I just figured out a way to get myself blogging. Don’t write everything on a separate page and then save and go back and revise and then cut and paste–go simply to the blog page and write. A blog is a kind of public diary! Why didn’t I get this before? Partly because I’m a perfectionist in my own sloppy way. Being a perfectionist makes me reluctant to allow people to read what I’ve written before it’s been rewritten at least several times.  I will try this new and radical approach to blogging and see what happens.

Things that have made me happy lately:

My girlfriend Angela read my tarot cards at a fun Halloween party yesterday. She’s a great reader, insightful and non-threatening; she uses beautiful cards which she keeps wrapped in a purple silk scarf.  My cards were positive. Angela said so and I believe her.  Of course, I asked a question that was only open to positive outcomes: What should I focus my next book on: 1) my five years living in Saudi Arabia, 2) love and Scrabble, or 3) essays dealing with more-or-less Lithuanian themes. The Scrabble option drew the least positive cards; the Saudi experience drew good “go-ahead” cards, but it’s the book I’m most reluctant to write because I did so many bad bad things while living in that God-fearing, God-forsaken country. I don’t think I’m ready to write that book. The lugan essays also drew positive cards. Angela thought a fourth option I haven’t yet conceived of is very likely; this is an option that will bring me money–she drew a card that had orange-yellow balls hanging on a tree. I thought they looked like grapefruits, but Angela assured me they were gold coins.

Somewhat later, Marty asked for a tarot-reading. He wanted to know who will win the Super Bowl. Angela said the tarot can’t answer those kinds of questions. Marty then told Angela that he was thinking of writing a book. He asked her what he should write about. What is strange is that he wasn’t aware that this is what I had asked about. I felt a twinge of, oh, I don’t know, concern. Marty and I are very competitive, though also very supportive of each other. I was happy, though, that Marty expressed a desire to write more. Just as he introduced me to baseball and competitive Scrabble, I’ve introduced him to writing. He’s a good writer, I think.

What else has made me happy: Richard Gilbert reviewed me on his blog about memoir, Narrative. I was going to provide the link here, but I am so thechno-phobic that I fear I will navigate away from this page forever. He reviewed White Field, Black Sheep and then asked me some good questions. He is definitely NOT a reluctant blogger. I’ve asked my creative writing students to follow his blog. Don’t know if they do.

I’m happy that the Rangers beat the Yankees. I’m happy that San Fran beat the Phillies. I have a secret cruch on Lincecome–would check the spelling of his name but, again, am reluctant to get away from this page. Lincicome? Linsicome?

I’m happy that it’s autumn, a mild, beautiful fall.

My husband threw a party for me Friday to celebrate the book. It was a late afternoon event, a pizza and beer and coffee and cake soiree. We had vodka from Lithuania; I needed something to honor my roots. The idea of making pots full of cold beet soup or even borscht made me uncomfortable. If people are going to get sick at my party, let it be from too much booze.

It was a lovely event. No one got sick (to my knowledge), the weather was mild and sunny so people sat out on the porch. Marty gave a toast:  “When I met Daiva fifteen years ago she had three goals: finish her dissertation/get a tenure-track job, get married, and publish a book. And I’m proud to say that I was instrumental in her accomplishing all three.” (He’s not entirely accurate about the getting married—what I wanted was a man who believed in sticking around.)  There were over forty people. It was great to see Suzie and Charles’ cute baby boy. He looks strong and intelligent. I predict that one day he will find the cure for cancer or play first base for the White Sox, both noble, fulfilling, and lucrative ventures.

Saturday I admired the flowers people had given me. I surrounded the bouquets with cards saying things like “Wow” and “Congratulations.” I pretended I was a celebrity, Mariah Carey in silk pajamas after a show eating pastries. Then reality reared its ugly head and I realized I had twenty-five Structures of English exams to grade. I am teaching this class because Rosemary Buck is on sabbatical. Every day is a challenge—I’m one step ahead of the students. Well, actually I’m quite a bit ahead of the students except for one who seems intent on catching my mistakes. She asked me last week about the history of the verb “do,” which acts as a kind of helping auxiliary verb when a sentence has a main verb and a “not.”  I told her I didn’t know the history of “do.”  She then said: “Well, I’ll just ask a professor who’s knowledgeable about these things.”  I graded the exams, taking extra care to find errors in hers.

After I graded the exams, I did some shopping at WalMart. I forgot it was parents’ weekend at EIU. The aisles of the store were packed with shopping carts pushed by parents, offspring right behind. The carts were filled to the brim. It’s as if the students hadn’t eaten for six weeks and had forgotten how to shop for food. Overheard: “Johnny, do you own a toothbrush?”

Speaking of the White Sox, they played their last game of the season yesterday and won against Cleveland, making them second in the American League’s Central Division. The fans gave a raucous round of applause to Paul Konerko, who may be leaving the Sox to play out his last years closer to his Phoenix home base. He had tears in his eyes, a sign that he’s probably not going to stay.  I mean, come on, if he knew for sure he was returning, he’d just kind of wave and shout “See you guys next year.”

As I was watching the Sox, Dagni called and asked whether I’d be a “godparent” to her dog Freia. Dagni’s church (Episcopalian, I think) was having a pet blessing—St. Francis of Assisi Day is this week. Newton’s dog Miko went along for the ride. Getting the two dogs into the church proved difficult. We then discovered that the blessing was outside. Freia and Miko are both big dogs—mutts with strong hunting instincts. They have no sense of personal boundaries. They snarled at all of the other dogs, baring their teeth like sharks, howling like wolves. They snapped at the pastor’s dog, a cute white terrier half their size.

 “Do you bless bad dogs?” Dagni asked.

 It was clear that Miko and Freia would disrupt the proceedings, so we took some pamphlets with prayers for pets and read them out loud in Dagni’s car as the dogs snarled away, noses pressed to the windows.  I realized that the Godmother to Freia was just a ruse to make me feel important. Newton was “busy” and Dagni needed someone to help her handle the wayward mutts.

After we read through the pamphlet, we took the dogs for a walk on the prairie path north of town. It was clear that none of the prayers had worked in any way to calm the dogs. Miko went after a rabbit and caught it, dragging its bloody carcass along the path. Freia grabbed a branch the size of a small tree and wanted us to play Take Away the Stick with her. Dagni felt it might take time for the prayers to take effect.