New layout and header

My amazing husband bought me a fabulous gift for Christmas: Photoshop 8! :D Around Thanksgiving, we also purchased the full assortment of our beautiful engagement and wedding photos by Heather Carson.

I spent most of this evening fiddling around with my layout. If you happened to visit my blog between 3 and 8:30 p.m. Central, you probably noticed that it didn't look the way it looks right now. I think I'm satisfied with its appearance for now--I'm sure I'll change it again in the future, ha. I tend to do that.

But, I did want to give credit where it was due. Obviously, the layout, header, and headings come from The Cutest Blog on the Block. I made appropriate changes to the header, and the photos I selected are from our wedding day by Heather Carson at Carson Studios. If you're in need of a photographer in this area, I would strongly recommend Heather. Not only is she a fantastic photographer, but she also made us feel like the only clients in the entire world.

Coming next: a fun New Year's Eve get-together, a fun New Year's Day bowl game with friends, and a double-date-night at The Melting Pot and to see the Trans-Siberian Orchestra! :)

First Married Christmas

This year was our first married Christmas, and it was one of the most special Christmases we've had (even rivaling our engagement on Christmas morning, 2007). I have a feeling that the Christmas season will always be special to us by default.

Robert and I wanted to establish new traditions with each other--ones that we can continue to enjoy once we start having children. The first tradition that we established on our own was to cut down our Christmas tree. Robert's family had done this before, but mine never had, so it was an interesting and fun new experience for me. We went to a local tree farm and found this "little" beauty:

It's a Carolina Sapphire, 7.5' tall. I love how it looks blue against the green of the other trees. Because I'm the wifey with a camera, I was more designated to take pictures of our pretty tree...while Robert cut it down:
The farm supplied little hacksaws that were fairly well-used and a little worse-for-wear. Robert had to saw with great vigor to get the tree to finally come off its stump. After we cut down our tree, it was loaded for us onto a flatbed trailer, and we took a hay ride back up to the front of the land. We only spent $40 altogether, which was such a thrill--we knew we couldn't really afford a nice Frasier Fir otherwise. And I think I like the Caroline Sapphire better!

Its needles are a little scratchier than the Fir, and its sap can be pretty itchy when it gets into the scratches opened up by the needles, but the aroma is amazing. It's not the typical evergreen scent--it smells more like minty oranges. Delightful!

Next on our task list was to start decorating the house. We dug out my tree-topper, a metallic angel, and discovered that she didn't quite survive the move as well as we would have liked her to:
Even though her arm was off, we still put her on top of the tree. She's a little special, but she's our special angel. We might consider replacing her next year. Maybe not. It's not like our guests complained that our angel was one-armed.

I also put out my Nativity set, which is designed by Willow Tree:
I received the complete Nativity set last year for Christmas, to my utter delight, and the very thought of getting to use it for Christmas in my house this year was so exciting.

I didn't do a very good job of taking pictures of the rest of the Christmas decorations--there's not much out except for our Christmas village houses and a couple of wreaths on the windows.

We hosted a small dinner with our friends who are also married. This was one of the first times we got to bring out our china and set a very pretty table. See our Advent wreath in the center of the table? :)

Faced with feeding guests who do not have dietary restrictions, this host and hostess had to give a lot of consideration to the meal and dessert. We ultimately decided on delicious grilled (and breaded! so decadent) chicken breasts. For the dessert, we splurged on an organic, gluten-free chocolate cake mix and gluten-free dark chocolate icing mix. I handmade both the cake and the icing. I made the icing in my KitchenAid stand-mixer, and it came out ridiculously fluffy and light...it was like whipped cream!

This cake was so delicious!! We were skeptical at first about it being a gluten-free, soy-free chocolate cake, but it turned out so moist and amazing. It tasted like the regular stuff, but cost a lot more. I'm just glad that we found something we like that we can make again (like for Robert's birthday, for instance). Happy me! :)

To top off our Christmas, Robert had surgery on the 15th (tonsillectomy, adenoidectomy, and turbinectomy). He's recovering very well, but the first few days were uncomfortable for him. Here, our cat is "helping" to watch the humidifier in the living room:

We were concerned at first that the surgery would affect whether or not Robert would be able to enjoy his Christmas. And, this being our first married Christmas, that was a fairly major concern. He was on a strictly liquid/mushy diet for the first few days, but each day it seemed like he was able to eat something a little more solid than liquid. We celebrated Christmas with my family the weekend beforehand, and my mom made Robert a hearty soup while the rest of us ate turkey. To my astonishment and happiness, five days later, he enjoyed ham at his grandmother's house on Christmas Eve, and turkey at his mom's house on Christmas day! I'm so glad he got to have a sort of traditional Christmas, too. The surgeon told us that he would feel pretty cruddy for about a week or so after surgery, and then all of a sudden: bam! he would feel great. I think that's exactly how it's happened. Most importantly, of course, is that he's breathing so much better, and I have a very good feeling about the next cold and flu season. I don't think he'll have as many sinus infections and sore throats from now on, considering his sinuses are much wider than they used to be, and his tonsils are nonexistent.

