Ticked off but not dying

Well, there are no bullseye rashes or signs of necrosis, so I suppose I will live from the tick bite. Sad to say, though, the tick didn't fare as well. You know, he actually died while consuming, which means either that my blood is poisonous to living creatures (which is cool in a mutant, comic bookesque sort of way) or that my boobs were just too much for him. Either way, I'm ok with it, and Sir Tick is all wrapped up in a John Doe bag (Ziploc, actually) in the event that I need to present it to a doctor or entomologist.

And now onto the semester at hand. I haven't even started classes yet, and I have something due tomorrow. This is going to be one bitch of a semester. I'm taking an overload, but there is a remote possibility that I can get to my dissertation a semester early if I rock this semester hard. And that is a plus in my book.

So with powerade and cheetos (yeah, I'm allergic to cheese, but damn, I've been craving these damn things for weeks now. Just can't shake it) strategically placed on my desk, I am prepared to procrastinate the proposal introduction I have to write before tomorrow. And so I am going to go water some plants, do some laundry, and then bake some cookies. And then I'll write the thing.

omg omg omg omg

A tick bit my boob! It bit my boob! I'm gonna have gangrenous boobs or something!! You laugh, but I google imaged tick bites, and people's limbs were falling off. omg omg omg omg. I don't have time for lyme's disease or gangrenous boobs!

Why are bugs always attracted to my netherregions? Remember the mosquito, g?

This is why we love Google Talk

So the Prax and I have been drinking russians (or bourbon for prax) and scoping out our next houses in the Stepford vintage township, and this somehow led to a discussion about various places I might want to live when I graduate. And then we talked about the one person who apparently reads this blog from NY, whom I am halfway convinced is John Cusack because well, why wouldn't it be John Cusack?

And so then, we began trying to figure out how to woo said John Hughes creation (god that sounds like something from Rocky Horror, doesn't it?) via blogger. And Prax made the excellent suggestion of a top 5 ways of wooing John Cusack list. I added a mix tape into the discussion, and so here we are.

The problem, however, is that despite the absolute futility of the task, it is not an endeavor to be taken lightly, for John Cusack is not merely a trophy husband, a dollar store prize to be won! And so, I retire to an evening bubble bath with the sounds of The Clash echoing through my house--thinking, pondering, musing...

suggestions are welcome. :)

The future is unwritten.

Ok and just to fuel the fire

If you think I'm being hyperbolic here (which I admit I am often prone to be), just look at this master planned TOWN. Not community, mind you. TOWN. I know for a fact that there are 3 registered democrats in Vintage Township. They don't actively participate in anything, however.

Stepford family, anyone? I really encourage you to browse the site, especially the map of the town. It's astounding.

My apologies to Cole Porter

Every time I look down on this sad little town
Whether blue or grey be her skies
Whether loud be her cheers or soft be her tears
more and more do I realize:

I hate Lubbock in the springtime
I hate Lubbock in the fall
I hate Lubbock in the winter when it drizzles
I hate Lubbock in the summer when it sizzles

I hate Lubbock
Oh why oh why do I hate Lubbock
I really do not know.

Ok, hate may be a strong word, but I've been here a year now, and it's really getting to me. I love the weather. And though they lack any form of decent technology or the wherewithal to do anything about the reason for which I might be calling, call centers are much more friendly here. They have sno cones year round, and that is always a plus. And the city is overrun with duck roosters and prairie dogs, which are dear to my heart.

But I just don't get these people here. They speak a language I simply don't understand. For instance, if someone here asks you, "Would you like to [insert something to do]," they aren't asking you for your preference. They are telling you to do it. I was ordering coffee the other day, and the woman behind the counter asked, "Would you like to pay for your coffee when it's ready?" I said, "No, that's ok. I'll pay now." And she looked at me, bewildered, and said, "No, I mean, I'm waiting on change so I need you to wait to pay later." Why didn't she just say that?
Another instance: I'm at my practicum. A woman says to me, "Would you like to push the baby buggy (yes, that's what she called it)?" I said, "No, thank you." And then the other woman said, "She's leaving. You need to push the baby buggy." Even more bewildering is that in my practicum, I'm there to freaking evaluate these people as teachers, and they are giving me baby buggies (sp???).

And holy red footed llama, the freaking smile. It's seriously like the kiss of death. If one of these bleach blond helmet headed women here smile at you and their right eye twinkles, you are a goner. Sign that will and move on because that woman is going to somehow passive aggressively ruin your life so that you will never work, eat, or live in that community again.

And this, THIS is Lubbock's idea of a feminist website. Are you fucking kidding me? Granted there are a few essays that have substance, but for the most part, if you don't puke from it, you can get a few laughs off of it.

And the men? They are like a bunch of giant necks prancing around, arms akimbo because they won't go straight anymore. Farm boys, corn fed, they call them. I call them ridiculously spoiled misogynistic pricks.

