Daily Newsie

Today was the last day of my first bi-term class, which is awesome because I think I’m developing a nasty case of senioritis. It occurred to me as I packed up my things that I may not see these classmates again; although I don’t graduate until May, I’m not taking any classes aside from my thesis next semester. I have one more class next bi-term but many of my friends aren’t in it, and a fair amount of people I know are graduating in December.

So here it is, the beginning of the end of my time at the college on the hill. It’s all gone so fast, even though I took six months longer to graduate than I should have. I’ve been lucky to have supportive friends and family, a great student loan company, and a knack for writing term papers. Hell, I was lucky to be able to go to graduate school at all. I’m proud of my accomplishments so far and excited for what may come. (The good news the other day, by the way, is that I was asked to sit on a panel that, if accepted, will present at the Central States Communication Association conference in April, the same conference to which I’m submitting my supercool paper on my alma mater’s failed football program.) I still don’t know what I’m going to do once that diploma is in my hot little hand, but for now I’m content to revel among piles of articles and drafts as I struggle toward graduation.

One more thing: Mickey’s comment the other day asking if I expected a smiley-face sticker on my prospectus gave me a great idea, and I’m happy to say that DNC was more than willing to accept a sheet of multicolored foil star stickers with a promise to dispense them periodically as he sees fit. (I’m thinking of making myself a chart similar to the one used to potty-train my nephew: for every five stickers, I get a toy.) DNC has also pledged to remind me every now and then that I don’t suck — an e-mail to that effect is sitting in my Inbox as we speak — and to talk me down from whatever ledge I happen to be scaling at the moment. According to him, this is all part of a thesis adviser’s job, which I appreciated because it made me feel less needy. I bet he didn’t expect the star stickers, though.

I think everyone will be relieved to know that I decided not to drop out of graduate school — an option I was seriously considering yesterday after receiving my thesis prospectus fairly drenched in corrections from Dr. Nerd Crush. Not cool. See, I operate on the assumption that I rule at all times, so it was a punch in the gut to see just how much I don’t know about writing a thesis prospectus. DNC said I have a good start, but after mumbling darkly to myself for a while I decided that was the kind of throwaway compliment professors give to students who have no idea what they’re doing.

I called The Best Friend on my way back to the commuter parking garage and informed her I would be purchasing Jack’s Pumpkin Spice beer and cheesecake at the Kroger, consuming mass quantities of both, and possibly dropping out of school. She, like the best friend she is, approved the first two options and heartily vetoed the third — DNC wouldn’t give criticism if he didn’t think I could handle it, “a good start” means “a good start” even if the paper is practically oozing red ink, and I rule. (OK, so she didn’t say that last part in so many words, but I know she meant it.)

I bumped into DNC in the hall today and we chatted for a minute about my thesis. It really made me feel better at the time, even though now I can’t really remember anything he said. Point is, I’m still in graduate school, I’m still writing this thesis, and everything’s going to be all right. Actually, everything’s going to be better than all right, but I can’t share that little nugget of information quite yet. Soon, I promise!

A friend of mine who teaches an intro public speaking course just asked me if I would “guest lecture” next week. I’m so excited! I’ve never been a teacher before! My friend is very shy, and the lesson is on delivery (tone, pitch, etc.) — which is why she asked my loud mouth to teach it. She’s copying the chapter from the book for me, but I’m determined to come up with something excellent to dazzle these kids.

Secondary to lesson planning is, of course, the shopping trip I’m planning to pick out a new “academic” outfit. What comprises an appropriate teacher wardrobe? And don’t say denim overalls with little apples stitched on, either. My tastes lean more toward the elbow-patch-jacket and long-stemmed pipe anyway.

In preparation for polishing and submitting my prospectus this week, I just finished perusing a stack of articles about the parent/child relationship after cancer rears its ugly head. Every now and then as I read the stories of others, slivers of emotion give a sharp poke and I have to put down my highlighter and think for a while.

Today I remembered sitting numbly on the porch swing with my then-best friend Alex after my father called me at work to give me the news. We swung in silence for a while until I knew I had to go home. My mother and I sat on separate couches while we listened to my father calling relatives, pacing around the porch with the cordless phone to his ear. Neither of us knew what to say or do, except to make half-hearted jokes and smile wryly at each other.

Days earlier, Mom had taken me to a concert for my 19th birthday — I was obsessed with a professor of mine who played the cello, so she bought me a new dress and tickets to the orchestra,  then we went to Denny’s for cheesecake before coming home. I didn’t realize until later that her persistent headache (which would turn out to be the tumors) must have kept her from enjoying the music … but she gave absolutely no indication that she was in any pain. By the end of the month, my family was crowded into a waiting room in the hospital and my father was warning me before I went into her room that Mom looked vastly different, tufts of hair jutting between train tracks of stitches that crossed her skull. I gave her my favorite stuffed frog to hold and she put it in the pocket of her gown, lips pursed in almost childlike concentration as she maneuvered him into position.

We all thought she was going to be fine.

I was in the room when her doctor came in to tell her the tumor was malignant. A rerun of “Full House” was on TV, and I was watching it while my grandmother visited at Mom’s bedside. I wasn’t listening to what the doctor said until I noticed a dreadful silence and looked up, guilty, to see my mother and grandmother sitting there. The doctor asked if I had any questions and I shook my head, still unsure of what was going on. He left, and I remember asking my mother what happened. She told me and I didn’t know what to say. I don’t think I said anything.