All-in-all, this was a wonderful Christmas. And we both relished the moment when we got to wish our spouse a very merry Christmas for the first time. :)

I hope that all of you had a great Christmas, too!

Learning to live without soy

My wonderful husband has a soy allergy. We don't know yet how serious it is, except that his allergist recommended that he avoid eating soy or soy derivatives of any kind. And it's true that after many meals, he'll feel not only full but unwell. Tonight he and I did our weekly grocery shopping, and we became immediately aware of how many of our favorites were cooked either in soy (or soy derivatives) or were cooked with instruments that came in contact with soy. (I'm just thrilled that type of information is available on packaging--I had never noticed it before.) We spent longer than we ever have at the store, reading labels, putting things back, and moving on. At first, the mood was lighthearted and simply awestruck. But as we continued to put more and more of our favorite foods back on the shelves, Robert became discouraged. And why shouldn't he? It really hit the hardest at the cookie section. Everything is baked with either margarine or vegetable oils (which uses soy protein), so the message he got in the cookie aisle was: You're Not Allowed.

I realize that we're both going to have to make this change together, and I'm ready. If I were the one with the food allergy, I would probably tell him to keep eating whatever he wanted (just like he told me), but I would secretly feel resentful and deprived. Not that I think he would feel that way toward me if I started munching on all the cookies I wanted, but I don't think it's fair to do that to him anyway. We found some ice creams that would work for him--one is dolce de leche (Breyer's), which is a caramel-based ice cream. It turns out that the chocolate chip-based ice creams have soybean derivatives in them. We also found that our regular spaghetti sauce has soy derivatives in it, but we found out that Bertolli doesn't. I think we'll manage to get by. I know we will. It's just a matter now of shopping smarter.

I'd like to learn some soy-free recipes so that he and I can eat similarly to how we used to without him feeling sick afterwards. So, for instance, I would like to find some cookie recipes that would be really yummy. He should be able to eat cookies and milk if he wants to. This is going to be my new project.

For tonight's dinner, I'm making baked chicken with Panko breading (dredged in olive oil instead of margarine) and marinated with Lea & Perrin's chicken marinade (garlic and herb--turns out all other dressings are soy-based). I chose Panko because the Progresso Italian bread crumbs that I had originally planned on has soybean oil in it. Panko bread crumbs have less than 2% (if even any) of soy in it, so we're going to try it. I seasoned the breading with cracked black pepper and savory because it just smelled so darn good. On the side, we're having Mahatma yellow rice with olive oil instead of margarine. (Extra virgin olive oil, of course, hehe.) It smells really good. I hope it tastes really good, too.

Well, that's the timer. Fingers crossed! :)

Under the weather

For the first time since my husband and I were married, I'm sick. Now, this in itself wouldn't normally have any relationship to the fact that we're married now...except for the "small" fact that now we live under the same roof. Which means I can't shrug off illness, as I'm wont to do. I also can't ignore any other basic illness needs, like extra sleep. My husband has been taking incredible care of me, and when I asked him about it, he said simply, "Well, now you can't hide away from me in your apartment. I can actually do something about your illness now."

And do something he has done.

Friday night, he made sure I took some Nyquil in order to sleep because I was generally starting to feel under the weather. I couldn't really identify my symptoms yet, but I knew I was getting sick. Yesterday, he gave me some more Nyquil and instructed that I should sleep when I became tired...so I slept for three hours. This is something I would normally not have allowed myself to do. We also quarantined ourselves from each other (sad) so that I didn't give him my blossoming infection--he slept in our bed and I slept in the guest bed. Finally, today, when I woke up with painful chest congestion and a rattling cough, he took me to the nearby clinic.

I have a mild bronchial infection and am on a Z-pack/Mucinex regimen. Robert is keeping close track of my med schedule, which is helpful because it makes me very sleepy. I'm hoping to be better by Friday because this weekend is my sister's bridal shower. And I'm the co-hostess with my cousin and best friend. So...I can't be sick, lol. And if I am still feeling down, of course, I'll do the shower thing anyway. The details have all been taken care of now, so I'm positive it'll go smoothly. :)

At any rate, I am extremely thankful for my husband and his diligent attention when I'm sick. I don't usually take care of myself in this way when I'm sick, so it's really nice to have someone to depend on. :)

Our marital bed: thoughts

I know the marital bed is a sensitive topic to all married couples, and it's almost a taboo subject for unmarried people. But I've had this idea running around in my mind for several weeks now, so I'm going to break the ice. I'm not going to break the sex taboo and reveal all our bedroom secrets. But, instead, I want to talk about the other functions of the marital bed because it has become for us a central location in our home.

When I was fourteen years old, I went through bereavement counseling with my mom and sister at our church. We had recently suffered the deaths of my mom's father and our next-door neighbor (my mom's best friend, and my "second" mom) within three weeks of each other. It was a lot to take in. The counselor introduced herself, turned off a row of lights so that the group was now sitting in dimmed lighting, and said, "Please take a moment to close your eyes, calm your thoughts, and picture yourself in your favorite place." I was 14. I didn't really have a favorite place. So, I made it up and pictured myself a smaller child sitting on my mom's lap.

