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Chanel No. 19.

Found a book at Goodwill called How to Make Love to a Man. 1981. The dust jacket's gone, which, makes me sad, but amazon shows a paperback with a big kiss print on it. (It also suggests I shouldn't get this book confused with How to Make Great Love to a Man or All Night Long: How to Make Love to a Man over 50.) It's full of advice from hookers and geishas, including the basics of "nondemanding stroking," which is always put in quotes, like it's a term, as well as male turn-offs, like "the lap-sitter" and "the crotch grabber." I'm just skimming – because, really, what do I care? – but when she suggested men like their armpits licked, I had to put it down and get the imagined taste of deodorant out of my mouth. She seems to repeat these directives a lot, though: "No fast or sudden moves" and "keep all your movements fluid." Sounds more trying to befriend a rabbit than messing around.

But I'm learning things. Did you know 19^th century French prostitutes were referred to as les grandes horizontales? Or that some women dab their – in her words – "personal perfume" on the light bulbs to scent a room? A Philadelphia "pro" suggests making love in the spare bedroom for kicks.

Maybe I'll leave it on the free book table at school. See who picks it up.

Remember, the trim is black.

It's finals week here, which means it's almost time to paint my living room. I'm thinking a blue this time. I like "Pail," but Little Sweet prefers "Water Fountain." Of course, she also thinks "Pail" is a stupid name for paint. "Like a bucket? Are buckets a certain kind of blue?" It's a good question, but it doesn't deter me. Water fountains aren't blue either. I also like Under the Boardwalk. If you're really interested in voting, you can go here and search (I can't find a direct link to the actual colors), though on my screen they don't really look anything like my swatches.

Ham omelette.

It was great to take Little Sweet to the play on Friday. I have this good memory of being in a pub in England when I was ten with my family. My dad's smoking cigarettes and drinking warm beer and explaining the plot of Hamlet before we go. I'm sure it still went way over my head, but it helped. (I wanted, just now, to say Angela Lansbury play Gerturde, but I just looked it up, and she was doing Sweeney Todd on Broadway at the time, so who knows where that idea comes from.)

I haven't read The Tempest since college, so I needed a recap myself. I suppose me and N reading the sparknotes version on my laptop isn't quite the same scrapbook moment as the dark London pub, but at least we were prepared, and she loved it.

But it's a weird play. Seriously, there's not really any conflict. It seems clear that from very early on that everything will work out. Maybe that's the trouble with having a magician as your hero: how can he lose? Much respect to J.K. Rowling for figuring that one out. You need other, more powerful magicians on the other side.

Waving credenza.

Little Sweet's here. We went to The Tempest last night and today we're getting all ready for mother's day and organizing the yarn. Very efficient.

I hardly had to drive at all, which was nice. But when we were driving, we listened to the radio, and now we have a trivia question for you: What 70s love song mentions carbon monoxide? (If it helps, the actual lyric is "carbon and monoxide.") We heard it on the radio, and N's been laughing about it ever since.

Etiquette.

I didn't mean to, but I think I asked out one of my students last night. It was our last night, and a bunch of people were still milling around after, and I told her, "We should get a burger sometime." I meant it – she's a nontraditional student, which is code for grownup, and just a cool lady. I'd totally have a burger with her. But still, as soon as it came out of my mouth it felt weird. I know I'm not supposed to hit on my students, but I'm not sure how long I'm supposed to wait before I try to become friends with one of them. Until after I submit grades?

Cloodle.

It's the last week of classes here. One student (the one who is my sort-of relative) made a pink cake, and another brought in really undercooked brownies. He said they were in honor of 4/20, so I didn't eat them. We played Cranium in another class, because spelling backwards and drawing with your eyes closed are relevant. Tonight, I'm picking up pizzas. After this last class, I've just got a lot of stories and essays to read and grades to calculate, and a contract to pray for. My skills are not broad: I can't hum things so that people recognize them, and I don't draw well even with my eyes open. But I can do this one thing. So I really hope they ask me back. Plus, I need to know because I should really only put up the puzzle mural if I'm going to stick around this one-moose town for a long, long while.

In your pants.

