Mirabile dictu

Where do we go from here?

2010-01-18T21:57:00.000-08:00

I started this blog as an attempt to enter the academic blogosphere whilst I completed my Masters in English Literature and followed my hopes of pursuing a phD in same.

The radiowaves have been silent for a long time.

I finished my degree, popped out a baby, and have been treading water ever since. I'm using my degree, which is nice. I can't say I necessarily expected employment to result from this things I call a Master's (I mean, it didn't with my Bachelor's!). But I've been working the composition route, and learning lots more about pedagogy in general, since I now have more time to dedicate to my students and my planning. Not to say I didn't dedicate time, sweat and tears to planning during gradschool, but it was constantly panicked and frazzled. Now its just planning during stolen moments of naptime, infantile fascination wtih a new toy (cardboard box or wooden spoon) and these late night ventures.

I've got a job at a small technical college, and its paying the bills. It also allows me to work during the summer, which is something I am quite grateful for, as most composition teaching positions (at least for low-dudes on the totem pole like me) fall by the wayside during the summer months.

But how long will this hold me over? I suppose that anyone working in the humanities spends their career justifying their occupation and its relevance to the world. Sometimes I'm just tired of another composition student who doesn't want to be in my class and doesn't care what I have to say. Perhaps its a personality disorder, but my thoughts and doubts always reside in these students, not the ones clamoring for assistance with paragraph formation and generally bursting with enthusiasm for writing. And then there's the part where I'd rather be up to my elbows discussing literature, not paragraph structure and rhetorical appeals (not that there's anything wrong with that).

I can't say that I'm bored, because I'm constantly busy. Overly busy (see bit about stolen planning/grading moments above). But this isn't what I had in mind.

I wanted a baby. More than anything. And I have one and he is fucking awesome. I use the term "fucking awesome" to reduce any potential eyerolls at cliches like "light of my life" etc. But seriously, lil dude is pretty sweet. And not "sweet" like cuddly (though that happens on occasion) but "sweet" like IN YOUR FACE AWESOME.

So now I have a baby. And what's next? What happens to my plans for a phD? I could go for it, try another few years of school/dissertating, etc. Put my family through hell. I tend to be consumed by things, particularly school. I'm into school like Cookie monster is into cookies, and I turn into a monster. Going back just now might be detrimental to my marriage and to the upbringing of my child.

Do I wait till lil dude's just a bit older and apply for programs? What about the fact that I'm just not satisfied with just one? I come from a huge family, and forgive me if its hokey, but family means just about everything to me. I define myself in the largest sense by my relationships with my parents, brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews. I want more than one baby. And I don't want to have another baby when baby #1 is in kindergarten. If I'm up to my elbows in poop and diapers and teething and vomit; if my independence and self-definition is currently on hold, I might as well do the mom thing all the way and have the babies now. Moreover, it is important to me that my children are relatively close in age, simply because having siblings near me in school was invaluable to me, growing up.

So now we're (we being me) looking at having a few kids before really returning to school. In the meantime, as I said, I'm occupying myself teaching composition and even with some tutoring. What's the statute of limitations on my recommendation letters? In ten years, will the people I've worked for in composition be able to write a convincing letter to a graduate committee regarding my ability to perform as a student and a scholar? How do I stay in the game?

When do I just throw in the towel?

I mean, maybe its just not right for me, after all. Say I got into the program, had it consume me for 3-5 years whilst I neglected my marriage and family (this is what will happen, I know myself)...then what? I get job offers a thousand miles away? I'm just not willing to move that far. And that's even if I get the job offers. PhD in humanities is good for one thing, as my father says--good conversation in the unemployment line.

All this time I've idolized the academic life, and the more and more I think of it concretely in terms of my family, the more I realize that it might just not be something I can do. This is possibly the most painful thing I've ever had to face.

Hello dreams, I'd like you to meet the toilet.

I don't wish to give the impression I'm at all unhappy being "married with children." My man and I fit together better than Forrest and Jenny ever could, and lil dude is well, as aforementioned, fucking awesome. But when it comes to family and school, I can't see past the either/or scenario to imagine a both/and one. And its a hell of a pill to swallow.

Can I just sit in on classes till I'm eighty? I don't ever want to stop taking classes. I can read all thebooks I want on my own, but we all know its a real kick in the motivator when you've got the thoughts and opinions of a dozen other people to ingest in addition to the text. And for me, there's not much more intoxicating then the smell of a ball-point rising up from a notebook heated by ink-on-paper friction.

There's other avenues, of course. I've had numerous suggestions of pursuing an MFA. I've thought about the PhD in Rhet/comp, or one in Cultural studies. What about just plain out trying to publish some of the shit I write? I am drowning in possibilities, and at the same time i feel like I'm desert-choked for opportunities.

The eagle has landed. The ducks are in the pond.

2009-08-07T11:59:00.000-07:00

It's taken a long time to get to this point--I can finally turn in my Bizarro-Beeyotch card and just be Beeyotch. Pregnancy and postpartum issues have taken up about the last year of my life, and I'm now beginning to come to the other side of it all. I'm still just me. I always thought I'd be a different person as a mom but I'm just me with an attachment. But not the kind of attachment that makes you more efficient and useful, like a vacuum cleaner.

I have postponed blogging for two reasons: I had a paper to avoid, and whenever I'm avoiding a paper I can't in good conscience blog. I'd rather beat myself up for being unproductive. In my defense--I have had something attached to me (see above). The more significant reason I put off blogging was that I wanted to write about being a mom but not come off sounding trite. I hate obnoxious blanket statements about having children and it seems like that's all I could come up with. In general, I hate blanket statements but I'm even more averse now that I've spent nearly a year receiving horrid advice and commentary about being pregnant, being in labor, and having children. More dreadful is the realization that this little attachment comes with a sign that says "please give me your uninvited and unhelpful comments " and so they will continue to follow me with unsolicited advice for many, many years to come. I'm beginning to sound angry. Damn. For a long time I could at least blame it on the hormones. Now I might just have to face the fact that I'm just a little mean. And bitter.

But I digress.

Today I turned in the paper and with that completed my graduate degree. I always imagined there would be more fanfare when I finally finished up-- like there would at least be whiskey involved. But it was just an empty office in an empty building, me with my little constipated attachment. And then the little guy smiled at me and I was happy to have someone to share the moment with. I mean, I can't rightly share whiskey with him.

Why my MA paper just went down the tubes.

2009-05-12T10:48:00.001-07:00

I usually don't check out links during my Facebook breaks, but this I couldn't resist:

http://awkwardfamilyphotos.com

Waiting on the results

2009-05-03T19:48:00.001-07:00

Last Thursday evening at about 10 pm I walked out of my final class as an MA student. I wish it had felt better, but the looming deadlines of papers, grades and diplomas fairly squelched the feeling of relief I wanted to have.

Since then I've knocked down one 20 pager (though of course, I will keep it for a week and dust it off when it's due) and progressed to the really big important Masters paper...the one I've looked through, commented on, read for and shied away from for about eight weeks. Now that I've really gotten nitty gritty with it, I still feel as though I'm just smearing my words around on the page. Perhaps I'm just tired, perhaps I'm intimidated by my audience, and perhaps it really is just a series of digressions trickling around on the page and contributing little in regard to my main point. As I type that, however, I wonder what any paper is but a series of digressions and ruminations; some are just better mapped out with signposts.

What bothers me is that this paper is arguing some pretty huge fundamental things about the nature of poetry, and I'm finding myself, after three years of intensely dedicated study, unable to convince myself that it' that damned important. It's like, some sort of academic life crisis.

I'm using a Classical base to approach a very well known Old English poem. Of course, this is not a new approach, but I'm pretty well convinced I'm doing it a bit differently than has been done before. In an isolated academic sphere then, I think there might just be merit to what I'm doing. But when I talk about it at the dinner table wtih my in-laws, politely curious about my work, I am met with blank, uninterested stares before the question comes out "so, are you teaching in the fall..." (i.e. making money, at least influencing young minds, not just talking about thousand year-old poetry). Mind you, I'm not blabbering on about my thesis--I've got it fairly whittled down to a 25 word schpeal--and yet even that is too much time wasted not making money or contributing to the larger, more important aspects of life.

I thought I'd be a lot different at this point--smarter, wiser...something. Three years ago when I considered the sensation of pending graduation, I had a very different one in mind. I figured I'd be, at this point, someone who had developed extraordinary abilities of argument and organization and insight. But I'm just me. A lot more well read. I'm not trying to say grad school didn't/hasn't changed me, I'm just observing how different my expectations are from my eventual realizations. This is nothing surprising, either.

What is keeping me up tonight is not worrying about my future--neither the MA paper or the baby coming soon after, its worrying about how I've been spending my time, and my present mindstate. I know that poetry and literature and thoughts and ideas are important; I am little miss in-your-face in defense of the humanities at my institution...but when I get out there and talk to people, I have difficulty convincing anyone that what I'm doing is important. I can't even convince myself that its worth arguing about.

I just thought I'd finish my degree on a higher note.

Battle of Maldon Presentation

2009-04-30T06:42:00.000-07:00

I'm presenting my deconstructive reading of the poem in theory class today, and will use this "slide" to sum up the poem:

I mean, that's pretty much what happened, right?

Why my husband needs life insurance

2009-04-15T17:35:00.000-07:00

When I told him that I thought pregnant women who wear floral prints look like couches he looked up and, studying the polyester flowers on my shirt for a moment, replied, "No, you look more like an armchair."

His idea of turning the Jeep Wrangler into a "family sedan" is installing a backseat--with seatbelts, and replacing the five-point harnesses in the front seats with "civilian" seatbelts.

When he hears tornado sirens, he goes outside to storm chase on foot.

He has not one, but TWO motorcycles. I'm not sure exactly how the math works out on this one, but I believe it effectively doubles his chances of falling off. I wouldn't put it past him to try to ride them both at the same time.

One of these motorcycles was a "surprise" purchase.

Last Saturday he caught himself on fire.

