When I was young, many people around me, including my father, referred to African-Americans as "colored." The word was spoken matter-of-factly, not maliciously. But the inherent connotation is one of disrespect, perhaps not actively intended but still vestigial and powerful all the same.

One of my earliest victories as a socially-conscious person was to teach my dad to, at the very least, replace that word with "black," a word preferred by the community it describes. I knew my dad to be a good-hearted man and I understood he was struggling against a lifetime of hearing the other word and accepting the inequality it implied. I was gentle but steadfast in my insistence that words matter.

Once his vocabulary changed, I began chiseling away at the prejudice I saw in both of my parents. Having taught the word, I then instructed on its irrelevance. "Not that it matters" became my mantra every time my parents made a point of someone's race. "Did you know that Susan's daughter's boyfriend is black?" Mom might ask. "Not that it matters," I would reply. Soon they were repeating this phrase themselves, with a glance in my direction, adding it to the end of their questionable comments before I could. I considered this progress, even if the acknowledgment was an afterthought. And gradually, I heard racial comments coming from them less and less.

I share this to illustrate how profound it is even to me, someone whose life never overlapped with the civil rights movement, that this country has just elected a black man. That Barack Obama would be our first African-American president did not appear on the list of reasons I voted for him. He has the potential to be a transformational leader for reasons beyond his race, and I believe his will be an historical presidency for reasons beyond his race. But clearly the fact of his race has enormous impact, and that makes me even more proud of his election. I am amazed at how far we've come, and at how long it has taken us to get here.

We're not there yet. I know that. Here in Redneck Valley, someone sprayed "KKK" on an Obama sign some weeks ago. I have a very real fear of an assassination, an event from which I don't think we could recover. Even avoiding such a horror would not mean we're healed. There will always be bigots, and there is still rampant inequality of opportunity throughout this nation.

But in the week since the election, what I'm finding most remarkable is the perspective of our youngest citizens. This article describes it, and this post is especially resonating with me, particularly this line: "I don't know if he would believe me."

To think that today's children will be incredulous at the story of slavery, are clueless to the connotation behind the word "colored"... it heartens me.

And it gives me hope that to the next generation, not allowing a person to marry whomever he or she wants will sound just as absurd. It gives me hope that we are indeed making progress toward a more perfect union.

Our city has just gotten its very first traffic roundabout. They had a ribbon-cutting ceremony for it and everything. I don't know if communities normally have ribbon-cutting ceremonies for such things, but keep in mind this is Redneck Valley and there's not much happening. So, circles are pretty exciting here. I mean, an intersection that's a different shape?! Hoo-boy! What will they think of next?!

I will admit that I might perhaps go out of my way to drive the roundabout. You know, because it's awesome. Sometimes I choose the roundabout as an alternate route to get where I'm going, but other times it is a completely superfluous addition to my route and I go out of my way to get there. Those times I exit the circle at the same spot I entered because I actually need to go the direction from which I came. This is the most fun because in order to make the U-turn (or is it an O-turn?) I get to drive in a complete circle, saying "Wheeeeeee!" the whole way.

Also the roundabout is fun to talk about. When it first opened, someone asked me if I'd seen it yet, and I said, "No, I haven't gotten around to it yet." And then I said, "Ha! Around to it!" and started cackling with laughter. Which maybe doesn't sound that funny, but I'm easily amused. Also, you had to be there.

Now I'm waiting for someone to call my cell asking where I am while I'm driving the roundabout so that I can say I'm "roundabout the roundabout."

So yeah, I'm all about the roundabout. And bonus! It's (sorta) on the way to Target. In a roundabout way.

There are sometimes benefits to living in Redneck Valley. In EMT class last week we were learning about the circulatory and respiratory systems, and we got to examine some organs from a cow and a pig. I came home and was telling Rob all about it, and he asked, "Did they smell like formaldehyde?" And I was like, "Dude, they were FRESH. Killed just this morning." Butchering happens all the time around here, so our instructor just asked a farmer friend for some parts.

There are two college girls in class who are clearly not from Redneck Valley because they were very grossed out by the animal anatomy in front of them. The bodies weren't there - just unattached organs. Still, they could barely keep from gagging when our instructor held up the pig's trachea and lungs for us to see. I wanted to holler across the room, "That ain't nothin' y'all! I seen live pigs be castrated!" Which is true, but probably not a topic for polite company.

After class we were allowed to examine the pig's organs more closely. And I could not stop touching the lungs. Did you know that lungs are really soft? They are. Downright pillowy. As we were poking things, our instructor warned us, "Whatever you do, don't burst the gallbladder!" (It's filled with nasty bile.) So then of course I was all MUST. SQUEEZE. GALLBLADDER. I felt compelled to squeeze the thing. It looked like a water balloon, its thin walls stretched tight with liquid. And we all know the pleasure of squeezing a water balloon. I was possessed by some bizarre primal urge or something - must squeeeeze it. So when no one was looking, I did. And then I wanted to squeeze it again, because squeezing it the first time had been so satisfying and also there was the slight thrill of danger knowing it could burst and splatter all over everyone. Seriously, there is something wrong with me. But whatever, I squeezed it again. Gently.

I then distracted myself by playing with the heart. A few of us cut into it so we could see the chambers. We were actually able to slide our fingers through the passageways of the heart and lungs. It was all pretty amazing. Who knew fondling pig parts could be such fun?

"Mom - 'Wearing a tux.' Not 'wearing tux'. Tux is a singular noun."

"T-U-X, not T-U-C-K-S."

"Mom. We've talked about this before - it's short for tuxedo."

"Okay, now that should be tuxes. David was wearing a tux. David and Tom were wearing tuxes."

"Mom... I'm just trying to save you from embarrassment."

