite funny moments this summer. Yay, Mary Lou. I like her.

Just call me Sister...

The other day when the step-dad and I were grabbing the last few hanging clothes and assorted bebelo (I don't know how to spell it, but it means nick nacks and is just very fun to say out loud: bee' ba low) from my car, two Midwestern-looking/sounding girls who are probably pretty close to my age stopped on their way back from a run and said hi.

Girl #1 introduced herself as something Edna, I think. They were breathing a little heavy, so it was kind of tough to make out what they were saying. And then girl #2 said, "I'm Sister Maria, but don't worry about remembering my name. I'll only be here for another week." Then I realized that the girl #1 had said Sister Edna. Wait. What? Who introduces themselves that way? What does that mean?

There were no black and white habits. No rosary beads. They were in shorts and tank tops. Sister Edna? Are they nuns? Do nuns live in apartment complexes? What about Mormons? Do the Mormons call each other Sister this and Brother that? Is it some Baptist thing-- I've heard some of those pastors call themselves Brother Bob or whatever. I don't know what any of this means. And what do I call them? Are they expecting me to call them Sister Edna and Sister Maria? I really don't know about that. I'm going to have to keep a list of ways to avoid using their names.

And this morning-- I think Sister Edna lives right next door to me, like I can touch her door when I walk out of mine-- I heard a girl (could have been Edna) talking about Sister this and Sister that. What is happening? Where have I landed? I am in the middle of a Seinfeld episode. Or a convent? It's all very confusing.

If any of you have any insider info, help a girl out. Otherwise, I'm going to start my own little action research study... and I'll be asking Twisted Sister lots of questions next time I see her...

Get out the Paddle... Blue, that is...

New Belgium beers are on sale at my new favorite Sunflower Farmer's Market, so I tried the Blue Paddle. Evidently, they named the slightly bitter beer after a paddle the owner's grandmother used to use when she pulled out her can of whoop-ass. Couldn't have left too much of a sting though if the beer's any indication. It's a Czech style pilsner that's a little more hoppy than most pilsners,so it's got a little bitterness mixed in, but is still pretty smooth. It's got a little malt aftertaste going on too. Just kind of a middle of the line beer for me. I was going to say "nothing to write home about" but, well... you get the joke (sorry).

Next on the beer list are two Polish pilsners: Tyskie and Okocim, neither of which I've actually set eyes on yet. But the hunt is on...

Other Cross-Country Trek Highlights

I-20 is now officially the most boring road I've ever been on, maybe the most boring road in the country. It doesn't work in it's favor that it's also the longest road I've ever been on. So, I had to find ways to entertain myself... apart from using CB lingo and keeping count of the step-dad's 10-4s (13 total for the trip... the record was six in one day... here are some of the other highlights (or lowlights, depending on how you look at):



I messed with the color a little so this pithy saying would pop... this was my favorite dust-inscribed trucker command... Ignore the Obama bash and focus in on the real gem here in the bottom left corner... "Show me the tatas!" Who could refuse that? It's a little like Mardi Gras, no? Only minus the beads (sorry, Court)... No worries, mom... no trucker got a sneak peak at the goods... kept my tatas sufficiently covered... but such a classy come-on was hard to resist...



This is me at the Texas Welcome Center just moments after the step-dad's great Texas pee-off... good times!



Welcome to New Mexico... Oh, and watch your step! This sign greeted me at the New Mexico Welcome Center... even before the "Glad you're in our great state" sign... Nice way to introduce the place, huh?



And Howard here, who in this photo is looking decidedly like a turd, was the official mascot of the 2008 Cross-Country Trek. This cattle-variety fly ditched the cows he'd known his whole life and hitched a ride on an air-conditioned star from Texas (the eastern part) to Las Cruces, New Mexico, where he died prematurely when he was aggressively fat-fingered against the window by you know who... Not pretty... Some days you're the bug and some days... you're not. Here's to Howard. I love you, man. But you can't have my beer.

The Valley of the Sun

Well, it's official. We made it. The step-dad is on his way home, about an hour from landing in Savannah and seeing my mom's face for the first time in a week.

And I'm living in Tempe, AZ. I'm a Tempian? Temporian? Tempster? Temptress? hmmm... not sure what the locals call themselves.

Anyway, here's the latest update...

I'm going to skim the rest of the trip. It's sufficient to say that there was more of the same, but I really want to tell you about the pleasant surprises of the last couple of days...

Surprise #1: When we got to Tempe and started taking my stuff up to my apartment, the guys who live downstairs jumped in and helped us out. Anthony and Eon made the move-in as quick and as pleasant as it could have possibly been.