I'm older now, and I have a favorite place.

My favorite place, the place I mentally go to when I'm overwhelmed at work, the place I physically seek when I need to recharge emotionally, is my marital bed.

I love our bed. The sheets aren't changed every single week, like they are at my mom's house. The bed isn't made every single morning. The blankets are covered in cat hair, until my husband's allergies bother him and we wash them. It was a hand-me-down from Robert's grandparents (in fact, our entire bedroom suit was). And I love our bed, with all its imperfections that would disqualify it from a Martha Stewart Living spread.

In my marital bed I sleep, dream, nap, and rest. I lie down after an exhausting day, throw my right arm over my eyes, and let my body heal. My husband inevitably comes in and lies down beside me, taking my hand.

In my marital bed I learn. It is in our bed that my husband and I have our more lively debates about our individual beliefs, or theoretical preferences. We sit beside each other, propped up by pillows, and trace each other's legs with a finger or hold hands or brush hair out of the other's face.

In my marital bed I grow. When my husband and I need to communicate hurt feelings or frustrations or anger, we almost always retire to our bedroom. Without children yet, we don't have much of a reason to do this, but it seems to be our habit. Robert might lie down, and I might sit at the edge of bed...until he playfully pulls me to lie down beside him. We hold hands when we argue, reminding each other that home exists when those two hands are united.

In my marital bed I find strength and comfort. Only rarely (and only out of necessity) do I lie down and fall asleep before my husband. At night, we roll toward each other, one resting a head on the other's shoulder, trace fingertips with fingertips, and whisper quietly about any concerns remaining from our day. My husband's body is strong and safe, and I feel strong and safe next to him. When, at the end of the day, I am feeling beaten down or discouraged or taken for granted by someone, I know I can lie down in my marital bed beside my husband and he will hold me until I am relaxed enough to fall asleep.

I love my marital bed. This has become for me my favorite place.

Photo Shoot: Abandoned house and gas station

Today, I went on a photo shoot with two of my friends; one of my friends is an amateur photographer, and she took two of us newbies out on a workshop shoot. The assignment: find something beautiful in the ugly. We went to an abandoned, fire-damage house and nearby run-down gas station. They were within fifty feet of each other.

I always imagine the story behind all of my shots, and I hope that the story comes through in some small way. Today, as I was walking around the site before taking the first photo, I imagined the human beings who lived in this house. Were they the same family who owned the nearby gas station? Was the gas station dilapidated because of the fire in the house? How did the fire start? What did they take with them? Did they escape with their lives at the very least? (This final question haunted me, and I hope beyond hope that this family is still alive and thriving.)

I took 175 photos during our hour-long shoot, a general average for me. My camera isn't set for exposure bracketing, which makes it more difficult to take multiple pictures at one time. 30 of the 175 made it to post-processing. During post-processing, most of the photos received an increase in their black points, a higher contrast, and a slightly improved vibrancy. Lighting was diffused this morning because of the cloud cover, and the colors genuinely popped on their own--I was merely interested in bringing them out by about a degree and a half or so. These are my favorite five of the entire batch.

I'll let the stories behind them speak for themselves.

Prospectus Rough Draft #1: The Results Show

I met with my dissertation director, Dr. R, on Wednesday morning this past week to discuss the first draft of my dissertation prospectus. I must admit to some frustration at still being in this stage of my dissertation so long after achieving ABD status (All But Dissertation--it means I'm done except for the 250-300 page book). I became ABD the first week of March...and it's October now. I feel concerned that I'm way behind schedule, but I have to keep reminding myself that there is no such thing as a schedule any more. There is a reality of running out of funded hours, but with Robert graduating next Spring, the likelihood of our moving on to bigger and better things (and my "dissertating" remotely) is fairly high. I'm not concerned about losing funding.

So, the brief recap of my meeting would go a little something like this.

Me and Dr. R: small talk, small talk, small talk....

Me: So...where should we start on this thing? (indicating the two copies of the prospectus before each of us)

Dr. R: Where do we begin...? Hm. Well, I'm still fairly concerned that you're not writing as specifically as you need to be. I'm not sure exactly what you're going to be looking at, specifically. (she reads me a line from my prospectus which uses the words "dangers and implications.") So, for instance, the dangers and implications for whom? I'm assuming for the early modern British audience member...? (I say "yes.") Okay, then the next question is: why should we care? They're dead!

Me: (laughing a little nervously) Well...I guess that's a good point. But here's my problem with it. We have to care necessarily because we can't watch a Shakespeare play today, for instance, without recalling at some basic level that all the female roles were played by men. (that's the topic of my dissertation--early modern British stage transvestism.) When we watch a play, we're always going to be aware of the ban of women from the stage. We can't not be aware of it.

Dr. R: (arching an eyebrow and leaning back in her chair) It sounds like to me that you're actually more interested in the modern audience.