Twice.

He referred to me as "Pregnasaurus Rex"

*Addendum*
He butters his meatloaf.

Cereal surprise

2009-04-04T09:28:00.000-07:00

Today I was more excited than usual about my mid-morning snack of Frosted Mini-Wheats. Not only was it a brand new box, it was a brand new box with a toy inside! Fumbling with the cardboard lips on its top, I ended up basically ripping them in my haste to get inside (note: I'm also very hungry at this point). Right there, sitting on top of the bagged cereal, was a separately wrapped Star Trek "beam up" toy. I had to pause.

It was too easy. They put the toys on top of the cereal now? What about the warped and mangled bags that won't fit back into the box? What about the Cap'n Crunch binges, the war scars of a scratched hard palate, all in the name of five minutes of amusement from a cheaply designed, Chinese factory assembled toy (probably some kid younger than me made it)?

It was never about the toy. It was about the look of disappointment on my brother's faces when they realized they'd been duped again. It was always worth the whoopin' for making a mess of the cereal, and for the ensuing fight between said brothers and self.

Journal "meme"

2009-03-24T20:11:00.000-07:00

I saw this on New Kid on the Hallway's page and felt compelled to repost it, since I've been thinking a lot lately about the difference between my journals and my blog. Specifically, I feel my blog lacks the clarity that I see in so many others; rather than tackling issues and coming up with solutions, it appears to be a series of rants and incoherent ruminations not unlike my private journal. But I digress. On to the "meme"

*warning--I think I'm fairly repetitive throughout these questions. I'm tired, and would rather go to sleep than revise.

1. When did you begin keeping a journal/diary?

Unofficially, when I was nine. There was a lot of fighting going on regarding some of my older brothers' choices, and I was trying not to suck my thumb anymore. Writing was a feasible distraction. Unfortunately, only a handful of entries remain from this journal--but they contain beautiful reflections about the hardships of recess (here's a "clip" of something I wrote ages ago regarding my journals)

Officially, November 24, 1994. I was eleven, and due to too much imagination plus too much WWII research (and a dash of Anne Frank), wanted to record my story in case the world ended--or the Germans invaded.

2. Do you journal regularly or sporadically?

There are years--I'd venture to guess about five or six years--in which I journaled religiously, every single day (what I'd do for that sort of discipline now...). If I didn't write every day, I was sure to backtrack and catch the record up regarding the menial details of my life.

As the purpose of my journal became more cathartic and less of some inexplicable urge to never forget anything, I was able to go a few days without an entry--this lapsed into weeks/months, particularly after I moved out of my parents' house and had to sustain a living. Then, the days of intense, dedicated journaling were replaced by stolen moments with Microsoft Word, or scribbling phrases on pages ripped out of a Gideon's bible (I worked at a hotel for several years). I still find these random entries shoved inbetween books on the bookshelf, or in old closets.

Lately, my numbers are back up. I journal at least biweekly, if not weekly. However, my intention is back to writing for the sake of remembering--going through a brand new experience and all.

3. Which, if any, of the following things do you use your journal for?: recording dreams, creative writing, arguing with particular individuals (your boss, your parents, your lover, etc.), listing books/movies, tracking your weight/diet/exercise, composing unsent/unsendable letters.

If I have a particularly memorable dream, I will certainly record it--especially lately, cos I've had some craaazy fucked up dreams.
When I was younger I'd include random bits of poetry, but it seems as though I've long abandoned any affinity for creative writing. I just write.
I don't know if I necessarily "argue" with anyone in my journal. Complain, yes.
I have a separate journal for exercise. I haven't really been good about recording anything in it, despite the fact that I exercise regularly (7 months pregnant and still doing Pilates pushups, yo!).
For a long time, I was fairly religious about cataloguing my favorite bands, songs, and best friends (surprisingly, I never rated my favorite books or movies). I grew out of it.

4. What other purpose(s) do you use your journal for?

Recording the events of my life so I will remember them later. This is a strange obsession. Often I have to remind myself not merely to record, but to reflect as well.

Dance notes.

Members of my family have encouraged me to compile and arrange these volumes for publication, but I'm not so sure. Midwestern girl, large family. Whoop-te-do. I guess its always our spin that makes it interesting though, right? Then again, my parents and siblings have always seen me as a creative writer, and I've never made that connection. I just write.

Catharsis. It takes a load off of the brain. I understood the concept of a "pensieve" long before J.K. Rowling included it in Harry Potter and whichever book has the pensieve in it. I appreciated the pensieve sequence because the memory scenes offer merely a point of view rather than an interpretation. A lot of my journaling is like this. I preserve a moment in time with my writing. It's meaning changes over time. If I do too much interpretation at the time of writing, it is harder to relate to later on.

5. What kind of material text do you use for a journal? (For example: leather bound hard-cover, cheap spiral notebook, etc.) Everything and anything. Notebooks, pages from Gideon's bible (see above), tiny journals that are 3" x 3", giant sketching journals 14" x 18", pretty ones people buy me, floppy disks...

6. Where do you keep your old journals?

In an under-the-bed bin that I keep in my closet.

7. How often, if ever, have you read through your old journals?

Never made it all the way through. Right before grad school I was trying to transcribe them, though this task was tedious and well, painful for all sorts of reasons. The younger years (11-13) are fairly interesting, particularly from a "hindsight" perspective. I can never quite make it through the high school years, and I'll tell you why: 1.) I had horrible taste in men, and this is often the topic; 2.) I was freaking oblivious, nonsensical; 3.) and effin whiny. It gets interesting again when I use my journal to describe high school/early college experimentation, socially and chemically.

8. Have you ever allowed anyone else to read your journals?

Here and there, certain people.

I often wonder if and when members of my family read my journal. If so, whatever they found in there was punishment enough.

9. How has your journal keeping changed since you began blogging?

Sometimes a blog entry surfaces out of a journal rant; sometimes I cut and paste a blog entry into my journal. I find that I attempt to make my journal entries more objective and argumentative but this frustrates me, as it grinds against the journal habits I've created for myself in the last fifteen yeras. Sometimes, a girl just needs to ruminate.

I worry that I blog too much like I journal and so, rather than having pointed, subjective and focused entries, I have a string of essentially unrelated observations.

10. Upload a picture of your journals (or as many as you can).

Graduate Presentation Pointers

2009-03-21T05:11:00.000-07:00

and so I thought I'd warm up with a blog:)

In three years of graduate school, I've taken twenty classes and had ten different professors. Presentations have been part of the final grade In nearly two thirds of those classes (indeed, sometimes they take up the bulk of the semester's classtime). Very often I've learned from my preparation and, despite fretting and moaning before its my turn, in the end that I enjoyed my few minutes in the limelight.

I'm not always so sure my classmatesthe audience learns as much as the presenters, however. I think we spend our time in the audience either politely trying not to cringe or trying not to look overbored. I will admit that I certainly don't look at my peers as experts on their topic, and essentially perk up towards the end when the professor adds the necessary pertinent comments to make sense of the conglomerate of information that was just tossed at us haphazardly.

I have a few pointers-not that I am super amazing and give the best presentations ever (in fact I just gave a doozy of a flop recently!), but that I would appreciate someone giving their advice to me in this matter, because so few professors ever give feedback (out of the twenty classes and ten professors, two presentations have ever gotten feedback, and that feedback was invaluable to me. Otherwise, the presentation took up about 10-30% of my final grade without any explanation or commentary).

--stick to your topic.

While sometimes it is helpful to give some historic background or set the scene a bit, do so as quickly and efficiently as possible. An example of what is not necessary: if you are presenting on a particular work, do not spend time talking about where the author went to college, or what awards they won as a writer. Unless biographical information is germane to the information you're presenting about the work, leave it out--at least don't spend more than a sentence or two on it.

--(related to the first) be as specific as possible.

If you are expected to present on how a particular theorist contributed to a new theory, do so. It is not necessary to refer to the individual's other work (again, unless it is germane to the information you're presenting). Talk more about their theoretical contributions and less about their expulsion from X university.

--if you've been asked to present on an article or set of ideas, be sure to state the main argument first and foremost in your presentation and on your handout, if you've provided one.

--if you're going to use a handout, use it wisely.

Make it easy to follow. Posting a few various pictures or quotes on there does not impart information. Your audience should be able to use the handout to follow along; don't make them question where you are in terms of the handout (i.e. your presentation should work with the handout). I personally prefer a brief outline which, on your (the presenter's) version, has the more fleshed out script included. In my opinion, you should not provide a handout that is essentially a copy of your paper, and read straight from it. Cite your sources on your handout and in your presentation, so your audience is clear what parts are your thoughts and what parts are paraphrases or quotes.

--stay within your alloted timeframe.

This is important, particularly if you think of classroom presentations as preparation for conference panels. Anyone can blather on about a topic. Be succinct, get your point across, and get out of there. In the end, it is more impressive to make your argument clear in a short amount of time, rather than filling up the entire class period with miscellaneous tidbits about some topic. *This also means practice your presentation before you begin.

--make sure you can pronounce all the words you are using. Please. Practice beforehand and if you've got any 4-5 syllable doozies in there, make sure you can say them correctly. If you do find yourself stuttering or slipping over a word in the heat of the moment, don't respond by getting frustrating and saying "bleah, I can't talk today" (this is always a pet peeve of mine). Pause, get yourself together, and move on.

--don't apologize through the duration of your presentation for being unclear, or taking too much time.

The more flustered you get, the more awkward it is for your audience. Put your game face on and pummel through. Of course, if you'd practiced beforehand you'd know how long your presentation was, and if you were more prepared you'd be less unclear. But things happen. If you feel unclear about your topic, visit your professor beforehand and attempt to gain clarification. The more specific your questions are, the more helpful this session will be. Do not repeatedly refer to said conversation with professor in the hopes that they will explain the topic for you.

--oh, and--it doesn't hurt to look nice.

I'm not saying go buy yourself a new suit. But get rid of the baseball cap, the sweatshirt, and--regardless of what you're wearing--the slouch.

