No dragons...

So my egg housed a teacup...

Not exactly what I had in mind.

Deep Thoughts by...

Carolina is out. (*sob*) Duke is out. (*yay*) George Mason is in. (*huh?*) So March is really mad, eh? I'm not really as interested in the tourney any longer, but I do hope George Mason takes it. Go GMU!!



My thesis is, well, slowly coming. Emphasis on "slowly." I'm finding it difficult to compose my thoughts on exploitation and repression of sexuality for the public good. Oy. Hopefully within the next week and by next Wednesday, (why Wednesday, I have no idea) I'll have something remarkable out.

My egg still hasn't hatched. I'm still holding out for a dragon. Some people hold for a hero, I hold out for a dragon. Go figure. Speaking of dragons, ABC family has been showing back-to-back airings of the first Harry Potter. It makes me feel a little dirty to look at young Harry and know my complete obsession for him is still there. I almost feel sorry for Daniel. I imagine all his lovers will call him "Harry, love." I know I would.

And in household corner...

Buy this now. It is amazing. Genius, really. It cleans EVERYTHING. Walls, showers, countertops... You know that swifter commercial where the woman is cleaning everything in the bloody house, well that was me with this wonderful little thing.

And in hygiene corner...


It's like brushing your teeth with a lemon drop. Honest. Slightly odd. But I think I like it.

Kiss me I'm Irish (and Welsh..)

Since St. Patrick was most likely Welsh, or at least lived in a Welsh speaking area and had a Welsh name, I insist that I am related to him and therefore deserve a kiss at least once a year. Due to my Irish heritage I also demand another kiss on the same day. If only there was a holiday where Scottish, French, Cherokee, Meherrin, etc... demanded kisses. *sigh*
(I adore this picture of me & Lark, namely because we look hardcore... .... .... errr...)

These are my kids. Sometimes I question my decision to move to Greenville, but then I think about my loves here and I know I made the right decision. Tilan, Lark, Robley, and Beth (though noticeably absent in photo) have made it entirely worthwhile. They rock my socks.

Half full? Half empty? Who cares, it's green beer!!! OK, so I'm not the biggest fan of green beer. I'd much rather be drinking my sweet, sweet guinness but green beer is insanely cheap and after many a pitcher of the glorious guinness, we switched to the green.

It was a good night, St. Paddy's day. As for things on my front, they aren't really falling into place. Graduate schools are all of the same opinion that I suck. Those hiring also apparently agree. My thesis is, well... it's something. I just hope I can get it out before the deadline. Oy. But it's all gravy. Really. Things always seem to fall into place. It just seems to be taking a little longer this time.

In other news, I have puddin' pops & they make me happy. Also, I think my egg is going to hatch soon. YAY!! I hope it's a dragon...

My Egg...

warning: long, boring blog entry...

You know the story of the old lady who never gets married and lives with like 40 million cats? Her house reeks of urine and that nasty "cat" smell as well as the nasty "old-lady" smell? Well, I'm afraid that is what I have to look forward to. Minus the cats and the nasty smells, I think I'm well on my way to becoming the cat lady. It's dogs, you see, that I can't get enough of. I want to open my own rescue and adoption facilities. And I want a home that can house as many as I want to have. I can't say no when it comes to dogs, especially certain breeds--like goldens and pitts. I like adopting dogs from the pound and "saving" them. I know I have this "saving" complex, even when it comes to the men I'm attracted to, but at least I can actually save and train my dogs. Now, why is this a problem, you may find yourself asking? Because my dogs aren't just dogs, they're like little people, my children really. If you've ever met Scout, you know she's my kid. And what guy wants a ready made family? I'm tempted to get a bumper sticker that reads "love me, love my dogs..." -- (not really. I thoroughly hate the idea of bumper stickers and don't like anything on my truck that doesn't easily come off, but I transgress). So I've decided to give a shout out to all the dogs I've loved before...

