The last few days have been like a real vacation. The weather has been very obliging, in the 70s with very little humidity, and after my grocery run on Friday I've had nothing to do but read, take walks, and read some more. Yesterday morning I read Death of a Salesman, and in the afternoon, Rebecca. It's been a long time since I've had the leisure to read a whole book in a day, much less a book and a play. Today I read The Ugly American, and after I finish this post I'm going to read All My Sons.
Death of a Salesman is supposed to be sad--it is a tragedy, after all--but the character of Willy Loman has particularly resonance for me because he reminds me of my dad, not so much in personality (my dad would have despised him for being a liar and a braggart), but in the way both of them were captives to, and victims of, the American dream. Both of them fell for the line that it's possible to succeed in America purely on the basis of hard work. The rub is that failure is then wholly personal, attributable to some interior fault rather than the interaction of more complex factors. Of course, my dad didn't fail in the way Willy does, by losing his salaried position and being forced back into the ranks of the traveling salesmen in middle age, but he was bitter about the fact that he hadn't achieved the rank of vice president that he felt he should have, as well as the attendant symbols of prosperity: bigger house, nicer vacations, etc. He felt that he had worked hard for those things and that they should have been his. Not having them made him feel like a failure, presumably compared to other men.
I think one of his biggest flaws was the lack of a critical faculty. My dad couldn't recognize the ideology under which he was raised as ideology, something that had been drummed into him since childhood. I'm not claiming to speak from an objective point of view on this. As Louis Althusser points out, we are all in ideology. The difference lies in being able to recognize that it's there, that it has a concrete agency in our lives and how we think and act. I think many more people of our generation are capable of sensing this than of our parents' generation. Education is definitely a factor in that--but then again, my dad had a master's in nuclear engineering and he thought he was a failure because he couldn't afford a boat. That he didn't know how to sail. *facepalm*
What I said before, that my dad didn't fail like Willy Loman? Well, it's always been a question in the DiMarzo house about what his life, and ours, would have been like if he hadn't died when he had. There was a strong possibility that he might have been laid off in the near future. He had already tried looking for other jobs in the past, but nuclear power was on the decline in the late 90s, and even through a head-hunting agency he came up with exactly one job, in Illinois, that my mom refused. She told us that he'd talked to her about getting his teaching certification and becoming a math teacher if he were to be laid off, which is an amusing prospect to consider, but my mom also confided that she thought he would have been a suicide risk. She thought the humiliation of a layoff would have been too much for him. Would my dad have made the same decision as Willy Loman? Would he have thought that he was worth more dead than alive? I'm thankful that I'll never have to find out, but it's still saddening to know that he died thinking himself a failure, when I would never have called him that. I wish he knew.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
First Anniversary
Sean and I celebrated our first wedding anniversary on Sunday! Actually, celebrations ended up being a little split between Sunday and Monday, due to Sean feeling some after-effects from Richardson's bachelor party Saturday night. I had spent that night at the camper with Linda and Gary, but for some reason I woke up at 6:30 feeling really nauseous. Luckily for Sean, I turned on my cell phone when I woke up. He texted me an hour later asking me to come pick him up ASAP because his friend McTague had gotten sick all over the hotel room during the night and turned it into a biohazard. Linda and I drove to Mohegan, a few miles away, in our pajamas. Naturally, Sean was fully showered and dressed, but he passed out when we got back to the camper.
Eventually I was able to rouse him, and we drove to Norwich and checked into the Lathrop Manor Inn. The innkeepers were a husband and wife (unfortunately, I totally forgot their names) who were really, really nice. They were doing work in the back of the property putting in a new patio, so they offered us the choice of rooms upstairs, since the one I'd booked overlooked the back, and we were the only ones there on a Sunday night. We picked the room that was much bigger (and more expensive, which is why I'd picked the other one originally), with an incredible king-size bed that was so high off the ground I had to fling myself onto it, and cool furniture, including a couple of chairs in front of the fireplace.