I'm trying to stay focused--trying to just maintain tunnel vision on my schoolwork. But it is just getting to me! And the more I get involved with the democratic group here, the more angry I become. We are ignored, forbidden to speak, and are too small in number to bitch slap these corrupt people in charge. What needs to happen is that we collectively grab our ovaries and balls and then place some of these jackass city council members in a camel clutch and make them humble like Brian Blair (like that, prax?).

Do you know that they are trying to turn one of the oldest art galleries in town into a visitor center? And they canceled the West Texas Music Festival (West Texas' version of SXSW) for fear that *gasp* it might encourage drinking. They had a biker rally here to raise money for domestic violence shelters in the area, and the city council wouldn't allow beer. How do you think the attendance was for that little fundraiser? OH, and here's the best, in 2004, they defaced a piece of art saying it was pagan. Here's the story.

The more I hear about it, the angrier I get, and what incenses me most is that our group seems to be powerless to do anything about it. And furthermore, some of the people in the group are too scared to make it known that they are, indeed, democrats. It's unbelievable. It's like the Democratic party in Lubbock is an underground movement.

Sigh. I need a white russian.

Fahrenheit wha?

Sigh. Rest is over. Back to the grind. But first, what would Her Crankiness do without letting out a little rant?

We step back to a week ago as I made my way through the LBB airport. All I wanted to do was get out of Dodge the simplest way possible and in one piece. This means I packed light--one carry on, no laptop, flip flops for an easy toss into the xray bin. I figured I'd be through the line in a jiffy, ready to head for the mesas. Wrong.

A husky woman and her little henchwoman stopped me with the flip of a blue latexed hand (two by two, hands of blue). Husky says, "Do you have books in there?" Stunned, I say, "Um, yes." She motions to Igora to start the ransack process.

"How many?"
"I'm sorry, wha..."
"How many books?" She's impatient at this point, adjusting her belt and sucking in her gut.

"Um, 2"
"Really? 2?" She looks at Igora who laughs a sort of half whimper--meheheh, meheheh
"Yeah, 2."
Husky cocks one eyebrow up and looks at me with the reprimanding teacher look.
"Well, I mean, I've got a writing journal and a notebook, too, bu..."
"Aha!"
[I'm thinking Aha what?]

So they flip through my books and begin questioning me about them. The conversation on my end goes something like this: Lolita, you know, Nabokov? Humbert Humbert steals a girl's soul? yeah, ok, well suffice it to say it's a classic. and the other? oh yeah, it's Reading Lolita in Tehran. It's written by a professor who teaches a group of students in her home...you know, really, they're just books, you know? I mean, can I have my books back?

I don't think I was much more eloquent than that. Perhaps I was, but as I recall, I was just in an absolute stupor, and every ounce of my mental reserves went to restraining myself from calling them both dumbasses and telling them to get their azure hands off my fucking books.

I'm still pretty miffed about this. What's ironic about the whole thing, however, is that as I got on the plane and opened up Reading Lolita, I read a passage about how her books were confiscated at the airport in Tehran.

Anyway, it's over, but it still puts me in the foulest mood. I cannot believe I am living in this place. I feel like Cincinnatus C stuck in a prison with a paper moon, a plastic spider and a jailer who wants to dance with me, defend me, and execute me simultaneously. Fucking ridiculous this place is.

The Q

Got back from NM a few hours ago. Lovely trip for the most part. It actually felt like a vacation, which is probably because it wasn't tied into a conference of some sort. I walked for hours, visited galleries, took photos of anything that spoke to my heart, and ate green chiles with every meal. And I re-read Nabokov novels all week whilst drinking mass quantities of coffee and watching the sun either rise or set on my balcony or at some little patio cafe.

I also had the epiphany that I absolutely love being in a hotel and in an unfamiliar city alone.

The only downside was my little jaunt to Santa Fe, a city (I've learned) that I find offensive in its pretentiousness and overabundance of linen and straw hats. It is rugged and beautiful, but unlike Georgia O'Keefe, it is not "my city." That led me to realize that I'm not sure I've found my city yet. It might actually be in Chicago. I certainly did find myself while living there. Just not sure if it's home forever, though. Home forever, I think, would need to have mountains.

Ok, I'm exhausted. Going to indulge myself with a bubble bath and a pinot noir. There were a few humorous little anecdotes to share, but I'll write more tomorrow.

Side note: G, November can't come soon enough. craving Kimday and beaujolais nouveau.

They all love soup and talking and not talking

Ok, I can't go to bed without a minirant. No offense to big happy haired people (ok maybe a little offense), but Lubbock has taken big hair to a new level with this--the amazing Bump It. I call it the Sarah Palin do, but here in the Hub City, it is called beautiful. [shudder].

And fine, girls, if having a hump on your head the size of Quasimodo's does it for you, then so be it. But, Praxis, does it remind you of something?