For Love of the Weekend: Cottage Shelter

I love animals. I have three of my very own (well, I share them with The Professor.) Today has been a surreal experience with a stray dog and a possibly dying baby squirrel (let the choirs of awwwwwww’s began.)

Early this morning my dog went absolutely crazy for seemingly no reason. As I’ve said before, this has been going on at all hours of the day and night, specifically the night, and we’re determined that a homeless dog nests itself outside our bedroom window and whines. We’ve even found the nest of leaves. But we’ve never captured the dog. Our plan was always to find it, take its tag, and report its unfavorable activities to its owner. Of course, we never thought its owner would be an awesome example of a human being, since they didn’t let their dog indoors on the coldest winter night in Georgia (read: 22 degrees Fahrenheit.)

This morning, as The Professor enjoyed a lay in, I spotted the white dog from our porch window as our dog once again went completely ape shit. I ran outside, sans shoes, and discerned that the pooch was quite amenable to being friendly. While my dog hopped around excitedly, I ran back and forth between the house and the yard getting things like a collar (as, it turned out, the dog had none,) some shoes, and dog treats to trick it into trusting me. Eventually, with the help of a sleepy Professor, we collared and leashed the dog, and led it into the very large dog pen that is conveniently located on our grounds (for the sake of the 5 dogs owned by The Professor’s parents.)

This dog is ad-ooooooooooor-able. It is also very, very, very dirty. I can not even tell you how many times I’ve washed my hands due to the many, many ticks I’ve pulled from its fur. It has apparently fallen in love with me, and demands constant attention and is very snuggly. With The Professor it cowers and always acts afraid. We have thus determined that it has been abused by a man. It also limps slightly, has not been neutered, and there are no signs that it has ever been brought to a vet or properly cared for.

After printing up flyers and canvassing the lake, which was sort of a fun way to see our neighbors’ little cottages, we met a man who informed us that the county road close to our cottage is a common dumping ground for unwanted pets. He said not to get our hopes up that we will find an owner.

Thus we put the word out that unless someone contacts us from the flyers in the next few days, we have a dog up for adoption. I hate the idea of dropping him off at a shelter (although we’ll research and make sure it’s not one that puts animals down.) We’re just hoping that through our network of family and friends, someone will want to bring him into their home.

As I played fetch with him (who we call, new puppy,) I heard a horrible squealing noise and witnessed our adventure cat leaping from a tree top with something in its mouth. Low and behold, he had stolen a baby squirrel from its mother and nest. Freaking-A. Getting him to drop it was oh so fun, as was keeping all the animals away as I ran inside once again, this time to google what the hell to do with a baby squirrel. Apparently you are never to touch them as they have parasites and other nasty things. So we followed the instructions of the internet (thank you, oh internet,) and put it inside a box, under a tree in hopes the mother will come in the next 1-5 hours to reclaim it. Whoa is me, and our furry household, it’s been quite a day.

*This is not our photo of a baby squirrel. We would never touch a baby squirrel because we believe in the power of google.

Feminist Friday: The Bitch Tax

"Bitch Tax" is described on Urban Dictionary as "The price you pay for having a girlfriend or wife," which can be monetary or, I suppose, damage to your "rep." While this in itself is highly offensive, it's not the Bitch Tax I'd like to discuss today. Without a proper term, or at least one that I know, I've been calling the extra work, or considerations, a working woman in a high pressure position must undertake in order to avoid being labeled "The Bitch," and thus no longer respected as an equal, or a boss, in the workplace, as the "Bitch Tax."

This came up recently during a long car ride because my sister (The High Power Preggers) and I discussed her payment of the Bitch Tax. The HPP is frank, she is direct, she is a force to be reckoned with. She is a powerful businesswoman, the most senior woman in her company, and is being groomed to go even higher. She is a boss. She has to fire people. Fire men. Men who are older than her. She has a bottom line to reach, goals to achieve, and she is serious. Thus, she fears everyday one misstep in the eyes of her department or her male boss that might label her as a bitch. Because of this she has to be slightly more careful than her male counterparts, pick and choose when and how to give demerits or bad evaluations, she has to pay the Bitch Tax.

