My Bad

My mom and I made a delicious array of food last night for today's feast. She made/baked two pecan pies and a sugar-free pumpkin pie; I took care of the yams, stuffing, and cornbread. It all turned out good, for the most part.

Adding sour cream to almost any recipe makes the end result better. In the case of my cornbread, the sour cream ensures the loaf doesn't dry out. Last night during our marathon baking session, I forgot to incorporate sour cream in the cornbread. Thanksgiving is ruined because of me.

Brother, can you loan me a dime?

Has anybody seen this list of jobs for people who don't like people? Writer made the list, of course; it is one of the most perfect ways for an introvert to keep busy. But the thing that unsettles me about this article is the salary listed below Writer/Author. According to this list, the average Writer/Author makes $53,070. The reason this is unsettling: I don't think this figure accurately represents what the average writer makes. Or maybe I should rephrase that. I think the spectrum of different kinds of writers is too wide for them to be lumped together in this one category.

The writer working for a marketing or ad agency might make close to that figure. A journalist who has been working in the field for many years (and at a major market paper) could make that much, sure. But to include Authors in the group is where I think the disparity grows too wide. On one hand, you have a writer like Tom Wolfe who can get a $7 million advance for a book he hasn't finished; then you have a writer like David McGlynn who sold his already-written book for $500 and a box of contributor's copies. And maybe, if you add up all the advances and royalties from authors, combine that with the highest and lowest paid copy writers, journalists, and marketing/advertising/technical writers the average salary does come up to $50K a year.

My point here isn't to (poorly) display the financial injustice that plagues the American writer. What I want to point out is that that figure listed under a category that includes Author could give teens and young adults the wrong impression of how much writers make. Most authors in America have day jobs--like the "Ponzi Scheme" relationship between writer and teacher--in order to make money. Often, writing literature alone doesn't pay the bills. I worry that students might see this list and get the wrong idea about how easy it is to make money as an author or poet. Sure, it can be done, but the odds are against you. I'm glad my writing professors in undergrad reminded their classes of this constantly. I'm not so glad that I ignored them completely.

I guess it's only fair

If I'm going to reveal embarrassing episodes of Kate sleep-talking, then I should probably share mine, too. From last night:

Me: Mmm...AH-MEE

Kate: What?

Me: AH-MEE. We should get Oreos, AH-ME, and other things to put on the flattop grill. Mmm...

I then woke up and (kind of) remember Kate asking me what are the other things we need for the flattop. We tried figuring out what I was talking about in my sleep. I thought AH-MEE was a mispronunciation of my childhood word for ice cream: AH-MA-NEW. Don't ask why I called it that; I'm really not sure. Maybe I couldn't say the words 'ice cream' the way some kids can't pronounce the letter R. Kate's theory: I was trying to say Mommy. Which would make sense, since my mom will be visiting for Turkey Day. But that seems creepy, since I don't like the idea of having dreams about my mom and/or calling her Mommy. So I vehemently denied the possibility that I was trying to call out to my mom.

I still have dreams (nightmares would be a more accurate classification) where I'm working the food service jobs I held in High School. Usually, I'm working the oven at Nancy's Pizzeria. It's a conveyor belt oven that never stops and eventually, the number of pizzas coming at me becomes too much to handle. They spill over the side and land in the buckets of scalding hot water we keep on the floor to let the saucy, cheesy pizza soak in. And because my job at UPS--two years after working at Nancy's--was all conveyor belts al the time, the pizzas in this dream turn into packages. The summer before my first semester teaching, the boxes burst open when they landed in the water buckets, sending plumes of student essays into the air.

That's not what I dreamt of last night, though. I never worked with a flattop grill or served ice cream at Nancy's, and the closest thing we had to Oreos were cannoli. So maybe last night's dream had something to do with Thanksgiving. I had to go shopping today to buy the rest of the ingredients for cornbread and stuffing, and maybe the thought of doing so got me worked up to the point where the anxiety seeped into my subconscious. It wouldn't be the first time.

In the early 90's, I went with my cousin and his family to a Ukrainian summer camp in Canada. My dad had talked up the fishing in Canada so much that my cousin and I thought we would be catching our daily limit in trophy-winning fish each time we went out. He told us that because of the high temperatures and because we would be fishing from shore, the best time to catch walleye and pike would be early in the morning, before the sun had a chance to warm the water and chase the fish into deeper water. When we arrived at the camp, it was past eleven. We could see the Northern Lights above the tree line that surrounded the camp. I remember thinking it was one of the coolest sights I had ever seen. Then we all entered our cabin and saw several unraveled rolls of paper dangling from the ceiling. Each twisted strip was polka-dotted with dead flies. That was the last thing I remember before passing out. Kind of...

I have a vague recollection of talking to my aunt in the middle of the night--she in her bed, me struggling to open our cabin door. Apparently, I could not wait to go fishing because when my aunt asked me why I was up, I told her I was on my way to the lake. Not only had I been sleeptalking, I was also doing some very real sleepwalking. I wonder what would have happened had I made it outside.