Me: (grinning a little too broadly) I am, aren't I? Is that okay? (I tend to talk too fast when I meet with my advisor for whatever reason, and I could feel that tendency coming on now.)

Dr. R: I think it's a reasonable question, done correctly of course.

Me: (Talking too fast now) Oh my god, I am so happy to hear you say that! I think part of the reason that I took so long getting my prospectus to you is because I haven't really been feeling in love with my topic ever since my oral exam in March. I mean, I remember feeling passionate about my thesis (which she oversaw as well, actually, and could also remember my interest and passion for it), but I haven't felt that way about my dissertation. And I guess if I have to just press through and write it anyway, I will...but I'd really like the chance to love it.

Dr. R: No, you have to love this project. This is the longest work you've ever done at this point, and you have to love it. If you don't love it, it'll never get done.

Me: And I want to graduate. This dissertation is all that's left to finish before I can graduate and get a real, good job. And this dissertation is what's going to get me that job. And I want to love my job, too.

Our meeting continued much in the same way, but I won't recount it further. We have decided that for my new topic, I'm going to maintain my plan for Chapters 4-6, convert them into different chapters, and continue moving forward for the next three-ish chapters.

I joked with a peer that perhaps I should just keep them labeled Chapters 4-6. If it worked for George Lucas, it can work for me! ;)

My new topic is a little more focused and so much more interesting to me. I can actually spend a great deal more time than originally planned on current theatrical productions, which means interviews and going to see performances for research, hehe. I'm feeling much more refreshed and excited about this topic. The other one was actually a popular topic twenty years ago, and anyone who's researched before will know that a twenty-year-old topic of interest is not a good place to begin.

Tune in next time for Prospectus Rough Draft #2! (No telling when "next time" will be for this particular entry, though, haha.)

Photo update

Inspired by my friend Ash, I am going to make a photo post...because lately I've been so busy that this is pretty much the best way to recap the last month.

Over Labor Day weekend, Robert and I visited my aunt, uncle, and cousins in South Carolina. On the Saturday of that weekend, we went to a local baseball game, which was a lot of fun. I haven't been to a baseball game since I was in middle school. Before the game, my aunt and uncle took us walking around downtown Greenville, and we visited a new park. I was stunned by the beauty of this place.

The geese were in full form at the park this weekend, and what was even more astonishing was that they were not afraid of people. Children jumped around the rocks and water alongside the geese--at times it seemed the geese were also playing with the kids. Such a beautiful and relaxing day!

Then, later this month was my birthday. We celebrated by having a low-key breakfast at our home. I don't really like celebrating my birthday in an extravagant way. The attention makes me feel a little uncomfortable (although I love celebrating everyone else's birthday--making a big deal of their day is part of the fun). We had both sets of our parents, our siblings, and my sister's fiance come over for homemade pancakes (Robert made them!), eggs, biscuits, bacon, and sausage. It was so great!

When we opened the door, my mom greeted me with a great big grin and gigantic balloon...that sang. I loved this balloon! Mom would tap it at random and do a little dance while the animals looked on in frozen anxiety. Milton, our sweet neurotic Chowbrador, didn't really like the balloon but was okay with it as long as it wasn't singing. Beatrice, our fearless calico/tabby mix, watched it warily but didn't run away. Callie, our tortoiseshell RagaMuffin, hid the entire day.

The morning was made even more complete by my mom's cupcakes! She decorated each one with a delicious sugar flower that she found at this great little cake store near their home. They were so yummy! We started doing cupcakes for birthdays instead of cakes after an idea that my sister had for her birthday. :) It's so smart, too, because few people want to eat two cupcakes, so it keeps portions under control.

Last weekend, my friend and I went on a little photo shoot. We were having an away game that weekend, and I wanted to photograph the campus without crazy amounts of people crowding the school. I'll take pictures the next time we have a home game that's not under threat of being rained out.

While on our photo shoot, I captured a bird's nest outside of the pharmacy school. It looks to have been pretty sturdy for its inhabitants, but they had already flown off.

And finally...a photograph that I think really encapsulates football season. This was taken on the lawn in front of our student union. It's a JD miniature laying beside a streamer that has been dropped from a shaker. War Eagle, indeed.

Prospectus Rough Draft #1

That is the name of the file in the folder "Dissertation." It leaves little to the imagination, is somewhat long and maybe even a smidgen unwieldy. But it will assist me in the future to remember which document is which--I fully expect this prospectus to see many drafts, at least three, hopefully no more than nine, and they will all be properly labeled. Changes will be made at this stage that perhaps at a later stage should be revisited.

Regardless of the future tense, in the present tense, I am currently in a holding pattern. I e-mailed my first draft of my prospectus rough draft to my dissertation director only an hour ago, and I await her response with eagerness and anticipation. Yes, my topic has gone through an existential crisis these past several months, but I'm ready now and refreshed, and I believe both myself and my topic find ourselves imbued with a second restorative wind.