As a senior male executive, being a bit harsh with your team is seen as natural. It's seen as getting the job done. But when a woman is equally as assertive in the same role of power, it can make those around her feel uneasy. This can be latent, not something they are actively thinking or even know that this could be the reason they may resent her slightly. We were all raised in a society where certain pressures shaped these thoughts and feelings over time, through many sources. The HPP often responds to her boss' slight objections to her frankness, if I were a man and said/did the same thing, would you feel the same way? It's great that they have such a candid working relationship that she can pose this insightful question to him, and challenge his latent sexism.

It's not just men who label powerful women as bitches. Women did it to other women. We were put through society just like men, and similarly we may not fully understand our feelings towards other women in the office when we think, what a bitch. Next time you find yourself unhappy with the decisions or actions of a senior, female co-worker, challenge yourself by asking that same question. If she were a man and did the same thing, would you still label her a bitch?

Additionally, now that she's pregnant, the HPP finds that her Bitch Tax has doubled. She must be even more cautious, lest she express her displeasure at a team member's crappy work and he/she think, well she's just got pregnancy rage hormones. Only women can get pregnant, so only female bosses can be labeled as being upset with someone's work just because they're pregnant. And that's plain sexism.

Now, because it's Friday and that was a pretty heavy post, let's see even more heavy things with NPR's Heavy Stuff on Top of People. Seriously.

Devil with the Blue Shoes on

This is day three of me working, and I come to you, shocker, from work. I'm definately adjusting and getting use to, A. getting up in the mornings, B. the freakishly long commute, and C. working in a giant room all by myself while air conditioning blasts even though it's not hot, thus making it colder, during my long, lonely days.

OK, that was a bit melodramatic. But I am working at a table within an old exhibition space (the exhibition is moving to a new building.) So like me, this place is in its own holding pattern. It seems only fitting that I be placed in here as my work space, with all the other boxed-up and slightly cast-off objects.

The day is going faster as I focus more and more on my project and the research before me. I do really like the smell of archival boxes (sad!) and the discovery of one or two outlandish letters from times gone by, such as one today blaming teenage VD on the lack of prayer in schools (take that one, school nurses nationwide!)

I wore my electric blue shoes today, which I very, very, rarely wear. They make me smile. And they were cozy during my half hour hike from the parking garage to work (uphill both ways, it seriously is!)

I hope your shoes make you smile!

Welcome Back

That song has been stuck in my head for the past couple days, "Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back." And it's true, I'm back. Not so much as defunct as before, depending at how you look at it. I've returned to my previous employer in university city, back to museum work, stretching my brain and attempting to remember how to function in the working world.

I do miss going to TJ Maxx whenever I want. But the benefits far outweigh the downsides. Benefits: I get to work, function in the world, collaborate with people, contribute to an exhibition in a curitorial role of sorts once more. Downsides: I have to drive in with The Professor about 1.5 hours each day each way (not that being with The Professor is a downside, far from it, but the drive does suck hard,) the job is not exactly what I wanted (more research assistant than bad ass curator,) I work mainly in a room alone for most the day, I have far less (read: no) free time anymore due to the lengthy drive in and out, it's only temporary thus we can't stop our holding pattern and move on to the next phase of our lives. So still holding, but the landing gear may be coming out just a bit.

And I'm still a bit defunct. Yesterday I could not remember simple words and had problems drafting simple, short object labels, a task I used to be able to complete in my sleep. Apparently my brain has been buried deep beneath watching too many reruns of Grey's Anatomy and reading cookbooks all in between napping and taking random photos of my cats. I really needed to get back to work.

Another plus is I'm able to commit to this project just one month at a time, which means the search for real, fulfilling employment is still on. After about 58 cover letters and rejections I still hold out hope that not all is lost. I could even be coming to a city near you!

Tea for Two

Happy Valentine’s Day, late night edition (if, like me, your late nights start at 8:00pm.) This last weekend was a whirlwind. We only recently got back to our little cottage and I’m only now catching up with you all.

And, it’s Valentine’s Day. As I said before, we’re not big Valentines people, but I do love chocolate and an excuse to have surprises. The Professor left me an adorable handmade card-like-thing on my pillow when we arrived home. I gave him his telegram, which he loved, as well as some Earl Grey and some almond syrup. Why? Because almond earl grey is our new favorite guilty pleasure without the guilt. I discovered it at a small coffee shop one trip into university city and have been sold on them ever since. I introduced The Professor to it just last week and he, also, fell in love. So now we can make them at home, there has already been a mention of almond tea becoming our “house drink” of choice.

