Everything at once!

I started teaching another ESL class today--they're more advanced beginner level. I haven't taught a lower-level class in a while, so I was nervous. But I'm glad to have this class. They are friendly and motivated. They know they need to work on their skills, they're not yet resentful of the fact that they have to work on their skills. Plus, my tendency to pantomime and use really exaggerated body language to explain vocabulary is actually necessary and even appreciated.

Today the wireless router got all weird. All the security settings that Bill Howe helped me set up and which I actually managed to maintain went away, and the network defaulted back to being called "Linksys" and having no security settings. I can't access the router IP to change the settings. I reset the router and somehow changed the network name and made a WPA Key--but I did that all through the software interface program thing on my computer, not by going in and changing the settings manually. I still can't access the settings manually. In theory, when I reset the router, the password should have defaulted to "admin," but it didn't. And the old password I used doesn't work. And now that the network has a new name, I have no idea how to change things manually. But it is encrypted, and working. I guess that's good, but I am uneasy.

Today I decided that I have to turn down an almost formal (they want to check my references) full-time job offer with a salary that is kind of shocking (in a good way). I felt a little sick about it all riding home, but I just can't do it: I make a living, pay my bills, eliminate debt, save, and travel with my freelance work and teaching. I'm not getting rich, but I don't feel insane about my work, and I have a flexibility that could never be matched with a full-time job. I can go to yoga in the middle of the morning or afternoon. I'd have to use all my vacation time to visit my family or travel for poetry and art things, and I don't really want to have to do that. I don't want to have to explain to my boss why it is essential that I leave work at 3:00 pm so that I can make it to a 4:30 reading. I want to work like crazy, but work the late hours at home, with Mark around and Lester on my lap and jazz music playing. And mostly what I want is to have work interfere as little as possible with writing and art. So, no to the full-time job.

I did have a very nice bike ride cursing down Palomar Airport road and along the 101 though, just before sunset. (And riding down Palomar Airport road after dark would be nearly suicidal, especially where it crosses the 5). It was one of those "oh, it is very beautiful here" moments. It isn't always beautiful here, but it was this afternoon.

No one drove into the lagoon.

I'm listening to (but not watching) Chris Pusateri read ("If Martians exist, then so do presidents," he just said) over at the Continental Review. I'm learning to enjoy all of this recorded poetry--just please, If you ever have a party, and I ever come, please don't play poetry on your stereo or whatever slick or crappy sound system you have (and also, don't play any avant garde jazz). I love poetry and avant garde jazz, but if you play either at a party, well, it's about the same thing as just telling your partygoers to go away and party somewhere else. Now I know that some of you "partygoers" would rather party alone, and that's ok with me--just stay away from my parties.

Anyway. Thank you Continental Review. I like to listen to poetry. Alone. When I'm not at a party.

The Chargers didn't win. No one drove into the lagoon.

I made pizza for dinner. The last time I made pizza, I forgot that I actually own a rolling pin, so rolling out the crust was difficult--the resulting pizza was tasty, but the crust was uneven and doughy in places. Tonight, I remembered that I own a rolling pin, so I rolled out the dough--the pizza crust was even, slightly crunchy, and uniformly cooked.

I have complicated feelings about most PBS adaptations of Jane Austen novels (and complicated feelings about the novels (marriage, wealthy, wealthy men)), but I am going to watch the PBS adaptation of Northanger Abbey this evening.

I kept thinking (in a smarmy, mean, unyogic way) of Charles Bernstein's poem, "Thank You for Saying Thank You."

I don't enjoy working with partners in a yoga class. I know, I know there are some things you need a partner for, and it's good to learn to trust and support other people. I guess. However, when I am upside down, I'd rather be left to my own devices. If I'm going to fall, I'd rather fall sideways and land on my feet instead of A) falling over backwards into a deranged back bend to avoid kicking my partner or B) just falling on my partner. I rarely feel supported by a yoga partner. Instead, I feel like I have to support them, which is most vexing when one is supposed to be the recipient of support. This is why I'm not a big fan of support.

Or maybe it's just that I'm not good at moving in and out of "teaching" mode quickly. When I'm at yoga, I need to focus very precisely on what I am physically doing. I don't want to help someone else understand that, for example, they should hold my hips or my feet when spotting me in an inversion, not my knees (ouch!). Giving directions while upside down and everyone in the room is also talking is impossible--you have to yell just so that your poor partner can hear what you are saying.

When I'm not in a kind, teacherly mode, I'm not a very good partner because I'm timid. I don't really want to touch someone else, and I don't want to be responsible when they get injured, or when their rotator cuff tears. Many people will simply not tell you if you are doing something that makes them uncomfortable, so I probably sound overly paranoid when I say "how does this feel? Are you feeling any pain in your lower back?" etc every five seconds.

