In Which I Will Meet Annette Gordon-Reed, and Probably Drool

So I'm at the barn, holding onto my daughter's horse's ear with one hand, and the big twitch attached to his nose with the other. The idiot horse, despite being tranquillized, is having some sort of post-traumatic flashback, hurling himself around even though he's only having stitches removed. He flails. The vet, scissors in hand, jumps backward. I tighten my grip on the twitch.

"So I'm speaking at the University of Maryland on Thursday," I say.

"That's nice," the vet says, around the tiny flashlight clenched in his teeth.

"Yes, but I don't know what to wear."

"Ah, easy," he says, removing the flashlight and making another jab with the scissors.  "Easy," he repeats, to the horse this time. "Just hold still. And wear whatever you'd wear for a job interview."

Surprisingly good advice for a man who spends his life in Carhart overalls.

So. I'm going to the University of Maryland. I leave tonight. Tomorrow morning I will speak on writing about controversial subjects to a session of "Intro to Creative Writing: Through African-American Voices," which sounds really fun, and then--and then, you know, I'll just spend the day hanging out with Annette Gordon-Reed.

I've been casually name-dropping all week.  "You know, me and Annette Gordon-Reed--" But Bristol is not the halls of academia, and even my friends who know they've heard of AGR somehow can not immediately place her. "Wait," they say, "Didn't she win something?"

"The Pulitzer Prize," I say. "For The Hemmings of Monticello. She also wrote An American Controversy, which correctly analyzed the Jefferson-Hemmings relationship long before DNA testing was available."

"Ah," my friends say.

"And she's on the faculty at Harvard law school, and she's very smart and she's the world's expert on Sally Hemmings, and, you know, I wrote a book about that too."

"Ah," they say.

"I've emailed her a couple of times, mostly when I was getting all those crackpot emails from Herbert Barger, and she said, that was probably because I mentioned your book when I gave that lecture at Yale, sorry, and I was like, ohmigosh, Annette Gordon-Reed mentioned Jefferson's Sons! At a lecture at Yale!"

"Ah," my friends say. "So, you're pretty excited."

"And my friend set this up because she's a dean at Maryland and she knew how much meeting Annette Gordon-Reed would mean to me, so she arranged to have me come to speak too, and I'm really looking forward to seeing her again also. Her daughter events, and she's a freshman at Smith."

At which point my friends smile gently and begin to edge away. Because I can't stop talking. Because this is so astoundingly cool.

I'll report back tomorrow, from the front row. 

Blogging About The Blog

Yesterday my son told me he thought the day's blog post was whiny. He said I usually either whined or ranted. "You know," he said, "you may have a broken refrigerator, but you're sitting there with your books, the dog, and your horse. It's a good life."

I'd like to point out that later in the conversation he complained that his university's wifi wasn't strong enough to allow him to play Xbox Live.

Anyway, I tried to explain narrative tension to him: how conflict drives interest. Thou Shalt Not Be Boring is an author's first commandment, and The Day It Rained in My Kitchen is intuitively a more interesting story than The Day Everything Was Fine.

Whatever, he said. I whine too much.

I felt indignant about this, so I complained to my husband when he came home. "That was a pretty whiny post," my husband said. "Also, I do not have to wait less long in doctor's offices because I am a doctor."

Huh. Some people you just can't please.

Bert and Ernie, however, other than trying to figure out which one I was calling Bert and which one I was calling Ernie, are quite pleased about my post regarding their wedding and have forwarded it to each of their 37,000 friends. I teased Ernie that I didn't think s/he read my blog. "Bert made me," was the reply. I just wish now I'd written that post a bit tighter. I may go back and revise.

A kind anonymous reader thinks I've been brainwashed, only they stated their opinion so rudely that I deleted it. My blog: my delete key. I don't mind if you disagree with me, and I don't mind if you think I'm wrong, but be nice when you're saying so if you expect me to leave it up for all Bert and Ernie's friends to see.

One thing I appreciate about Facebook is that I can hear news from friends from long ago, people I still care about but with whom I probably would have lost touch without the internet. So I know that yesterday, one of my high school friends lost her mother, and another lost her grandmother. I'm so sorry, and I'm glad I was able to tell them so.