My friend Smitty and I were talking on the phone Tuesday night; it was our regularly scheduled weekly phone date. When she asked about my prospectus (she has already begun work on the second draft of hers), I began to mumble and babble a little incoherently about how it's still sitting at 7 pages and how I still have to add some references and quotes here and there. And she asked me why I hadn't finished it last week, like I originally planned. I made up some excuse or other (I always do), but she didn't accept it. So, she asked me what my plans were for this weekend. I told her that I am spending time with my family. She responded, "That sounds nice. You'll have your prospectus e-mailed by Friday evening, then." I said, "Yeah...I guess I could probably swing that." Not convinced by my response, she changed the deadline on me! "Okay, then you'll have the prospectus e-mailed by Thursday. You don't want to be worrying about packing and doing laundry while you finish editing your prospectus." I attempted to disagree with her and beg for leniency, but she relented none. Sighing, I accepted the established deadline. Thursday.

Today is Thursday. After returning from my second class, and feeling utterly wiped out and exhausted, I knew I had to accomplish something, anything, and that Smitty would be checking in with me at some point in the next twelve to sixteen hours. So, sighing again, I opened my old exam notebooks, perused the hundreds of pages of quoted material until I found the sources I had originally referenced (and yes, they're organized with tabs--the search didn't take long), and then I began to insert quotes and citations into the document. Within a couple of hours, I was finished and reading and rereading and rerereading my document until I was satisfied that it was at least typo-free enough to submit to my director with little embarrassment.

And now, I sit in my office, waiting for Robert to return from class, and waiting for my director to open my e-mail and read the little bundle of mess that is my prospectus rough draft. But, in the meantime, I'm going to enjoy my Labor Day weekend! :)

P.S. I must clarify: I do not expect for her to read the rough draft nor even open my e-mail before next Tuesday. Administrators need a long weekend too, you know!

You're owning that track!

Yesterday morning, I decided I was tired of avoiding eye contact with myself in the mirror before and after showers, so I pulled out the $60 game Robert and I bought almost three months ago to help me deal with this very issue. The game is EA Sport's Active for the Wii. The game kit comes with an adjustable leg band, which holds the nunchuk controller and tracks lower-body movements, as well as a resistance band with handles for upper-body resistance workouts.

I strapped the leg band to my upper right thigh, having to use the extender to get the band to stay in place without cutting off my circulation, and put the game in the Wii console. Right away, my skepticism and anxiety whether this could be something I would enjoy or stick to were evaporated. The game greets you with a peppy soundtrack as well as the encouraging and motivating narration provided by physiologist Bob Greene (of Body for Life fame). After making my profile, I selected the thirty-day workout challenge. It comes in three intensity levels: low, medium, and high. Although I had myself up to a medium-to-high intensity level this time last year, I had fallen back to my lazy, couch-potato ways and thought I should ease into the program to increase the chances of my enjoying it and returning to it.

After choosing my trainer (the female trainer for accuracy of demonstrations--women's bodies are different from men's, after all), I began Day One of my thirty-day workout challenge. She started me with a lap around the track at a walk (which looks like marching in place), and then had me do a couple of laps around the track at a run (jogging in place). The best attribute of this game, from my very first impression, is that it is only ever positively motivational. Rather than saying things like, "You can do better than that," the game says instead, "You're doing great! Keep pushing yourself like that, and you'll meet your goals!" Inevitably, when the game gave me a positive remark like that, I picked up the pace. By the time the run was finished (only a couple of minutes at my intensity level), my trainer said, "Wow! Great job! With a run like that, you own the track!" She was so enthusiastic of my attempts that I could scarcely shut the compliment down with a negative thought. This is huge!

Other activities that I did yesterday included boxing (and the strength of the hit determines whether or not the target is merely tapped or broken apart--you want to break the targets apart), squats, biceps curls with the resistance band, rows, and inline skating.

I have decided that the inline skating is my favorite activity of them all yesterday. It required me to hold a squat for a period of time, and the deeper my squat, the faster my character would skate down the hill. Because I was so focused on the character's speed and accuracy, I gave little thought to my actual squat. Scattered on the hill, however, are ramps off of which the character is to jump and do tricks. This requires not only a deep squat (to approach the ramp at top speed) but also accuracy in the jump--if your jump is too late or early, the character is unable to perform the trick, which does affect points earned (as well as calories burned). So, the inline skating is not just about squatting, but it is about squat-jumps more to the point. I enjoyed this one the most because by the time I played the inline skating for the second round, I managed to make 7/9 tricks instead of 5/9.

I also earned two trophies yesterday. The game awards trophies for every achievement. No achievement is too minimal for this game, which can really help those who are highly competitive and need more than an encouraging word to keep going. The first trophy I earned was for starting my 30-day challenge, which was considered meeting a first goal. The second trophy I earned was for burning over 100 calories in that workout.

From what I've understood, the game is highly customizable according to the user's needs and goals. There's even a sliding scale off the profile page where the user can adjust his or her goals at will--meeting goals is another excuse to earn a trophy! Right now, my goals are the default ones given me by the game.