Of course, receiving a really good assist is fabulous. A good assist can help you open up your muscles, or gain a deeper, more embodied sense of alignment. Giving an assist correctly can also do the same thing. But first you have to get through the interpersonal weirdness of assisting someone (or being assisted) in the first place.

I want a writing MFA I don't want one

Having an MFA would do almost nothing for my publication possibilities, but it would help me get adjunct work. Wow, that's motivating!

I'm feeling arrogant and impatient: I'm a really good writer. I'm a really good teacher, I can help you learn grammar and writing and theory, I'm extremely intelligent and totally cute--and my social skills are top notch. Plus, I can do a really solid handstand. I am sure I will have a book out in the next year or so. Most writers I respect, even ones with MFAs, say MFAs aren't necessary (or they say that everyone needs a PhD now). Necessary for what? Apparently, an MFA is necessary for adjunct work. Blech.

I am considering, again, doing an MFA in art. Not writing. I don't want to be anyones academic superstar, I want to be able to make a living and not go crazy. I am feeling impatient about my writing and professional careers because, I suppose, they are actually going quite well. So I want them to be even better. Now.

The new year has begun for real! The holidays are over! All worries that I have not worried for weeks are beginning to return!

I Made This

I like the fact that the man thing in it has no head.

My neck hurts. Again. Etc.

I was productive today. Yoga. Work. Grading. Walk in the sun. Reading in the sun with Mark.

Excess Qualities are Important Because

The Chargers won and someone drove into the lagoon.

We went bird watching

And then we took Lester to the park by the lagoon to read. There is a significant echo off a building just west of the little park--Lester was at first frightened and then excited by how the echo made his calls seem twice as loud and twice as long.

My North County

is nice in the winter. I am glad that I do not have to take all the asthma and allergy medication I used to have to take (ooo, a many modaled sentence).

The interview went quite well. It looks like I'll get to work on a small initial project, and then we'll see how it goes. The people at the firm are from New York. In a professional context, I do find it much easier to communicate with people from back east. I appreciate the directness.

Cross your fingers for me.

I have a meeting tomorrow for a possible design freelance job.

I am thinking more than usual about what to wear to this meeting.

And, of course, I'm biking to the meeting, so that makes it even more challenging.

Recipe Radar

Some kind of a Spanish-style fish soup with white beans and saffron. I've seen lots of recipes that use clams, but I can't eat shellfish, so maybe I'll make it with halibut or monkfish.

I have two more whole trouts in the freezer courtesy of our neighbor. Anyone have a favorite way to prepare trout? I'm getting bored with my various fish preparations.

A lentil and sausage soup. I make a version of this a few times every winter. I saw one recipe that calls for fennel, which could be interesting.

A very basic but tasty brunch recipe: baked eggs with potatoes and chorizo. Mmm.

Winter greens: I tend to make some version of braised greens (maybe with beans and prosciutto, or a more middle-eastern version with chickpeas, or a spicy version with sausage). Does any one have any favorite winter green dishes/recipes?

Something with eggplants. Eggplants are good in the winter.

I'm a bit sick of winter squash for the moment, so I'm taking a break.

I'm writing poems, so that must mean I am interested in things.

I'm doing the last edits on my submission to the Press literary conference at Evergreen coming up in May, which promises to be a yee haw time.

I received a tagine in the mail today. Thank you.

Goodbye, Flash

It's Raining!

We're all slowly adjusting to being back at home. Lester has a lot of pin feathers, and it's too cold to give him a bath, which means he's been getting extra head scratches and preening--not that he minds.

Beyond cooking, food, and fluffing around, there's not much happening, and that's fine with me. I'm working up to a post on Jennifer Moxley's The Middle Room and perhaps a paragraph on Lester and post-structural Wittgenstein.

And also how many designs from McSweeney's were featured in the recent Print magazine annual.

And also about how Peter Gizzi is the new poetry editor for The Nation, which most of you probably already know.

I'll have to start working again on Monday, but until then I have a few days to mellow out and prepare for, well, Monday.

I'm back in SoCal with Mark and Lester.

We're feeling well enough, but not super well, so I decided to make chicken soup--quite the project as it turns out. I made stock from scratch with sauted onions, leek, and hacked up pieces of chicken--bones and skin, too--braised and then simmered in water with bay leaves and salt. This is the most hands on stock I've ever made, but the cooking time was only 40 minutes (20 braising and 20 simmering). I put the chicken breasts in with the water, and they were perfectly finished at the same time as the stock. This was nice, because I just cooled and shredded them and then added them to the soup at the end. After that, the rest was easy--potatoes, parsnips, carrots, etc. I also added some savory, because I have it, and fresh ginger, because ginger is good for every kind of illness. The end result was very good.

