1,000 wet cows in the dark

On my way home tonight I drove past a feedlot. In Iowa. Can you believe it?

Only I couldn't see the cows. I've seen the confinement many times before and there are just hundreds and hundreds of cows eating themselves to death calmly every day.

But tonight, I noted that I could only see a dozen or so of them as it was pitch black and the night smothered the few yard lights. 1,000 cows are out there in the dark.

And they had to be soaking wet, too -- it's been raining for two days, supposed to rain two days more...

1,000 soaking wet cows lowing in the pitch black night. Is this the most miserable place you could imagine, I wondered? Wet, dark, laying in the mud, the smell, probably cold...

Or, I wondered, is it not so terrible after all? Yes, you're wet, it's dark, but you know what's out there -- your 999 closest friends. Sniff, sniff -- there's Bessie laying in the slop next to mine. Sniff, sniff -- there's Dolly over there. Community.

Commoonity...

Hmm. Who knows.

Top 10 Reasons I Like My Roommates

10. They've seen me at my messiest, and they're not afraid to say so.
9. They don't throw pillows if I reset my alarm once or twice a morning.
8. They let me read stories to them.
7. They can tell when something's wrong.
6. They have nice clothes ... that they let me borrow.
5. They don't lock me out if I forget to take out the trash, or wash the dishes, or clean the bathroom, or vaccum, or...
4. They're busier than me so sometimes I had the room to myself.
3. M & Ms
2. We all have sisters the same age.
1. They aren't stuck-up jocks like I thought they were during freshman orientation. :)

degree surfing

So... about sixty years to fill.

Step one: Pick up the "Rhetorical Grammar" textbook and see if you can major in rhetorical grammar.

Step two: Google all the schools listed in the acknowledgements in all the rhetoric textbooks in the bookshelf.

Step three: Read every page linked to UI Urbana-Champagne's writing studies program. See the words theory and pedagogy and critical so much that grad school doesn't sound fun anymore.

Step four: Go back to Mizzou's graduate editing homepage and picture yourself with a can of red pens and a bookshelf full of stylebooks (one of which you compiled). Headline snafus are tacked up all over your bulletin board.

Step five: Remember the money-hungry ad monster that makes the newspaper possible.

Step six: Check your e-mail for the 56th time this hour and wonder if anyone wants to pay you $30,000 a year to proofread previously published newspapers, conjugate French verbs and work algebra problems in a tulip field where chocolate mysteriously has no caloric value.

4/25/42
Hello, love.

It was just about the best birthday any four year old could ever ask for – minus one crucial ingredient, of course.

You were right – Jimmy and his four little friends loved the army theme, especially the little Spam cakes. I didn’t hear any whining at all about the lack of chocolate frosting. Well, Bridge did ask why she couldn’t have Gimby ice cream, but I did a premo job of distracting the boys right away – I asked who was ready to go secure the perimeter around General Patton’s pigsty. There was a lot of yelling and half-eaten Spam cake on the floor, but spirits were high and, well, you know that’s what counts. I think I’m starting to get the hang of this mothering thing after four years, but half the time I still can’t believe they don’t have a real mom somewhere who will come take them away from me. Either that, or Gimby will finally get fed up with my incompetence and send me packing.

As expected, there were a few moments when Jimmy was on the brink of tears, like when he opened up the official army duffle you sent. He kept a brave face because his friends were there and your dad was watching. As he was getting into his pajamas he did finally break down. At the very least I was thankful Bridget was already asleep and I had no other place to be in the world than in Gimby’s old rocker with my worn-out, heartbroken little boy in my lap. He finally cried himself to sleep, but I didn’t try to stop him.

The day wore on me so much that I fell asleep the moment I hit the mattress. I was sleeping so heavy that I only woke up once wondering why I couldn’t smell the sweet smell of your sweat. And I can’t help worrying about that. Am I forgetting you? That thought kept me from sleeping at all the next night and made me forget the baking powder in the breakfast muffins. You should have seen your dad's face. I worry every day that the day will come when I will want to forget you ever showed your face at that barn dance, that I ever professed my love for haylofts, that you told your mother off about my lousy cooking skills. I know there isn’t much you can do, but – please don’t let that day ever come.

Your dad says he thinks the corn will come up faster than usual this year, even in spite of the flooding. He hasn’t ripped Georgia’s udders all to sheds yet but Gimby still tells him he will every day. Her shaking is getting a little bit worse. The milk almost started spilling out of the pitcher at the party while she was holding it. Virginia is so smitten with that Rogers boy now that Gimby swears up and down that she’ll probably ask him to the Myers’ square dance.

Jimmy is sending you a picture he drew of him and Skip securing the horse barn. Bridge’s scrawl is Gimby spanking Jimmy for tramping around in your dad’s boots all over her clean floor.

I cross myself every time I hear the chime and say a prayer for you.
Barely breathing,
Maisie

'a picture is worth 488 words' or 'how house ads saved my sanity' or 'newspaper production at a small weekly'

captivating: THE END

That's right -- there is indeed an end to this book. And I did finally manage to get there.

Long and short: From a literary standpoint, I contend it would have made a more effective essay than book-length work. There was a lot of material that was kind of a stretch to tie into the theme at all. At times I wondered if it was just a chance to write about oneself, but that's an incredibly cynical thought so I'm trying to stifle it. But as there's not much of a venue for essays in Christian pop lit, I guess this was what there was.

(It helped in finishing that I found a new fantastic reading spot -- a sunny hill across the street that overlooks a real field and owls are calling back and forth to each other and all that jazz.)

