So, um, a few of you may have missed it...I broke off my engagement a few months ago and I've temporarily moved back in with my parents for the first time in 10 years.  Aside from the obvious benefits of some triage for my finances, I just need to feel a little taken care of for a while.  Sleeping and eating are good things, after all.  This year, thanks to prolonged stress with a sizable dose of dissatisfaction, I've gotten almost scary-skinny--like those poor waifish starlets you see smattered all over magazine covers at the grocery-store check-out.  And while (contrary to popular belief) my mom really hates cooking, she feels compeled to feed me, be it from a box or the freezer.  My ridiculous trans-mountain commute will eventually compel me to find a place closer to my job(s!), but for now it's an excellent arrangement.

Plus, I get to witness all the crazy Bill & Babsness that we all know and love.  Like for example (yay! an example!), last week I was putting some of my stuff in the basement with my dad, and he decided it was time to clean up my glass coffee-table top, which had shattered into a hundred pieces on moving day (thanks to some clumsy shenanigans of which I will not speak), when this occurred:

"Daddy," I said [mighty Southern of me, isn't it?], "I think you should put some work gloves on before you try to clean that up.  You'll cut yourself."
"I will put some work gloves on.  Just as soon as I clean this up."
...pause...
"Ow.  I cut myself."
He continues to move glass.  And not into the trash, mind you; but into a planter, so that it's sticking out in all directions like a banquet-sized deadly post-modern bouquet, waiting with vegetable-esque patience to attack the next unsuspecting basement-visitor.
"I think you should stop that now and go upstairs and take care of that."
"Oh, I'll take care of it.  Just as soon as I finish cleaning this up."
...pause...
"Goddammit!  I'm bleeding everywhere.  Nick, I'm gonna go upstairs and take care of this."
"I think that's a good idea."

A few minutes later, my dad returned with his left arm straight up in the air and grasping a paper towel in his hand to staunch the flow. 

"Look what your mother did!  Look what she's trying to turn me into!" he cried, with that half-grin that lets us know he's about to make a really corny joke.
"Um...The Statue of Liberty?"
"No.  Nein!  Sieg Heil!"
"Oh.  She's turned you into a Nazi."
" SIEG HEIL!!!", he repeated emphatically, clicking his heels.

Later on, back upstairs...
"Babsy!  Get me some bandaids!"
My mom putters off to find first-aide supplies.  She returns and pulls out a bandaid. 
"Oh, that's a good one", she says, "I don't want to give you that one."
My dad and I share a look of good-humored astonishment.  She's serious!  She catches us and says,
"Well, some of them are the clear kind and you don't need that."
She moves in with the bandaid.
"OWWWW!" my dad wails, before she has made contact (in perfect imitation of little me, I suppose).
Then, in mock earnestness,
"Babsy, I had to try really hard to find a way to blame this on you.  But I thought long and hard about it, and it's all your fault."

This is the normal state of things at Chez Mitzel.  It promises to be very entertaining if I can maintain my sanity.


This morning I didn't have time for breakfast (not really a problem since I was headed for the coffee shop), and as I was leaving the house my Dad handed me a big cup of cubed melon with a skewer sticking out of it: an unbidden but much appreciated drive-and-eat breakfast.  It was very sweet.  As I pulled out of the garage, he followed me out as he always does, and, eschewing the normal wave, opted instead to perform what could be considered a representational movement piece entitled "The Wave."  He's taken to the abstract wave dance of late and has been performing it in the driveway for my (and the neighborhood's) benefit every time I've left the house for the past week.  When my Mom is awake when I leave, she comes out too.  And she stands and waves like a normal person and casts looks of chagrin and disapproval upon my Dad's experiments in modern dance.

When I got to Asheville this morning and was in line at the bank, I took a closer look at the plastic souvenir cup/ersatz fruit cup that my parents had deemed worthy of saving.  It bore the slogan, "The 10-day Salute to Sausage:  Wurstfest 2004, New Braunfels, TX.  The BEST times are the WURST times!"  It's difficult to discern the amount of irony (if any) involved in their appreciation of these cups, of which I think they have at least a dozen.  My parents are so cute.  But they're also insane.  And deaf.


