Now THERE'S a Personality Test No One's Developed Yet

I met with my colleague yesterday afternoon, to effectuate the glorious and much-awaited hand-off of the ACUN. Praise Hera. During our conversation, he told me: "You can tell a lot about a person by which drug they like at the dentist." !!!! Someone get the Cupid people on this, stat!

While it may seem as if this is his response to being handed a program in crisis (and it may well be), it actually made sense in context. Yesterday morning, after I put my mother on the plane, I went to the dentist to have a pesky piece of extra gum tissue removed. My dentist is a weird one; she's perky, knowledgeable, a bit of a perfectionist. (In the last three months, she's tried to get me, Senor Fluff and Yogini all into braces. Been there, done that. "Yes," she says, " but this time, you're an adult! This time, you'll wear your retainer!" Don't count on it, toots.) At my last cleaning, she informed me that all was looking good in my mouth, except for the tooth that is unfortunately halfway covered by this piece of tissue. "Wait much longer and we'll lose the tooth." What a Cassandra.

So, I went in to have the tissue hacked off. But no! She's modern and technological! She uses--wait for it--an electrical current to "zap" away the tissue and cauterize the wound. "You won't need it, but do you want nitrous?" Yes, matter of fact, I do. Who am I to turn down drugs?

All I could think of when she put the little gas mask on me was the insane dentist in Little Shop of Horrors. While the video below doesn't show it, I do think he sucks down the nitrous with regularity in the film.



So I've always thought that the gas was a retro thing. But now, my friends, no more! I can totally see why people like it, even if they aren't insane sadists! How lovely is the nitrous high; like being very very drunk without having to worry about barfing. Much fuzziness and loving of everyone, and a total lack of panic when you smell you're own flesh burning in your mouth. So what if it causes birth defects? Bring it on!

This was the impetus for my colleague's comparison. According to his assessment, were I to choose a drug, I'd want the ones that made me happy, as opposed to the ones that knocked me out completely---his choice.

Such delightful variation in the world. Now back to writing syllabi.

With Sage Enough, and Thyme

The wonder and gratitude for the Christmas in own house continues, by golly. Senor Fluff and I got up this morning, read our respective books and drank coffee for about an hour, and then piled up our prezzies and opened them slowly, taking time to admire their various benefits (ooh, highball glasses from the parents! those will come in handy!), and chuckle about the inspiration for them (Senor's "Little Lebowski Urban Achievers" t-shirt, courtesy of yours truly). This kind of Christmas morn kicks the proverbial ass on the in-laws "wake up at 5:30 to screaming children, grab a cup of coffee, sit on the couch and perform great appreciation for gifts, and often get picture taken" morning that we have had for the last few years. It is indeed fun to watch kids open presents; they exhibit an excitement that those of us over 30 just don't seem to manifest (even when we get new operating systems for our Mac. oh yes.). But the early morning performance, prior to coffee? Torture. Every year.

And one of the further benefits of being in my own damn house for the holidays is one that I didn't really consider until after our return from the mountains: cooking! My own food! So last night we had spaghetti with turkey meatballs and I made a version of Senor Fluff's favorite--a spice cake. Thanks to epicurious, I managed a version of the gingerbread cake with vanilla cream cheese frosting (and for the record, whoever is responsible for the KitchenAid stand mixer should be canonized). Right now, I've got a chicken roasting, with garlic and olive oil pushed under its skin. Anyone ever done that? There's something all-too-prurient about it. I felt like I was violating the chicken. But garlic roast chicken? Sorry, poultry. Take one for the team. In addition, I've got a pan of my mother's herb stuffing waiting to be baked. I went the foo-foo route and actually bought fresh herbs (something that was unheard of during my childhood). Halfway through, I remembered that I had a food processor and could have avoided interminable chopping, but I think it will be tasty, nonetheless. Finally, I'm planning on doing up some brussels sprouts with pancetta, a la Giada, which I caught on Food Network the other day. In short, there's little like cooking for yourself and your loved one, all the stuff you love to eat. Oh, there will be hell to pay come tomorrow at the gym, (and when Senor F. sees the pile of pans in the sink), but nothing says mine like a house filled up with smells of my own creation. Eew. I mean the food, of course.

I'd never really thought about the therapeutic benefits of cooking during the holidays. I suppose it's because the experience at other people's houses is never so relaxing. I don't know where anything is, the tools are never quite right (I want a sharp knife, dammit!), and things that are ever so basic to me (hmm, bean and rice burritos, anyone?) are exotic to my relatives (you're not going to fry the tortillas?). But here, everything I want is at my fingertips (or, at least, I know what I don't have. Damn missing dishwasher.) And thus, the methodical assemblage of food becomes meditative, creative, yummy. Holidays at home: 5. Holidays away: 0.

I have a sinking feeling that we'll be traveling again next year, so I'm trying to enjoy every single minute of my holiday of freedom. And if that means cooking and eating and reading and drinking coffee and watching five seasons of Angel on DVD, then so be it.

Yup. you heard me. Five seasons.