I will take advantage of the customization of the game when I am more confident in understanding my own needs. I believe that if I complete the 30-day workout challenge at all three intensity levels (for a total of 90 days), then I will begin to see what I need more of in order to see the results I'm after.

So, bring it on, Active! I'm ready for you!

P.S. A quick glance over at the EA Sports page for Active, it looks like there's an entire community for players! Also, a new expansion of the workouts comes out in November. I'm excited! :)

EA Sports: Active Website

P.P.S. I forgot to mention the length of my workout and how much I ended up sweating. It lasted about 45 minutes, I think, and I sweated like I was working out outside, even though I had my A/C turned all the way down. I was sore when I woke up this morning, as though I had gone to the gym. I'm really looking forward to seeing more results!

Training Mr. Milton

Meet Milton (a.k.a. Mr. Milton, Milt, "The Ton"). He is our four year old Chowbrador. He weighs just under 85 pounds, loves chewing and licking rawhide bones, and hates when people talk outside our house. Milton has been, Robert and I say with all the love in our hearts, driving us crazy all day today.

My mom gave him a bag of gigantic rawhide bones a few weeks ago--a whole bag, all to himself! Before Robert and I were married, Robert had two roommates, one of whom had a fifty-pound mutt. Milton had to share. But now, now Milton gets to eat his rawhide bones in peace, without the threat of some other dog coming up and taking it away from him. But I won't hesitate to.

This afternoon, before Robert and I left to go to my sister's duplex for her birthday dinner, I walked up to Milton as he chewed on his last rawhide bone of the bag. As I came nearer to him, I noticed he hunkered down over the bone, pinned his ears back, and gave a soft growl. I don't abide growling of any sort, and particularly in cases when he's showing aggression over food or toys. One day, Robert and I will have children, and those children will want to play with the doggy while he's eating or while he's playing with his toys. They will tug on his ears, pull his toys away from him, and tease him. He will have to deal with it, and I will absolutely not tolerate any aggression toward any human family member. Every time Milton growls, these are the very thoughts that flood my mind. So this afternoon, when Milton growled at me over his rawhide bone, I decided that he had to be disciplined. I stood closer to him and told him to "drop it." He hunkered down even lower, pressing his jaw against the rawhide bone, pinned his ears until they disappeared beside his head, and growled much louder. I told him "No!" and smacked him on the rump. He growled again, not moving away from the bone. I grabbed him by the collar and told him to get up; he wriggled out of his collar and went to hunker down again, which is when I snatched the bone away from him.

Of course, I pause here to say that, with Milton specifically, I have been able to reach under him and snatch away toys or bowls of food when he becomes possessive over them. I know that doing that is not recommended generally because dogs have been known to bite their owners in those situations. I trust Milton, and I trust that he understands our relationship to one another. Sometimes he just forgets.

So I snatched the bone away from him, and I made him lay down until he calmed down. We didn't have a lot of time to spend disciplining him because we needed to get to dinner, so Robert put Milton's rawhide bone on the countertop, and we told him that he lost his toy privileges. When we got home, I thought maybe Milton had earned it again. I made him go through some exercises before I handed it over, but once I did, he ran with it and growled aggressively at one of the cats (who obviously have absolutely no interest in the damn bone). I took it away from him again and this time made him go through a much more rigorous set of exercises, including making him lay all the way down (with his nose on the floor) while I stood several feet back with the bone in my hand. Only after he got to a point where he stopped staring at the bone and relaxed his body did I return the bone to him.

I'm a cat person primarily. I love both dogs and cats, of course, but I've only ever owned cats. Disciplining cats is a lot easier than dogs--get a little water pistol and spritz them while making a scary sound (like a high-pitched squeak), and they'll stop doing what they're doing. Cats tend to keep to themselves in general and don't cause too much trouble. Disciplining cats is typically less physical and more mental. Dogs, however, seem to require a touch of some kind and physical demands (laying down, staying, etc.), which is a foreign concept to me.

I'm learning how to train Milton...and maybe in the process, I'm being trained too.

Happy birthday, Lauren! :)

Today is my sister's birthday! She turns 25, which is both very exciting (25 was one of my favorite years), but also a little bizarre. I can still look at her and see that toddler with chocolate icing smeared all over her face as we celebrated her second birthday. She may not appreciate that, haha. But I'm very happy we're going to be celebrating with the family this weekend, and I can't wait for her to see the gifts Robert and I got her.

We love you, Lauren! Enjoy 25!! :D

Roses are red....

Our three-month anniversary was August 23rd, which was this past Sunday. I had gone to my parents' home to go shopping with my mom and sister for her bridesmaid dresses (I'm the matron of honor for her wedding), but Robert stayed home to watch the animals. While we were parted for the first time since the wedding, we realized just how much it hurts to be away from each other, and even greater--how much it hurts to be staring the end of August in the face with very little cash at hand.