And here I have deleted a rant of a political and philosophical nature that I thought better of boring you with.  Lucky.

As some of you know, I just started teaching at the fancy state theater we have here in these parts. 

I am so psyched.  I may, in fact, be dangerously close to developing a condition like that of special Supersnacker Permanent Nutface Gary.  Well, okay.  That's overstating things a bit.  But I am psyched.

I have 4 small classes of students.  One class is kinda green (workin' on it), but the other 3 are super-amazingly advanced.  They know stuff about theatre that I didn't learn until I was halfway through undergrad.  And most of them are too young to drive.  I just can't even imagine how amazing it would have been to have had access to this kind of program when I was their age.  They are getting college-level lesson plans from me.  And I have to say, it's really nice to be working with kids who fully want to be in my class.  I mean, it's life-changing to bring quality programming to kids who lack resources, but it's tough to have to convince those kids that they want to be there every day.  It's a different experience.  It's nice to work with kids who are devoted to the subject you're teaching.  Especially when you're short on time.  No one needs convincing.  I'll take it!  And some of them are on scholarships, so that makes me feel better for not saving the world.  This time.

On Saturday, we had the first meeting of the most advanced group--the Conservatory students, who I am team-teaching with two other faculty members.  (I'm a faculty member!  I have a desk!)  The first thing we did was go around the circle and share why we were there.  The words "best friends" and "like family" came up a lot.  These kids are smart and talented and sweet and smart-ass and totally remind me of myself and all my fellow art-nerd friends in high school.  And I know some of them really are going to be best friends forever, and it's very, very sweet to see.

The thing that's really blowing my mind is that my favorite teacher from high school was exactly the same age I am now when he started teaching, and I was in his first class of students.  (Yes intrepid fact-checkers, I'm referring to Mr. Ross, and I was a student of his in his first year b/c I starting taking private oboe lessons from him when I was in 8th grade.  Yes?)  Anyway, for some reason this fact has me wackadoodle.  But I'm totally okay with it.  In fact, I like it.  I have come to embrace the idea that I'm a grown-up...an oldie, even.  It is good.

Hurray.  It's nice to get paid to do stuff you like.  Now if only I had health insurance and a pension plan again, and didn't have to worry about running this business I seem to own...

It takes a lot of dairy products to stock a coffee shop.  Unfortunately for me, I get the best prices on dairy at Sam's Club.  So at least once a week, I'm off to Sam's to bob and weave my way through the hoards of waddling mouth-breathers and their sausage-fingered, Cheeto-besmeared little cherubs.

During today's trip to Sam's I saw the most awesomely bad t-shirt ever wearing an ungainly teenage boy.  First I saw the back, which said,

JESUS FIRST!!!
Then there's basketball.

I thought this was rather good enough, but then he turned around...

CROSSFIRE!
Scoring for the King!

Poor kid.  I don't know where to begin.  Well, okay, I guess I could begin by pointing out that their team is arguably named after cross burning.  Awesome!

Totally unrelated side note:  Cold Comfort Farm is on TV right now.  I had to turn it on because I couldn't stand to listen anymore to the news on McCain's running mate: such as the fact that she believes abortion should be illegal even in cases of rape and incest.  Ugh.  I think I'm gonna barf.  But my point was, Cold Comfort Farm is a fantastic movie and I had totally forgotten how much I love it.  And if you haven't seen it, you should.  It's diverting ("diverting or amusing, Elfine dear, never 'great fun'").

Gavin DeGraw just hung out in my coffee shop.  I only have a vague idea of who he is, but my barista on shift tonight almost jumped out of her pants.  It was kinda cute.  She's about 10 years younger than me.  So I guess I'm too old to know what the kids are listening to.  What-evs!  Cool famous musicians like my coffee shop.  So, you know.  Cool.  I'll takes what I can get.  After all, this is Asheville, not NY.

It is raining like go-go bananas!  Thank you, tropical storm whatever your name is!  Driving home tonight after closing shop it was coming down in sheets.  Good thing I was a girl scout and was therefore prepared.  Here's a song about it that my fellow Brownies can sing with me in a round:  Get new (Get new) umbrellas.  But keep the o-old.  One is an umbrella and the other's...an umbrellaaaaa.