Two more old friends have birthdays today. One of them, I'll call her Kitty, came to watch me compete in Florida. I can't tell you how much fun it was to see her, especially around horses, which is way outside her natural environment. Sarah (my horse) whinnied, spraying spit everywhere, and Kitty snatched a little bottle of hand sanitizer out of her purse and tried to pass it around. Those of us who ride found this hilarious. There are way grosser things about horses than their spit. Kitty is pretty much the epitome of a non-horse person, disgusted when she stepped in manure and appalled by the portajohns. (I was glad not to have to pee in the back of the horse trailer. Later in the day, when I stepped in fresh manure, I scraped it off my boot onto the running board of a friend's truck, right in front of that friend, and neither of us noticed. I only thought about it later when comparing myself to Kitty.)

My husband's father, who spends winters in Florida, also drove several hours to watch me and his granddaughter ride. He doesn't know much about horses, and he can't hear well enough to understand my daughter's chatty explanations, but he watched her with interest and afterward told her he loved her and was proud of her. Kitty was moved enough by this that she sent my husband a message, telling him how sweet his dad is.

I do think my father-in-law is sweet, but I'll be honest, I rather took that, "I love you, and I'm proud of you," for granted. I realized later that I shouldn't. I whine about my refrigerator, and my elderly incontinent dog, but I am every day loved by my family. Even my grumpy son said, "Look, you write well, you're just whining."

So there. Not today. Today I'll just be grateful for my family, for Kitty, for Bert and Ernie, and for all my varied and marvelous friends.
 

Scheduling Conflict

Some days I really want to write something astonishing and inspirational, but my head seems full of fluff. Or rather, my head seems full of the stuff you get when you're a mom and a wife and a part-time writer. Such as, I've got a lot of laundry to do. The incontinent dog showed an unprecedented level of interest in the dirty horse boots left over from our Florida competition, which pushed those right to the start of the laundry line (so that the dog, who's already eaten about $6000 worth of riding gloves* this year, didn't start in on the boots). So now those are in the washer going thumpthumpthump. Meanwhile, the dog has moved on.

The refrigerator repairman is coming today, alleluia, "sometime between 8 and 12," though it's 8:30 already. Supposedly the job will take at least 2 hours. This means it will take 5 hours, and he will arrive at 1:30. (My husband said, "I'm sure since this is such a big job they'll schedule it for first thing."  Right. You can tell who usually handles the appliance appointments in our family. **

The vet is also coming, to do Sarah's next shockwave treatment, and, though he doesn't know this yet, take the stitches out of Mickey's head. I may have forgotten to mention it, but while my horses were busy being jerks in Florida Mickey opened up a half-moon slice of his scalp that required 8 stitches on a Sunday, and a double-dose of tranquilizer because he hadn't been enough of a jerk so far. The vet and I both called him bad names. If I have to tranq him to pull the stitches out I'm stopping it out of his pay. Or his grain. Whatever.

The vet is scheduled for 2 pm. In theory, you see, there is no possible way that the refrigerator guy (here by 12, 2-hour job) and the vet could collide, but you know what will happen, don't you? The vet will show up first. Then, just when I've brought the horses in and am holding Mickey by a twitch and his ear, the refrigerator guy will come. If I don't drop the horse immediately and run for the house, the refrigerator guy will decide I'm not home, leave, and it'll be another week and a half without a fridge.

This morning my husband suggested that since our daughter's cough was still persisting*** perhaps I should ring the pediatrician. After a moment in which I sputtered--how do you sort this out, refrigerator, child, vet****--he offered to take her in. The pediatrician will not be pleased when I tell them exactly what time I want an appointment, but on the bright side my daughter will be seen quickly, because no way will one physician let another wait three hours in a waiting room.

Obviously that's an argument for my husband doing all the pediatric appointments.*****

*exaggerated for effect. But he has eaten two gloves entirely, both for the right hand.
** me
***horrible. Like she's hacking up hairballs. For two weeks.
****obviously, child usually comes before anything. Likewise, anything that's bleeding or in imminent peril comes first. But a cough that's persisted for 2 weeks versus a dead refrigerator? Hard call.
*****Sound logic, but it never quite worked out that way.

Library Round-Up

So yesterday I did make it to the library, and it was one of those days when the books not only fell into my waiting arms, they tracked me down the aisles and flung themselves upon me. I left staggering under a load that would make you think we didn’t have a single book back in the house where I lived, which, let me assure you, is not the case.