Anything else?

There's always one rotten apple

2009-02-28T22:35:00.000-08:00

I read through my teaching evaluations from last semester--with some trepidation, I might add. They were in my possession for about a week before I finally opened them and looked through them.

Last semester my academic performance took a dip for various reasons, but I can recover from this. I can make it up to myself (and in fact am doing so by rewriting the papers I turned in). However, I worried about traumatizing my students, or wasting their time--this is not as easily made up.

To my surprise and relief, the vast majority of my evaluations were positive, and enthusiastically so. I got some great feedback on what assignments worked, what readings were helpful, and was even told that my occasional profanity "made lectures more interesting."

There was of course, one smarty pantsed kid who sneered how often I cancelled class. My attendance policy is pretty much "someone is paying for this, so make it worth your money's while and show up to class." This is exactly what the kid targeted, despite the fact that s/he gave me perfect marks everywhere else. S/he felt that they didn't get their money's worth. I am indignant, and frustrated because I'll never get the chance to defend myself! So please, allow me to explain:

When I held student conferences (once at midterms, again at finals) I cancelled class.
When I had car trouble on ONE occasion, I was forced to cancel class, as my classroom was located on red-headed-stepchild campus.
There was one time that was a bit extraneous, I admit--but they'd finished their peer reviews earlier than I'd expected and I didn't have anything planned (except for a giant stack of grading and my own papers to write). So I told them to take the day to work on polishing their papers.

Since we're in the arena of "getting our money's worth" I'm tempted to resort to the fact that I taught the course for free. OK, maybe not quite. It's a pretty sweet deal to get my tuition paid for, I won't lie. I will note, however, that the stipend, whether I am teaching one course or two, doesn't budge. At least someone's getting their money's worth in this scenario--grad students work cheap!

I shouldn't let one silly remark like this get to me, but it does. What I ought to focus on is that, for as useless as I feel in directing discussion or teaching in general, my students approve of me. Funny that a part of me thinks: but on what authority do they judge my teaching? How do THEY know what makes a good teacher? I'm not sure who I'm looking for a pat on the back from, if its not from my students.

The purpose of these evaluations is not clear to me. One of the big-gun composition program people told me point blank that they are useless. I don't know who sees them, and what impact they have on my future. It sounds silly to admit, but I'll do so here, in pseudonymity.

When do the evaluations come back to haunt me, or help me?

So this is gross

2009-02-12T20:47:00.000-08:00

and easily one of the more inconvenient aspects of pregohood (says the fat lady who just stood through a 2 1/2 hour seminar, preferring sore feet to the breath-inhibiting rib pain that comes with sitting):

I can't touch cat litter. Well, used cat litter--specifically the pooed in type. Some would think this a nice vacation from a yucky job. But no. The kitten, hellspawn that she is, seems to know this about me.

She times her poop.

That's right. Little 3 lb meowmix converter will land a tanker of a turd in that box the minute she hears the Wrangler leave the driveway (note: not when the door closes, as she has become aware that often the poop-shoveler returns shortly, having forgotten his lunch or some other pertinent item). And so there I am, attempting to eat my breakfast, when there is no where I can run, in the whole house, to escape the fumes. (Her other favorite time to do the poo is when the poo-removal-committee has gone to bed for the evening, and the non-poo-removing-party is still up reading or grading papers.) They say smell is the sense most strongly attached to memory. Well, I will remember my readings of Derrida, de Man, and Saussure as eternally effused with eau de [cat]toillette.

What kills me is that there's a lot of scratching around during the process, and I hear the litter being dispersed in every direction but one--that of the actual pile of poo. Somehow, it remains completely nude, that is, not covered by one single kernel of the uber-expensive smell-reducing litter I purchase solely for this recent poo-timing conundrum. I am desperate for any method of reducing the putrid stank of fresh catdoody and so I buy cat litter beyond my means. And yet the poo sits triumphantly, curled on its throne of crystal step 'n fresh.

Oh, and the other thing? Pregnant women have an exceptionally heightened sense of smell.

Sneakpeek into academic job candidate process

2009-02-11T13:33:00.000-08:00

If my academic life is anything like my leaky basement, sitting in on the presentation of a job candidate this morning raised my water mark. I highly recommend it to any graduate student, whether or not you're interested in making a career in academia, and whether or not you choose to compare it with your leaky basement.

For starters, it is always exciting to watch one's professors banter over a given subject which is not necessarily the specialty of any one of them--and I'm not talking awkward Christmas party banter. This was like a coffeehouse on steroids, except that in place of feigned intellectualism it was pure--uncut--academic zeal and rigor. Maybe a little busting of chops, but no more or less than was necessary.

I felt akin to someone learning a new language who is suddenly immersed in a crowd of fluent speakers, and there was a thrill of self-congratulation* and increased enthusiasm each time I felt myself putting noun phrases and verbs together into coherent entities, and even more so when I found myself following the general direction of conversation!

This is where it got silly. When the words "synchronic" and "diachronic" were uttered, and I fully understood them in their usage and application to the discussion at hand (which, incidentally, I likely could not reproduce a sentence of here--it was fleeting perspicacity)--I jumped up and did a little victory dance.

Well, no, not exactly. But I did begin to daydream just a bit right around then. Not the kind of daydream that leads me completely out of the room and out of my head--this was akin to one of those waking dreams, in which I'm just conscious enough to have some semblance of control in whatever avenue the dream might take...I was entranced, so to speak, by the whole situation--as a newcomer, an observer of a very unfamiliar (and yet standard) ritual, and a neophyte by comparison with just about anyone else in the room. And so I watched the candidate tread water, change lanes and splash back with every question and comment that came her way. I thought, with excitement, of being able to volley questions ideas while maintaining an exterior of such absolute calm. She seemed more comfortable in that room than I was!

I realize that more than likely there are several things--either damaging or to her credit--that I was completely unaware of. My perception remained in the superficial, even aesthetic arena, and I had no qualms about letting it remain there (let the big dogs do their job. You know, like Olympic judges versus the uninformed onlookers). And this is where Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers came in...the ease with which they present their task to their audience is a precise indication of their skill level. The enjoyment of the presentation is made richer depending on the audience member's own skill and familiarity with the dance. I am excited by the prospect of being so well-studied and academically mature that I could tap-dance with the material!

This clip of "Swing Time" about sums it up, if you're interested (it even has gratuitous fencejumping at around 2:15):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mxPgplMujzQ

*I know it sounds petty, and yet this is the only description I can give the thrill. I don't intend it as a grandiose pat on the back; rather it serves as affirmation of all the reading/studying I've been doing for some time now, and incentive to continue this forward trek despite setbacks in circumstance and persuasion.

Expounding on the super smart Honors undergrad...

2009-02-11T10:00:00.000-08:00

...if you recall my weak little post from the other day (here) I was venting a bit after a particularly frustrating day in class in which a very intelligent undergrad showed up all of the graduate students--yet again. I mean, he busted out with some Hebrew vocab! A student of this sort has been in every one of my graduate classes, it seems, and I'm going to venture to say that this has happened to just about every gradstudent out there--getting shown up, consistently, by a know-it-all undergrad.

What really bothers me is that I used to be one of them. My hand would shoot up before the question was even fully formed and my answer, even if half-baked, would be enough for the professor to lead me into its fully fledged form. (Recalling my undergrad days, and my pompous self-assuredness, I shudder to think what my fellow students thought of me. )

I've had this in my own classroom, of course. Sometimes it's a relief (at least someone is entering discussion) but oftentimes I want to finish my questions with "anyone other than...?" It can be a frustration as well as an excuse for other students:

frustration: I really want to say something, but I'm not sure how to articulate it. By the time I think of a decent sentence, the question has been answered and we're moving on.

Excuse: Why do I need to bother talking or adding my two cents, when dude will do it for me?

Depending on the day, I can include myself in either category.

* * *

My final undergrad semester, I took an upper level English lit course with my sister. On the first day, she leaned over and whispered: Look at all the grad students--they always sit in a pack and no matter what they say, they're just repeating what the teacher has said, or some critic.

And four years later, here I am. Front row: Grad students only. I am frantically searching in the extra notes I took for the sole purpose of outdoing this kid (though I'm trying to look thoughtful and deliberate as I do so). In the meantime he raises his hand, sounds out his answer on the spot without eventhinking about it*, and its a go. On to the next stanza...

*well, I'm sure he thought about it. But he wasn't racking his brain for the best way to articulate it, and coming up with back up defenses just in case...

Where is my own head? What happened to my own thoughts? Didn't I come into this with genuine questions and lots of curiosity? What am I so afraid of? It's possible that I have been contorted by my own competitive zeal, and now, rather than being self-confident, I am overthinking everything.

But why? This is embarassing...[allow me to digress for just a moment]

I have the teacher evaluation sheet nearly memorized. When I talk in front of my classroom, I keep it in mind almost constantly. I have this paranoid (okay, delusional) fear that my students do, too. Yes, I know--half of them don't even realize that teacher evaluations exist (despite the specific entry on the course schedule). Some of this has translated into my life as student. I imagine my professors tallying up my comments in discussion (okay, delusional), making notes here and there "Beeyotch unable to recognize simple pronoun antecedent..." or "completely out of touch with the text..."

I don't know where it came from, but I do believe I've got a genuine case of discussion anxiety. I don't mind expressing my thoughts and interpretations on paper (er, screen); the process is often exciting and rewarding. But when I've got to just spout out answers and defend the holes that are poked in them, I crack up into little stuttering pieces of nonsense.

The things people say to a pregnant woman:

2009-02-10T10:33:00.000-08:00

On giving a fellow grad student the news: "I thought I noticed a little bump--but then, y'know, I figured it might've just been the holidays."

On being found in the bathroom (I avoid trips to the bathroom with other women, generally, and even more so now that my bowel and bladder habits are up for discussion): "Peein' again, huh? Let me tell you, girl--you ain't pregnant till you've pissed yourself."