I will be really happy if it rains literally (literally literally) all week long, as forecast, and especially if we get some awesome thunderstorms into the bargain.  I don't care if I get soggy.  I don't care if I lose power or if the bus leaks or if the basement floods.  (Lie!  It will totally suck if the basement floods.)  Business will drop off at the shop because people around here are total weather wusses, but I don't even care.  We are two years into a major drought and it's raining LIKE GO-GO BANANAS!


The other day I was going through some boxes at my parents' house and I found a whole box of old photo albums that I thought had been lost forever.  They include many extremely choice embarrassing pictures of myself and fam and friends, many of which I plan to post sometime soon for the chagrin of all involved.  Photojournals include the Viking Pie Eating Contest  Ruthless Pie Fight of '93 and the Unfortunate Occurrence of the Truants and the Calliope, as well as musicals, band trips, and yes, band camp.  I will practice restraint, however.  Well, a little.


Today I had to approve a bio for myself for my faculty listing on Fancy Playhouse's website (I, like Angelalala, like to make everything fancy).  Yay!  It's real now.  And I don't know who they were writing about but she sounds interesting and qualified.  Weird.  I guess I'd better make some lesson plans.  This may be the first time I've had that "they're gonna find out I don't know what I'm doing" feeling about a job, which I think means I'm on the right track.  Because I do know what I'm doing.  I'm just challenged for once.  We'll just see how long I actually enjoy being challenged...

Oh no.  I should not write when I'm so sleepy.  Goodnight.

When the fam got together last weekend, we somehow got on the topic of ice cream trucks.  Specifically, we postulated what would make the scariest ice cream truck ever.  I suggested that the scariest ice cream truck wouldn't play music.  It would just silently creep up your street like a panther stalking its prey.  And when it caught up with you, emerging from the mist as if from nowhere, the grinning driver, (a birthday clown, of course), would slowly reach out an arm and beckon you over.

Perhaps the driver might look something like this:

I'm watching the Parade of Nations in the Olympic opening ceremonies right now.  It's interesting to see which delegations have an overriding awareness of the cameras, and which delegations are more focused on the crowds.  Not surprisingly, the countries more interested in the cameras are also carrying their own cameras.  Obviously, it's a reflection on media access, and perhaps a touch on culture.  Maybe I'm just a Luddite, but I can't help but feel that the people simultaneously holding cameras and mugging for other cameras are missing out on something.

And of course, our intrepid President made a characteristically classy appearance, splayed out in his seat, looking bored, miserable and churlish.  He even glanced impatiently at his watch when the cameras cut to him, as if on cue.

Woo-Hoo!  Pajama Fridays in Nicole-Town!

Yes, I am sitting on my couch on a Friday night, flanked by sleeping dogs, blogging.  Excitement.  It is exciting, though, because my fever broke today!  I spent yesterday and the day before absolutely aglow with a raging fever.  So many things for a person to be all aglow with, and I?  I am aglow with fever.  Lucky me.

When I was a little child in (say it with me) Seoul, Korea, I had a fever.  The doctors at the good ol' MASH 4077, in typical military health care fashion, where not much for diagnosis.  "Ah, might be Scarlet Fever," they said.  "Scarlet Fever?!  Really?," said my mom.  "Sure.  Maybe.  What's the diff?  Here's a whole mess of antibiotics.  Feed 'em to the kid, lady.  We've got a game of golf to play." 
Or so it went in my imagination.  I really don't remember.  But I do remember how later, lying in my parents' bed, I hallucinated that the innocuous damask wallpaper (that came standard in our apartment complex) left the wall and danced just inches above my eyes.

Sadly, I don't have access even to military doctors these days.  So, dear readers, why not try your hand at a diagnosis?  If you vote, you will receive an honorary induction into the MASH 4077 by yours truly.

Nicole had all the symptoms of a very bad cold, but accompanied by a raging fever that lasted over 48 hours:

I know it's late, but I don't think I'm dreaming.  I'm pretty sure I just saw a Chevy commercial espousing their unique perspective on going "Green."  But it was so insane that I'm kind of hoping it wasn't real.