When I looked at the stack of library books I was pretty amused. They’re about as eclectic as it’s possible to be, which is actually pretty much the way I read. So here goes:

Snobs, by Julian Fellowes. He’s the creator of Downton Abbey, and I read his other novel, Past Imperfect, while I was in Florida. Past Imperfect was gorgeously written with a plot so preposterous and unwieldy that I downgraded Fellowes to borrow-don’t-buy for book #2.

The Shadow of the Wind, by Carols Ruiz Zafon. I had a friend specifically and emphatically recommend this to me, so I’m going to try it. Appears to be about a bookstore, originally written in Spanish, could be very interesting.

Happy City: Transforming Our Lives Through Urban Design, by Charles Montgomery. Sounded cool.

Love Wins for Teens, by Rob Bell. I wanted to read something by Rob Bell, probably best known for What We Talk About When We Talk About God, and this was on the new books shelf. I’ve not read any of his work before.

A Surrey State of Mind, by Ceri Radford. Hopefully a smut book.

The Butler, by Wil Haygood. I didn’t see the movie—I never do see the movie—but it sounded interesting.

Extreme Couponing, by Joni Meyer-Crothers. The chances of me becoming an extreme couponer are zero, but I just love books like this. If it’s a TLC tie-in, I’m usually in. (Exception: Duck Dynasty.)

Dog Songs, by Mary Oliver. My favorite living poet now that Maxine Kumin is dead. Oliver makes poetry look easy, which it isn’t—trust me, I’ve tried.

Openly Straight, by Bill Konigsburg. This got rave reviews so I’ve been keeping an eye out for it, and I found it first at a library, not a bookstore. It’s a YA book about a teen boy who’s openly gay in his hometown, but, because he’s tired of being the representative gay boy, remakes himself as “straight” when he goes off to boarding school.

Someone, by Alice Dermott. I don’t know a thing about it except that it’s by Alice Dermott, which should be enough for anyone.

Zealot, the Life and Times of Jesus of Nazareth, by Reza Aslan Another book I’ve been wanting to read for a long time.

And, finally,

Rude Bitches Make Me Tired, by Celia Riverbank. I started this one first, and already I want to read everything the author ever wrote AND phone my next-door neighbor and read it to her out loud. I think I may have become a Southerner, since some of this humor would wash right over Yankees’ heads. Bless their hearts.

Stuff That Will and Will Not Make You Gay

You know, sometimes people surprise me. Actually, mostly people surprise me. If you start to look at people, really look at them, you can become filled with wonder at the infinite variety and absolutely gorgeousness of them all. Recently my daughter and I were speed-walking through the Atlanta airport,  and my daughter growled, "Getting-sick-of-so-many-people," because it was rather late and we were rather tired in the same way that Olympic athletes are rather fit, and I, who had been mesmerized by the self-same crowd, said, "But look at them. Every one so beautiful." (My daughter responded, "Getting kind of deep," in a way that made it absolutely clear she intended the double meaning, but whatever. I meant what I said, too.)

Aometimes people surprise me by not being who I expect them to be. Take my post on Bert and Ernie's upcoming nuptials. People I didn't even realize read my blog, or really even remembered my name, hit "like" on Facebook, and a few of them were not people I expected to like my post.

And then I read other stuff posted on Facebook, also by people I know, that I wouldn't necessarily think are cretins until I read what they posted on Facebook. And then I get the urge to rant.

So. Can we please all do the following thought experiment? If you are straight, imagine you are gay. If you are gay, imagine you are straight. Imagine looking at someone who you care about very much, who you like and respect and enjoy spending time around, but have never felt the slightest iota of sexual attraction toward, because of their gender, and now imagine that you do feel that attraction. Go ahead. Try hard.

Did you feel it?

Me either.

And so I present my list: Stuff that Will and Will Not Make you Gay

What Will Make You Gay:
1. Receiving certain hormones in-utero.
2. That's pretty much it.