On traveling (in my car, I might add) five minutes to work for my paycheck in a Midwestern February: "It's cold! You shouldn't be outside."

On the "glow" that pregos are reported to have: "What people really mean when they say that is you're so fat there's not enough skin to go around. Your skin's pulled taut so it 'glows'"

There's one in every grad/undergrad course

2009-02-09T09:34:00.000-08:00

...the super smart Honors undergrad who consistently says smarter things than any of the graduate students.

I hate them worse than poison.

I've always disagreed with T.S. Eliot

2009-02-01T10:53:00.000-08:00

when he says that "April is the cruelest month."

Dude, its February. That's exactly why its also the shortest month. One day longer and people would go ballistic by the end of it (I get very nervous during leap years).

February is a teaser month. Take a look outside today, for instance. The sun is shining, snow is melting (and falling off of the house in loud chunks, I might add). It will stay this way until you begin to trust it, and allow yourself to relax and enjoy the mild climate, then WHAM! hit you with a mean Alberta clipper.

Just don't trust it...there's always more than six weeks left of winter, no matter what Phil says.

I'm feeling ridiculous.

2009-01-18T12:01:00.000-08:00

Dude, I always cry during Rocky. Which one? Any and all, though of course I'm partial to IV.

Cat post

2009-01-09T13:33:00.000-08:00

I haven't talked about the Kitten in some time. She's hardly that anymore, though--a kitten. It seems to have stuck as a name anyway. It's either that or "hellspawn" and she doesn't answer to either. As cats go, she's fairly nuts, and that's saying a lot about a cat. She chases the big cat around incessantly, and the hours of the night are punctuated by protesting cat yowls. Lately, big cat has learned that Kitten's only fear is the piano, and so she leaps off of the low A and C notes to her corner on the upright, whilst the kitten peels out in her terrified sprint in the opposite direction.

Kitten is happiest when she is biting; she purrs loudly in rhythm with her chomps on your hand, arm, calf--whatever's closest. She has a weird bathroom fetish, but don't all cats? When she hears the shower start up, she races onto the ledge, where she balances between the shower curtains and gazes, curiously. It is quite disconcerting. She can be sweet, as when she jumps onto your chest or shoulder and proceeds to sand your face with her tongue. She aims for eyelids. It hurts.

Vicious as she may be, what with the stalking of kneecaps and chomping on forearms, she is remarkably tender and careful with young children. She didn't leave my niece's side the entire time the one year-old was here and, even when the little girl grabbed hold of Kitten's favorite toys and swished them dangerously, the Kitten only reacted by kindly batting at the object in motion (as opposed to her usual death rattle, etc).

To chalk up a few more points (it almost gets her out of the red, some days) she is quite attentive to me these days. I hate to get overly-sentimental about livestock, but she seems to know things are changing. She also seems to know when I'm upset, or overly worn-out, and she comes to sit with me--something she has never done before.

Today I took her to be spayed, and she's sitting on the couch behind me now, doped out of her mind and trying to remember how to purr. It sounds like she's got a coupla pebbles rattling, but she's happy. I was slightly bothered, taking her in to get her goodies taken out, particularly considering my own scenario. Is it right for the prego pet owner to prohibit the animal from procreating? Well, the answer is yes--particularly when the animal's gene sequence likely contains some mutation from Hell. I can't help but see an accusing look come from her direction every so often...and it's vaguely disconcerting. Then again, what's more disconcerting is the Big Cat we didn't get spayed right away--we couldn't keep any pencils lying around, the way she looked at them...Then she came in the house one day, with her "sex fur" and we knew, but it was seven kittens too late.

Poem hunting

2009-01-04T14:44:00.000-08:00

I have a week, roughly, before the Spring semester begins; it is my final semester. I have reason to believe that it may be a slightly stressful one, added to the fact that I'm beginning to feel slightly burnt out and will be in my third trimester for the majority of it *doing third trimester dance*. Forgive me now for the things I may say and do--and those things which I do not say or do that I should have.

That said, Floyd and I got a head start on some baby stuff (note: there's about 2 1/2 weeks between the due date for final grades and the due date for the baby, so anything we can get done now is uhm, beneficial). The room is bluish, light bluish. That doesn't mean we're having a boy. It just means the room is blue. It also has a sun and some clouds, which is pretty darn cute, but not above-board cute--for the record, I find many baby nurseries nauseating. It's like, dude, the baby's cute; no need to overload everyone with smarmy attempts to make everything surrounding the baby cute, too. Although an alphabet was suggested, and fairly so, as one appears on the lil quilt we bought (on clearance!), I think that it puts a lot of undue pressure on an infant. However, it got me to thinking. If I'm going to pressure my little one into being an uber-nerd like me, why stop at the alphabet? This is where all y'all come in.

I would like to hang up a giant-sized poem in the room. Originally I considered jest paintin it up on the wall, but have decided to put it on a large canvas instead (the canvas is also painted sky/clouds, so maybe I can always keep a little bit of the nursery...yep, there you have it. An already nostalgic mom moment. Move along, folks).

Any poem suggestions? Presently, I am considering Langston Hughes' "Dreams" (see below) but it seems almost too negative, in spite of its positive message (the poem talks more about injured birds and barren winter fields than dreams). I am open to ideas, and much in need of them.

"Dreams"
Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

Addendum:
In another forum, I was given two other suggestions, which I thought I'd throw out there as well, for your thoughts.

I carry your heart with me (e.e. cummings)*

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and
whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Note: not entirely sure on the original/correct format, although this was lifted from a fairly reliable .edu website

And someone else suggested a poem from Khalil Gibran from "the Prophet" (he adds that I could probably find a better translation).

And a woman who held a newborn babe against her bosom said,
- Speak to us of children!

And he said:
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the Archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

The penultimate semester

2009-01-02T18:02:00.000-08:00

It feels like this is my first night off since the start of Fall semester! Since turning in my final papers, I finished all of my student grades and then faced the barrage of familial and holiday obligations. My dear brother came to stay with us for a few days, with his wife and their one year-old daughter. As much as I love them, I think they stayed a day too long, and we all caught the little one's cold. Tonight I'm recovering--feeling much better, I might add, after two days down--and trying to ignore the little voice telling me to work on my syllabus for next semester's comp 2 course. I'll get there. First, a small recap of this last semester...

I had a lot of expectations, and not all of them were met. While my final papers left much to be desired, I knew where my weak points were before they were pointed out to me, and had some strengths brought to my attention that I had been unaware of. Looking back, it seems that I stepped into a different type of paper writing experience--it was lower quality but a different caliber...it felt rather like the training wheels came off and so, while the ride was rocky I came out of it feeling more empowered, with a vision, albeit a blurry one, of where I needed to go.

Teaching was a double challenge--as in, I taught two courses in addition to my own. Sometimes I feared that this caused my students to get the short end of the stick; on the other hand, teaching while I was a bit unhinged from stress might have been an improvement. Four of my first semester students to enroll in my class this coming semester (out of 20 students, that's a decent percentage!), and two of my comp 2 students have asked me to continue working with them on their final papers next semester. I was hoping that my students would emerge, unscathed, and it appears that some of them were even slightly inspired!

My understanding of graduate school has changed with the completion of each semester. The trend is that as I gain more knowledge, the more of a neophyte I become. Nearing completion of my Master's degree, I don't feel any smarter, despite having read thousands of pages of literature and its accompanying criticism; despite having passed a test that says I'm an officially proficient grad student. I have learned a great deal about literature (not to mention about the capacity of myself, and my marriage)and yet I certainly don't feel that I'm a "Master" of any sort. I feel that there's a lot more of this ahead of me. Despite misgivings, and a disarming fear that I will not be able to find a job in my chosen profession, I am unable to find peace in any other option.

End of semester wrap-up; end of degree anxiety

2008-12-21T06:47:00.000-08:00

I had two big goals for myself at the start of this semester, neither of which I met. For the most part, I'm okay with that.

The first was to always be reading a book on my own, outside of class, not required for any class. I imagined a relaxed hour in bed before sleep with a Toni Morrison novel, or short stories by Dorothy Parker. It ended up being a chapter or two out of Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time before Rick developed an interest and rather stole the book from under my nose. That, and What to Expect When You're Expecting, basically just so I could be sure I wasn't going crazy, and that my symptoms are normal.

The other goal was successfully applying to phD programs this semester. I didn't go through with it--I postponed the process. My thought is this: this coming May I will complete my Masters degree, within a month after the graduation ceremony I'm having a baby. If I were to be accepted somewhere, it would require moving either during that month before the baby comes, or moving when the little guy is like, not off the cord yet--if you take my meaning. On top of that, I would be starting full bore into a phD program (which is a frightening, though exciting prospect) with a 3 month old newborn and a husband who may or may not have a job yet.

It could be done; it has been done, and very likely I could do it and be quite successful. But do we always have to do things the hard way? I'd like the baby to be just a little bit older before I introduce it to my school-induced neuroses.

Making the decision to defer the application process took a lot of pressure off this semester, but in the meantime posts like these are popping up more and more:

http://reassignedtime.blogspot.com/2008/12/merry-freaking-christmas-people-in.html

http://bitchphd.blogspot.com/2008/12/on

Is the writing on the wall and I'm just reluctant to see it? I am thrilled by the thought of getting a phD just to receive that much education, and to work that hard to receive a degree. But there is a reality...one that involves being able to get a job afterwards. And yeah, I'd like to think I'd be an exception, but don't we all?

One sick puppy

2008-12-19T10:19:00.000-08:00

Poor doggie.

I have to go shovel the yellow snow that is the stool sample I'm taking with me to the vet's in an hour.

After not moving from his spot in the living room all evening yesterday, and now just barely gimping around with a sore hind end, he appears to be in better spirits than I am--weakly thumping his tail and looking expectantly at his ball. I rolled it about two feet, which made him very happy. And the fact that that is able to make him happy is so pathetic that I am now quite sad (this is dog who, if you don't throw the ball to his standards, refuses to fetch it until you do a better job. Total ball/fetch snob). Hope he is OK:(

This is what he looked like last summer, faithfully guarding the shed:

This is what he looks like now, only its snowing, and his stomach is gurgling:

Blogging Before Bed makes for weird dreams. Same for eating bananas, or so I've heard.