Growing up, my dad had hunting dogs. Blue ticks, blanketbacks, walkers... you name it, we had it. At one time, we had 17 dogs. And I loved it. There is nothing like growing up surrounded by dogs. These dogs had a function and during deer season (and later, a few during rabbit season), these dogs lived and breathed for the hunt. If you got in the truck and rolled away without loading them up, they'd wail. Girlie Anne, a beautiful blanketback, was their leader and often, their mother. I remember several of her litters, especially playing with roly-poly pups in the yard. One year, I was allowed to choose one for myself. Again, this was not a dog I was allowed to "play" with, I could pet and coddle her all I wanted, but she wasn't the type of "family" dog I would come to love later. She was a gorgeous blue tick and I named her Dottie. (I was young and boring, she had dots... the name came easy). Oddly enough, I don't really remember when she died. (I remember when Girlie died because it was one of the few times I ever saw my father cry.) Boss man, a blacklab/bluetick mix, came later in life. He was given to me and my sister but with the purpose of being a hunting dog. He sucked at hunting and become a lovely little pet that was strong as an ox... Loving guy, he recently passed away after well outliving his life expectancy. The year before I started high school I devised a plan: I would have a puppy that was not a hunting dog. I knew this puppy would not be allowed to live solely inside so I didn't push for such lofty aspirations. I slowly began to beg, plead, and make promises of responsibility. My grandparents bred rat terriers at this time and, just as I had planned it, would let me have the pick of the litter. After much begging and hard labor (I agreed to help build the pen), my dad agreed and I choose Boomer. Now Boomer rocked. This dog was insanely smart, trained entirely by me of course, and could climb trees & ladders. He was a squirrel dog (which later resulted in the death of my pet squirrel, but that is another story...) and was very agile. We did not use him to hunt as my father did not hunt squirrels. My dad fell in love with Boomer and began to take him every where, especially to Greene's Gun & Tackle, where all my dad's friends gathered. I think my father was surprised that he really liked a dog that didn't really have an express purpose, like hunting. Boomer died not long after my father did. He stopped eating and just wasted away, many vet bills later and no-one could find a cause. Boomer was my first "real" dog.

Dixie was, quite possibly, the best dog in the world. The Christmas after my father died, my sister and I decided that my mother needed an in-house companion. At the time, I was a senior in high school and would soon be leaving for Chapel Hill. My sister was already at NCSU, so my mother would be alone. A friend of the family happened to have a litter of golden retriever pups, pups off Catfish Hunter's stock (she was my old softball coach and related to the great baseball player). We were put on a waitlist and just weeks before Christmas word came that a man had backed out of getting his pup because his wife has just discovered she was pregnant. Score. Dixie was a Christmas present. Basket. Red bow. It was perfect and my mother could not have been more surprised. Dixie was soon the pride of the family. Another brilliant dog, trained in some respects by me, others by my sister, she could count, knew her toys by name, and was an excellent duck dog. Dixie was my first experience with a golden and by all means, I can see why they are America's favorite dog.

My sophomore year at UNC, I was making plans to move into an apartment. I knew I wanted a dog and looked only at apartments that would allow one. Just prior to exams, and more than a week before getting the keys to the apt., I went to the animal shelter to just "look." In the very first cage sat a beautiful boxer/mix puppy, all feet and skin and bones. She'd been an owner surrender who had been dropped off in the dead of night. She looked at me with those sad brown eyes and I signed my life away. I was able to take her home a few days later and she lived with me in the dorms until I got the keys to the apt. My suitemates watched her while I took my exams. She's my first real dog, and unlike Dottie, I was able to be a bit more original with her name. She's Scout, from To Kill a Mockingbird. She's mine, mine, mine, mine, mine. And the 30 pound puppy I took home with me that May, is now a whooping 90 pound hunk of burning love.

After I returned from overseas, the summer before my senior year, it was brought to my attention that Dixie was really sick. She had a tumor in her mouth that was complicating her breathing. We'd contacted State's vet school about chemo, but the chances of them accepting her for treatment were slim. My mother was fit to be tied. We all were. I talked it over with my mom and decided to go ahead and start looking for another pup. It had been my plan to get another for mom, someone for Dixie to play with (Scout had lived there the 8 months I was abroad and she missed the constant companionship). I returned to the pound and there, in the exact same cage, and bearing the name Dixie, sat a little pointer mix puppy. 13 pounds and the last of a litter that had been born in the pound. Even her mother had been adopted. I filled out the forms and picked her up a few days later. She lived with me for a bit, getting a wee bit trained, before I took her home to Mom. I worried that Dixie, who knew she was dying, would feel replaced. But she didn't and she loved Maggie (she just looked like a Mags). On her better days, they'd have a grand ole time. Dixie died in October. And where Dixie had really been everybody's dog (mom, me, Sara & Jeff), Maggie is entirely my mom's dog.

