If you're here, chances are it's because of this, in which case I applaud your literary taste. Please be aware your hostess is in a perpetual state of angst.
Blonde Champagne! Come for the pictures of Jordan Knight! Stay for the disemboweling!
little meatballs impaled on tiny plastic swords on the buffet table at: mb@blondechampagne.com
Friday, July 29, 2005
Welcome MSNBC.com readers!
Posted by Anonymous at Friday, July 29, 2005 1 comments
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Atlantis, you get back to your orbiter processing facility right now, young lady!
You too, Endeavor! Discovery, we'll deal with you when you get home!
I must say, this whole grounding situation is most unliterary. Way to ruin the ending of the post, NASA. Where are these people's priorities?
huff! at: mb@blondechampagne.com
Posted by Anonymous at Thursday, July 28, 2005 0 comments
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Never mind!
CRAP.
I mean, I'm relieved that the astronauts are okay, but.
CRAP.
Posted by Anonymous at Wednesday, July 27, 2005 0 comments
She's up
By the time I knew, it was already over; the breakup in the atmosphere, the falling debris, the President’s statement. My parents called my
Earlier in the week, I had taken to my work as an educator at the
I did not go to work the next day. Or the day after that. “Get back on the horse,” my parents said, but the horse lay shattered over a massive debris field somewhere between
I could not bear the stark and silent launch pads, and left for a technical writing job with steady pay and a nice office and no mission risks. There followed a great deal of staring into the middle distance. When I could no longer bear that, I returned to teaching at an aeronautical university in
My students are intelligent, brash, and left-brained. They will take us to Mars. They will complete the under-construction International Space Station that Discovery is greeting this week. It is my job to ensure that they do so with proper subject-verb agreement.
“Who cares?” one asked me when I handed back a paper covered in red ink. “Who cares if I have an adjective in the wrong place?”
“The astronaut,” I said, “who puts the wrong wingnut in the wrong place during a spacewalk because you used the wrong adjective in the assembly directions.” I went back to my office and tacked up the patches of Challenger and
The day before the launch of Discovery, I looked out at my class, my elbows bent against me. They had been wrangling commas for the past hour and a half. It showed.
I spread my arms. "Okay. Who wants to go flying tomorrow?"
Class began late the next day. The campus stopped. The last time it stopped was the first Saturday in February, when the dorms remained chilly and solemn on the best party night of the week; the time before that, a bright Tuesday morning in September when the air traffic control students had a horrifying object lesson in directing a mass of quick landings. We wanted to stand still again, this time to drink from the same wellspring of joy that had bubbled long below the surface.
The entire university stood on the quad, climbed on top of cars, leaned over balconies. I swayed back and forth in high heels in the faculty parking lot, further away from a launch than I had ever been since I first moved to
“Countdown’s over,” called one of the students, listening to the narration from Mission Control on my beat-up radio. Some, watching a feed from NASA TV on their laptop computers, tilted the screen away from the sun.
"She's up, she's up!" I heard nothing. I saw nothing. I cupped a hand over my sunglasses, scanning, then found an audacious fire trail arcing over the building housing my classroom.
“There she is,” I said, pointing. Whole, and healthy, and climbing—there she was. I raised my head to the thrilled and jealous yelling from the student pilots behind me.
We poured into the classroom a stream of electrons, bouncing on the carpet, whirling through the rows of desks. I stood at the door, high-fiving each of them as they entered. One of them found a television feed, and we watched the replay. And watched it. And watched it. We put it on perpetual replay--the towering steam, the blue flame of the engines. I patted the screen and talked about the spacewalks to come. Someone turned up the volume; commander Eileen Collins’ voice burst against all four walls of the room.
I waved my hands before the images. “Look how amazing this is!”
They looked. I memorized their faces, because in twenty years, I’ll be looking at them.
happy sigh, if it is possible to sigh while still holding your breath, at mb@blondechampagne.com
Posted by Anonymous at Wednesday, July 27, 2005 0 comments
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
The fun begins... not now... not now... NOW!
Welcome MSNBC.com viewers! Puppet shows every day at two! Regular visitors, play nice.
help yourself to the hors d'oeuvres at: mb@blondechampagne.com
Posted by Anonymous at Tuesday, July 26, 2005 1 comments
Sunday, July 24, 2005
The Unbearable Blondeness of Being
Because true academcs not only post regulary on Internet forums, they do so on threads discussing Season Two of Saved By the Bell, I have been engrossed in the registering my opinion as to whether Slater was compensating for his father’s expectations of him, or simply just over-testosteroned, or what. “Ahhummmmhi!”
It is a member of the tenure committee. “Are you Mary Beth?”
“Hi!”
“You… are Mary Beth, right? Are you Mary Beth?”
“Yes! Hi! I’m fine, thanks.”
“Does anybody have any questions? Yes?”
“You said that people who don’t pay attention to contractions should be disemboweled.”
“That is correct.”
“Then why in the lecture notes did you put ‘Its never appropriate to use a personal pronoun after a linking verb’?”
I take my envelope to the counter. There is a problem with the ZIP code, in the sense that most ZIP codes tend to consist of five numbers, which is three more than I have written on the address label. I am thus corrected, and cheerfully pat the envelope goodbye, then begin to walk away from the counter. “Thank you for your help!” I tell the postofficeboxworkerperson, who pointedly calls back, “That will be seven dollars and forty-seven cents, ma’am.”
6:13.11 PM: Transit to kitchen.
6:13.14 PM: THE STOVETOP IS ON FIRE THE STOVETOP IS ON FIRE THE STOVETOP. IS. ON FIRE.
6:20 PM: Ignite burner actually containing pot of water.
Aunt Beth loves you! “Guck!” at: mb@blondechampagne.com
Posted by Anonymous at Sunday, July 24, 2005 0 comments
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