2008-12-17T20:38:00.000-08:00

I have no concept of direction. It seems that I've mentioned this--but I have gotten lost in my own backyard. I thought I was going to end up at my back porch, but came out into the clearing of the church parking lot next door, instead.

I have lived in the same city for nigh 16 years, and still get lost when I go to the east side. Carefully parking my car where the gas station attendant can't see my plates, I go inside to play the "I'm from out of town and need directions" game.

In proportion to my lack of directional sense is my husband's absent concept of time. Every year, he asks, with a frown on his face "When is Christmas?" It's always on the same day, by the way.

Often I catch him relating an event from two weeks prior as "six months ago." Fortunately, I have a steel grip on temporality, and can usually tell you (oddly enough) the day I last wore my green Old Navy Sweater, how many days its been since I last ate a gummi bear, how long that empty bowl has been sitting on the back porch.

Lately, I've been reading up on defining time (horizontal? vertical? Imaginary?) and examining the temporality of medieval texts. This will make for some "tuning fork" moments, believe you me--just imagine throwing Stephen Hawking, Byrhtnoth and Augustine of Hippo into a ring, and you'll see what I mean. It gets ugly.

Imagine, then, the traumatic conversation that took place earlier this evening when I had to persuade Floyd that it is, in fact, Wednesday. The man was utterly convinced that it was Tuesday. He had an arsenal of evidence, which consisted of everything that he did on Monday. His persistence got the better of me where his logic failed, and set me on a paranoid downward spiral, augmented by my recent preoccupation with how time functions.

...maybe it isn't Wednesday. Did I miss a day? Did I make a day up? Is this moment in time overlapping with one that came before it? Did I not finish that paper? Holy shit!

I close this post with what is quite possibly my favorite movie quote ever:

"What if there is no tomorrow? There wasn't one today!"
--Phil from Groundhog Day.

Deadlines are a blessing

2008-12-13T05:16:00.000-08:00

...and don't let anyone tell you different. Yes, there might be scramblng involved--in fact, for me at least, there always is. It makes no difference how long I've researched a paper, or how many different version are saved to my my various emails, flashdrives and university drives. A deadline offers a sense of completion, and of accomplishment. Maybe the paper sucks--always a possibility--but at least you know that it's over.

Wiggly, watery deadlines, on the other hand, can only offer a sense of nagging doubt and regret. Like the one that's eating the lining of my stomach as we speak. Grr. Paper-that-must-not-be-named had great potential, and it also had the potential to be turned in on Monday...but ah me, what's done is done.

I think this speaks to a deep down distrust for professor's motives (I hope this isn't taken the wrong way). When the "meh, get it to me when you get it to me" line is tossed out there, I am immediately suspicious. Am I being tested? Is it really just a ruse to weed out the undisciplined students? Do I get kudos of any sort for turning it in on time, when the watery deadline has been proposed?

Y'see--the questions, they keep on comin. It's 8:30 on a Saturday, and I've been up for two hours (normal for some, but not so much for the Beeyotch).

Deadlines are merciful.

Maternity Clothing ahoy!

2008-12-10T08:00:00.000-08:00

1.) It has begun--the shrinking of the pants.

2.) I'm still working on perfecting the t-shirt inspired by Got Medieval's recent post Hemp and Hops, Together at Last. It's difficult to make the t-shirt color match the print of the picture, and I'd like to preserve the "manuscript beige" (was that a crayola color?). In the meantime, however, I've got a few in the works, for the pregnant ladies out there. I won't keep them in white, of course, because I spill a lot.

I like to think of this one as slightly less trashy than the wonderful "I'm with stupid" t-shirts available (the arrow point to the pregnorriferous bump).

In English, it'd just be bitchy. In the Latin, it's bitchy and pretentious. My work here is done.

And this one*...it might be overboard. But people need to know that its not just the hormones making pregos around the world crazy, its all of the banned substances.

*Also available in valium

The perfect course schedule?

2008-12-08T19:52:00.000-08:00

Hard to come by.

I've only really regretted one course in my graduate career, and that has less to do with the content or layout of the class than the fact that I missed a class on Milton because of it. So, as I prepare to buy books for next semester (last one for the MA) I'm still having second thoughts about my choices. The course I'm currently signed up for is a seminar on the theory and practice of intertextuality with a focus on 20th century works. Bonus points:

really awesome professor, the kind that says things about your writing and scholarly endeavors that make you shuffle yer feet and say "aw, shucks". Said prof is doubly awesome for cackling ever so inappropriately at Sylvia Plath's poetry, and for being an administrative Chuck Norris. This would be my third course with this prof.
A phD program is more likely to count this towards the next degree because of how the course is numbered. That's a pretty big bonus, needless to say.
Let's just say it: the idea of intertextuality is fascinating and exciting.

And yet, there remains the course I'm looking at over my shoulder, one dealing with 17th century literature.

Although its a survey, this course would solidify my grounding in literature. On the GRE subject test, questions from this time period were one of two types of questions I skipped (the others dealt with contemporary theory).
I hate to say it, let alone write it down in an academic blog, but let's be honest--would I really tackle Herbert and Jonson on my own? Sure, I'd read a poem or such, but sometimes a swift kick in the ass--er, introduction to the material helps me get going.
I think that I have a lot to learn from this professor, who(m?) I've only had for one other class. Sometimes, when this professor talks about a poem or passage of lit, I feel like a tuning fork has gone off in my head--you know, that "Byyoooo" sound when your brain is reaching capacity? (holy crap, if I think any deeper my head will explode, that sort of thing).

Back to work.

The dog ate my homework

2008-12-06T12:39:00.000-08:00

Kinda. Its a long story--let me sum up. The kitten peed behind the TV last night and we knew something bad had happened because of a weird humming noise that came from the mess of wires, not to mention the smell of burning cat urine (bless you, hormonally heightened sense of smell). Nothing happened just then, but sometime this morning--between the alarm going off and my shower--the power went out.

I was up and at em, ready to knock out some final research on paper-that-must-not-be-named. I noticed it was cold. Nothing new. Floyd is worse than my dad when it comes to the heat--or lack thereof. One day he'll freeze the pipes by keeping the house so cold, and we'll see who's laughing then (me, from my hotel room. In my skivvies with the heat turned up to 80).

I noticed the VCR clock is not working. Again, nothing too surprising. We had a silent fight about whose job it was to change the VCR time last April or whenever the clocks "spring forward." The clock remained one hour off until it was time to "fall back." Imbeciles, the both of us.

No heat. No clock. Floyd comes home and points out the obvious (that I had completely missed): "There's no power." I thought my toes were bluer than normal.

After exchanging unpleasantries with Floyd, because of course its his fault, and not because I'm a crazy preg, I went to local coffeehouse to continue work until the problem took care of itself.

Christmas music.

Fuck.

So, I gave up. Can't go home cos its a walk-in freezer, can't get work done at this point cos there's nowhere to go to escape "O Holy Night." When its not Michael McDonald, its Celine Dion. And its always bad.
So I'm all worked up and cranky...what better time to get some Christmas shopping done? I mean, I'd hate to spend a good mood shopping for vibrating doggie slippers. And so I knocked down what remained of my list that I couldn't find easily online. As it stands, my christmas endeavours are OVER. This means that when the semester is over I don't have to keep pushing once my papers are in and student grades are calculated. I can sit on the couch and stare at the wall in a comatose way that disconcerts Floyd. Ah, now that sounds nice.

...see you on the flip side...

Who gets the short end of the stick?

2008-12-02T20:06:00.000-08:00

Before I became a teaching assistant, I completed a year of graduate school. Many of my peers, however, hit the ground running with a section of Comp One in addition to their first semester's load of classes. I don't really know how they did it. In my experience, I certainly needed at least a semester to readjust to being back in school, not to mention working at the graduate caliber. Then again, I don't know how any of us do it, any semester. It's grad school: if it's not tough and make-you-wanna-cry challenging, you ought to check the manual under "operator error". Each semester yields new challenges and you've either got to meet them head-on every time, or run home with your tail tucked between yer legs.

But if the challenge is teaching a class in addition to the graduate course load, is there a short end of the stick? In other words, do students suffer at the hands of too-green gradstudent teaching assistants? In a recent hallway conversation with me, a member of the composition faculty insinuated this. My immediate response was to become defensive, but the question struck me, and has been bothering me ever since. Allow me to ruminate, though I must warn you in advance that I'm not coming to any concrete conclusions here.

Admittedly, I have felt unqualified in front of my students. I feel self-conscious about the fairly small age gap between myself and some of my students, particularly when I sensed their awareness of it. There's been times I've been flustered at the front of the classroom; times I've had to admit to not knowing the answer; times I've had to correct a mistake I made on a handout, or in something I said. Guess what? I've seen my professors do these same things--and I didn't hold it against them, or feel cheated. In fact, I emulate these same professors in my own teaching.

While I am obviously more prone to beginner's mistakes, I make up for this because I always follow up with students. I might not know the answer off the top of my head, but I'll find out and letcha know, thats for damned sure. If I've given misinformation, I admit it to the entire class. I take advantage of the apparently small age gap between myself and students, and as a result I've connected with them; brought them into eye-opening discussion; shown them the vast world that is writing, and the one that writing can bring. My students are able to write in several different genres, from rhetorical analyses to music reviews to business letters. There are plenty of challenges in my classroom, and there's an assload of writing. And a lot of laughing.