The inn dated to the 18th century, but it was actually taken down to the foundations and rebuilt, with the original materials, in the 1960s. The husband was a serious jack-of-all-trades. The only non-period room was one that they turned into a den, with cushy leather chairs and a huge TV, and he had created custom wood panelling for the whole room that looked both professional and appropriate to the tone of the rest of the house. He built a lot of the furniture in the house, including a huge dining room table with period wood; he did the wiring and the plumbing, and was at work creating the extended patio himself when we arrived. Did I mention that he also spent 30 years as a chef? In the morning, we came downstairs to find personalised menus in the drawing room, with a spread of cinnamon buns, cheese, fruit, and bread already waiting in the dining room. Sean opted for blueberry pancakes, which he praised as the best blueberry pancakes he had ever tasted, and I chose the traditional country breakfast--eggs, toast, bacon (yeah, I gave up red meat, but it was my anniversary), all of it washed down with fresh-squeezed orange juice. IT WAS SO GOOD. Honestly, best B&B food ever, and we've stayed at a few.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. We checked in, and then went over to the Slater museum, which has an incredible cast collection of famous statuary from all over the world. These casts were all made directly from the originals (something that is almost never allowed these days, but this was back in the more permissive 19th century). The ground floor has Greek and Roman pieces, while the mezzanine has Renaissance sculptures. Visiting this museum is like a whirlwind tour of some of the world's most famous art pieces: we're talking full-size casts of the Parthenon pediment sculptures, the Hellenistic altar of Pergamon, the Laocoon, the Apollo Belvedere; upstairs, there's Michelangelo's Pieta, his Moses (beautifully situated in front of a stained-glass window), as well as Donatello's and Verrocchio's Davids. It's awesome, even if things are a bit crowded together. When we visited the first time while we were in college, we hadn't seen any of these pieces in real life, but this time it was cool to walk around and note how many of them we have seen. There are some places that remain on the list, like London, home of the Parthenon marbles, and Berlin, for the Pergamon museum, but it was just so damned cool to be reminded of all the wonderful things we've seen on our travels.
After this excursion we went back to the inn, where Sean promptly passed out again. I spent the afternoon watching television from the gigantic bed, which actually was quite relaxing. Unfortunately, when Sean woke up again he was pretty out of it, so I ended up getting us some takeout from a little Italian place down the road, rather than go out for an official anniversary dinnner. After dinner, we did something scarily domestic; we sat in the chairs by the fireplace and I read to him from Lake Woebegon Days, which I'd found in the library nook. All that was missing was a roaring fire, and maybe some snow outside (we've already decided to come back in the winter, perhaps for our other anniversary).
Then it was time for the series finale of Lost, so we repaired downstairs to the TV room with our complimentary bottle of wine. Turns out I needed it, because the finale was ridiculous, and not in a good way. Hey, spoilers, but WTF? That ending totally obviated everything that happened ON the damned island. The writers just said "Oh hey, it's OK, they all meet up again after they die, so forget about all that weird stuff that happened while they were alive, and that whole battle-of-good-versus-evil thing. Doesn't matter. Look, it's Shannon! And Juliet!" UGH.
Despite this disappointment, we went to bed and slept perfectly, which is saying something if you know about Sean's finicky sleeping habits. The next morning, before we had World's Best B&B food, the owner told us that people always ask what mattress that room has, and it's a Stearns and Foster Plaza mattress (which apparently retails for about $2,000). He and his wife really were awesome. When we checked out, we discovered that they'd given us 15% off because of the construction in the back (which was not an issue at all). So not only did we not pay the price for the super-nice room, we paid even less than the price for the smaller room. They also insisted that we take the two remaining giant cinnamon buns so that they wouldn't be tempted to eat them. Sean proceeded to eat one of them in the parking lot of Gillette Castle, and the other went to his grandmother.
