No Taming This Shrew


Butterscotch Stallion

In case you don't know, this is what some of those celebrity blog sites like Defamer and Gawker call Owen Wilson. The Butterscotch Stallion. I bring it up because, well, I think it's a strangely compelling name, and also because I dreamt about him last night.

Neither my roommate nor I slept last night. This never happens. I'm wondering if the power lines were humming or something strange and X-Filesy was afoot. I was crashed out in bed at 10 pm after my students made me lose my will to live, but then at 12:30 I was up up up up! Up until 4 and then tossing around until 6. Like up and watching Family Guy on Adult Swim. Thank god for the Cartoon Network. It was the episode when the boys all take ipecac and bet who can go the longest without throwing up. ("Peter! Hold my ears!") I had to put a pillow over my mouth so I wouldn't wake the roomie with my cackling. Whoo that's good stuff.

But back to Owen. I've always had a thing for this actor, even though "his nose looks like a penis," in the sage words of my friend TM. I just think he's delicious. Anyway, I had a dream that we met at a bar in DC while I was waiting for a date, and we ended up hanging out rather a lot in Baltimore, my future residence. We had a blast. We drank the same kind of beer. He was much smarter than he looks, which is a plus, because he looks like he's dumber than a bucketful of hair (exhibit A: see this article in Slate about his work on the Wes Anderson films - I'm determined to make him something other than a mimbo). But throughout the dream, the phrase "butterscotch stallion" kept running through my brain. It's weird, but really hot at the same time.

But maybe that's the three hours of sleep talking. I'm off to put cucumbers on my eyes and maybe hit the gym before going to work. Pity my date tonight. He's in for some rough Megarita time, god love him.


Driven to Distraction

I'm sitting at my desk listening to fiddle music (which is not the same as bluegrass, I've since learned), completely paralyzed by the week that begins here and now.

I start teaching tomorrow night -- no biggie, I can scoot my booty through teaching almost anything, so that's do-able. For some reason that responsibility and its accompanying butterflies in the tummy has gotten mixed up with my dissertation chapter (which is still coming in fits and starts), the three jobs I'm juggling this summer to try and pad the nest before I go on fellowship year, finding a place to live so I can move out of Dudesylvania sometime in August, and some other stuff. Plus I'm feeling rather addled from my weekend -- I didn't sleep at all on Saturday night for some excellent reasons, but it's thrown my (apparently-ready-for-elder-care) system off in a BIG way.

So I'm distracted, a little wacked out by not sleeping, thinking about non-scholastic matters, and incapable of looking at the three large piles on my desk: "Teach This," "Write This," "Rent This." All I can think to do is hit the gym really hard and work out the nerves. Because WOW I've got some nerve. Ha.


Infiltrating Dude HQ

Diva T and I had some catching up to do last night, so we met up after work on truly one of the nicest nights DC has had in weeks. She was feeling tequila-ey, so we walked over to a Turtle U institution -- which we'll call "Southwestern Metropolis."

This bar/restaurant is dude central -- I never go there for fear of running into students past and present. But it's the 'tween semester time here, and it's a weekend break, so I figured it would be quiet. And it was far mellower than it's been, but's Southwestern Metropolis.

First of all, T and were a solid 7-10 years older than everyone there. No one carded us. I'm surprised they didn't offer me an Ensure or a place to put my walker. Outrageous. Thankfully, T and I can still hold out own, decrepit washed up oldies that we are.

Favorite line of the night (overheard): "So I totally passed out in front of the refrigerator holding a cantelope."

Favorite spotting: Important Renaissance scholar, whom I immediately invited over to join us. He was tempted, but thankfully thought better of my excellent and rather boozily offered plan to hang with the ladies. (That sound you hear is either my nascent career flushing down the toilet or the "cha-ching" of a tenure track job at this man's institution. Chortle...)

Favorite bill from a restaurant: 2 taco salads, 8 margaritas. We will keep our girlish figures while we pound back cheap tequila.

I was even home at a decent enough hour that I woke up around 8:30 and shuffled out to make crepes for the roomie and myself. We settled down to geek out on a Mystery Science Theater re-run and then watched the Tour de France for a bit. French extravaganza! Those guys scare the hell out of me, but damn it's an exciting thing to watch. Also, today's stage winner was a man called "Weening," which I heard as "Wiener," so A. and I got to stand up in our living room and cheer "Go Wiener Go!" It's an inspiring way to start a Saturday...for us and our dudelet neighbors.