Let's not forget the potential detriment, in this situation, to the graduate student. Because I am a graduate student, I hold myself to a higher standard of discipline and polish for any of my projects; my classroom is no exception. I am often suspicious that I work harder on my classes than most of my students do. My peers are no exception. Throwing ourselves in front of the proverbial train to please our students, we often spend more time on lesson plans and assignments than our own studies. We fill up the computer lab compiling assignments, grading papers and answering emails--of course, there's the occasional contest as to whose student has the best excuse for not being in class. We work damned hard for a small stipend (a third of which goes to our general fees each semester). Several of us take holiday jobs to help pay for our books and the mandatory health insurance. So, really, who's being cheated? The composition student who wants to get by with the least amount of work possible, or the TA blamed for that student's laziness?

Mr. T Treat your mother right

2008-11-29T13:23:00.001-08:00

I found this during a break from the history of Anglo-Saxon studies. Thank you, Mr. T, for wearing those shorts. And for singing this song.

...to everyone out there with a mother, treat her right.

Holiday post, somewhat specific to these winter ones.

2008-11-28T18:59:00.000-08:00

Holidays. Thanksgiving is done--phew. That's the easy one, and it's a 48 hour event between the MIL family, the FIL family, and then three hours south to visit my Grandma. It's been her "last Thanksgiving" since I was ten. At 96 years old--and still not dead, as she likes to remind us--she's still a pistol, even if her aim is slightly off these days.

My family's not huge on the holidays, or any of the obligatory Hallmark traditions, for that matter. Never did anything for Mother's Day or Father's Day. We didn't do birthdays either--well, nothing much besides a cake, and maybe a dollar. Dude, there were seven of us. Know what happens when there's seven kids in a family?

unidentifiable blue and green stains appear on the ceiling (it was slime from those $.25 cent vending machines at the grocery store--but what mom doesn't know...)

you learn to answer to at least six names other than your own

first hand mercantilism lessons: stash treats and cans of pop when the groceries are fresh, then sell them to each other when the cupboard supply depletes. I could hassle $1.50 for a can of cold Pepsi.

Your family mythology develops in social circles after years of stealing each other's stories and embellishing them with each retelling.

complete lack of memory--if not interest-- regarding who was born when, or what day the youngest was really born. Whoooole 'nother post.

gift-giving holidays, such as Christmas, fall by the wayside.

Don't get me wrong, we're some "gift-giving mofos" (my sister-in-law coined the phrase). It's just not reserved for standardized--and sometimes completely arbitrary--times of the year. I prefer this method. It means more to me to receive a gift because someone thought of me than because this is the year that everyone gets a shower gel basket for xmas.

Later in life, as we all got married off, we returned to our parents to thank them. Why? With in-laws, each of us finally understand what we'd been saved from all those years. As we'd pretty much managed to avoid them our entire lives, nothing prepared us for the intensity of the holidays. It's a lot of commercial pressure, awkward conversation, and fruitcake. Dear god, fruitcake. Saving grace of holidays with in-laws? Heavy wine and cigarette breaks. Now, just so you don't think I'm a total grinch I will throw in the Beeyotch disclaimer: *ahem* holidays are very warm times filled with lots of laughter; there are great gifts, great food and etc. What makes them even better? Heavy wine and cigarette breaks.

Herein lies my problem. These are my first sober holidays. Stir in raging pregnant-lady hormones and...yeah: dude, so not cool. And you know what else? Apparently they don't recommend valium for pregnant ladies. Or nitrous. Grr. On that note, send your warm thoughts to Floyd, who is enduring my full-fledged craziness.

My nature exposed

2008-11-25T18:00:00.000-08:00

One of my biggest pet peeves is getting honked at. Whether I'm walking down the road, taking my garbage out or getting the mail, I always have a ready middle finger for the dipshit who honks at me. I mean, really, what's it saying? Hey that girl MIGHT be a 15 year old and she may or may not have completed puberty--HOOOONK. (FYI: I am petite, and thus from the side of the road, one really has no clue if I'm 12 or not. ) I find it to be a personal affront, an intrusion into my inner monologue, and--it should go without saying, simply crass and tasteless.

But Crazy Beeyotch, maybe its someone you know just honking to say hello? I say, if I EVER catch someone I know just honking at me instead of stopping to help me with the trash, or hell, just to say hello like a civilized person, I will kick your car. Maybe that's the hormones talking. I just really, really, hate. being. Honked. AT!!

So, a few weeks ago, I'm filling up the gas tank just after work; this gas station is located at a decently busy intersection. The passenger leans out the window of a minivan at the red light. "Hey!" he yells. *Verbal equivalent of a honk* I ignore him, but it doesn't work--he yells "Hey!!" a little louder. I wheel around and nearly spit, "Get a life, you creep!"
He looked as though I had slapped him, and stared at me with a downtrodden and confused expression until the light turned green (thankfully only moments later). My conscience bothered me about this interchange. I really need to just simmer down, basically. I need to not get off on yelling at people, its just not cool (although thoroughly gratifying). What if the poor guy just needed directions? I told Floyd about this and we both kinda laughed, though he did mention that if the guy really just needed directions, he could have said "Excuse me," etc.

Earlier today my husband and his friend (AKA permanent fixture on our couch, or PFOOC) visited a nearby convenience store to buy some Dead Guy Ale. The owner of the store is a patient at the office, keeps an excellent beer stock, and happens to know that I am friends with PFOOC. He proceeds to tell them the story of spotting me at a gas station and trying to get my attention, only to be verbally accosted. He wanted to let me know that they had some new lagers in stock (now that's customer service!).

Moral of the story--dude probably should have tried something less obnoxious than "hey" but I could have been a bit less on the defensive.(Thank goodness I didn't use any expletives) Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is exactly the kind of employee representation that NO OFFICE needs! Fortunately he had a pretty good laugh with husband and PF, at my expense. I don't recall being more mortified in any recent history.

Election season rant

2008-11-22T08:15:00.000-08:00

There are some issues that align me with liberal thought; my stance on other issues apparently put me in a Republican camp. I'm rarely black and white, except on issues that are against abortion and gay marriage (I'm against those). Obama's a'ight, and I'm looking forward to the changes that his presidency will bring. On the other hand, I don't think that Sarah Palin should be mocked to the extent that she has been. It's kind of like a blond joke, or a Polish joke. They're not really appropriate, ever, and they're definitely old. Really old. *There, I said it.*

Although I keep myself informed, I don't enjoy discussing politics, and I'm quite relieved that the election is over. TAs can stop ranting in the cubicles we all share; students can stop repeating things--with hands on their hips, essentially--they've overheard their parents or their roommates say; and professors can stop hinting towards, or blatantly announcing, their political agendas in class.

I was keeping pretty quiet over here in my little corner, feeling like I didn't have a dog in this fight, until I read this post from BitchPhd (click here). Granted, its obnoxious to have students wave around vague statistics about some political point--I know of one in particular from a previous semester who managed to somehow write into every paper something to the effect of 'America is the greatest place on earth and everyone should stop picking on us'. It was difficult, I admit, to stick to grading grammar and communicative skills in those moments. However, what I've run into much more often in my academic career, is the professor tying their political agendas into their lectures (some more subtly than others).

But there's only a few available reactions to a professor moseying off-course to make a random comment about political affairs:

You agree with them. You smile, nod, maybe laugh, and continue listening. Nothing is written down in your notes, except perhaps "cf. Obama's campaign" which, later, means little to you in the larger spectrum of understanding European history, or what have you.
You don't get it. You smile, nod, maybe laugh, and continue listening. Nothing is written down in your notes, except perhaps "comment made about George Bush...look up later"
You disagree. You grimace, you check your watch. Maybe you smile politely, or just look out the window. You feel like an outsider because everyone else is smiling and nodding, whether they get it or not. Nothing is written down in your notes.
None of the above. Rather than being concerned about whether you agree or disagree, you just don't find it germane to the discussion and would like to continue with the class that you've spent time preparing for.

Sometimes, depending on the severity or outlandishness of the comment, a disagreeing student is left unable to concentrate. A professor once joked about running for governor in ________. He/she said that their #1 platform would be to ensure that all Vietnam Veterans are tried as war criminals.

Blood. Boiling.

It was everything I could do to not get up and walk out of class. But I relied on this professor for a letter of recommendation. Biting my lip, I focused on writing the alphabet down--that is, until I broke the tip of my pencil. I consoled myself with the irony of the fact that the very reason I was able to afford being in this class to hear this bullshit was because of my father's "Bloodmoney" from chapter 35 of the G.I. bill. It was filtering into the university system and into this professor's paycheck. Don't worry, lunch is on my dad. Eventually, the professor concluded the rant and returned to the subject matter at hand (which, by the way, was in no way related to the remark about veterans). By that time, however, I was unable to concentrate on the discussion. My notes from that day are sparse and incoherent. *

This example is one of the worst possible outcome of talking politics in the classroom; albeit an extreme case. Why even go down that road? I don't make my political bents known to my students. It's not that I care whether they like me or dislike me because of it, it's that it does not apply to the subject matter of my classroom. Nothing a professor has ever said in a classroom, politically, whether I agreed or not, has informed my own opinions. It is a wasted minute of my education, as I see it, and I want it back.

*Later that week I swallowed my nerves and my potential letter of recommendation (because you see, professors, while students are not afraid of disagreeing with you on the outcome of a poem, they certainly don't want you to know that they disagree with your politics). I went to this professor's office to discuss the comment. I certainly did not imagine trying to sway opinions, or create a debate. I simply explained that comments of this nature prohibited me from concentrating on the lecture. Apparently, this was the right angle to play. To my knowledge, no Vietnam veteran comments have been made in this prof's classroom since this discussion about three years ago.

I was in a movie once

2008-11-21T15:01:00.000-08:00

I was an extra. My boss called me one morning at 8 am--on my day off--and told me to audition. What the hell, I says, and I audition. I got to be on the news afterwards because here in this city a movie's a big deal. That night my parents watched me on the news, as did my husband, my boss and anyone else who keeps watching the after the sports highlights (probably waiting for Seinfeld to come on). They all said I looked very nice and articulated nicely. I was a star. Not so much in the movie. I didn't get any part, but I was supposed to be one of the "lead" extras.

Then I read the script. Yikes.