There were cute little animated people jubilantly doing their part to save the earth.  Were they driving little cars with impressively great mileage?  No.  It's Chevy.  Instead, it looked like an animated fashion magazine and the voice-over said something like this:

"Ladies.  Do you really have to wash your hair every day?  Try wearing a hat or an up-do.  It's stylish.  And we all know that going green is stylish, too."

What?  Did they just....

What?

No.  Seriously.  What?

Now, I know some of you are now thinking up a snarky and humorous jab re: my self-indulgent bathing habits.  And you would not be unjustified.  Me like'm shower.  Nonetheless, this commercial is wrong for so many reasons I don't even know where to begin.

Has anyone else seen this commercial?  Did I miss something?  I'm kind of hoping that I did.

But you can go to other people's homes and eat all their food.

I don't get back to my hometown very often. Being of a small, nomadic tribe, I'm an orphan when I go there and accepting the generosity of my friends' parents is really wonderful. It also makes me feel a little like a teenager again, which is kinda fun and yet awkward, much like my teenage years. Until this July 4th, I think the last time I was there was for "the Yorkness" some three years ago. This time was lovely, although there was less drinking and no midnight naked river swimming. (The truth is, I'm somewhat terrified of midnight river swimming, naked or otherwise). I did, however, go to the end of the fancy new dock (now the home of a 3-mast schooner!) to say hello to my jellyfish friends who gazed longingly at my right ass-cheek, fondly remembering a once-warm embrace. From afar, the aftermath looked something like this:

Every time I go back, for a while I vibrate with memory and sensation. Then I get acclimated and it's like I never left.

On the morning of the 4th, I was rudely awakened at 9:50am, sleep deprived and mildly hung over, by the stalwart Yorktown Fife and Drum Corps. Just like old times. Their favorite spot to practice their morning maneuvers just happens to be right below Angela's bedroom window (still). I don't know if any of you have ever been roused from a deep sleep by a hoard of pubescent fife-blowers and drum-beaters mustering the troops, but it can really put a damper on your morning. I love you, Yorktown Fife and Drum Corps. I really do.

I couldn't wait for everyone to leave town so I could walk around empty streets and wander in the graveyard and the gardens. Luckily only for those with the local hook-ups, a huge storm rolled in around 8pm, clearing out the town and resulting in a nearly private and surprisingly impressive fireworks display viewed from the Hamiltons' second floor porch (the same porch from which Angela and I used to sometimes catch the sunrise after staying up all night making totally retarded home movies). After the fireworks, I went for a walk with Miller and her Canadian love-monkey. Yorktown in the rain is my favorite. Steam was rising off the streets and looking very cinematic in the streetlights. I kept catching a low, familiar scent that I couldn't quite place, but that felt like home. When we climbed the steps into the Nelson House garden, I realized what it was: the musty, warm smell of the boxwood. Maybe this is why I am so fond of the Conservatory Gardens in Central Park. A formal boxwood garden will always have a bench, and the scent of the boxwood is so heavy that it invites you to sit.

Sabrina gave Bry-Bry her little bonnet to keep his curls dry.

There was no one else around, or course, because the Nelson House is haaauuunted! Bryan and I saw a light in the window. Ghosties!

More fun was had that day, some of which has already been recounted by Angelalala.

The next day included some gawking at the new, pleasant and somewhat off-putting waterfront shops. Photos were taken, with mixed results.

The other day, Mr. Harpo Marx used his supreme powers of cuteness to subjugate the puny little camera.

[spoiler alert!]
In the end, he is thwarted by Fat Peppers, who lays the smack down.

Has anyone looked at James Carville recently?  Is it just me, or is he slowly shedding his human form?

Remember that 70s animated version of Return of the King?  And the song (you have to sing it like a wizard with a head cold) that goes "Frodoooooo of the ninnnne fingerzzzzz, and the ring of doooooommm.  Why does he haff ninnnne fingerzzzzzz, and whhhere izzz the ring of dooooommmm?" 
James Carville knows.
He knows.


