Syllabus #169

 #169.  Nice.

I got the Wordle in 2 guesses twice this week.  Hope my Mensa invitation doesn't get stolen out of my mailbox.  

Adult Onset Athleticism.  That implies being actually good at a sport.  I wouldn't go that far, but I definitely have a chronic case of Adult Onset Desire Not to be a Sedentary Lump.  Maybe I would have discovered the pleasure of moving one's body for fun a little earlier in life had it not been for the dreaded President's Physical Fitness Test.  Just something about being forced to run a mile in my D-cup jugs without knowing sports bras existed, getting weighed in front of the whole class, enduring shame for not being able to do a pull-up, and then also getting berated for being too flexible in the sit-and-reach really soured me on trying to do any sort of physical activity.  

There was a time before cellphones when I was viscerally offended to find that someone's bathroom was devoid of reading materials.  If you walked in on me reading the ingredients on your shampoo bottle, that's your own damn fault.  

Analog Reading:

Dear god, I'm still reading A Gentleman in Moscow.  I'm enjoying it more, but maybe I'm just like Count Rostov, reconciled to my fate to never exit the confines of its pages.  It's not even that long!  I just haven't had much time to read lately.

Syllabus #168

Look, a picture of something that isn't a cat

Alright I'm going to tell on myself right here and right now.  I am the asshole in this situation.  

So what happened was, Andy's cousin is in town this weekend and we went big on Friday night.  I was the one keeping it semi-together for our collective benefit, but, as these things go, I was hungover Saturday morning and the dudes were both fine.  It wasn't a day-ruining hangover, more like a level 6 out of 10.  Minimal vomiting involved, but nothing that couldn't be fixed with an extra hour of wallowing in bed, petting some kitties, Advil, a shower, and the one-two punch of greasy food and caffeine.

We had big plans to, um, drink more on Saturday, so I had to pull it together.  We dragged ourselves a mile through the cruel sun to grab an early lunch at Red Headed Stranger.  After that, we were headed downtown to board the Music City Brew Hop trolley for a 3-hour 7-hour tour of bad decisions.  

Properly fueled and caffeinated, we went outside to summon a Lyft to take us across the river.  The RHS side of the street was in the blazing sun, so we crossed Arrington to wait in the shade of the trees bordering the parking lot of chef Sean Brock's Audrey.  Their parking lot is bordered by a phalanx of signs warning that parking is for Audrey customers only, so as we crossed the street I was like, "Don't you dare step foot in the Audrey parking lot unless you're ready to pay $300 for a sniff of corn..."  

Which, first of all, a sniff of corn?  What even is that?  Is it the same as a whiff, or does it cost more?  Is it on the cob, or are we talking corn dust, which I hear is an actual thing used to garnish the babydoll spoon portions of Appalachian molecular gastronomy or whatever the hell.  But all that is besides the point, because as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized a guy from Audrey's kitchen staff was walking right past me, reporting for his shift.  He didn't betray any reaction, but there's no world in which he didn't hear what I said unless he was stone cold Helen Keller deaf.

Honestly, who am I to criticize?  I've never eaten there, first of all, so I have no standing.  I'm probably just jealous that I don't feel like I can spend that much money on a tasting menu that I suspect will leave me intrigued but still hungry.  And this guy who heard me making fun of the restaurant, maybe he didn't care, and I'm sure he's heard other people ragging on the place.  But working there is probably a thrill and an honor, and he has to listen to some hungover, PMSing sea hag make fun of what might be his dream job?  

So, kitchen guy, sorry.  I don't know what your specific job is, but I'm sure you grind a real fine corn dust and I hope one day I can afford to sniff it.

Who eats late dinners?  Our dinner time is 6:30 or later.  God forbid dinner is on the table at 6:27, or I get an eye roll and that shit sits there getting cold until the stroke of 6:30 like this is fricking Downton Abbey and we must abide by custom.  That said, anything after 7 on a week night is really pushing into dangerous Hangry territory.  When Andy and I first started shacking up (as the elders liked to call us moving in together less than 2 months after meeting, but guess what that was over 14 years ago and look at us now!) we both worked in a high school.  We'd be home from work by 3:30, back from the gym by 5.  I think we used to eat dinner at 5:30?  It was comically early.  We also had no table or chairs so we sat on the floor at a coffee table and watched Action News on our 500 pound CRT television with an antenna.  I think working an actual 8-5 schedule in an academic library broke us of the earlybird special habit