I remembered other little things, too: the poster I made that proclaimed “bald is beautiful,” wig shopping with a huge lump in my throat and secretly hating the cheery saleswomen, the night my mother and I collapsed in giggles on the floor after I dropped her there and couldn’t get her back up, handing her a dull paring knife and some potatoes so she could help make dinner. How many times did she do little things for me when I was a child? How could I not feed her, dress her, keep her company when she needed it?

It’s not a matter of not knowing whether I can make it through this thesis — I know I can, and I’m sure of it. I never made any progress during my years of therapy following her death, but I have a feeling I’m about to receive therapy whether I like it or not. I may be in for an interesting ride — and you, too, my blogfriends — but I think I’m ready for it.

It appears my blog readers are eagerly awaiting my review of our Wii Fit (or, in some cases — Daddy — wanting to know what the heck a Wii Fit even is), and I have never been one to keep an anxious public waiting. Oh, wait — I love to keep an anxious public waiting … but lucky for y’all, I’m feeling benevolent today.

First things first, the Wii Fit comes with a balance board that you stand on while you do various exercises like yoga, strength and balance training, and aerobics. The balance board weighs you and helps you determine whether you’re doing everything correctly by putting a guide on the screen — if the dot that represents your center of balance is inside the guidelines, you’re doing it right. (Also, if you’re gasping for breath and praying for the sweet release of death, you’re doing it right.) Your trainer — I named mine Franco — shows you how to correctly do the exercises, cheers you on, and, I hear, admonishes you if you miss a day. Every minute you exercise is put into your “bank,” and when you get enough minutes in the bank you can unlock new activities.

(Courtney, we got ours at Best Buy, although Beloved said it was the last one in stock. Apparently they advertised it in their circular this week.)

Last night I donned my workout clothes and apprehensively faced Franco for the first time. I didn’t know whether  a video game could give a decent workout, but let me tell you, I was sweating buckets by the time I finished 25 minutes. The activities are, for the most part, a lot of fun — my favorites are hula hooping, step aerobics (think Dance Dance Revolution), and ski jumping — and they really get your heart pumping You can set goals for weight loss or your ideal BMI and graph your progress, so I’m looking forward to seeing what impact all this has on my overall bulk.

In other news, today I met with Dr. Nerd Crush — thesis adviser extraordinaire and unwitting source of my academic fangirl swooning — to sketch out the next two semesters in terms of getting me out of here. It’s not going to be easy, that’s for sure, but he seems to really believe in me and my ability to pull this off. I told him that his role in this whole dog and pony show is to bother me until I hate him because otherwise I’ll shove my stuff aside and forget about it … so don’t be surprised if suddenly I’m calling him Dr. Doody Face or Professor Rat Bastard. That just means we’re making progress.

Guess whose husband just came home with a Wii Fit?

I am so excited about something that I may just burst. My sister-in-law recently shared her second-grade picture with the world and I feel as though she deserves a partner in confession, so here goes.

I love Hanson – that trio of brothers from Tulsa, Oklahoma, who annoyed everyone with their gooey-sweet “MMMBop” in 1997 — and have been an adoring fan since my 16-year-old self plastered their pictures all over my bedroom. If there was an obscure fact about one of the brothers in some teen magazine, I knew it — just like I knew their birthdates, full names, siblings’ names, and favorite colors. The way my 11-year-old “little sister” is about the Jonas Brothers is exactly how I was about Hanson. I knew, in that dreamy “destiny and fate” teenaged way, that Isaac (the oldest brother) and I were M.F.E.O., to borrow a phrase from Sleepless in Seattle: made for each other. Although I have never been ashamed of this fandom, I endured much teasing from friends and family about this obsession — especially when my brother found the mix CD and love letter I wrote to Isaac sitting in the mailbox waiting for pickup.

As the years went on and Hanson (and I) grew up, their posters came off the wall but their CDs continued to make their way into my playlist rotation. I followed them somewhat but didn’t actively seek out information like I did in earlier years; I learned they all got married and started having children waaaaay before I was prepared to do either. About seven years ago, Hanson created their own independent music label and their music started getting edgier and more grown-up. Voices changed, hair cut, chins dotted with stubble, the brothers have morphed into a trio that’s still classified as “pop/rock” but feels more like raw indie rock with lyrics far deeper than “MMMBop, da ba doo-wop.” They traveled to South Africa to learn about its impoverished citizens, recorded a song with a school choir there, and donate proceeds from their various music projects to AIDS research. Each one of their concerts is preceded by a one-mile barefoot walk — they walk side-by-side with their fans — to call attention to the plight of African children who have no shoes, and they aggressively promote a line of shoes that donates a pair to a poor child for every pair purchased.

Now the exciting part: On October 3 in Nashville, I’m taking the walk with Hanson. It’s almost too much to believe that, after all this time, I’ll finally get to meet (or at least see) the boys-turned-men who have played such a role in my musical world. So much has changed since the first time I heard them on the radio, but this remains: I still own every single one of their CDs, I still know every single word, and I’m still an unabashed fan.

Dinner this evening at the ultra-exclusive Chez DailyNewsie is as follows: a plate full of Bagel Bites — sprinkled ever-so-lightly with garlic, of course — and the giant honking bottle of Asti Spumante his parents gave us last weekend (we never did drink it last time). If we’re feeling particularly snobbish, we may also dip into our cache of Kroger block cheese and reduced fat Triscuits, followed by the only-slightly-crushed container of strawberries we found on sale. Only the best for us, I tells ya.

I have a feeling this whole “marriage” thing is going to be loads of fun. As long as people keep getting us giant honking bottles of champagne, I know it will be.