Could that be what my dream last night was about? An inability to contain my excitement? I am super excited to make food for Turkey Day. And in preparation, I've been watching a lot of cooking shows on the Food Network, the Travel Channel, and PBS, though I'd probably be doing that regardless of whether or not I was cooking. Maybe I just want to get it done with so that I don't have to worry about it anymore and can enjoy hanging out with some pretty fantastic people. I'd like to think my dream was something as reasonable as that and not some nightmarish recreation of the past.

Putting a lid on it...kinda

So it's been over a week since I've last updated this blog, and there are plenty reasons why I haven't posted anything new in that time, but I feel that listing all of it would make me a hypocrite. The reason: I'm getting increasingly annoyed with some of the writers and artists on Facebook who constantly update their statuses by letting everyone know how much work they've gotten done. I'm not talking about the occasional update or the updates about upcoming shows and readings; I'm talking about those who are dead set on reminding their virtual friends a dozen times a day that they are, in fact, hardworking artists.

Maybe they provide updates on their progress--not their process--as a way to stay on track, Facebook acting as some sort of support system. Maybe I'm on Facebook too much. The problem I have with the incessant writerly updates is that it seems to border on being obnoxious. "In case you may have forgotten--and since it's been almost half an hour since my last update--I am a writer!" For some reason, it seems like an inappropriate medium for delivering such messages. I mean, isn't that what blogs are for?

Maybe I'm blowing it out of proportion, and maybe I didn't need to engage the "hide" function for those few offenders, but they really got to me, and I needed to blow off some steam. Which brings me to my next order of business: I apologize for the rant. Hopefully I can keep that to a minimum now that I've setup a new blog dedicated to ranting about one of my (many) arch nemeses. TV commercials.

You can find the blog here: Your Commercial Blows Goats

I needed a forum, separate from the personal blog, where I could let loose on the hacks that interrupt my TV stories. This way, if you want to read my blog but don't want to hear me bitch, you can still pay me a visit here. And if you do want to hear me rant, check out the new site. The choice is yours; I'm not forcing it down your throats the way Facebook sometimes can.

If you're going to be a creep, be prepared to face facts

I'm a creep. That's not news, really; I've been a creep for quite some time. Specifically, though, I engage in a practice that I'm sure colleagues and other teachers have performed but might not talk about openly. I Facebook stalk my students.

This usually occurs twice during a semester: before the first class meets and after Final's week. I look up everyone on my roster before the semester starts because I like to get a feel for who's in my class, and I check after the last meeting to see if anyone's bitching about me or my class. Side note: it's amazing how many of these students don't privatize their accounts. Anyway, I would tell myself that my FB stalking at the beginning of the semester was a way to match students' names to their faces quicker. Until last semester, while performing my FB search in one window, class roster open in another, I called bullshit on myself, realizing I could care less which name belonged to each face. Bottom line: I'm just a nosey little bitch.

That, combined with an afternoon bout of lethargy a week back, led me to conduct a midsemester FB search of my students. And of course, one of the search results yielded exactly what I was hoping no to find: a student bashing my course in his status updates. Every Monday, either before class or after, there was a negative review of my class. "Are there any justifiable reasons not to go to class a class?" read one status, posted half an hour before our meeting time. Another said, "[Name] Wishes he wouldnt have taken intro to creative writing, not one of my better ideas....." The most recent simply stated, "intro to creative writing sucks."

A story recently appeared in the news about a woman who was fired for saying nasty things about her boss on Facebook. Now I know I'm not this student's boss, and he wasn't saying anything about me personally, but it got me wondering about the limits of my jurisdiction. What if someone committed academic dishonesty and posted something about it on Facebook? Could I be like this teacher and enforce some sort of punishment? Would it just be considered hearsay? And would I be investigated for Facebook stalking if I were the whistle-blower?

This student sits along the left side of the classroom. He's in my periphery when I'm standing up front, delivering the lecture or leading a discussion. Often I see him roll his eyes, but it hasn't looked like a sign of disgust. The way he rolls his eyes--quick, and in groups of threes--had made me think it was some sort of a tick, like he had Tourette's. Maybe I'm just naive, delusional, or in a massive state of denial. But now I'm aware that's rolling his eyes in disgust, and that my Intro to Creative Writing class totally sucks balls.

It's an insecurity I've been clinging to while this whole job search has generated few job interviews and ever fewer jobs: I'm under-qualified to teach any subject at any level. This FB status, along with the student's classroom presence, seemed to validate the notion. He represented the entire class, along with every class I've taught. My mind continued rolling down the slippery slope, until I got to class. Instead of letting my insecurity rattle my nerves, I let my insecurities fire up my cruel side. I lectured, never posing questions or giving the students a chance to speak. I maintained a firm tone and didn't vary the lengths of my sentences. When it came time to discuss upcoming due dates, the discussion remained one-sided. I told them not to bother turning in work late because anyone who didn't turn in their assignments on time would receive zeros. I had gone over everything I possibly could in preparation for the next three weeks in this curt manner. It was brutally boring and completely satisfying. I had reasserted my power as the almighty Instructor.