Frankly, I have been having trouble recently keeping track of my dates, and while I knew our three-month anniversary was fast approaching, I forgot that it would be on the day I returned home. When I walked in the door on Sunday evening, then, I was genuinely surprised at what I saw: a beautifully cleaned house (vacuum lines in the carpet and everything) and gorgeous large red roses in full bloom in one of my old vases on the table. Robert had tied a purple ribbon around the vase to dress it up (a ribbon from one of my many spools of ribbon that are lying around the house), and had also written a beautiful letter to me which was placed beneath the vase.

He met me at the table, gave me a big hug and a kiss, and asked after my trip. I asked him about the flowers, mildly concerned for the cost and potential divot in the checking account. His response: they were from his mother's garden, whose rose bush had suddenly exploded with gigantic blooms a few days previous.

The flowers were so red, actually, that my camera (Canon S3 IS) nearly made them look like they were on fire. I de-saturated them a little in Aperture to bring out the petal details a little better.

Amid all the other bright red roses, the littlest one in the center doesn't quite look its actual shade, which is a delicate pink. My camera has a propensity toward red, I've noticed, which will occasionally affect the outcome of the photo.

I feel like the luckiest woman in the world to have such a loving, generous husband. Even in times of financial strain and sacrifice, he was able to think creatively so that he could give me the flowers he wanted to give me for our three-month anniversary. How ever did I come to deserve someone like him? :)

Procrastination, thy name is A.Hab.

I am sitting in the room that Smitty and I spent the better part of nine months inside of, while we studied for comps...and devolved into giddy life-forms that could hardly speak a coherent word if it were not concerning our subject material. This is Grad Study Nirvana. Named by Smitty and me during a night of utter punchiness. It is located on the third floor of the university library, in a room that had previously belonged to library staff for their offices. On the glass doors lining the entrance is written the sign, "Faculty/Graduate Study Room. Individual Study Only." To Smitty and me, it reads, "Undergrads Keep Out. Others Abandon All Hope." It's strange to be in this room alone, but I will strive to exert some self-control and work on my dissertation's prospectus.

By writing a blog entry, apparently.

My goal this week is to compose a working first draft that I can conceivably submit to my dissertation director by early next week. We'll see if I'll allow myself that opportunity. You see, my dissertation and I are in a bit of an existential crisis. I have been wondering when I changed my sights from teaching at a small liberal arts college (similar to the one from which I graduated with my B.A. in 2004) to teaching at a large research university while advancing my own status as a Shakespearean scholar. I've been considering this conundrum for most of this summer, and frankly it has offered little (if any at all) motivation to write word one on the prospectus. Those of my readers who may be blissfully unaware of graduate school lingo (thank your lucky stars) should know that a prospectus is the in-between phase that separates a student from doctoral exams and the beginning of an approved dissertation. First, the student must write a summary of the dissertation to come...before the dissertation exists. I find this daunting, particularly as a writer who rarely writes her introductions first. If I had my druthers, I wouldn't write the prospectus until half of the dissertation were complete. What this has to do with my existential crisis is that I find myself wallowing in panic, wondering, "What's the point?"

Perhaps I'm looking at this the wrong way. Perhaps I should be seeing it as another hoop; one that, once I've jumped through it, it will be mostly forgotten. Perhaps this prospectus is supposed to be a crappier version of the brilliant dissertation I'm bound to write. (Ha....) I am sadly incapable of knowing the future.

I tell my students every semester: I am getting my PhD in Shakespeare, not mind-reading. Oh, if only the latter were an option. I'm sure I'd be an excellent mind-reader.

Exhaustion is making a home

I feel I should preface this entry with a small note to explain, perhaps, my late sad mood. My best friend, we'll call her Smitty on the blog, made a decision earlier this summer that she would not be returning to the university to complete her dissertation. Rather, she'll be "dissertating" remotely in her hometown in New York state, which means it will be much more difficult to see her and hang out with her. She was my first friend I made as an adult, and I know she'll be one of those friends who will always be a part of my life. I have known about this decision since Robert and I returned from the honeymoon (or shortly thereafter), but I did not actually deal with the reality of the consequences until the Thursday night before the Saturday she moved. After Robert fell asleep, I fell to pieces--he awoke to my near hyperventilating. When he told me to draw a full breath (after "threatening" to get a paper bag for me to breathe in), I literally dissolved; I babbled incoherently about how I was trying not to cry but if I breathed properly then I was going to cry and I didn't want to cry because then my face would be all puffy and I was supposed to see the movie tomorrow with my sister and Smitty and etc. etc. etc. Poor Robert was awoken from sleep to a wife who could only blubber in his ear. He held me and comforted me and told me very sweet things, and finally ended with, "You know Smitty would never let you hear the end of it if she knew you were crying this hard over her." This time I dissolved into giggles and nearly started hyperventilating again. When Smitty and I said our tearful goodbyes on Friday night, I drove away feeling like a boulder sat on my chest. I went home to my husband's encircling arms and cried some more in his shirt. Smitty and I aren't going to be able to write our dissertations together, as we had originally imagined for ourselves, in the graduate study room in the library...or in our very favorite coffee shop. But we'll be okay, and I support Smitty in this move. I know she will flourish in this environment much more so than she ever could have done in this one. I'm proud of her...and a little jealous. Sometimes a girl wants a change in scenery from the same university (especially as she approaches her sixth year in the same place).

