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The dogs are here. Hundreds of hunting dogs are at the Wayne County Fairgrounds for the annual Autumn Oaks coondog hunt-swap-sale-show and get together. Owen and I drove by the fairgrounds on our way back from the barn. I opened the window and drove slowly so he could get a good look. Lots of rangy Walker coondogs, beagles by the dozen, puppies sprawled in heaps, and the braying of hound dogs in the air. Owen thought it was marvelous.

Overheard at, well, Papa Joe’s liquor store on East Main: “I saw our new Vice President on stage. She’s one nice looking woman.”

Paul Newman has a wine line now, in the Newman’s Own line of products. It’s not too bad, crisp, smart, and good looking (like PN himself) and sells for $14.99, all the profits going for a good cause. In celebration of finishing the dossier, I’m sampling some now.

In the parking lot behind Texas Roadhouse, a coondog moaning in a crate in the bed of a pickup truck, license plate Tennessee. It was 90 degrees more or less when I saw the dog. I can’t believe the crate was at all comfortable. So much for enjoying the visit of the coondoggers.

At Goodwill, white patent leather (um, maybe vinyl) flats with flowers and butterflies on them. Very cute. $3.99. I walked around in them for awhile, but did not take a pair home. Sorry girls.

Riding today, the face flies were annoying, so Buddy and I retreated indoors. It was cooler in the indoor arena, no flies, and no distractions of great blue herons, random deer, or too much heat. Buddy, however, was not happy about the beams of sunlight dappling the ground. Everytime we passed one he snorted, sidestepped, and let me know that This is Something To Worry About!

At the consignment store on Main Street, a slim woman with bright white hair trying on dresses for her daughter’s upcoming wedding. “I’m the Mother of The Bride,” she said, giving special weight to the title. The store owner, an energetic southerner, looked her up and down, eyeing the beige fluffy dress the woman was holding. “You have a cute little figure,” she said. “That dress…” she regarded it, kind of clucked, shook her head. “You do not want to look matronly,” she said. The woman put the dress back on the rack, and went into the dressing room with a bright green slinky two piece.

I bought a pair of Calvin Klein jeans for 8 bucks. Not bad. And not matronly.

I realize there are other reasons to write a blog than to report on the minute details of work. However. Finishing one’s tenure dossier ranks pretty high up there among important projects. I think so, anyway. And, having just finished my own as of about one hour ago tonight? I thought I’d just say how it feels:

Fabulous. THAT’S how it feels. As though a weight, approximately equal to a large sow, has been removed from my shoulders. As though an internal thumping and clanging has ceased. As though an urge to burst into hysterical laughter or sobbing which has dogged me for, oh, weeks and to which I have sometimes succumbed (as recently as this morning) has simply evaporated.

I’m done, I’m done, I’m done. All I have to do now is put the thing in its pretty fat lavender three ring binders (yes, lavender, my passive aggressive thumbing of the nose to the Standard Black Academic Binder, Somber and Serious, feh on that already), and deliver it to its destination on Tuesday.

Thank you to all my colleagues, friends, and my mentor Mary who put up with me, helped me, and coached me through this. I owe you all enormous debts of gratitude. As well as fresh bread, gleaming bottles of champagne (okay, D.and M., J.D.), and a celebratory party. Or two.

And now? Now I am going to lie on the floor with my sweet lonely dog and just crash mentally, physically, and everything else. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I have a rough draft
of my tenure dossier
now assembled —
that thing that’s due a week
from yesterday –
the thing with which I make my case
and prove my worth
and worthiness
of being granted
tenure
a job — essentially –
for life.

Right now, my dossier,
with no poetic exaggeration
none at all
needed or expressed
my dossier is
six inches thick.

Six.

Inches.

Thick.

They —
the “they” of Office Max
and Office Depot
and other purveyors
of supplies and things
with rings
and staples
and clips
and clamps
and binders –
They do not make
anything
that holds
a thud of paper
together
in a stack which is
Did I say this?
I did
Which is:

six

inches

thick.