"Yeah, how about from now on you just say 'tuxedo' when you're around people you don't know?"

I was driving home from work today, and was almost to our house when I saw a dead skunk in the middle of the road. "Ooh! Maybe that's our skunk!" I exclaimed. (I often utter things aloud while driving, even though there's no one in the car to hear me. Like, "Oh no, I missed the turn!" and "Dumbass left his blinker on," and "GET OUT OF THE LEFT LANE, YOU SLOWASS BITCH.")

Now, I don't usually rejoice at the sight of roadkill. I am more likely to grimace or shudder or even, depending on the species, have a moment of mourning before shifting gears and moving on with my life. But this time I was happily hopeful. Hopeful that just maybe that was our skunk.

See, a couple weeks ago there was a smell. One that filled our house and the surrounding air. One that settled in and stayed awhile. It seemed particularly bad in the basement, but then again human noses are pretty much incapable of locating the source of a smell, so we weren't sure. In fact, we weren't even sure what it was. I proclaimed it skunky, but Rob took a few whiffs and decided the smell was "electrical."

For the record, that's probably not the best thing to tell me right before going to bed. Because I will lie awake worrying. Worrying about the house burning down. Worrying about whether or not the fire alarms will work. Worrying about the fact that we sleep nude and will there be time to get dressed? Worrying about how in the hell I'll be able to find all the cats in our smoke-filled house and get them out to safety. Worrying about what I'll do with them once we're all outside. (How can 2 people successfully hold 3 terrified housecats while also running to the neighbor to call 911 and then talking to firefighters and being examined by paramedics?) Worrying about losing everything we have. Worrying about whether the electrical smell itself is enough to kill us in our sleep. Just, in general, worrying. While Rob is, of course, soundly asleep. Fucker.

Eventually, I fell asleep, only to be awakened by the smell around 2 am. No really, it was that bad. Rob was awake too. And suddenly he broke the smelly silence, saying, "I might know what it is." There's this pipe in the basement that's connected to the old (now defunct) septic tank and, when we first moved in, it was releasing noxious fumes. It was apparently never capped off. We solved this by covering it with aluminum foil and plastic wrap and maybe even a shower cap or two. But Rob wondered, as we were lying in bed breathing a smell that was difficult to identify more specifically than BAD, if maybe the pipe was once again somehow the culprit.

"I bet that's it!" I said gleefully. And so we got out of bed and pulled on some pajamas and headed down to the basement to investigate.

"You smell it. You're the smeller," he said.

I got down on my hands and knees, eased my nose toward the pipe, and took a small preliminary sniff in order to prepare myself for the rancidity. But, nothing. So I inhaled deeper. Still nothing.

"Fuck. It's not the pipe."

We went back upstairs, dejected. I opened the outside door and sniffed. "Is it maybe worse out here?" Rob followed me onto the deck and we both sniffed. We sniffed here and there and everywhere, all over the deck. In the middle of the night. In our pajamas. And we concluded nothing. Except that it was fucking cold outside.

The next day we decided that the smell was not electrical, but surely that of a skunk. A week passed, and the smell did not subside. So we decided that perhaps the smell was that of a skunk living under our deck. At this point the stench had invaded our lives. Every room in the house smelled like skunk. The interior of my car smelled like skunk. One day I was sitting at my desk at work and I smelled skunk. I thought maybe the smell had finally taken permanent residence in my nostrils, but then I realized that the scent was coming from my coat. Basically, we reeked. It was the Week of Reek.

Just in this last week has the smell faded a bit. Every now and then we still get a godawful whiff of skunk funk, but my eyes no longer immediately water upon wakening, so that's good. We had almost convinced ourselves that maybe a skunk had sprayed near our house but not actually moved in, but then it snowed last week and we saw skunky pawprints that pranced around defiantly before heading right under the deck. Dammit.

My brother suggested we try to trap the skunk, to which I said, "Yeah? And THEN WHAT?!" Well, apparently then my brother would come over with his shotgun and shoot it (preferably downwind of our house). I suppose it's times like these that having a redneck family really comes in handy. But, I have so far been an advocate for the skunk's right to live. Although, ideally, he should exercise that right somewhere other than under our deck.

Of course, if the dumbfuck skunk got himself killed in traffic, that wouldn't be on my conscience. And so I'm hoping the skunk I saw flattened on the highway turns out to be our skunk. Or, if not, then when Grady comes out of hibernation this spring, he better kick some smelly skunk ass.

I just got up and searched all through the house, room to room to room, for the tissue box only to give up and come back to my seat, only to find the box sitting 6 inches from my fucking elbow. That's the sort of day it's been.

The highlight had to be when I learned that a course I want to take for my teaching recertification (which I'm maintaining as a fallback plan...and because it's required for my current position, but whatever) will cost $2,500. Um, yeah. That's, like, half of what I paid for a full semester's tuition of college. And at one of the top universities in the state, no less.

Needless to say, I'll be pursuing other options. And by "other options," I mean sleeping with the professor. Okay, not really. That would get me nowhere. But perhaps the dean? Oooh, or the registrar! I could totally do lesbian for $2,500. It'll be kinda sorta just like Indecent Proposal. Only, you know, instead of a million dollars I'll get to further my education. Wooo.

Did I mention that this course is offered at a private Mennonite university? Yes, Mennonite. No really, you read that right. A private Mennonite university. Frankly, I don't care how private - or how Mennonite - they are, $2,500 is an obscene amount to charge for a course. Welcome to Redneck Valley, where smart people have to sleep their way into school and Mennonites get fucking rich swindling the community.

Overheard in a Redneck Valley elevator

"What did you end up buying Debbie for her birthday last week?"

"A pitcher."

"A pitcher like you pour out of, or a pitcher like you hang on the wall?"