Is there a sub-altern specialist in the house?

The lawn-care specialist we can't really afford came by to do whatever he does to the back yard. His diagnostic ability is sharp and the combination of aerations and chemicals he applies really seem to be working. He knows he's good and this professional pride arrogance comes through, albeit politely when he calls to "set up an appointment". He always says he'll be in the neighborhood and asks if he can stop by, but then adds that he'll be here tomorrow and we should leave the dogs in and the gate open as usual. All as though his clients have no other plans or life events that might cause him to reschedule. He also knows damn well that I probably won't maintain the yard like he does and I know it, too. So I just clear the deck for the master to work his magic.

On the last visit, he left his usual detailed written instructions for after-care and then left a voice mail in which he verbally repeated them. Again, he knows our limitations. He also left behind the invoice, which he'd marked "Paid in Full!" and under that added, "And that is funny!!" We took umbrage. We always pay in full! Us remembering to write a check, thereby paying on the same day as well...now that might be funny. But even then, he hasn't ever had to wait too long for us to get the $$ to him. He is not out of line to expect payment, but this prompts me to wonder why there doesn't seem to exist a (white) male version of the word uppity.

Actually, and unfortunately, I don't really wonder.

The occasion called for something slightly celebratory, yet banausic.

On my way to class I pondered what that might be.

"I know! A new special notebook with a ribbon to mark the page...And it will be dedicated exclusively to notes for my dissertation, like that one she had at the meeting yesterday!"

I don't worry that she'll think I'm stealing her idea. We're alike in many ways, one of which would be a shared originality fetish. I can see my "dedicated" notebook going the way of hers, though...

Not quite late, she plopped down in the seat next to me and placed her materials on the table in front of her. "Oooh," I said, poking the chic little notebook. "Yeah, I couldn't find the notebook I do lesson plans in so I grabbed this one. I'm keeping all my notes for my thesis in it." I approved, "Good idea! It's all cool and special so it keeps the research interesting and glamorous. And way organized. A place for everything and everything in its place..." She nodded exaggeratedly and opened the notebook to its 3rd or 4th page. My eyes dropped down to a few crude drawings of Sponge Bob. When I looked back up, I tried to do the María Félix raised eyebrow that would convey something mocking yet affectionate. "Tu tesis." "Oh, yeah, well. I let my kid draw in it to keep him busy and quiet the other day."

I'm already wondering what extraneous information and images will find their way in to my as yet nonexistent special thesis notebook. In my manic pursuit of the original, I still haven't found just the right one...

"Gee, Val, it's kind of...depressed, isn't it?"

As we cruised the streets of Vallejo over 11 years ago my mom really tried to keep her comments and questions about my new town neutral and diplomatic. I could tell she was thinking, "We got off the rez so you could eventually move here?"

Depressed, yes, but at least now we're not that different from the rest of the towns of this country. I know it's not the best place in the state Bay Area County immediate 20 mile radius, but I've come to love it for its unique ghetteaux style.

I thought some transparency was in order and explained, "My strategic approach has been unique in its lack of, um, strategy."

Guess which symbol(s) represent "my normal approach".

No, you won't get a prize if you're the first to submit a correct answer.That was an ironic/hypothetical question/command.

It's possible that I've subverted the message of this T-shirt which you can buy on its insightful, um, site.

Basically, I'm having trouble controlling my own academic destiny. I think I prefer being told what to read by when by somebody else. I can't and don't expect them to do that for me when it comes time, but I do know that their five different perspectives will guide me as I stumble toward strategy...

I don't think she appreciated the irony of her daughter's doomed name.

The last thing we heard before getting up from the sticky red picnic table and leaving Dairy Queen was the (thankfully) empty threat, "Liberty, sit down or I'm gonna smack you and you're not getting any ice cream!" We read the mind of the family dog, a little grey pitbull who sat the first time he was told, "I'm sitting. Can I have her ice cream?"

Earlier at DQ, another family had settled in at the table behind ours, the father complaining vociferously about the "dirty-ass table" before they all joined hands to bless the food. They'd brought take-out from another V-Town dining establishment and kept sending the youngest up to the counter to get, not ice cream, but napkins and utensils.

I don't which is the more "Vallejo" of the two family activities mentioned above...or maybe it was neither, but rather the fact that I knew, just by smell, that the take-out meal of the latter was Chicken Express.

After 11 years, I'm a part of this town and it's a part of me. You can't spell Vallejo without...