And here is where my addiction becomes evident. My first year of graduate school I went to the pound and came back with a golden mix, about a year old, who was about to be put down because nobody wanted him. I named him Mr. Bojangles and took him home. He lives outside, in the fence around the house, and the plan originally was for me to take him with me when I moved away from Greenville. My mother has since informed me that Mr. Bojangles will not be leaving. He's still my dog and my responsibility. Basically I pay child-support for him. He's my death-row baby.

And now, my dirty little secret, I've got another puppy. An Australian Shepherd/border collie mix--blue merle with blue eyes. He is my little crazy baby. I named him Gus after Augustus McRae from Lonesome Dove and he fits his namesake. He currently resides with my mother while I complete my thesis and is the reason I go home quite often. By mid-April I hope that he will be back with me and his training can seriously begin. He is a smart guy, but mother doesn't have the training touch that I have. I love training dogs, especially smart dogs, and I'd love to get Gus into agility training.

Dogs for me are like Pringles... I can't have just one. And I'm serious about the rescue... I know I can't save them all, but there's a certain feeling I get when I see a puppy/dog that I have to have. It doesn't happen everytime and I've been to the pound several times without so much as batting an eye, but every so often I know I have to step in. I figure books and dogs are cheap addictions to have when one considers the alternatives like coke--sure I'd be thin, but I'd be broke and prone to constant nosebleeds and who wants that? This addicition just labels me the crazy cat lady, minus the cats and nasty smells. It might ensure my spinster hood... I'll cross that bridge when I get there.

The lighter shade of blue...

( Please note the horrified Duke bench...)

Carolina 83 Duke 76

Save Hannah! Save Hannah!

(My name is Forrest Gump. People call me Forrest Gump.)


Last week I loaded up the truck and headed south to Savannah for the 15th annual British Commonwealth and Postcolonial Studies conference. I took my mommy with me. The drive wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be (I’ve never driven 6+ straight hours before) and we arrived in Savannah around 4 in the afternoon. And that’s counting every rest stop Mother Dearest insisted we stop at. (She claims that when you get older, stopping is more of a necessity. Personally I think she just wanted the free travel pamphlets.) Back to Savannah—gorgeous. Stunning really. But I didn’t notice that the first night. I was exhausted when we arrived. You wouldn’t think sitting for so long would be tiring, but I was beat. Our hotel was more in the 15-501 part of Savannah. Businesses, shops, restaurants, etc… The next morning was the conference and I was up at a yawn inducing 6am. I left my mom half snoring, half watching the weather channel, grabbed my map and headed towards the Coastal Georgia Center. Straight on Abercorn. Suddenly I was in glorious homes and Spanish moss laden live oaks heaven. The street was breathtaking. Trees bent so low over the road that warning signs were posted for trucks to stay in the left lanes. I adore these massive trees. Oddly, at least for me, among these ancient beauties stood palm trees, which seemed a bit pompous and arrogant next the majestic oaks. I arrived at the Center, managed to get in a line for a plumbing convention (picture beer bellies, tool belts and me…), found the RIGHT line, signed in, bought a book, looked over my paper, went in lecture hall, met my other panelists, was surprised by Dr. Deena who came in to hear me present, presented my paper, and diddy bopped out of there back to the hotel. Tour time!! Tour time was also the start of rain time. It bloody poured all of Saturday—my only full day in Savannah. I was a little upset, but I survived. Mother, who has a slightly different idea of the perfect way to tour a city, wanted to do a trolley tour. It was raining and she was real excited so I agreed. I didn’t know there’d be stickers to wear… I refused to wear the sticker and joked on my mom so much that she eventually removed her’s. The trolley wasn’t bad and, though it pains me to say so, probably the best way to see the city on a very rainy day. Sunday morning I insisted we go back. The sun was shining and I wanted to take pictures. I got to do Savannah, at least for a couple of hours, the way I wanted to. I was back in Gates County in time to see Grey’s Anatomy because that’s how I roll.

"Secret's in the sauce"

**the title of this entry comes from a myth on the origin of the name Savannah. A woman named Hannah jumped in the river and started swimming after the ship her beloved was on. She couldn’t really swim and townspeople stood on the banks screaming “Save Hannah, Savannah” Totally untrue. The city was named because Oglethorpe (a wonderful guy who outlawed alcohol, slavery, lawyers, and catholics and went back to England after about a decade because the colony was thought a failure. He never returned. Sad story, really) called it what it was, a savanna.

(Sorry, no white feathers falling when I took this picture)