I told the producer that the lead female role should not say "Hey, tiger" to the lead male role, with whom she is flirting. The only person who calls anyone "tiger" is that weird uncle at my family reunion. I don't sit at his table for that very reason. The really awkward dialogue continued throughout the script, and I'm still not entirely sure what the whole thing was about. Kind of like a "B" movie although, aren't those usually bad horror flicks? This was a "B" emotion movie, not a "B" horror movie. I shudder to think of the accuracy of that description.

I got the DVD tonight. It's burned onto a silver Memorex DVD-R. Awkward script aside, the filming and photography is quite striking. It is exhilarating to see my hometown on the big screen. Also, the soundtrack is captivating--a bit Norah Jonesy, but with an indy twist. Several of the songs were written and performed by the same girl who won the part of "Golde" over me in Fiddler on the Roof my senior year. It makes me feel better-- the same way it feels to be the guy who played backup quarterback to Peyton Manning in high school, I'm sure.

My script snobbery cost me dearly. I was blacklisted by the director (the guy who wrote the script); I certainly recall that he snubbed me for most of the filming process. The results are in now. I was ousted even further during the editing process. Oh, and there's me in the credits...Dead. Last.

So I was the snobby extra, I admit it; I revel in the title. Plus I got paid. The whole "movie" experience was interesting, though it helped to have a good book on hand for the several hour intervals of wait-time between "shoots." Since the big deal was that it was filmed here in town, and was in effect about the town, I was happy to be a part. I like it here, and find those who complain about it rather unoriginal (go be blase somewhere else!). As I mentioned, the news crews were out and about, and a few local papers featured information about the movie--that's why I was disappointed by the scene in which the lead character talks about how stagnant it is here (I didn't remember that part from the original script).

"I'm pregnant"

2008-11-19T14:59:00.000-08:00

I said these words to a former colleague today, when she asked how my plans for a PhD were coming along. She threw her head back and laughed, and laughed. And then I laughed, too. It is, after all, a bit ridiculous. Everything I had planned is uprooted. And yet, in the hole that's left where my goals were, is a reassured sense that things will be okay. (Note: flair for the dramatic is certainly not lost during gestation.) Besides, when were things ever really that stable?

I'm getting better at saying it without wanting to cry afterwards. I told the ladies at the dentist office today, and it wasn't so bad. Sometimes--in fact, a lot of times--I'm pretty happy about it. One thing's for sure, though. I'm not getting better at recoiling when people begin to coo at me, or offer me horrendous advice that in no way applies to me.

I've learned that once these words are spoken, the utterer becomes public property. No discussion is off limits--correction--several subjects are certainly off limits, but having a pregnant woman in the discussion suddenly makes people feel entitled to the ridiculously personal details of my life. The exchange of information takes place as coffeepot banter. My life? down the drain. Can you hand me the sugar?

I'm getting better at connecting the dots now. What is the most riveting and personal experience of my lifetime is actually pretty exciting news for other people, too. It's OK to share (just don't touch me). And what I can't really get over is how the most riveting and personal experience of my life is also quite a universal one, one that ties me in with centuries and continents of poets and thinkers and just plain ol' wonderful, lovely women. I don't say this to marginalize women or men who do not have children. There are several layers of experience that connect us and identify us with those who came before, and those who are around us; I just happen to have stumbled across one that I didn't have before. And as with anytime you find yourself connected to a new vein, it's as much a blessing as a curse.

..and since I first acknowledged these words, my speeling has gone down the drain.

Marilyn Manson and the Amish

2008-11-13T16:23:00.000-08:00

If you read the title of this blog and wondered what the two have to do with each other, well, we're in the same boat.

For today's class discussion, I had my students read "Columbine: Whose Fault is it?". An interesting little ditty written by the shock rocker himself; students generally eat it up. It typically brings up interesting comments about media, video games, music, and makes students talk about darker subjects. On the one hand, they're not entirely in their comfort zone because of the events the article discusses; on the other, they are authorities because they have all come into contact with these items of entertainment.

Anywho, class context aside. We're full throttle into an engaging discussion. We've come to an interesting intersection in which students began asking about the role of religion in these types of massacres, when a student raises hir hand anxiously.

"I just have to say, I have a serious problem with the Amish!"

Things came to a screeching halt, all around the room students were suffering from conversational whiplash. Before I was able to regain my wits and prepare to response, another student chimed in: "Yeah, what's up with them?"

Apparently, one of these students has had issues with Amish children "coming out of the corn and running at her car" on her way to work.
In my altruistic English teacher's heart, I wanted to respond with a grandiose statement of universal tolerance, and etc. Instead, I had to make sure that she wasn't confusing her own experience with Children of the Corn, "Was the kid's name Malachi?"

Before I could redeem myself, or the wonderful discussion we'd had, it was time to leave. I will have to begin next our session with a defense of Amish practices!

The end is in sight

2008-11-11T11:04:00.001-08:00

...and I can tell because I've spent the morning systematically destroying my fingernails, checking my Facebook, online Christmas shopping, typing random letters into http://www.acronymfinder.com/ and perusing blogs, academic and non-academic alike. Unfortunately, I rearranged my wrapping paper and gift bag assortment at the end of last semester, so that leaves me with alphabetizing CDs and DVDs (or arranging according to genre) or cleaning the microwave. *shuddering*

Despite my lolly gagging, I have begun a convincing list of sources for two upcoming papers and, with any luck, might just have abstracts prepared for two upcoming submission deadlines. I'm wondering if I'll send them, though. I hear about these conference things, and what great experiences they are and how nicely they pad a CV. I've got two under my belt but--aside from the little lines they occupy on my CV--they're pretty shallow notches. It seems that these are places where academic bigwigs rub elbows and share intellectual nods--worse yet are the graduate students, you know, with their theoretical jargon and their khaki pants (kids these days). They seem to know the game.

Then there's me. I attend these conglomerations with the same confused expression as someone at their first salsa lesson: its scary, it looks painful and I have no idea what the steps are. I smile, nod, shake hands, read my paper, smile again, and look forward to getting back to the hotel bar. Maybe I should buy khaki pants. I do enjoy listening to panels, and either making mental notes of how to adopt a speaker's excellent personal presentation or feeling relieved that at least I didn't grimace as badly as that dude.

Is there a limit to how many conference presentations one should have? A graduate student friend once told me not to go to too many conferences, because it looks bad on a CV. This confused me. Can anyone corroborate this advice?

...tap left on the first beat, step forward on the same foot, rock back onto the right foot...

You're majoring in what?

2008-10-28T15:52:00.000-07:00

Sometimes my hormones make me stupid. More often, they make everyone else stupid...

People tend to react poorly when I tell them I major in English lit. Sometimes, in an attempt to be encouraging (or comforting, perhaps), the individual might ask, "Oh, have you read [insert some random paperback fiction]? It's really good!" Awkward. Especially because they seem to think me inept at my trade, if I have not read their latest fancy.

Then there's the reactions to hearing that I teach composition:

"My daughter's about to take that down at ____ University. I told her to prepare herself for a boring drudge of a class. I absolutely hated my composition classes in college."

"Yeah, I always hated English. I mean, I failed Comp I three times. But that was also because the teacher was so hot. I always had this fantasy about English teachers..."

Grr.

Double Post

2008-10-27T08:35:00.000-07:00

It's that time again!

...that time during the semester when I can't get to sleep at night, because I know they're there, lurking. Then in the morning, I can hardly motivate myself to get out of bed, because I know I have to face them--

the piles.

There's one pile of articles and books that have been sifted through and highlighted or post-it noted at random intervals. Actually, there's a few of these piles. But as I'm arranging these according to theme, it is all one pile, regardless of the actual number of stacks. Let's not even get into stacks.

There's another few piles of student portfolios. The Comp one pile is outgoing, thank goodness, but Comp II still needs dealt with. I'm trying to give myself some breathing room between the two, especially since the Comp II pile's got an oddly feral look to it... It never seems to be in the place I left it, and I think its getting bigger.

Piles of laundry, dishes, but that's almost comforting--I mean, what would my house be without them?

Pile of GRE subject test printouts, and Norton/Longman introductions. Ick. Standardized test cooties.

Pile of application materials. I'm trying to convince myself that its disheveled look is a sign of progress--being sifted through and marked in strategic places, but its mainly just disheveled.

On A Side Note:

This past weekend I went to the wedding of a British bloke whom I met on the bus about eight years ago. My grandpa would be proud; the man who could find a stranger to befriend even on a frozen tundra (he often introduced himself as "The ol' blister" cos there's nuthin' more irritatin' than a blister).

I have one more wedding to go to next weekend, and then I'm closing up shop for the winter. No more. I will send a gift in the mail if I have to. I am wedding'd out, particularly because they are no longer drinking affairs for me--I've got the sickness. More on that one, later.

You know you're doin' something right when...

2008-10-08T19:53:00.000-07:00

...your graduate advisor calls you "scrappy"

Nerve damage

2008-10-06T20:21:00.000-07:00

Or something like that. Perhaps its just a midterm anxiety attack. This semester, there is some type of strange mental blockage impeding my attempts to think clearly and engage with the material on any level below the surface without busting out a jack hammer, or at least hitting my head against a wall several times.

There were times, when I was a first year--heck, even just last semester--when I contributed to class discussion because I had things to say, and I had plenty of questions. Lately, I contribute because I am one of the many who would rather hear myself fumble than listen to the sudden whirr of crickets in the room; and I feel like despite having read the material multiple times, I don't have enough knowledge or understanding to even ask questions.

*Right now, I am inwardly shuddering at the ridiculous paraphrase I tried to make of a passage in Paradise Regained earlier this evening.*

Fuck. I'm doing the reading; I'm marking up my books; I'm trying to make connections-- sparks are firing but nothing is catching. Are these types of plateaus common in academia? I feel like an absolute dunce, especially when I consider several occasions of students with about five semesters less experience than me asking pertinent questions, and even actively sustaining discussions with professors! ACK! All the while, I scramble to keep up in my notes, which leads me to another topic that has been bugging me...