Another V-Day surprise? The in-laws came by the cottage while we were away, always a bit terrifying for me as they technically own this place. They dropped off some wine, wine glasses, and chocolates in a pretty display, as well as a pork and apple pie in the fridge (from a recipe I gave, which I’ll surely post eventually.)

How cute. Also, a bit creepy? Just me who thinks so? (However, also strangely reminiscent of the honeymoon basket they gave us, read: lotion, bath oils, candles, wine, subtext: have.sex.with.our.son.)

Well, instead of the wine we opted for two cups of the almond tea tonight, mainly because I’m still nursing a wicked cold that, shocker, a 10 hour car trip twice in four days did not cure.

The chocolates were the Dove hearts, which I love because not only were they dark (the only way to enjoy coco) but also when you open them there are little expressions inside, and with them, my sage wisdom for you. So far we’ve opened:

“Trust with your heart, not your head.”

This is very wise, oh Dove chocolates. Dive in every once in a while. You have a gut instinct, trust it. This goes both ways, meaning kiss that cute guy you just met even though social graces may be shocked, but don’t climb into cars with strange boys.

“Linger over chocolate longer.”

I could not have said it better myself, tiny delicious chocolate I shall now eat. Enjoy things more. And, enjoy things slower. Too often we want a quick fix, something for right now, that we forget that snack we just popped in our greedy, little mouth was actually delicious.

“Be a little mysterious.”

Don’t give it all away. I love being a bit mysterious, with something unknown just under the surface. It’s difficult to turn this tid-bit into advice, because it already states it perfectly, be a little mysterious.

“Exercise your heart today.”

Love hard. Love today. There is someone in your life you can turn to right now and say, I love you, do it. It’ll make you feel good.

Mr. Postman

The Professor and I are hitting the road tomorrow in a strange, obligatory, and yet somehow fun weekend involving him having “man time” with my brother-in-law while my sister and I continue north to DC for some lady time.
Due to this last minute holiday, we’ll be riding back to Georgia on Monday, St. Valentine’s Day. The Professor and I generally do not make a fuss on this very strange day. Not a lot is known about this feast day’s saint but Chaucer did basically invent the secular holiday. And I just can’t deny a good Chaucer invention stemming from courtly love. So we usually do little things, generally baked goods, like cannolis (which are, surprisingly, extremely difficult to find fresh in Georgia.)
In keeping in our Valentine’s tradition of do less, say more (and since it needs to be done before this little trip,) I’ve just finished my V-Day project for The Professor.
I love Western Union telegrams. Working in the archives, seeing how they were used to tell good news, bad news, important news, I just fell in love. I was going to use a service like this one to send one to The Professor. But then I remembered two things. First, we share an address with his parents due to our unique living arrangement here at the cottage (read: no address) and I was not sure if such a shop would keep the messages private or send as a postcard. Second, I am trained as a freaking graphic designer. This would be the easiest project ever. And it was.
I downloaded this blank telegram. Opened it in photoshop and wrote a message using one of my favorite fonts, 1942 report.
I then slightly tilted the text box to give that “just stamped” look. I followed these instructions to size, print, and fold my telegram. I thought of tea-dying it for aging, but I only had twenty minutes, so I just printed on slightly yellowed paper and went about my business.

I finished the whole thing by melting some wax and stamping it shut, and completed the back with a lovebirds stamp I used throughout our wedding planning. Adorable alternative-card finished!

Love is in the Air

I am exhausted. Dinner with the in-laws went perfectly but now I have a very messy kitchen and a motivation level of zero. I am, however, motivated to blog about photos.

I’ve been loving looking through other blogs, which link to other blogs, which link to other blogs, and finding some great reads out there. Today I stumbled upon Fried Pink Tomato and a photo contest set up through Webbisodes.

The contest is a couples photo contests, My Funny Valentine, and at first I thought I wouldn’t be able to enter, as I’m trying to stay anonymous. But later I was flipping through some old photos, (you’re right Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong, I do keep them organized and time stamped,) for another nostalgia entry, and I came across this favorite:


Title: Love Between the Bicycles.

It was March of last year during a trip to Amsterdam that we paused to reflect over one of the many canals near the flower district. My brother-in-law captured this moment between The Professor and I. We definitely look like we’re in a moment, but we were probably still glowing over our recent score buying old architecture prints in a nearby print shop (remember: nerds.)

There’s still a few days before Valentine’s Day and thus still some time to participate in this photo contest.