Surprise #2: The step-dad has been surprisingly kind. It's actually difficult for me to reconcile his ridiculous human behaviors (which i think are funny), his assanine (sp?) controlling behaviors, and his sporadic but unbelievably generous acts. It's weird to wrestle with such contempt and warmth for the same person. Just odd.

Yesterday was probably the best day I've ever spent with Jabba. He was just so thoughtful. He let me do my own thing with putting my stuff away. He didn't try to tell me what to do. Didn't try to talk to fill the silence. He helped whenever I asked for his help and sometimes when I didn't but he saw something needed to be done. Yesterday, he was simply kind.

And I must say the man loves my mom. And that is endearing. He knows my mom in ways that I couldn't and somehow loves her in ways that I couldn't. Sometimes he tries to leverage that in ways that are just wrong, but the man does enjoy her and care for her and want to do right by her. And I can't help but love him for that.

In between unpacking boxes, we made our way over to ASU-- looks like a great place! I'll know soon enough--, grabbed some grub at local eateries (more on this later... yummy!), and made a dry run to the airport to make sure this morning would be stress free. It's convenient that the airport is only about 15 minutes away... hint, hint. Can't wait to come pick some of y'all up there. Good times!

It's kind of funny. The other day I was feeling kind of bad about writing about the step-dad b/c I realized suddenly that what I wrote didn't just affect me; it affects my mom and my sister and other people too. (It seems silly to me that that didn't occur to me before.) And I thought about pulling down the previous two posts. But I'm not going to do that. Those things are true of him. But so is what I'm writing now. And while the other stuff is funny, somehow I think this sort of understated kindness gets at the heart of who he wants to be. Don't get me wrong. Most of my interactions with him have NOT been characterized by this side of his character, but I have noticed that when he relaxes and is free from pressure (usually self-imposed) and feels like he's valued and not threatened (again, usually self-imposed) at all, then he really can be genuinely kind. I really think most of his way of relating is leftover from stuff a long time ago that has nothing to do with me or his adult life.

Anyway, last night we ate pizza from Nellos (a local family-run deep dish Chicago pizza place), drank the wine Ralph gave me to celebrate my new place (Wild Horses-- good stuff. Thanks, RT), and listened to Queen's greatest hits (the CD the step-dad got for the 1800 miles he ended up driving without a CD player). It was a good night. I usually try to avoid time alone with Jabba, and at the beginning of our trip, I was resistant to him-- polite and calm, but careful and quiet and inwardly resistant-- but yesterday and last night, I genuinely enjoyed being with him. Which surprised me. And softened me too. It was nice. So maybe, maybe, this is the start of something new. The start of something good. I hope so...

I'll try to post a video tour of my new place sometime very, very soon... and I'll put some more pics up a little later this afternoon...

Day Two: The Honeymoon's Over

Well, it's actually day three now, but I'll get to that in a minute. First, a correction. My sister tells me that those aren't freckles covering the step-dad's belly; they're moles (moley, moley, moley). And she's right. Technically, they're moles, but looking at that thing is a bit like looking at the sun. It's too much to take all at once and really painful to the eyes if you get more than a sideways glance, so freckles, moles, whatever... some brown spots are decorating the buddha belly. I think you get the idea...

Moving on... First let me say that I did not sleep well during night number one with the snoring roommate. I guess I should have known, but I just wasn't prepared for that shit. I mean, I'm not talking about the kind of "Oh, look at the old man snoring" kind of snores. These were violent. And intermittent fart bursts removed even the remote possibility that the snoring might somehow lull me to sleep. I'm not sure how he got any sleep with all that going on. Or how Mom ever does. But whatever.

The morning of Day Two, I walked into the bathroom to take a shower and found his not so tidy tighty whiteys hanging up in there. Ugggh. Yet another great way to start a day.

But wait. It gets worse.

The night before I took a shower and lathered a washcloth with the bar of hotel soap. This morning I got in the shower only to find that the bar of soap now looked curiously rounded much like the hairy, moley, buddha belly I'd seen the day before. And there were now black pubes stuck in the bar. The Jabba's pubic hairs!! G-ROSS! I will get my own bar of soap from now on. I do not share well. Not that anyway. I hadn't even had my coffee yet.

Around 7 a.m., I was sitting in the room waiting for Jabba to get a move on when he headed for the bathroom with the newspaper. Not a good sign. Next thing I know there were groans coming out of him and through that door that would frighten small children. Or 32-year-old ones. I couldn't take it. I left. Put ice in the cooler. Took my stuff to the car. Picked out some different CD's to listen to. 32 minutes and two sections of the paper later, he came out refreshed and ready to go.

Unlike the day before, we got a lot of driving in Friday. Made our way through Alabama, Mississippi (passed Chunky, Mississippi, by the way), and Louisiana, and finally landed in Fort Worth, Texas, for the night. While we made good progress, all that driving meant the step-dad didn't have a lot of people to talk to. I think he must have felt a little talk-deprived because he started saying things to me that no one should really say out loud.