The working title for this part is called "The History of Aunt Ug."

Here's a section from the now epic collage/flarf story my sisters and I have been writing.

Ah ha! Nancy returned to her chicken-belly convertible. He felt tired and worn out, small and pathetic. When she was born, my mom couldn't say Margaret, so she called her Ug and the name stuck. We're supposed to turn our money over to the earthly beings who makes spiritual communication over their cellphones at the play station to make the pieces fit right. When Ug buys a bag of cookies, she licks every one so that nobody else will want them. My guess is she's here with Mr. Motto again for some more chicken and turkey dressing--my, he sure likes chicken. The cage was wheeled through one--a wide columned hallway that lead into a small room. Sometimes it gets noisy and Ug starts a quiet contest. Three branch ranch, three branch ranch, with a little bit of chicken dressing on the side, Mr. Johnson said. Do you know your identity is not in them. Be quiet. It's a quiet contest, starting now. Oopsy daisies, the tea is ready. Shh, said Nancy, I think the prowler is outside the window. Only shouting seemed to keep it from overwhelming him.

Various New Years Past

1990: I was living in Sedgwick, Maine, and I spend the evening with with my mom and my best friend from middle school, Jocelyn. We stayed up until midnight and then my friend and I gave each other a New Year hug. We joked that it was an "old lady" hug. I don't know why.

1999: Crashed a debutante ball in Nashville. I wore black leather pants and a gray cashmere sweater. Then we went to some club afterwards. The next day, we went over to a friend's house to watch football. At the time, I didn't understand that New Year's Day is a football day. I became very frustrated and bored when I realized that I was going to have to sit around and watch football all day with people I barely knew. I ended up walking to a donut shop down the road just to have something to do.

2000: I was with my Dad in an apartment in Gaithersburg, MD. We'd just returned from Ireland--I'd gone to take care of my sisters while Dad and Mary attended a funeral. Dad and I came home early for reasons I don't remember, and Mary and my sisters stayed through the New Year. I was very, very sick, and spent a feverish night sleeping in my sisters' huge crib. I think that the both of us were too sick to properly celebrate my Dad's 50th birthday on New Year's Day.

2001-2005: Many happy New Year's Eves with Mark

2006: New Year's Eve bash at Dan's house in DC. Most of my friends were there, all in one place, and we toasted to everything, including several obscure colors.

2007: At the Shangri La hotel in Oman.

Rising Star of the Metroplex

Various Chicken Fried

At the time I thought these two birds were hawks--I didn't have my binoculars. In flight, they looked like hawks, in this picture, they look like they could be turkey vultures.

Today we drove to Roanoke, a town of less than 5000 people just west and south of Flower Mound (on the other side of Grapevine Lake) to eat fried chicken at Babe's Chicken Dinner House. Although Babe's is a bit of a Texas chain, the Roanoke location was the first. Roanoke was a nice little place. I liked the fact that it is right on the Missouri Pacific rail line. Trains are soothing.

Babe's in Roanoke only serves fried chicken and chicken-fried steak. My sister Sarah was disappointed that they didn't have chicken-fried chicken.

Chicken-fried steak is like a Texas version of wiener schnitzel, except that it's made with a fairly cheap cut of steak instead of veal. It's usually pan fried, where as fried chicken is frequently deep-fried (but it can also be pan fried). Chicken fried chicken has the same preparation as chicken-fried steak but with chicken.

I don't really understand the differences between chicken-fried chicken and fried chicken. It's very confusing. Can anyone offer insight?

But of course, I don't want to live here

We went for a walk/hike around a nearby lake. Looking at the map, I don't know if it was Lake Dallas or Grapevine Lake. The last time I was here was July, several years ago, when it was hot, humid, and thunderstorming. It was actually quite nice to drive past the exurban housing developments to where the horsefarms and trailer parks begin. Of course, most of the farms are forsale, and I'm sure the city has plans for the trailer parks. I'm only saying that I'm feeling kinder about the towns north of Dallas.

Tomorrow we are going to go to a resturant just east of here that only serves chicken, chicken-fried steak, and sides. I remember I once got into an argument with an ex from Nashville about whether or not it was "chicken-fried steak" or "chicken fried steak." The argument wasn't about the dash, but about the emphasis. I argued that the name refered to the technique--i.e. the steak in chicken-fried steak is fried in the same way that fried chicken is fried. My ex failed to understand why I felt the need to think about such distinctions. I've never had chicken-fried steak.