All told, it was a pretty great anniversary, and so very us: a little culture, some delicious food, some sit-on-your-ass-ing, rounded out by a bit of a nature. I love my husband!
Eventually I was able to rouse him, and we drove to Norwich and checked into the Lathrop Manor Inn. The innkeepers were a husband and wife (unfortunately, I totally forgot their names) who were really, really nice. They were doing work in the back of the property putting in a new patio, so they offered us the choice of rooms upstairs, since the one I'd booked overlooked the back, and we were the only ones there on a Sunday night. We picked the room that was much bigger (and more expensive, which is why I'd picked the other one originally), with an incredible king-size bed that was so high off the ground I had to fling myself onto it, and cool furniture, including a couple of chairs in front of the fireplace.
The inn dated to the 18th century, but it was actually taken down to the foundations and rebuilt, with the original materials, in the 1960s. The husband was a serious jack-of-all-trades. The only non-period room was one that they turned into a den, with cushy leather chairs and a huge TV, and he had created custom wood panelling for the whole room that looked both professional and appropriate to the tone of the rest of the house. He built a lot of the furniture in the house, including a huge dining room table with period wood; he did the wiring and the plumbing, and was at work creating the extended patio himself when we arrived. Did I mention that he also spent 30 years as a chef? In the morning, we came downstairs to find personalised menus in the drawing room, with a spread of cinnamon buns, cheese, fruit, and bread already waiting in the dining room. Sean opted for blueberry pancakes, which he praised as the best blueberry pancakes he had ever tasted, and I chose the traditional country breakfast--eggs, toast, bacon (yeah, I gave up red meat, but it was my anniversary), all of it washed down with fresh-squeezed orange juice. IT WAS SO GOOD. Honestly, best B&B food ever, and we've stayed at a few.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. We checked in, and then went over to the Slater museum, which has an incredible cast collection of famous statuary from all over the world. These casts were all made directly from the originals (something that is almost never allowed these days, but this was back in the more permissive 19th century). The ground floor has Greek and Roman pieces, while the mezzanine has Renaissance sculptures. Visiting this museum is like a whirlwind tour of some of the world's most famous art pieces: we're talking full-size casts of the Parthenon pediment sculptures, the Hellenistic altar of Pergamon, the Laocoon, the Apollo Belvedere; upstairs, there's Michelangelo's Pieta, his Moses (beautifully situated in front of a stained-glass window), as well as Donatello's and Verrocchio's Davids. It's awesome, even if things are a bit crowded together. When we visited the first time while we were in college, we hadn't seen any of these pieces in real life, but this time it was cool to walk around and note how many of them we have seen. There are some places that remain on the list, like London, home of the Parthenon marbles, and Berlin, for the Pergamon museum, but it was just so damned cool to be reminded of all the wonderful things we've seen on our travels.
After this excursion we went back to the inn, where Sean promptly passed out again. I spent the afternoon watching television from the gigantic bed, which actually was quite relaxing. Unfortunately, when Sean woke up again he was pretty out of it, so I ended up getting us some takeout from a little Italian place down the road, rather than go out for an official anniversary dinnner. After dinner, we did something scarily domestic; we sat in the chairs by the fireplace and I read to him from Lake Woebegon Days, which I'd found in the library nook. All that was missing was a roaring fire, and maybe some snow outside (we've already decided to come back in the winter, perhaps for our other anniversary).
Then it was time for the series finale of Lost, so we repaired downstairs to the TV room with our complimentary bottle of wine. Turns out I needed it, because the finale was ridiculous, and not in a good way. Hey, spoilers, but WTF? That ending totally obviated everything that happened ON the damned island. The writers just said "Oh hey, it's OK, they all meet up again after they die, so forget about all that weird stuff that happened while they were alive, and that whole battle-of-good-versus-evil thing. Doesn't matter. Look, it's Shannon! And Juliet!" UGH.