Uh oh

It’s too hot to think straight. I don’t know how hot it is, but it’s simply hotter than it should be. 90 something. It was 95 yesterday at 6 p.m. Owen even thinks it’s too hot to play fetch outdoors, so that should tell you something. He and I have retreated indoors. I am not looking at the grass that needs to be mowed with my handy dandy no gas sweat powered reel mower. I am not looking at the flower beds that need to be weeded, or the walks that need to be trimmed or the bushes that need to be tidied up. Nope. It’s too hot.

Instead, we are doing indoor stuff. Such as:

Procrastinating on writing the syllabus for the course I will begin teaching — eep — Wednesday night. I mean, it’s written in my head. That’s good enough, right? My students always say so.

Cursing the zipper that broke on the Ikea chair cover. It’s unfixable. Stupid chair. Stupid zipper.

Laundry. Lots of laundry. Owen particularly likes it when I do laundry. He lies in wait for the moment I go down to the basement. The precise moment I start doing something laundry-like, like you know, filling the washer, folding socks, whatever. Then I hear it:

BUMP

BUMP

BUMPBUMPBUMP

And a bark. A sharp, high pitched, LET’S PLAY FETCH bark.

I try very hard at this moment to be patient.
To not say:
Dammit Owen, at this very moment I am folding socks!

To not say:
Owen, you are driving me NUTS!

To not say:
Owen, you are simply not acting Presidential at all!

Instead, I pick up the slimy, dust encrusted, slobbery tennis ball and huck it up the stairs to Owen.

Who then, timing his drop for the moment — the very moment — I have something in my hands, something complicated and large like a fitted sheet, half folded, something like that — Owen senses the moment and then: lets go of his tennis ball and drops it down the stairs again, and barks, again and again, until I retrieve the ball and toss it up to him. Again.

This will go on all day, my friends. May the weather break soon.

If you want to carry canvas bags instead of plastic, but don’t have any, now’s the time to get them. Summer clearance sales. I got two canvas bags today at K-Mart for 7 bucks apiece. Stout, hardy, not too gaudy canvas bags.

They have gaudy ones too. If you like that sort of thing.

I like gaudy, now and then. To wit: my toenails. Which were, until hours ago, bright purple.

There are many reasons not to paint your toenails purple, including the disparaging yuck-yuck noises made by friends. Tonight I discovered another reason: when you remove purple toenail polish you will discover that it masks the big ugly bruise your horse gave you when he stomped away a fly and got your foot in the process.

However. There is now at least one useful use for purple toenail polish: disguising bruises inflicted by horses.

My horse seems to have arthritis. So does the older cat. So, I’m slowly becoming convinced, do I. The horse gets exercise, occasional anti-inflammatory meds, and some alternative powdery stuff in his grain called MSM. The cat gets exercise (outdoors, mice patrol), and a big tasty pill called GlycoFlex. I get exercise, fewer tomatoes, more broccoli and vitamin C, and the occasional dose of Advil. And exercise. The animals, according to their vets, can get Adequan shots. Can I? No. Not yet.

Why not, I’d like to know?

The fill-your-own water gizmo at Kroger was broken today. I bought a giant thing of water in a plastic whizzer and, when I put it in the fridge, turned it on the wrong way. I got very damp. So did most of the contents of the fridge. That’s what I get for buying plastic.

I have more potential compost in my fridge than actual food. Some of it, still damp.

My vacation, such as it was, ends tomorrow at 7:59 a.m. And life, as it shall become, will take on a cast much less random. On we go.

The latest publishing news notes that Nancy Pelosi’s memoir sold “only” a couple thousand copies the first week it was out.

Well. My memoir? It’s been out for, oh, three years or so and it’s sold “only” about 700 copies. I’m not moved at all by Pelosi’s woes. Not at all.

Maybe the real answer is: DON’T WRITE A MEMOIR! The world has enough of them already.

I have lived in Richmond, Indiana, long enough to become weary of those inside and out of the city who would denigrate all things Richmond. Sure, we have our faults. Every city does. But let’s call a moratorium on saying dumb things about Richmond. Such as the following, which I have heard lately:

“Richmond? It makes you fat. I’ve gained twenty pounds in the last five years. Richmond did it.”