One thing I started to think about toward the end was that the author's preferred rhetorical tools and mine do not line up. Several friends mentioned that they've read the book and loved it, which makes me feel kind of snooty and bad. (So please, don't forget that when you too read it and think it's fantastic.) The authors tend to use pathetic argument (meaning sort of emotion-as-reason arguments, not pathetic as in really bad), whereas I'd personally prefer a logical argument when someone is trying to prove to me that "this is the essence of a woman" and so on. Quite possibly the Eldredges did not write in order to be be argued with, but more to let people think about particular topics in a new way.

Who am I to judge until I've published (and actually written) my own crap.
(I'm well on my way with an extensive vocabulary including the word "crap.")

I would like you all to meet my most prized possession. No, it is not my sister. Possession.

But possession in the loose sense, as in it hasn't legally been mine for 15 years, yet it is mine all the same.

Surronding my sister you may notice a greenish porch swing. Now imagine you had a way-back machine and could see it in its proper sky blue state. Isn't it amazing? Look how swingy it looks. And what a view! And it's right there hanging on a ceilinged-porch in case it has been raining for days and you just have to take your Barbies outside to go camping.

It probably doesn't look very big but it does comfortably seat three five-year-olds or a five-year-old and a mom. With a little less roomminess it will seat a mom, a five-year-old and a three-year-old, but a mom, a five-year-old, a three-year-old and a screaming baby is really pushing it. Even a mom and a dad and a child of any age is pretty awkward.

My only goal in life that does not change like vocare in a passing breeze is to once again own a hanging porch swing.

Over and over...

Close my eyes and hold my heart
Cover me and make me something
Change this something normal into something beautiful

Why do I like Jars of Clay? It should be clarified that it's more of a love-hate relationship. Particular songs will resonate for years at a time,

Take the selfish, take the weak, and all the things I cannot hide

Though the pain is an ocean
Tossing us around, around, around
You have calmed greater waters
Higher mountains have come down

and others fall in and out of favor.

I want to fall in love with You.

It should also be noted that I own the majority of their CDs, yet the majority of that majority is not currently in my possession. If you are responsible for this, you know who you are. :) Burn a copy and send it to me?

There's a large public cemetery near my apartment. Today I took a walk around the edge of it. Instead of reaking with sadness, love seemed to be overarching emotion inside the grounds. It really is a large cemetery for the size of the town.

It was a little unsettling to see a husband's name with no death date on the headstone with the dead wife. Yes, obviously they will want to be buried together so he knows where he's going and his name won't be changing and his birthdate won't either, but... It's still a bit morbid to me.

i heart south dakota

The Sioux Falls news was talking about a mumps case that popped up in the area. They said you should check your medical records if you don't know if you've been vaccinated. Because most clinics are closed for the weekend, they said, "Check with your mother, or another medical professional who might know."

how well can we afford to be?

Last week I stopped by the local pharmacy. On my way out, I wrote a hefty $35 check for a month's worth of two daily medications. That does not include vitamins.

Now, these medications are not vital to my existence. I have lived without them in the past and would not be at (very significant) risk of death without them. But still -- $35 for 70 pills? Can I afford to be more comfortable? Is it worth $560 a year to be cheerier and blow my nose less?

Someone once made an interesting point about prescription meds (esp. for seniors). Yes, seniors are paying outrageous prices for the medications controlling their heart conditions and blood pressure and Parkinson's and so on and so forth. Some must choose between meds and meals.

But sometimes we lose perspective of the fact that part of why healthcare has become so expensive is that we are living so much longer. These miracle pills are causing people not to die of heart attacks at 60 and add on another 20 years to the time they would have had half a century before.

This is not to say people are not entitled to these medications if they exist, but... I don't know what I'm trying to say.

in the news (of me)

• Easter, as you know, is over. I went home and ate chocolate with the fam. Because my lovely new camera arrived in time, it came home with me and I took a couple hundred photos (whittled down, then, to 40 worth looking at) of them and their activities. Photos to come when my computer cooperates.
• My landlord sent me a letter and asked me to pay less rent from now on.
• I went shopping with my mom. This entails trying on clothes -- not fun. Yes, I picked out the clothes (and paid for them), but this required me looking at myself a lot. Anytime you are looking at yourself you find a myriad of things wrong with you. So you come home with a bag or two but a level of self-esteem far more deflated than before you left. And then there's the shopping headache. I try on armloads of things and sometimes come home with one or two items (and never what you were looking for in the first place). My mom is one of the few people I feel comfortable clothes shopping with, because I'm such a slow browser/trier-on-er.
• I've won six awards through the South Dakota Newspaper Association. It will be the end of May before I know what they are. That's kind of mean and torturous of them to give you a little hint and then leave you hanging for five weeks.
• Two words: allergy season. The torture began slowly Wednesday and was full-blown misery by Thursday afternoon. Gradually they have been relenting, with relative normalcy restored today, no thanks to prescription meds.

things I like about my job

1. Events don't start until I arrive. Example: The ribbon-cutting for the new track could only be moved up 45 minutes if I could make it at the earlier time.
2. I can go pretty much wherever I want. I can stand in the front of the room, get up in the middle of the program, stand backstage, stand on the field, on the track, on the roof of the AV room...
3. People already know what my name is and why I'm there just because I'm holding a camera.
4. I get 475 words each week to write about whatever the heck I want.
5. I can leave number 5 until tomorrow if I want.

just kidding

On second thought, it makes more sense to shut down the other blog. This one is prettier and lets me post photos. Sorry for the temporary confusion.