Despite this disappointment, we went to bed and slept perfectly, which is saying something if you know about Sean's finicky sleeping habits. The next morning, before we had World's Best B&B food, the owner told us that people always ask what mattress that room has, and it's a Stearns and Foster Plaza mattress (which apparently retails for about $2,000). He and his wife really were awesome. When we checked out, we discovered that they'd given us 15% off because of the construction in the back (which was not an issue at all). So not only did we not pay the price for the super-nice room, we paid even less than the price for the smaller room. They also insisted that we take the two remaining giant cinnamon buns so that they wouldn't be tempted to eat them. Sean proceeded to eat one of them in the parking lot of Gillette Castle, and the other went to his grandmother.
All told, it was a pretty great anniversary, and so very us: a little culture, some delicious food, some sit-on-your-ass-ing, rounded out by a bit of a nature. I love my husband!
Friday, May 14, 2010
Graduation
Top left: Cate, me, Ruth, LisaBottom: Nicole, Laura
I officially graduated with my master's in art history yesterday! I wasn't very enthusiastic about it going in, not only because I had to pay a lot of money for a gown with ridiculous sleeves that I will never wear again, but also because I hate long, boring ceremonies. And Fairfield's graduation was definitely long and boring.
However, there was definitely a kind of infectious excitement among my classmates and I as we hung out in Tyler, fixing each other's hoods and preparing to march over to the Baptist Temple. Then I was able to spot Heather, and with her, Phyllis, immediately upon entering, which cheered me because I knew I wouldn't have to engage in the kind of post-graduation frantic searching that occurred after Fairfield's graduation. Add to this the fact that the ceremony was mercifully brief--1.5 hours, with only one tepid speech from an undergrad--and you have a reasonably enjoyable ceremony. I spent most of it commenting on the shoes of all the art students, because we were about at eye level with people's feet. In fact, I was right beneath the podium, which was fine with me because it meant I didn't have all the professors staring at me the whole time. Dr. Cooper didn't come, which was a little disappointing, but Dr. Hall came and wore her giant 60s-style sunglasses through the entire ceremony, and then blatantly stopped clapping after all the art history students were done. Heather spotted her from her seat and declared her a fierce lady, which is certainly true!
The best part of the ceremony was at the very beginning. Our most recent PhD, Barbara McNulty, sat on stage with the professors, in a plain gown without her hood. Before the rest of the ceremony took place, the dean read out her name and her dissertation title, and then invited her advisor, Dr. Evans, to formally "hood" her, and then presented her to the entire crowd as "Dr. Barbara McNulty." I don't think I can really capture how inspired I felt by that, seeing the culmination of so many years of work. I was present at her defense, and I was there in the hallway when Dr. Evans addressed her as Dr. for the first time, but this really felt special. There's something to be said for ceremonial, after all. Of course, I was also thinking of that fact that that will be me, in four or so years, being hooded by Dr. Cooper on that stage. Just that moment alone was worth attending graduation, because I can think of that in my mind's eye when my inspiration flags.
It was wonderful to have Heather and Phyllis, since Sean couldn't be there. We took some photos after the ceremony, as requested by Linda, and then headed to South St, where Phyllis had reservations at an AWESOME Italian restaurant, Core di Roma, owned by an actual Roman. I had the matriciana sauce, which was the owner said was his favorite (and it might be mine too; I ordered it almost every time we ate out in Rome because it's the city's specialty), and it was just divine. Phyllis brought a bottle of champagne (really, really nice champagne) and a bottle of wine, and we indulged quite freely, so after dinner we walked around South St for a bit till Phyllis decided she was good to drive. Phyllis absolutely loves Heather, and we had a great time.
Now I'm back in CT, waiting for Linda to get home so we can go for some celebratory Thai...yum!
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Done!
Last night I finished grading exams, put all the grades I'd had piled up in an Excel document into GradeCenter, and then entered final grades. Now I'm just fielding a few last-minute "uh, how do I find my grades again" emails--though one of those kids also told me that he thought class was interesting and fun, so that warmed my heart a little.