Yes, I heard this. I swear it. Here’s my response, which I stifled, but now wish I had not. Look, lady: Richmond didn’t make you fat. There is usually one culprit: You ate more food. You exercised less. Kind of a simple equation. Right? So. Put down that donut and take a couple of laps around the block. Do not blame Richmond.

“There’s NOTHING to do in Richmond.”

Oh? I won’t even count recent big events, like the Model T 100th anniversary celebration, or the gala premiere of the film 1:47. Nope, won’t count those.

But how about this: We have several very fine independently owned restaurants: Galo’s, The Olde Richmond Inn, Ghyslain. Tried them yet? You should. All quite good. We have a super used bookstore at the corner of Sixth and Main street, and a fabulous library just a block further west. We have the wonderful trails at the Cope Environmental Center, and the trails in back campus at Earlham College. Are you interested in organic gardening? Then, after you walk the trails at Earlham, scoop up some FREE manure outside the horse barn. The students will thank you. If you are middle aged and so inclined, there’s ballroom dancing on Saturday nights at the Leland Residence. If you are young and athletic, there’s a skate park at the city park. There is a fine, fine, fine knitting store downtown. And more. Much, much more.

Richmond is so bland, boring, there’s not even anything interesting to look at.

Fooey. On the way home from the veterinarian’s office on the east side of town, I drove down Main Street. There was Summersault, with Mark S.’s bike parked outside, the web address www.bikerichmond.org clearly visible on the side. Check out the site. Go for a spin. Then, there was someone, I’m not sure who, sitting outside the very interesting bar “Tummy’s,” playing music on the street. I’m sure, if you head down there later tonight, it will be even more interesting. And then, near my own new house, there were the sunflowers planted by CW on 4th Street which now are nearly ten feet tall. Resplendent, beautiful things. And his garden? Much of the produce planted will go to local food pantries. If you stop by early in the morning, the gardener will be there and you can learn all about it.

When I was kid, my mother used to say, on the occasions I complained I was bored or there was nothing to do: “Sweetie? Only boring people are bored. You can always find something interesting to do.”

Indeed. In Richmond, Indiana, there is a lot to do.

HI - THIS IS OWEN! VOTE FOR ME!

Owen was recently interviewed by blogger Dan. In the interview, Owen gives insight into his various platforms and perspectives, domestic and international. To catch up on the latest Owen news, read here.

In general, Owen is proceeding with his campaign in the spirit of the late great Byron Klute, former Democratic Mayor of Richmond, Indiana. Byron campaigned for Mayor in the city in 1967 against a very popular Republican Mayor Corky Cordell. The conventional wisdom was that Byron didn’t have a chance — he was, first of all, a Democrat. In the city of Richmond, Indiana, Democrats were — ah, still are — a minority. And, Byron made the decision to vault to the top of the political heap, running for Mayor before any other seat. He didn’t want to run for city council, county council, go slowly up the ladder. He wanted to be Mayor. Byron, a high school teacher, wrestling coach, wanted to be Mayor.

So, his campaign began. When the local newspaper wouldn’t carry his ads (hmm, what about that, Palladium-Item?), Byron contracted with a printer north of Richmond, made hundreds of flyers, and recruited high school kids to deliver the flyers. When everyone said he wasn’t as well known as Corky, Byron did what the best politicians do: he walked the streets of Richmond, went door to door, and met every voter in the city of Richmond. And got known. And got elected.

Owen believes too that walking to become known is a good campaign strategy. So we are beginning a daily walking campaign. Here where we live now. And on the west side, near Earlham College. On the north side, near Indiana University East. Owen also, because he is a 21st Century D.O.G. candidate, understands the value of the internet. Much of his campaigning will be accomplished on the web. Cyber-walking, we will call it. Check back soon for updates.

and don’t forget: Do Only Good!

Owen is beginning, belatedly, to advertise his campaign for President. You can help him in his quest to be First Dog, by putting a bumper sticker on your car/bike/office door/mailbox. For now, you can download the graphic on this page. Soon, there will be stickers, buttons, t-shirts, dog treats, and more available on Cafe Press.

On with the campaign!

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