I woke up at 5:30 this morning – for no reason – so I got my whole day's list of essays critiqued and checked off by 9:00, before I even headed to school. (It's a snow day for Marquette public, but NMU's open.) My boots lost their waterproof and the snow outside is falling into ponds of slush. So my wet stocks are now on my office radiator and I'm barefoot at work. And I got coffee at the sushi place on the way in, and my fortune cookie says, "If you wish to, you will have an opportunity." I think that's good, right? I wish to, already. I wish to.

Winter storm warning.

  
Did you think I was done posting about the weather? It's been snowing all day, and it's supposed to keep going until tomorrow night. It's not unexpected; there's always and April snow storm. But it's a little disheartening after last Friday's 70 degrees. Lucky I hadn't put my shovel away yet.

Check out the weird little eye of the storm east of the Stonington Peninsula. Wonder what goes on there.

Spring’s first gift.

Came home yesterday to find the kitties' first kill on the living room rug. A poor dove, its head not quite separated from its body. There are still feathers everywhere. And another feather pile at the top of the basement stairs. I'm still not sure if I'm going to find another bird down there, or if that mess was part of the same battle.

I hate being the one who has to take care of these things. There's just something unreal about the weight of a dead bird.

Like compost.

Not long ago, Consumer Reports did a study on coffee and named Eight O'Clock their best brand, based on some combination of taste and price. They said it had a complex blend of earthy and fruity flavors, which meant nothing to me really. But I'm not a coffee snob, so I'm all about finding the cheapest drinkable coffee. I bought a giant bag of it.

It's so disgusting. I can hardly force it down. But I can't throw it away either, so I'm making things worse by trying to get through the bag quicker and making it even stronger. I had to buy creamer just to get it down. Mornings are such trouble lately.

Just wanted to warn you. Don't fall for it.

Crickets.

Turns out I had peanuts at home, so I just put on a pot of decaf and cleaned my house last night, and it was every bit as fun as the Base. Well, probably not, but there's a lot less cat hair everywhere. I should put my dart board back up in the dining room. Neighbor kid's tall enough now to be some real competition.

Good Sherry, Bad Sherry.

Why does the spring sunshine make me want to go to the bar? I should feel the warm breeze through my window and want to walk along the Dead River or the beach, or get out my bike or chop wood or something, but no. I want to call you up, Dodson, and tell you I'm on my way over cause it's peanut night at the Base.

The tree.

Idol.

We had our first bonfire last night. Man, did we smell good for our drive today.

But Friday was our out-and-about night. We went to a talent show. Um. It was your expected amalgam of hits and misses, but for me the most interesting part was being on the student side of a group of people. Honestly, a third of people had their cell phones out for something or other. They waved them in the air in place of lighters when they liked somebody. They texted, of course, and they made videos like crazy. And when the dancer came on, I'll confess I did too. I can't get it onto my blog to save my life, but next time you're next to me on the couch, just ask and I'll show you. He was wearing a vest and matching pajama pants, and he spun in big-armed circles to Britney's Circus. I don't know. If I had six-year-old son who danced like this, I'd tell him to go to his room. It was awkward, but me and Little Sweet cheered like crazy for everybody.

We left after the last act but before they announced the winner. Fingers crossed for the guy who started his song over three times.

Puffles.

I asked Little Sweet what I should I blog about, and she suggested: Georgia, how it's warm enough for the cats to go outside, my poor foot, how we've scoured some new sources and brought home 19 puzzles since she's been up. She said I could take bets from you guys on how long it will take for me to finish all of them.

I said, but that's embarrassing, how many puzzles we have. I don't think I want to tell people about what dorks we are.

Blogs are for bragging, she said. Why do you think they sound so much alike?

So we're dorks. And right now she's turning yarn into fuzz and cutting it up and putting it back together in little balls and naming them, while I get some editing work done.

Fantasy.

Little Sweet's here, and she's coming to class with me. So we were talking about what makes for a good story, and turns out she has a list:

1. Major character dies.
2. Battle.
3. Long travel by foot (or horse or boat).
4. No electricity.
5. A feast, with long descriptions of the food.

Don't tell my students.