Their grades were better than expected; my class averages for final grades were 81 and 82, up from last semester's 78 and 76, I think. Part of that, I'm sure, is the fact that this was my second time teaching the course, while another part of it was that we made the exams as simple as possible. That's not to say that they're actually easy, as the several kids I failed or gave low grades to can attest, but they're not designed to trick you like some exams I remember from college classes. As I've told several people, teaching AWW is like being on a constant search for the lowest common denominator. When we're writing the exams, someone will say, "Ask what narrative moment Bernini chose to represent in his David," and someone else will say "Narrative moment? Ha! Try 'what part of the story is this?'" No lie, though--that will still confuse some kids.
For the last two exams, we also purposely did a practice compare-contrast exercise in section using the same artists (though not the same artworks) that we were putting on the exam (the compare-contrast is worth 20% of their grade, but that never seems to stop some kids from giving me a single paragraph). The last class day before an exam is always a TA-led review, and I tell my students flat-out that while there are no guarantees, whatever we covered in the review was very, very likely to be on the exam. So you can see that we're not trying to make this really difficult! All you need to do is show up, take notes, read the book, and memorize some stuff, and you can get a decent grade (the definition of "decent" being very different for most of my students than it would be for me; mainly, they just want to pass, and they only need a C- for that).
Despite all our best efforts, of course, you will always have that student who looks at the slide of the Vietnam Veterans' Memorial and tells you that it is made of steel poles and nylon fabric, or that Delacroix's Liberty Leading the People was a reaction to WWII, or that one of the unconventional materials used by Jackson Pollock was "dreams." These are indeed the times that try [wo]men's souls.
Something that I didn't truly understand about grades until I became a teacher, though, is the amount of subjectivity that goes into deciding grades. It's actually rather difficult to decide whether to take eight or ten points off an essay, for example, or whether to give a "meh" paper a B- or a C+. Quite often it comes down to my impression of the student: their effort level in class, their attentiveness, whether they've ever fallen asleep in section, whether I spot them on facebook during lecture, etc. Basically, it can come down to: do you piss me off, or do I like you?
The same thing applies at the end of the semester. Although most things are determined by what I put into GradeCenter, attendance and participation is really entirely up to me, and that's 10% of the final grade. Obviously, if you missed ten classes you're getting a low grade --even if you participated those times you were in class--but I will be more lenient toward a kid who's there every class but never talks, versus one of those kids who is also there every class but is clearly doing something besides taking notes on his computer. If you sass me, or fall asleep, or send me rude emails, or spend your time passing notes, or give me that "you are so beneath my notice" look when I tell you to take notes, then yes, I will give you the lowest participation grade that is ethically possible. Perhaps most critically, this principle comes into play with final grades when I'm deciding whether I will give a student who is on the cusp between B/B+ that extra half-point nudge of goodwill, or give them exactly the grade indicated by GradeCenter's calculations. Again, I will do it if they've made a positive impression on me, while I will refrain from doing it if they're a slacker or have pissed me off in some way.
It's not that I would only do this for good students or smart kids, either. One of my kids, nice though he seemed to be, totally fit the stereotype of "big dumb lug." He could not wrap his mind around the concept of paraphrasing, even after I sent him a tutorial website; in fact, he wrote back to ask if he should include the original quote when he paraphrased it. *facepalm* He also got fairly low grades on the first two exams, and basically flunked the quizzes; yet, he was always willing to raise his hand in section, even though his answers were frequently wrong, and while his emails made me want to strangle something, they were always polite. So when GradeCenter told me his numerical grade was a 76.3 (a C) I bumped him up to a 77 and gave him a C+. Not for being intelligent, but just for trying.
Of course, this was not a principle that I fully understood when I was in college, and it's obviously not something you could ever tell students without risking accusations of unfairness. But all my friends who are teachers agree that there is always a level of subjectivity in grading decisions. When we tell kids to accept responsibility and act mature, it's for their own good. Really.