(P.S.  Best teenage girl texting insult ever documented in a TV news magazine:  "OMG she is such a Smeagol.")

Did all you beautiful people know that honeybees are disappearing at alarming rates?  Everywhere, entire hives are succumbing to environmental stresses in an event called "Colony Collapse Disorder."  This is where all the bees leave the hive and go off to die.  Sadness!  The "disorder" has been widespread for the past few years.  This is bad because we all like honey and cute fat buzzy bees, but also because bees are essential to a massive part of our food supply (1/3rd of it, actually).  Imagine a world where flowers and fruit are a rare luxury, and where vegetables are truly scarce.  Soylent Green, anyone?  Now stop imagining that world (and halt the weird stream-of-consciousness that occurs when you think on Charlton Heston) and do some fun stuff for the bees!

Plant flowers!
Some of the plants bees are especially fond of are lavender, rosemary, sunflowers, jasmine, thyme, violets, wisteria, bluebells, trumpet vines, and a whole bunch of other stuff.

Everyone likes to get stuff in the mail.  Visit Burts Bees to request a free packet of wildflower seeds to increase food sources and help relieve stress for your local hives.

Or send one of those old-timey self-addressed stamped envelopes to Haagen-Dazs Save the Honey Bees Program/Domino, 50 Francisco St, Ste 400, San Francisco, CA 94133 for more of the same. 

Practice organic gardening and support local organic farmers when you can.

Go to this pretty website (sponsored by some ice cream company or other) and download pretty wallpaper and screensavers to cause a buzz at your office.  (I said "buzz," which was corny.  Do you like corn?  We need bees to grow corn.  Actually, I'm not really sure that's true.  But anyway, bees.)

If you are one of those people who actually have some money, you can give some of it to the scientists who are researching this stuff, such as some folks at My Mom's Alma Mater.

Yay, bees!

I love the way my hands smell after handling tomato vines.  Best.  smell.  ever.

Yesterday evening I took my parents to see Asheville's very own minor league baseball team playing this thing they have now called night baseball.  It's baseball.  At night!  The stadium is pretty decent for a single-A team (the seats have backs and they have Stella on tap!), and it is always an extremely corny pleasure to watch all the goings-on while the home team loses decisively. 

Last night they started the game with three people parachuting onto the field trailing a gigantic American flag and emitting colorful clouds of smoke.  The announcer explained that they were representing our country.  I said I thought that people jumping out of a plane and hoping that their parachutes would open represented our country pretty well right now.  My mom agreed that this was true, especially because they were also blowing lots of smoke.

Ryan's people were there giving away a free weekend at Cherokee.  They did a war dance in the fifth inning that was probably the best part of the game.  They kept their headdresses on for the entire game.  The drummer sat in front of some yuppies who were nonplussed at how to correctly react re: not being able to see for all the feathers.

Ryan and I sat between my mom and dad.  Bill & Babs' first attempts to communicate with each other resulted only in much shouting and many confused looks because they are both deaf.  Ryan and I had to play telephone for everything they wanted to say to each other.  So, in the spirit of telephone, I started to mess up the messages, which resulted in more shouting and confused looks.  Fun!

Bojangles bo-berry biscuits were thrown into the crowd, the staff was dressed in 50s-themed costumes, the mascot got his head knocked off, and a good time was had by all.  I recommend minor-league baseball as excellent semi-ironic, semi-earnest fun.

And it was all the more fun because the school year is over and I don't have to wrangle demon children on Monday or ever, ever again!  Yay!  Weeeeeee!!!  Today is the first day of the rest of my life!

Late on Saturday afternoon, we went hiking with the dogs.  You can pull off the Blue Ridge Parkway pretty much anywhere there's a place to park and find a trail-head.  So we stopped between "Grassy Knob" and "Sleepy Gap" (you say bucolic, I say vaguely smutty) and hit the trail.  Pepi happily blazed ahead, setting a brisk pace.  Harpo stopped every now and then and gave a manic scream, obviously overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. 