As Close to Perfect as It's Gonna Get

Last day of vacation in the north looked like this:

9 a.m.: Wake up in lovely, historic B&B. Wander downstairs to a sunny, snowy morning. Consume blueberry pancakes, bacon, grapefruit juice and coffee.

9:45 a.m.: Wander back upstairs, have lengthy conversation with husband regarding what to do and where to eat during the day.

10:30 a.m.: Now gussied up, drive 10 miles from teensy mountain town to slightly larger mountain town. Find free parking. Wander up the main drag, in search of coffee.

11 a.m.: Eat at Rachael Ray-recommended cafe. Chicken chili with fresh baguette. Eat in view of frozen lake and mountains. Drink coffee, read Shelley Jackson novel.

1 p.m.: Rent ice skates and spend two hours going round and round on Olympic speed skating oval (see below. Thank you, New York Times.). No falling, no knocking the teeth out. Just looking at the patterns of metal blades on ice, and fog on snow-covered mountains in the distance.

3 p.m.: Limp off the ice, wander up the street to the local brewery for a pint and some nachos.
4 p.m.: Explore used bookstore. Mock its crappy selection good-naturedly.
5 p.m.: Wander up the hill to the fancy-schmancy restaurant, and wonder if they'll let us in, since we're wearing fleece and salt-stained jeans. Not only do they let us in, they get us drinks, offer us the pub and the restaurant menu, and give us a tour of the wine cellar. Dinner=tomato bisque with lobster thermidor and a organic, grass-fed rib eye with porcini mushroom sauce. Heaven. And a glass of El Felino Malbec.
6:25 p.m.: Pay bill and wander down the hill to the tiny local movie theater, clearly built in the art deco period. See Will Smith movie, which didn't suck.
9 p.m.: Drive back to historic B&B, take a bath in clawfoot tub, crawl into bed.

Lessons learned:

Everything is funnier on vacation.
Lots of small meals can give you room to try different kinds of food.
Exercising on vacation can be fun.
Snowy mountain towns require warm waterproof boots, rendering the every day, constant search for cute but weather-appropriate shoes unnecessary.
A good plan can allow you to do a good number of activities in a single day.

If this is what not going home for Christmas looks like, then I may never go home again.

Some Other Place Like Home for the Holidays

Every year, Senor Fluff and I finish up the grueling tasks at the end of the semester, hand in our grades, clean our house (which has generally acquired tumbleweeds of cat hair, dust, and all kinds of ungodly crud in the month leading up to finals), do all of our laundry, and then pack up and head out to see our respective families. There, as I've described before, we see my parents for a few days, drive 5 hours to spend 4 days in a 2 bedroom house with 6 adults, 4 kids, and 2 dogs (no partridge, no pear tree), drive 5 hours back to my parents' house, spend 2 days there recuperating (and generally getting sick) and then return to our house in time to start prepping for the spring semester.

If it's not immediately obvious from the description above, this is about the worst way to "spend" the winter break that I can think of. I love seeing my family, and I enjoy and get good karma from seeing my husband's family, but I'm cranky and exhausted and stressed the entire time. Which is an awful lot like my general state during the semester. If one of the purposes of break is to rest and recharge, then this is time badly invested.

And so, for the first time EVER, we're spending this break at home. Our own home. And when I say ever, I mean it. I've been going home for the holidays since I was in college, and we've been doing the insane two-family holiday since we before we got married in 2000 (barring an MLA or two).

My initial impressions, here on the 20th, when we would normally be out West already? This is BLISS. We've put up our very own tree, sans the chili lights my mother adores (bless her heart, but gawd, it's not my aesthetic). The house is clean from top to bottom. I'm sitting in the warm bed and the big cat is curled up at my (now very sweaty) feet. I made a mac and cheese casserole last night, on the heels of a yummy chorizo and sweet potato soup (see Smitten Kitchen, It's to die for.) I've read the to interlibrary loan books that were due almost a month ago, as well as the very compelling new Jennifer Egan novel that I think I'll use for my spring graduate class. Today, we're off to the great white north for a few days in a swanky B&B (fireplace, outdoor hot tub, cocktail hour---you get the picture). I'm taking two novels that I ordered from Amazon specifically for this trip. The best part? We'll be back before Christmas, we'll rested and rosy-cheeked from snow-shoeing. [How can we afford said swank? Well, two plane tickets to the West Coast, plus a rental car for a week to drive between families is well over a thousand dollars. Not spending that left us a good chunk of change to play with.]

I miss seeing my family, no doubt. And I miss being in the West, for sure. And I even miss the trash culture that is a part of my home town (buffets, bingo, neon---all of that says Christmas to me!). But this is just too good. And the best part is that I'm remembering who I am when I'm not a whirling dervish; a stress monkey, a raving maniacal bitch goddess from hell. Look at me yielding to the guy with three teeth at the post office! Shoveling snow and whistling! Not panicking about a paper I have to give in April! Who is this strange woman?! I'm reveling in the calm, and beginning to plot how I might have another one of these next year.