ETA: I just got this email from the kid I mentioned above:
Mrs. DiMarzo,
I saw the grade. I had a good time with your class and just wish I would have done a little better on the first two tests, but its my fault. Thanks for teaching and you did a great job.
Best of luck with your future plans.
See what I mean? So polite!! (Even if he did call me my mother.)
Their grades were better than expected; my class averages for final grades were 81 and 82, up from last semester's 78 and 76, I think. Part of that, I'm sure, is the fact that this was my second time teaching the course, while another part of it was that we made the exams as simple as possible. That's not to say that they're actually easy, as the several kids I failed or gave low grades to can attest, but they're not designed to trick you like some exams I remember from college classes. As I've told several people, teaching AWW is like being on a constant search for the lowest common denominator. When we're writing the exams, someone will say, "Ask what narrative moment Bernini chose to represent in his David," and someone else will say "Narrative moment? Ha! Try 'what part of the story is this?'" No lie, though--that will still confuse some kids.
For the last two exams, we also purposely did a practice compare-contrast exercise in section using the same artists (though not the same artworks) that we were putting on the exam (the compare-contrast is worth 20% of their grade, but that never seems to stop some kids from giving me a single paragraph). The last class day before an exam is always a TA-led review, and I tell my students flat-out that while there are no guarantees, whatever we covered in the review was very, very likely to be on the exam. So you can see that we're not trying to make this really difficult! All you need to do is show up, take notes, read the book, and memorize some stuff, and you can get a decent grade (the definition of "decent" being very different for most of my students than it would be for me; mainly, they just want to pass, and they only need a C- for that).
Despite all our best efforts, of course, you will always have that student who looks at the slide of the Vietnam Veterans' Memorial and tells you that it is made of steel poles and nylon fabric, or that Delacroix's Liberty Leading the People was a reaction to WWII, or that one of the unconventional materials used by Jackson Pollock was "dreams." These are indeed the times that try [wo]men's souls.
Something that I didn't truly understand about grades until I became a teacher, though, is the amount of subjectivity that goes into deciding grades. It's actually rather difficult to decide whether to take eight or ten points off an essay, for example, or whether to give a "meh" paper a B- or a C+. Quite often it comes down to my impression of the student: their effort level in class, their attentiveness, whether they've ever fallen asleep in section, whether I spot them on facebook during lecture, etc. Basically, it can come down to: do you piss me off, or do I like you?
The same thing applies at the end of the semester. Although most things are determined by what I put into GradeCenter, attendance and participation is really entirely up to me, and that's 10% of the final grade. Obviously, if you missed ten classes you're getting a low grade --even if you participated those times you were in class--but I will be more lenient toward a kid who's there every class but never talks, versus one of those kids who is also there every class but is clearly doing something besides taking notes on his computer. If you sass me, or fall asleep, or send me rude emails, or spend your time passing notes, or give me that "you are so beneath my notice" look when I tell you to take notes, then yes, I will give you the lowest participation grade that is ethically possible. Perhaps most critically, this principle comes into play with final grades when I'm deciding whether I will give a student who is on the cusp between B/B+ that extra half-point nudge of goodwill, or give them exactly the grade indicated by GradeCenter's calculations. Again, I will do it if they've made a positive impression on me, while I will refrain from doing it if they're a slacker or have pissed me off in some way.
It's not that I would only do this for good students or smart kids, either. One of my kids, nice though he seemed to be, totally fit the stereotype of "big dumb lug." He could not wrap his mind around the concept of paraphrasing, even after I sent him a tutorial website; in fact, he wrote back to ask if he should include the original quote when he paraphrased it. *facepalm* He also got fairly low grades on the first two exams, and basically flunked the quizzes; yet, he was always willing to raise his hand in section, even though his answers were frequently wrong, and while his emails made me want to strangle something, they were always polite. So when GradeCenter told me his numerical grade was a 76.3 (a C) I bumped him up to a 77 and gave him a C+. Not for being intelligent, but just for trying.