Lesson learned

Thou shalt not blog when addled by low pressure fronts.

Thou shalt not distract yourself from important issues, news, or projects with this damn blog.

Thou shalt not share things that embarrass you to an extent that you wake up in the morning thinking, "I need to delete that...right after coffee."

Thou shalt learn to spell.

Thou shalt not write about the banalities of men versus women for at least a month. I mean,'s like being the 9 o'clock hour of the Today show -- let's try out juicers! What news?

So there you go. I feel a little Claven-y having blogger's regret, but I did awake (TO THE POUNDING RAIN THAT WILL NOT CEASE GAAWDDAMMMITTT!!!) feeling unclean and thinking that nothing so banal should ever see the light of day.

Now I just have to figure out what to wear to work -- I walk to work, and it's raining cats and dogs (this is actually a great expression and I wonder if its origins are in some sort of terrible storm that swept up domestic animals -- like the cows in "Twister") and I don't want to end up looking like a second place finisher in a poorly planned wet t-shirt contest. That doesn't help my ethos in editorial board meetings. It's too hot and sticky for the trench. Something cotton that will dry under the hand dryers at work, perhaps. (I'm going to put up a sign that says "ladies please use the air freshener" in honor of Alley, who surprised me into hilarity this morning...)

Swan diving into banality again...catch you when I reconnect with wit and originality! Cheerio...


I might be ruining major league baseball singlehandedly

Another great night for baseball last night -- if rather sweaty. Stickiness aside, it was another rather excellent evening of Super Dogs, BUD, and people watching in DC. Nats/Mets series, which are especially fun since we have the same cheers. Hee. And DC is so damn polite at games that the Mets fans make everyone get all a-twitter. ("Was that vulgarity?")

Sadly, JordanBaker has finally clued in that the Nats lose when I watch them, so I might be off the invite list. I knew I had this power, and I've hestitated to become a real fan of any professional team as a result. Now I've dragged the poor Nats (although they've been doing quite well when I'm not there) into my web of dismal athletic failure. You should have seen my poor field hockey team in high school -- they went to the playoffs after I moved away!

Although we did discover that the stadium sells Chipwiches, which makes me want to test my luck (or at least the team's luck?) one more time.

Can't write any more -- need to go hear more about the London bombings. Nothing frightens you more than seeing the "safest" city -- all those cameras, no trashcans, etc -- get hit so quickly and professionally. Bush's comments to the press were not satisfying. Thank god Blair has oral communication skills.

Things I learned on my summer vacation

I'm back, I'm brown, and I'm better than ever...

Here's a little of what I learned over my long weekend:

Matchlight is always better -- SPF 15 is completely adequate if you reapply when they tell you to -- Michael Jackson's early stuff played at loud volume can create a party anywhere at anytime, particularly "You Wanna Be Startin' Something" -- treading water is hard after a while and it makes your legs really sore -- people are stunned when women in bikinis try to grill -- dudes can make any lively pool game into a death match. A death match that I want to win -- 30-somethings can still do cannonballs -- chicken burgers are nowhere near as tasty as real burgers -- always buy more hotdogs than you think you'll need -- you can never buy too many beers -- mojitos make the world a better place -- it takes 24 hours for me to go from tense Megarita to relaxed Megarita - I can tell the difference when I'm sprawled on a pool lounger and I refuse to get up to open the sticky door and let friends into the pool area ("pull harder, you pansy!") -- don't leave the guac alone for a second or everyone will eat it all and leave you pouting at your beer and holding plates of raw meat -- I know all the words to a L'il Kim song and I enjoy singing said song -- do not belt out patriotic songs after screwdrivers -- pools are fun even on a cloudy day -- a ball will make any pool party even more fun and inspire grown-up versions of Calvin Ball -- never put your Ipod on random shuffle in the presence of people who really "care" about music (the shame is too great) -- make friends who bring homemade pies -- thank friends who don't show up to a BBQ with only a smile -- keep friends who know exactly where to go when you yell, "there are pies and twinkies on the lanai!" -- the early peaches are excellent this year, as are the seedless watermelon -- I have truly extraordinary friends who play well with others and make a 12 hour party fly by like a blink of an eye -- I haven't been able to stand upright for more than 10 minutes since my party, so that means it must have been a good time.


Panic Button

This morning's headline threatens my happy sunny weekend --

Sandra D. O'Connor is retiring from the Supremes.


Hold on, Billy Rehnquist, hold on...