There were lots of animal tracks on the trail.  Big ones.  "Hm!" I mused.  "What interestingly enormous animal tracks!  I wonder what kind of enormous animal would make such a track?  Hm.  What beautiful wildflowers!  What a beautiful day."  We passed a rocky outcropping that looked like it housed a cave.  "Wow!  I bet a lot of woodland creatures live up there!"  As if in answer, something that sounded large rustled around above the trail, unseen among the rhododendrons.  A bit later, Ryan's special Cherokee powers kicked in and he stopped and made me sniff the air for the musky scent of animal urine that he caught.  After a while we passed a small sign that read "End Boundary U.S. Park Service."

"Hm." we said.  "I wonder what land we're on now?"

Fat Peppers started to run out of steam about half way up the climb, but we made it to the top in excellent time.  We were about 50 yards from the overlook which was our goal--1.7 miles from the car--when Ryan's phone rang.  It was one of our employees, telling us that someone had leaned against a window at the bus and pushed it halfway out of its gasket.  I took one last look of longing in the direction of our goal and turned around to make our descent.  As Ryan was telling Jay we'd be there in half an hour (totally and completely impossible), a sign on a tree caught my eye.  In bold black letters on a white diamond, it read "BEAR PRESERVE NC Game Commission."

Oh.  How lovely.  So that's what land we're on now.

All the way back to the car I noticed all those animal tracks I had seen before were even larger and more frequent than I had noticed, and they most definitely had been made quite recently by big, black bears with big, sharp claws.  I have since learned that hiking in bear territory is not advisable at dusk or with dogs.  Check...and check.  Woops.

After dropping the dogs off at home and tending to the precarious window, we decided to get some wings at Wild Wings (bad chain -restaurant atmosphere, really good wings).  Just as we sat down, a Mariachi band took the stage with flare.  Though it may be little known, I have a deep and abiding love for Mariachi bands.  I was forced to order a margarita, and thus ended a good Saturday.

Down here in Caccalakki we have a local politician named Walter Dalton, who is running campaign ads ceaselessly during the evening news.  These commercials sport various locals telling us all what Walter Dalton has done for them.  His name is said about 10 times in rapid succession, all by people with very pronounced drawls.  The effect is something like this:

(In happy yokel, a la Cletus):


Walta Dahtun!...

WahtaDahtun!...

Wadadadin!  Wadadadin!  Wadadadin!


What is he running for?  What is his platform?  Who knows!
But the man's name is Waddadaddun.  And today when I went shopping, I didn't use a shopping cart.  I used a buggy.  And my car was parked out yonder.  For realz.

This cracks my shit up!



Awww.  Poor Teddy.  I guess that mustache adds drag.

Do not miss the cameo by Crazy Crab coming in on the list at #7. 
It cannot be disputed.  Ridiculously costumed people running at top speed are hilarious.

North Carolina's primary isn't until May, and I never thought it would matter.  Then I did think it would matter.  And then I decided that, no, I was right the first time.

Sadly, I'm withdrawing my support from Clinton.  After Gore won the popular vote and lost the Presidency in 2001, I don't think the Democratic Party can stand another blow to the value of the popular vote.  It's clear now that it's impossible for Clinton to win the popular vote in this primary election, and she should concede.  There's no denying that Obama has run a better campaign.   

I really wanted to see a woman in the White House.  But I really want to see a person of color in the White House, too.

I only wish that there had been as much discussion on gender in this race as there has been on race.  Obama was pushed into talking about race, and the outcome to the ensuing dialog was positive, as dialog always is.  But no one had the balls to bring up gender.  Clinton couldn't bring it up herself, because, you know, women complain too much.  (Our vajayjays hurt from the way they've been ill used as grounds for denial of equitable citizenship).

Oh, and P.S.  I'm getting really annoyed at hearing pundits and journalists call African American liberation theologists "paranoid."  If your country systemically denied you and all your community of home mortgage loans, redistricted so your vote counted less, made a bunch of your neighbors into virtual medical guinea pigs without their consent or even their knowledge (see Tuskegee experiment), and countless other systemic wrongs and inequities all after a history of slavery, Jim Crow, and total disenfranchisement, then you, too, might question the actions of your government.  Would that make you paranoid?