Of course, this was not a principle that I fully understood when I was in college, and it's obviously not something you could ever tell students without risking accusations of unfairness. But all my friends who are teachers agree that there is always a level of subjectivity in grading decisions. When we tell kids to accept responsibility and act mature, it's for their own good. Really.
ETA: I just got this email from the kid I mentioned above:
Mrs. DiMarzo,
I saw the grade. I had a good time with your class and just wish I would have done a little better on the first two tests, but its my fault. Thanks for teaching and you did a great job.
Best of luck with your future plans.
See what I mean? So polite!! (Even if he did call me my mother.)
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Virginia Post-Script
I just got back from a brief trip to Charlottesville to see Sean--brief as in I left Philadelphia at 11 on Tuesday, and left his apartment around 1 this afternoon. Unfortunately for us, I have to be present to proctor the AWW exam at 9 (ughhh) tomorrow morning, and Sean has three papers and a final in the next couple of weeks (double and perhaps triple ughhh).
Last night we went to a party for his Field Methods class at his professor's house. In Sean's department, everyone refers to professors by their first names, so his professor is Lise and her husband, an anthropology professor, is Ira. They had two completely adorable children, who managed to be both extremely energetic and well-mannered, and the food was exceptional; they ordered it from an Afghan restaurant in town, and I stuffed myself on basmatic rice, chick peas, spicy chicken, and lamb kebobs (I know, I'm off red meat, but I decided that for last night's purposes, lamb is white meat). Dessert was an applesauce cake that tasted like a riff on my mom's pumpkin squares recipe, complete with cream cheese frosting. After dinner, Lise's kids demanded that we play, so there were games in the front yard, and Sean and I faced off across a badminton net (we were equally awful at spotting that little shuttlecock in the growing darkness). Their house had a lovely yard that sloped to a creek. That sort of thing always gives me hope for Sean and I someday!
There were also a couple of dogs in attendance; Lise's dog Tatti, a Shitzu, and one of the other students brought his Sheltie, which was named...Sheltie. It was even bigger than Sheena, with a monstrously fluffy coat; since it was an old dog, it was decidedly not interested in the antics of the Shitzu, and spent most of the evening trying to avoid it by ducking behind other people. Sean mentioned to me that he'd kind of like to have a dog, but the problem (besides the expense) is that his apartment would be best suited to a small dog like Tatti, while he wants a dog that he could go jogging with. We looked at Charlottesville's ASPCA website and cooed over many adorable faces, but no sale.
After we came home, Sean and I faced off again, this time over Scrabble, and he kicked my ass again. Now, I have a reputation for being a totally sore loser at Scrabble, but that is only with Sean, and that's because I never stand a damned chance with him! I think I have won ONE game in all our time together. One! So naturally, when he scores a huge amount of points in some strategic location (usually exactly where I wanted to put MY next word) I get grumpy, because I know I just lost the game. Meanwhile, Sean likes to say falsely encouraging things like "oh c'mon, sweetie, you're only ten points behind me....twenty...fifty...." and then suddenly the final score's 216 to 158. Sigh.
In other news, I came home to find my signature pages from Dr. Cooper finally arrived. It turns out I cursed her name for nothing--she actually mailed them in NJ on April 28, and somehow that took until May 6 to arrive. That's ridiculous. Now I know not to trust the post office--no wonder they're losing business!