Homewrecker.

My new sump pump is so loud. It's just constantly making some noise – sighing or clicking or spitting or revving itself up. It's driving me bonkers.

The backup pump is quiet, so I've been unplugging the first one and letting the backup one work when I need it to be quiet. But how dumb is that? I gave that dude my credit card so I could stop worrying about my basement. Not so I could go down there every twenty minutes and check on things. To play musical sump pumps.

Plus, the toilet paper holder has come loose from the wall. And I swear I have not asked it to do anything more strenuous that hold up the toilet paper. It hangs there all sad now. And the little edges on my fridge drawers keep falling off. But that's okay because it's the only time I bother to read them: Handi-keeper, one of them says. Handi-bin. Butter.

I need to better inspire the things that come into my house. I need to get them excited to work well for me. Is there a spell for that?

The day after.

I'm almost done with the laundry. And it's just hit me that I only have to wash everything because I'm dumb and keep my clothes in laundry baskets with holes in the sides. So later today I'm off to Target for waterproof tubs. I could have done that five years ago. But I've got bags of things to donate, and I've rediscovered some rad kneesocks at the bottom of the baskets, so I guess it was all for the good.

And the double sump pump action seems to be working. The only trouble is that they're both on the same circuit, so the plumber said I should have a friend come over and put in another box so they can be plugged in separately. I can't even pay to have somebody do the whole job. Having these buddies seems the only way to make things work up here. Will get on that.

But not today, since I have a ton of work I was planning to get done yesterday. I've got a fantasy writer who needs my feedback. "Not enough dragons," I'll tell her. "Hold back on the trolls." And I have a sump pond to plan.

Not my morning, part duex.

Okay, different plumber this time, so no getting excited about my getting married into the family any time soon.

Long story short (because I hate this story), he gave me three options, and they're all expensive, and I went with the most expensive one, handing over my credit card and asking him to just please take care of me. I'm getting a backup sump pump in the same pit but which expels the water somewhere different. I think he said the new sump pump has a magical switch made of mercury that lives forever, but that could be wrong. Let's hope.

"Plus," he said, "you know you have a situation, so you should think about some shelving down here." I know. I should probably think about a lot of things. Oh, and he suggested one of those flood sensors. Pft.

I'm off to teach. I'll come home to everything working, yes?

Not my morning.

I'm going to lose it.

I woke up at 7, came downstairs, went into the bathroom, and one of the cats brazenly pees on the rug right in front of me. At first, I'm like, you fuck. Then I think maybe he's got a bladder infection, so I ease up on my mad. But he's my little sentry. I carry the wet rug down to the basement, and find four inches of water. Everywhere – the whole thing.

I check out the sump pump. Unplug it, plug it back in, mess with the bobber thing. The things I know how to do, but nothing seems amiss down there, so I go outside, in the snow, the sun still not all the way up, and get a shovel, but I don't know what to do out there either. It's totally dry, so it's not like the water's been backing up, and I can't think of anywhere to dig that will help.

I go back inside and call the plumbing hotline. But I'm looking out the window and see my little fountain get going, so I know things are draining, and change my mind just as I start talking to the guy. "Oh no, my basement's flooding, oh, but there it goes, never mind." Crazy person. He laughs at me and I wait for the water level to go down. I start sweeping the water into the hole in the basement floor, just sad. I know those of you with partners will laugh at me, that your basements flooding is hardly some zany fun adventure, but I can't help thinking I wouldn't be such a wreck if I actually had one of those "buddies" the last plumber talked about. If I had anybody at all I could call to just keep me company. To point out the ridiculousness of it or make me some eggs while I clean up.

Clearly, I've waited too long to deal with this, and I was warned, so I guess I have to spend some real money and do whatever it is needs doing. There's a plumber coming over right now. Everything downstairs is still wet and I have to go teach all day. I don't even want to clean anything up, and if I just had a closet upstairs to keep my clothes in, I wouldn't have to wash everything I own today, which is what I'll be doing. Maybe I should just take everything out of there, fill up the garage again, and let the basement be the waterland it seems so bent on becoming.

I'll check back in, cheerier. Promise.