Then I checked the clock. Only an hour had passed; the class was supposed to go another two hours and forty-five minutes. I had nothing left to say. That's when I took a breath and realized that I had misdirected my anger for what one student had said and projected toward the whole class. I was pretty sure it didn't teach that one student a lesson, and the rest of the class was probably wondering what was up my ass. So I toned it down and opened up the class for questions. They came flying from every direction, so I slowly explained everything they needed to know in order to get a passing grade in my class. Whether I took it too far while acting like a jackass, or whether ended up pussing out, one thing remains constant: when it comes to Facebook, I'm a creep.

Sleep Talkin' Woman

At Five this morning, I woke up to a very interesting situation. I was having a dream—a very lucid one—where I was driving on a highway that goes through a rural town. The speed limit reduced from something very high to something more residential, and I was in the right lane behind a semi truck. A very loud shrieking noise, maybe even a snap, caused me to slow down quickly, distancing my car from the semi, which was then sidewinding over two lanes and causing its now-malleable trailer bed to crack the whip toward my car.

The semi ended up missing me but crashed into a farmhouse at the edge of the upcoming town, and its occupants—along with the driver himself—were already on top of the truck’s hood assessing the damage by the time I slowly rolled by. The driver ratcheted something with a wrench while smoking a cigarette; they were all talking about how to get the truck back on the road. I’m that close to this group of people and also, now—for reasons I can’t explain—I’m no longer in a vehicle; I’m walking by the scene of the accident.

That’s when I Kate woke me up by talking in her sleep. She spoke very clearly, to the level where I thought she was messing with me. I couldn’t remember everything she said; she said a lot, about two minutes worth of material. But I’ve written down several lines.

Kate: So much. So much. SO MUCH…poo. SO MUCH. Kate. Kate. Kate.

Kate: What. What. What. Kate. Kate. Kate. (More chants that sound as if she adopted the persona of one or all of the clients where she works)

Kate: (I accidentally pulled part of the covers away from her shoulder) Burrrrr. What the what, yo? I’m half-cheekin’ over here, dude.

Me: (Cracking up) Kate, you’re talking in your sleep.

Kate: Uh-uh

Me: You’ve been doing it for over a minute now.

Kate: (Rolls over to face the other way) I definitely haven’t been. That’s part of the counter [work] at Jakeeno’s.

Kate: Ja-Kee-No’s shufflin’ (indecipherable, but sing-songy)

Me: Kate, wake up; you’re talking in your sleep.

Kate: No way. You’re pure evil. Pure evil.

At that point, I got up--I had to--and wrote as much as I could remember. When I got back into bed, Kate woke up and we talked about what had just taken place. She thought I had made the whole thing up; she would never say those kinds of things. This was, in her mind, my way of messing with her. Which I do pretty often, because she talks in her sleep every night. Usually, though, the words are mumbled and can hardly be classified as being words. It kind of freaked me out that what she had said was so clear and understandable.

I didn't think about at the time, not until I woke up a few hours later, but I probably shouldn't have tried to wake her. Can't that cause a person to go into shock or react violently? Or am I thinking about sleepwalkers? I'm sure it can be embarrassing for the sleeper to realize they've been communicating without knowing it, but that didn't seem to be an issue; she's a heavy sleeper and didn't even remember having the 5am conversation about her sleeptalking. (Also, I got her persmission to post this, proving she's pretty tough.) I'm wondering what she'll say when we're asleep tonight. Hopefully, I'll get to hear it again.

Mix and Match Mess

Call it consumer advocacy or some sort of good will: Kohl's won't let you buy a pair of shoes if the sizes don't match. Even if one of Kohl's employees put the mismatched pair together and slapped a clearance sticker on the box. Even if you tell them it's okay, it's not that bad, you're only going to wear these shoes a few times. They'll call someone in that department to check it out for you, but in the end they won't let you buy it. They're looking out for you, right?

I call it a conspiratorial passive-aggressive upsale of epic proportions.

Instead of getting the $30 pair of mismatched black dress shoes--which I need for the job interview/meeting on Wednesday--I had to spring for the $65 pair of brown shoes, because I wasn't about to shell out nearly $100 for the only other acceptable black pair. They had some black loafers for about $70, but those shoes either looked like plastic or like the kind a five-year-old might wear or like a combination of the two. So I went with the brown shoes and decided I'd wear khakis.

Here's what I didn't take into account with the brown shoes until I got home:

That a black belt--which is the only color of dress belt I own--doesn't go with brown shoes.

That none of my ties go with brown shoes, either.

That I don't own brown, beige, or tan socks of any kind (hopefully my pant legs are long enough to conceal my whities).

Also, the wrinkle-free tag on my dress shirt must have been meant for another shirt and accidentally sewn onto mine, because it looks like it had been stuffed in a toiletry duffel. And no, I don't own an iron.

On top of all that, I have to be in Mankato all day tomorrow. No time to shop. And when I finished shopping today, I got home to find a sale flier for Kohl's--though, upon further review, I wouldn't have been able to use the discount until Wednesday, which would end up making me pressed for time. The circus never ends.

Since my schedule's pretty full for the next three days--and since I clearly don't have much to say, based on today's post--my updates might not be so spectacular this week. But, c'mon; have they ever been?