Example #1: "I gotta get this out of my butt" -- said on our way into McDonald's as he arched his back and walked on tiptoes so he could stretch back and reach his thumb and fingers up his crack to pull whatever it was that was stuck in his craw.

Example #2: At the Texas welcome center, he asked to get something out of my car. I didn't ask what it was. Didn't need him to tell me what it was. Didn't want to know. But apparently, he wanted me to know. "I've gotta change these underwear. I'm sweating like crazy in that damn truck, and it's rubbing me raw." (apparently, his underparts are all better now though.)

Example #3: Still at the Texas welcome center. Leaning back with a very satisfied boyish grin on his face and speaking of his long pee in his first Texas toilet: "I christened Texas gooooooood."

That only gets us to about 3 o'clock yesterday, and there's more to tell, but I'm tired, so I'll try to catch up tomorrow (we should be in Tempe tomorrow - yay!) Until then, sweet dreams... Pictures to come...

Cross-country Trek Day One: Alabama Adventure Freeway...

So let me help you get an image... remember the Jabba the Hut line in my poem? Well, I'm living it. Just that part, but Jabba's white, freckled, hairy belly is talking to me from across the room... just wanted you to share in that very special moment with me... No pics today, so thought I ought to offer up some visual... At least it wasn't the sweaty version of Jabba after we loaded the Uhaul Clampett style and he hung his limp, wet t-shirt on my doorknob and walked around all jiggly and bare bellied...Okay enough of that, he,he...

Well, today was the day. The day I headed west. And the day mom's side of the family has been laughing about... so let the stories begin. Actually, today was relatively uneventful, but as y'all know, with my step-dad that doesn't quite mean not eventful at all.

Here are the rough bullets... maybe more to come in the morning... hopefuly, pictures tomorrow...


-- Gas station attendant #1 was dubbed sonofabitch by said step-dad at 9 this morning before said step-dad had seen the guy or had any apparent reason to call him a sonofabitch. This was a great way to start the day.

-- Said step-dad did not yell at me once or curse at me or pitch any tantrums of any kind in my direction. At first I thought Mom must have threatened to withhold sex (he, he, just kidding mom, sort of), but now I am convinced that at least part of the reason he's being so "thoughtful and considerate"-- his words--is because he gets to tell the U-Haul lady, another U-Haul manager, gas station attendant #1, apartment maintenance guy, rest stop janitor lady, rest stop cop, rest stop random strangers #s 1, 2, and 3 (he managed to corner a crowd; I had to get off the phone with mom to rescue them), Cracker Barrel waitress, and Fairfield Inn clerk that he'd gotten up at 3, hopped a plane in Savannah, rented and loaded a U-Haul, and was driving to Arizona for me. And that's just on day one.

[I'll write more about his whole story-telling thing later; although part of it is just ridiculous, I actually think there's something redeeming in this characteristic of said step-dad]


-- We used walky talkies, and he said 10-4 five times. Two were on his own, and the other three were part of my game to see if I could keep saying things that would make him respond "10-4". Actually quite entertaining. I kind of wished I knew more trucker lingo (or any) so I could throw it around but then decided it is much more fun just to see how many times I can get him to use it. it turns out 10-4 is all he knows. Not much variety on his part, but a fun game nonetheless.

-- We headed west on the Alabama Adventure Freeway. Not kidding. That's really it's name. There's a sign.

-- He christened everywhere we went with his very own burp and fart. Awesome. No matter how many people were around. No matter if I knew them or not. He's all about fairplay, I tell you. Equal Opportunity Body Functions for Everyone.

Okay. Nighty night time... and yes, b/c of the initial image, you 've probably already guessed: we're in the same hotel room. Weird. But surprisingly not creepy. More on that later too.

Hugs from Bessemer, Alabama, and the Alabama Adventure Freeway...

Proud Moment...

Here's Laura with her diploma


And here's a close-up of the frame-able document


That's right! My sister has apparently aged really, really well and is also caught in some kind of crazy time warp.

Somebody at Georgia Southern University must have been hating life earlier this summer when (s)he realized a slip-up a little too late... the day AFTER nearly 20,000 diplomas (some framed) were mailed. OUCH!

Hmmm... that's kind of a costly and embarrassing mistake for some staffer at GSU...

And a moment to make all you alumni proud... Soar, Eagles!

WirtingFere at 4 a.m.

Yes, you read right. This is the audiovisual version of a poem I wrote and narrated for a Kennesaw Mountain Writing Project "showcase" lunch dealy.

Make sure you have the sound turned on. You won't get the poem without it. Promise.

Enjoy.