What Will Not Make You Gay:
1. Reading about the existence of gay people.
2. Knowing gay people.
3. Failing to hate gay people.
4. Intensively praying to God to make you gay.
5. Being around gay people.
6. Having a gay person as a parent.
7. Having a gay person as a brother, sister, child, grandparent, aunt, uncle, nephew, niece, or friend.
8. Having a gay person as your accountant, grocer, physician, lawyer, postal employee, or pastor.
9. Having a gay person in your Scout troop.
10. Having a gay person on your rec team.
11. Having a gay person on your professional team.
12. Being sexually abused. (This might make you a hot mess, but it won't make you gay.)
13. Being sexually promiscuous. (Ditto.)
14. Being celibate. (Note: this also doesn't make you not gay.)
15. Loving people, whether or not they are gay.
16. Hating people, whether or not they are gay. (Again: also won't make you not gay.)

Please. Quit being afraid.

Twenty Years Later.

Bert and Ernie are getting married.

Not that Bert and Ernie. My friends Bert and Ernie, who, like nearly everyone else I mention on this blog, are not actually named Bert and Ernie.

I've been married for nearly 25 years now. My husband and I were young to have gotten married, I know that now, not that I care in the least. We were smart about some things and lucky about others, and we were always completely committed to each other and our children. We've had a happy 25 years; I look forward to at least another 25 more.

Bert and Ernie have been equally committed, and equally happy, for the past 20 years. The difference is that they couldn't be married, not until just recently. Because, you know, their names are Bert and Ernie. They're gay.

I've known them for almost ten years. Once one of my children and their child spent a weekend playing together while we were all gathered for an event. My child was still pretty young. Afterward--weeks afterward--my child came up to me and abruptly demanded, where exactly did Bert and Ernie get their kid?

"Ecuador," I said.

"OH, thanks!" my child said, and skipped away.

Because they are getting married, they can now both be the legal parents of the child they've raised from birth. Because they are getting married, they can inherit each other's social security benefits and pensions. They can't be denied access to one another in case of medical or other emergency.

Other than that, I don't think much will change for them. Their commitment to each other has long since been proven.

But as soon as I write that, I think I'm wrong. I try to imagine living the last 24 years of my life as an unofficial "life partner," not a spouse. I think marriage would be pretty important for me.

Whatever. I just need to come up with a decent wedding gift (are they registering anywhere?) and when I get to their party, dance. And maybe sing. I'm a whiz at karaoke now, as you may have heard.

Re-Entry

If you're looking for a profound, well-written, and insightful blog today, look elsewhere. I haven't got one.

It's a two-nap kind of day.

I got home from my Florida adventure late last night, exhausted in body and mind. I slept a lot down there--it was such a bummer, because the Olympics were on, but even if I willed myself to stay awake I usually couldn't make it past 9:30--but somehow the sleep didn't seem to take. It's true that the only two days I didn't wake at 6am I woke at 5 and 7, and it's true that I was more physically active than I usually am, and rode one or two horses reasonably hard every single day. But sheesh. The pros down there ride a dozen, most days, and then go out to the movies.

Anyway, I'm tired, and I had a wonderful time, and I'm loving being back home, too, not least because I got to see my beautiful husband, who did a hero's job taking care of things while I was gone. I'll be paying him back for that dang refrigerator for a long time.

(In an aside: since repairing the refrigerator cost 1/8th the price of buying a new one, we're definitely repairing it. However, we need parts, which won't come for 10 days. We're making do with one of those little college refrigerators. I'm telling you, when you're using them to store actual groceries instead of soda, beer, and leftover pizza, those suckers fill up fast.)

I was back in my minivan, in my hometown, running errands. I went to the library not so much because I needed something to read as because I longed to wander among stacks full of books. I read 2.27 (according to my Kindle) novels while I was away, and no non-fiction other than USA Today, and I am way book deprived. But the library was closed. I stood looking at the darkened doors, and an elderly man with a book in his hand came and stood beside me and looked at them, too. "I didn't think the library would be closed on President's Day," I said.

He shook his head bleakly. "I didn't even know it was President's Day."

Then I went on to Food City, and tried to balance the groceries I wanted to buy (all the fruits and vegetables! Fish! Yogurt and hummus and cheese! I have a kitchen to cook in again!) with what I reasonably could buy (no refrigerator!).  The usual Monday check-out clerk (no, I'm not making that up. Yes, I live in a small town) narrowed his eyes at me and said, "You look different. Your hair? No, that's not it. What's different?"

I said, "I have a tan. I've been in Florida," and he growled at me.