Last night we went to a party for his Field Methods class at his professor's house. In Sean's department, everyone refers to professors by their first names, so his professor is Lise and her husband, an anthropology professor, is Ira. They had two completely adorable children, who managed to be both extremely energetic and well-mannered, and the food was exceptional; they ordered it from an Afghan restaurant in town, and I stuffed myself on basmatic rice, chick peas, spicy chicken, and lamb kebobs (I know, I'm off red meat, but I decided that for last night's purposes, lamb is white meat). Dessert was an applesauce cake that tasted like a riff on my mom's pumpkin squares recipe, complete with cream cheese frosting. After dinner, Lise's kids demanded that we play, so there were games in the front yard, and Sean and I faced off across a badminton net (we were equally awful at spotting that little shuttlecock in the growing darkness). Their house had a lovely yard that sloped to a creek. That sort of thing always gives me hope for Sean and I someday!
There were also a couple of dogs in attendance; Lise's dog Tatti, a Shitzu, and one of the other students brought his Sheltie, which was named...Sheltie. It was even bigger than Sheena, with a monstrously fluffy coat; since it was an old dog, it was decidedly not interested in the antics of the Shitzu, and spent most of the evening trying to avoid it by ducking behind other people. Sean mentioned to me that he'd kind of like to have a dog, but the problem (besides the expense) is that his apartment would be best suited to a small dog like Tatti, while he wants a dog that he could go jogging with. We looked at Charlottesville's ASPCA website and cooed over many adorable faces, but no sale.
After we came home, Sean and I faced off again, this time over Scrabble, and he kicked my ass again. Now, I have a reputation for being a totally sore loser at Scrabble, but that is only with Sean, and that's because I never stand a damned chance with him! I think I have won ONE game in all our time together. One! So naturally, when he scores a huge amount of points in some strategic location (usually exactly where I wanted to put MY next word) I get grumpy, because I know I just lost the game. Meanwhile, Sean likes to say falsely encouraging things like "oh c'mon, sweetie, you're only ten points behind me....twenty...fifty...." and then suddenly the final score's 216 to 158. Sigh.
In other news, I came home to find my signature pages from Dr. Cooper finally arrived. It turns out I cursed her name for nothing--she actually mailed them in NJ on April 28, and somehow that took until May 6 to arrive. That's ridiculous. Now I know not to trust the post office--no wonder they're losing business!
Monday, May 03, 2010
A Passing
Phyllis put Thomas to sleep today. He wasn't sick, exactly, not in any pain as far as we could tell, but his back legs stopped working properly, he couldn't use his litterbox, and he stopped eating. The vet couldn't find anything in particular that was wrong, and he was about 12 years old, so she suggested he just might be fading away. He had become a shade of his former annoying self the past few days, no longer able to follow us around the house like he used to, no wailing from the ground floor when he wanted to hear the sound of his own (surprisingly loud) voice, but he was still probably the cutest cat I've ever seen, and certainly one of the gentlest. In all the time I've known him, he never bit or scratched, never so much as hissed. I couldn't say the same for any of my other cats, not by a longshot!
Yesterday he also lost control over his bladder, so Phyllis kept him on the porch until nightfall, when she made a bed for herself and him on the porch. Today she took the day off and spent it with him, and I got home from school as she was making the appointment with the vet to have him put to sleep. I drove, with Phyllis holding Thomas in her lap in a blanket. He was nervous, especially in the vet's office, and he cried piteously when they put the needle with the sedative in. Once he was asleep, the vet administered the other drug. The only other time I saw this done was with Pepper, freshman year of high school, and I'd forgotten how fast it is: he stopped breathing pretty much instantaneously. Phyllis and I were both crying.
As it turns out, cat cremation is very expensive ($250!) so she opted to take him home for burial. They gave us a little box, which is currently sitting--open--on a table by the window on the porch. Phyllis decided to have him "lie in state" for a day; she said she had a Buddhist roommate once whose cat died and who had him lie in state for three days to make sure his spirit had passed on, and Phyllis said she wanted to make sure Thomas had the opportunity to do the same. We toasted him with peach brandy, and Phyllis even poured a little out in a dish, like the Greeks would have done.
Dear Thomas, as much as I made fun of your for your stupidity and grew irritated with your yowls, you were a good cat, and we'll miss you. Requiescat in pacem.