Lindsay Graham PICKED 15 weeks.  He just chose it.  Picked it the way a child picks ice cream at Baskin Robbins.  Lil' Linds wants Rum Raisin?  Do you know what's in that?  You're not gonna like it.  NO ONE fucking likes it!  How about chocolate?  That's a safe choice.  Chocolate in this analogy is 45 weeks.  Just in case a woman gives live birth and then changes her mind once she loses a few nights of sleep. JUST KIDDING, no one would ever do that.  But that's the point.  The further along in a pregnancy, pregnant people aren't just like, "Well, this has been a fun journey so far, but I just don't feel like buying maternity clothes and making a registry, just kinda over it TBH."  You're hurting the most vulnerable people who are facing heartbreaking choices and life-threatening situations.  To quote the article:  "Yet, perversely, Graham’s legislation disproportionately affects those in the most dire circumstances, when a second-trimester abortion may spare them severe and excruciating health crises."

Analog Reading:

Still confined to the quarters of A Gentleman in Moscow.  It's a little twee in the beginning, and the guy has what modern sensibilities would consider to be an innocent but very suspicious-seeming relationship with a 9 year old girl, but then it picks up about a third of the way through.  I'll allow it.

Syllabus #167

It's a sick sad world

I love articles about new social phenomena that I never worried about before, but now make me question whether, I, too, have this manufactured problem.  Am I toxic?  What if I am?  How to does one detoxify, exactly?

For no real reason except aesthetics (what else is there?) I desperately wanted a Saab hatchback for my first car.  I found one for sale online, only to find out that the pictures, taken of only the driver side the car, concealed the fact that the passenger side was riddled with bullet holes.  Instead, I ended up with a whack-ass Saturn that belonged to a dead guy.  The car had been in a front-end collision that discharged the airbag, at which point the empty cavity in the steering wheel was stuffed with Shop Rite bags.  I should say that this accident wasn't why the guy was dead, and the car was, unfortunately, not haunted.

I've had this article about librarians fighting for intellectual freedom open in a tab since it was published in July, and I just can't force myself to read it because it hits too close to home.

Analog Reading:

Finished Either/Or by Elif Batuman.  I liked it, but towards the end there were an awful lot of date rapey situations that made me want to shake the protagonist and shout, "honey, you deserve better, and you also deserve pepper spray!"

Started A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles.  Ehhh.  I really enjoyed The Lincoln Highway but this is the exact opposite.  Where TLH had the characters in constant motion by virtue of being a road novel, this one is pretty much a 1920s version of Edward Snowden, just a dude legally confined to never leave a luxury hotel in Moscow.  It's not really grabbing me, and is making me feel claustrophobic.

Syllabus #166

A very inebriated man at a bar told me today that I'm a redneck now because I live in redneck country and I tried to tell him 'SIR, I have lived in redneck country all my life' but he was too busy ranting about how our country is great because our ancestors were all rednecks who built things.  I think he was just compensating because, moments before, I broke his heart when he pointed to Andy and asked if that was my boyfriend.  I said, 'nah, HUZZBAND' and Andy said, 'Sorry, bro, 12 years.'  We left almost immediately after this happened.  The vehicle parked next to ours was a preposterously large pickup with a high caliber bullet in the place where an antenna would be.  I am certain it belonged to that guy.

Just thinking about alfredo sauce triggers my gag reflex.  Pray for the people of Memphis, especially the TDOT workers who have to clean up this unspeakable horror.  

I want this booster so bad, but I think I need to wait because I just had me a big ol' covid time back in late June/early July?  What is the guidance here?  The article was like, yea probably wait six months, but also maybe 3 is fine?  Look, I don't care if that shit makes me glow in the dark, I just don't want to be locked in a room with my life on pause for 10+ days again any time soon.

Analog Reading:

The Wind (finally) Done (actually) Gone.  Sorry, didn't love it.  I respected it, but I'm glad I'm not still reading it.

Now we've moved on to Either/Or by Elif Batuman.  It's her follow-up to the 2018 novel, The Idiot, which, like an idiot, I read twice because I forgot that I had read it previously until about 1/4 of the way through the 2nd read.  It's an apt portrait of being at once socially alienated and, by appearances, outwardly functional.