That had nothing to do with my subject, but I felt it was necessary. I've been down and not in the mood to write for a few days, so there's the explanation.

So, exhaustion is making a home.

I think any of my readers who have moved into a new home would agree with that statement with no further explanation. Making a home, and really making a home (not merely a place to crash in the evening), is an exhausting exercise. I am currently in the intersession between semesters--I wrapped up a class last Wednesday, and look forward to a new semester with new students beginning next Tuesday. I had decided a few weeks back that I would make a more concerted effort to unpack all of these boxes during the intersession. Yesterday, I tackled the dining area and some of the kitchen. It's still sort of messy, but that's mostly because we ran out of cabinet space and needed to assemble new shelves. I think we should have bought a few more shelving units, ha! Today, I worked in the guest bedroom. When I woke up this morning (and when Robert left for his orientation this morning), the bedroom was slammed with boxes. Basically, all of the boxes we didn't know what to do with (and didn't feel like dealing with) had just been stuffed in there as best as they could fit. I emptied the closet of all its contents, constructed a bookcase, loaded the bookcase with the contents of the closet, and reorganized the closet with whatever could fit in it out of those boxes. Now the bed has been uncovered, and there is actual walking room--a guest could conceivably (and comfortably!) stay in there now. I feel good.

Probably the best part of the day was Robert's reaction. After he walked in the door to find me still in my knock-around clothes from this morning, I took him back to the guest bedroom. He immediately gasped and said, "Whoa! Holy crap, baby!" I couldn't stop grinning--if I had had a tail, it would have been wagging. He was so proud of me, and couldn't stop hugging me--it was thrilling, truly. To work so hard for so many hours of the day, and to be so bone tired, of course such bursting pride would be a thrill. :)

So, yes, making a home is pure and utter exhaustion.

But, in a sick way, it's also enjoyable. I do like building our little nest day by day, waiting in anticipation for my husband's reaction when he walks in the door to see the latest improvement.

Miss Havisham: A fictional retrospective based on real experiences

Today, I found myself wondering, "What would have happened if Miss Havisham had been married rather than left at the altar?"

This is a speculation based on real experiences. Mine.

(Note: Please be gentle in criticisms--I have only read Great Expectations once, back in high school which was over 10 years ago for some parts of it. I cannot and do not and will not claim to be a scholar of Victorian-era literature. I have limited interest in Dickens in general. I'm a Shakespearean.)

There's probably a very good reason why Miss Havisham's fiancé skipped out on their wedding. Much of it probably stemmed from a tendency of hers toward the nutty and the fixated-pack-rat. I doubt her general insanity suddenly blossomed from nowhere the day after her failed wedding.

That said, what would it have been like if Miss Havisham had been married?

Probably, it would have gone something like this:

"My darling, my dear, we need to move your belongings from your former home into our lovely new home."

"Yes, my love, let's work in the kitchen today."

(A moment lapses as the new wife opens the refrigerator...which perhaps would not have been in Miss Havisham's domicile at the time. But allow for some anachronism.)

"My love, oh no, oh come quick!" (she cries)

"What has happened, my darling, my dear wife?"

"My beautiful flowers...they're...they're...deceased!" (she wails, thrusting the vase of crumpled bridal bouquet closer.)

"Oh my darling, my dear. It has been over two months, after all. Surely these lovely flowers have given their all. It is time to say goodbye."

The new wife nods, mournfully regarding the brown, formerly white, and wilted, formerly pert, daisies and roses. The balls of perfectly white hydrangea, which had previously given such body and shape to the bouquet two months ago, now crumble to the touch. Her groom holds open a large garbage bag (potentially also an anachronism), and she slowly deposits the disintegrating blooms. As he ties off the bag, tears well up in her eyes and she turns away. Yes, she cries over the death of her bridal bouquet. Two months after the fact.

This is my speculative retrospective. And this was a true experience. It happened today. Granted, Robert and I don't call each other "darling," "dear," or "my love," but I was infusing what I imagine could have been the lover's language of Miss Havisham and her fiancé. Maybe I missed the mark. Probably I missed the mark. But, the point is, sometimes I find myself tearfully throwing away empty boxes (such as the ones that once contained our china), and my decrepit bridal bouquet is no exception. Oh, and there was no drying these flowers. My florist said that it would be close to impossible unless professionally preserved immediately following the ceremony (and the nearest preserving location was about two hours away in any direction, which would be too late). My bouquet was primarily white daisies, which simply don't keep well once they die. And I didn't want to keep dry yellow and brown flowers because, well, it reminds me too much of the creepy old woman who is the subject of this entry.

So, I cried. But not for very long. And once I was over it, I was over it.

The wedding is over, that is true. And I am sad to know it's done. But I'm more excited of the future...and, as Robert reminded me, flowers die. It's what they do. And I like to think that because flowers frequently die, he will have plenty of opportunities to replace the dead ones with beautiful fresh ones.