Smokin'

Last night, I decided to BBQ for dinner. While I prepped the corn, Brian went out to set up the grill, which included adding a fresh batch of wood chips to our little smoker box. I thought nothing of this, as we’ve smoked things before. So, I throw on the meat and veggies, set my timer and throw the Frisbee for the dogs until it’s time for the meal’s first rotation. But when I open up the cover, I am flooded by a wave of smoke. My eyes are burning and I’m blinking frantically to restore myself and get back to the task at hand. This repeats until the food is ready.

After dinner, I get a bee in my bonnet to go pick up something at Toys-R-Us, so we head out. But now I realize that I reek. It smells like I was doused in liquid smoke and I share this news with Brian. I exclaim, “Man! I stink!” To which he responds, “No, you smell like smoke. It’s delicious.” I retort, “I don’t want to smell like smoke. I’m going to make people hungry! And if I can smell myself, the smell must be really bad.” This type of dialogue continues intermittently throughout our shopping trip. Sometimes, it’s simply my own musings about how bad I smell, but often Brian chimes in to reassure me that it’s not that bad. But I know he’s wrong.

We then go to check out. After I exchange a few pleasantries with the cashier, she immediately turns to her coworker and asks, “What’s that smell?” Then she looks at me with imploring eyes. I ask, “Does it smell like smoke?” And she says, “Yeah, it kind of does.” With a sheepish grin, I open my yap and say, “Yeah, that’s me. Sorry.” I briefly explain the whole smoke-gets-in-my-eyes grilling experience and, although she’s polite about it, I can see that guilt-ridden expression one gets when they ask a woman when she’s due only to discover she’s not pregnant. It’s like my life has turned into a sitcom. Awkward.

When we finally walk out the door, I start chuckling. I can’t help it. I turn to Brian and say, “I told you I smelled bad! That poor woman!” He maintained his stance that I smelled delicious, but I couldn’t take it any more. I tried to simply strip off the smoke-infested clothes, but it wasn’t enough. A shower was in order, but even after the scrubbing, I continued to catch faint whiffs of smoke throughout the evening. Now, two showers later, I think I have finally cleansed myself of the stench. I’m all for being smokin’, but next time I think I’ll leave the literal smoke behind.

History

I recently posted about my student’s lack of motivation and shortened attention span, but I have my own confession to make. I, too, was a horrible student in high school. Gasp! I know. Take it in. There were a great many subjects I couldn’t have cared less about, but my least favorites had to do with history and politics. Now, I know I’m not alone on this one, but, nonetheless, I am still embarrassed to admit it. I, like so many other ill educated people, have responses to political issues or historical events, but I can’t contextualize them and articulate with sound logical reasoning why I have these particular views. This is something that, I strongly believe, is at the root of much of our poor decision-making here in the good ‘ol US of A. We feel entitled to our opinion, yet we have nothing with which to legitimately back it up. Many of us simply do not understand the bigger picture. So, up until now, I have eked by. I kept my opinions to myself, which is very easy in classes where students believe they must adhere to the teacher’s tenets and ideals. I simply abstained from sharing and played the devil’s advocate on everything. But that doesn’t work in my “real” life, nor does it work with colleagues. So I have made a decision.

Yesterday, I began my quest for historical enlightenment. (Politics will come later. I need one goal at a time, people!) It is quite an undertaking, I must say, because I don’t have any kind of foundation of knowledge – no ground zero with which to start. So, I have begun watching a documentary by my husband’s favorite documentation, Simon Schama, called The American Future: A History, and I am fervently trying to retain everything within it. I have also placed a reoccurring note on my Errands list to read something currently or historically relevant every day. Yesterday, I read two (yes, two) articles in The Economist before starting my day. It felt good to know I’ve gotten off on the right foot (my second time around) but I know I didn’t get the full extent of the content. But I guess it’s a start. It’s ironic, really. I spend most of my working hours trying to give students their ground zero in the composition world. To help them to understand why we need to know the bigger picture in order to write and yet, over the years, I’ve opted out of this same message in one very substantial area of my own life. Now, it’s my time to change. I will take my own advice, learn the conversation and gain more confidence in the meantime so that the next time I open my yap, what comes out will not only represent my opinion, but the socio-historical context within which it lies and my ignorance will be… history.

Obsession

I’m going to warn you right up front. This story has no moral. Normally, I have some deeper purpose for sharing my stories, but not today. In fact, it doesn’t even involve a verbal faux pas. I just found it funny.

If you have ever met our dogs, you’ll know they’re the cutest (and orneriest) dogs you’ve ever met. In fact, one might call them a pair of royal pains in the ass. (Literally and figuratively. They are the dog of the queen, you know.) Our female has serious attitude, but our male has a serious obsession: play. I have never met a dog with more energy than Bones. To help you understand the scope of his obsession, this short-legged Corgi walked six miles with me on moderately hilly terrain in 80+ degree weather, ate a few pieces of ice (his other obsession) and dropped a ball at my husband’s feet. It’s a problem, I tell you. Well, Corgis were bred to be herding dogs, so my mom bought them each a stuffed sheep (affectionately dubbed “sheepins”) for Christmas and they have been obsessed with them ever since.

Now, if you’ve ever seen a sheep – I mean a real Highlands of Scotland-style sheep – they’re pretty dirty. They are in no way the cute, snowy creatures of fluff we make them out to be. Well, ours quickly came to mirror their real-life counterparts. It was disgusting. Truly disgusting. But, like children, our dogs clearly have their favorites and instead of replacing them, we have endured… until today. It was time. Bath time, that is!

So, after much scrubbing, whining (from Bones, not me), squeezing, mending (they are the holiest sheep I’ve ever seen) and rinsing, both “sheepins” have been upgraded and are currently bouncing around in the drier. And the dogs? Well, Maya doesn’t seem to care, but Bones has stationed himself at the door to our garage (where the washer and drier live) until his dearly beloved sheep emerge, new once more, from their appropriately titled “fluff” cycle.

Then, let the obsession resume!