I became a notetaker this semester. Something new. I have been told that I "take good notes." I don't know what this means. Someone looking at my notes would have a pretty clear concept of what we covered in class on a given day, sure...but what exactly constitutes good note-taking?

The people at the notetaking headquarters had me fill out a check-list of good and bad note taking techniques (I don't have it handy, or I'd share it) and I was interested, although slightly miffed, that I did not have all of my check marks in the "good notetaker" column. Reflecting more self-consciously on my notes from class, I realize that I tend to take what I hear for granted, and write it down without considering it, without weighing its validity or hell--even my opinion of it. There is no filter, or any attempt at my own interpretation. Well, worse yet is when there is an attempt at interpretation, but somehow I never found a moment to ask for validation. I hate changing the direction of discussion in class; worse yet, the idea might just fall flat on its face. There are such things as stupid questions, after all.

A friend of mine from last year would have grandiose ideas transmitted to her through the lecture/discussion, which she would then record in a feverish haze and later turn into her final paper. I always wanted to trip her when she recounted her "lightbulb" moment. This has rarely, if ever, happened to me. My "great ideas" typically only occur in the process of writing the paper, which means that I have already taken the notes, read the material and its criticism, and yet formed none of my own thoughts until I was at least few pages into it. Herein lies my insecurity-where is the active and inquisitive, analytical mind that I was supposed to have acquired by now? The questions I am able to raise after several rereadings and a first draft--where are they when I first encounter the text (or at least by the second read through, or when the prof asks in class)? Shouldn't I be highly trained and sensitive to the material?

Enough. It's off to bed with me.

I have been dubbed "overly particular"

2008-10-03T16:32:00.001-07:00

This is how a student described my comments on his/her first writing assignment which I returned to him/her yesterday. I was taken aback, to be sure. Since when do I have to let things slide? The extraneous use of words such as "quite" "very" "truly" "really" is not something I need to accept on any student's paper. It's not good writing--it's padding! What's worse is that while the student admitted to just throwing the words in there to meet the page requirement, he/she still seemed to fault me for calling it like I saw it. Just because this student's Comp I teacher was "more laid back" (to quote the student) does not mean that I am "overly particular." Grrr.

In other news, it is nearing midterm, and my home has, accordingly, reached mid-semester status: laundry baskets overflowing; boxes of kleenex everywhere for my "stress nose" (my tension tends to aim higher than my neck; it hits more in my sinuses); library books piled and serving as fortifications for kitten wars...To top it off, hubby & friends are reroofing this week. Lots of pounding, pounding, and pounding, and the cats tearing through the house screaming armageddon. Needless to say, it's been fun.

And we're off to a week of student conferences, followed by my first teaching observation (time to buy my students off with sweets!). I'll keep you posted, world.

Anonymous Surveys

2008-09-17T18:52:00.000-07:00

I am uber excited about my first set of anonymous surveys, which I first discussed here. It was a simple procedure; most students took 5-7 minutes to answer my questions, which inquired as to the effectiveness of the peer review, reading from the books, my own comments, and class discussion. I found varying degrees of positivity on each segment, but in general I found the survey quite helpful. The students, with few exceptions, put alot of thought into their answers.

I've given this particular assignment three times now, and I finally have an affirmation that some things work, and some things don't. Regarding the class discussion, which I always felt to be my weakest point (and still may be, in some aspects), I was very much reassured. Many students said that they garnered things from the text that they hadn't, before we talked about it in class. My favorite, of course, is that they absolutely love the in-class writings. As anyone knows from reading my blog, this is also my favorite.

All in all, it was a positive experience, this survey. The first assignment was easy; its a fallback. I am eager to repeat this process in more challenging, potentially more confusing assignments. I would certainly recommend this to other beginning teachers, as a first hand, anonymous account of the classroom experience.

Artsy Fartsy

2008-09-16T19:43:00.001-07:00

Warning: Links abound!

When my high school put on Play It Again, Sam my freshman year, I played the part of the "Museum Girl" (Diana Davila) in this scene.

Today, I played Woody Allen's part--in my Comp 2 classroom. Showing them several different painting, drawings, and photographs, I asked my students to write about the piece of art they felt they could most easily and closely identify with. My assortment included paintings by M.C. Escher (Bond of Union and Relativity), Van Gogh, Picasso (Girl Before a Mirror and The Old Guitarist), H.O. Tanner, Dali, Munch, and R. Bearden; the photography of Ansel Adams, Annie Liebovitz and Lois Greenfield; and a few pieces from my own private collection--paintings by my brother and one by local a artist. "What does it say to you," I asked--in as non-pretentious a manner as I could muster. I must say that they reacted quite positively, and many of them were excited to run into new artists and paintings. They were very interested in the controversial Miley Cyrus pictures and I think a few of them fell in love with M.C. Escher today.

At the end of class, I asked them to write a response to one of the photos or paintings we'd looked at in class (there were about 20 items to choose from, including one sculpture. We only discussed a few of them as a class). Seven out of 19 students chose the Dali. We had not talked about it at all; it was simply displayed against the blackboard with several other options. All of these students were female. Although they differed in whether they thought the painting was melancholy or simply peaceful, almost every single one of them expressed a wish to be at the window with her.

Home sweet Home

2008-09-14T13:52:00.001-07:00

I just returned from what may very likely be the worst bachelorette party experience of my life. The list of party offenses is long. I had so much fun that I graded all of my student's papers. Yes, at the bachelorette party. And no one noticed that it may have been rude to grade papers at such an event, because they were too busy bickering amongst themselves and gushing about an over expensive wedding. I was the token "representing the groom's side" invitee, anyway. Urgh. My brain hurts, quite literally. I'm just not that girly.

Or maybe I'm just not that interested in weddings, and the entourage of events that accompany them. I think its an extension of the cult of perfect motherhood--the cult of the perfect wedding. It is a very emotionally destructive and ridiculously expensive way to look at things. People seem to forget that a wedding is just a big friggin par-tay, and instead insist that the hall, color scheme, table settings, music choices, and countless other menial details be SET IN STONE AT LEAST TWO YEARS BEFORE THE DATE. Fuck.

So the wedding just set the happy couple and their parents farther into debt than my phD program ever will, and still I'm the impractical one. That's all besides the fact that when it comes down to it, the night's over just like any other night, and whether or not you served the mashed potatoes with the skins on or off will ony be remembered by the cruel promulgators of this wedding-cult regime. There's so much emphasis (and money) put on the silly day and time that no one reminds the couple of what comes next: marriage. More time needs to spent on preparing young couples for a life together, if this is what they've chosen. It's great to get the dream wedding, sure--but not if the partner is just a pawn to get to the fairy tale.

When I got back today from crappy bachelorette party (see above), Floyd told me that he and my oldest brother had been talking, and decided it would be really cool to fix up my brother's Z71 pick up (or some other such alphanumeric title). They want to chop off the top of it so it's like a souped up convertible, and then they plan to baja with it in our backyard. Now that's my kind of man. Maybe a little reckless. But he's always thinkin, that one.

I am happy to be home. I could use a backyard baja right about now.

Name change

2008-09-12T17:22:00.000-07:00

I just went over a section on names, and naming with my Comp 2 class. We had a fun and interesting discussion, in which many of the students learned a lot about themselves and each other. We read snippets of blogs like this one from Spastic Onomastic. I tried not to limit it just to our own names but wanted to draw attention to our naming of things, and the connotations a word or sound contains...I think it got a little over my head, personally. Maybe they just weren't buying it.

Anywho, it got me thinking about the name of this blog, previously "Meanderings" which has never satisfied me. Of course, it was somewhat appropriate, as that's just what this is--meandering through mental corridors. Still, it has always irked me. It was a title I slapped on, regrettably, without much thought. So, its Friday night and I'm up late reading Virgil (ah, gradschool), and I stumbled across this phrase I had forgotten I was in love with: mirabile dictu*. Memories of undergraduate Latin classes swarmed my brain (swarmed...sorry, I'm at the part in Georgics with the bees) and it seemed like a more appropriate title for my outlook as of late. Meanderings is too emo for me.

Maybe, on a bad day, I should have an alter-ego blog titled "Osculare Fundamentum" We shall see.

*If I am embarassing myself by misapplying the term please let me know, but I just love it. It means "wonder to relate" or "happy to tell you" etc. I likes it.

[In]experienced teaching

2008-09-09T19:52:00.000-07:00

My mother unintentionally, but quite directly, gave me a great piece of advice/comfort over the weekend. She hadn't even heard my insecure musings about teaching a new class, and being a newb in general (*shuddering* Mom, are you reading my blog?). Basically she called out of the blue to talk to me about how experience is a teacher's best weapon, and that we can only really learn the success rate of a given discussion or assignment after we've tried it a few times.

*Rolling eyes as one can only roll eyes at mother* So my mom says that what I need is experience. I knew that! But she went on (I had no part in this conversation, by the way) and said that this is not to say that inexperienced teachers are inherently unsuccessful, of course not. Slightly more encouraging. What will carry me through in the meantime, she says, is consistent and insistent enthusiasm, plus lots of energy. Its contagious, keeps the kids awake, and might make them wonder--what's so great about writing, that she's so excited about it?

Obviously, there's other stuff involved. Writing theory, rhetoric; Pathos, Ethos and Abedneg--wait, wait, sorry. D'Artagnon. I've read it, taught it, but in the end I need to draw from what I know about writing. There needs to be more of it. So, my students write a lot. They certainly write more than they read. They talk about what they read about, and then write about what they talked about. They write in all sorts of different forms, to different audiences. And I comment back, in detail, on every single thing that they write. I love it. It's my favorite part of the job.

This year I am really honing in on discussion skills, and *gasp* its working! Is it the students? Is it me? They never did this last year! Today, I couldn't get them to stop talking. Hands were raised, everywhere I looked; faces were engaged, pencils were scribbling; they were looking at one another and responding to each other...what a rush. The only student who sits out and spends the entire time connected to her blackberry, or rolling her eyes, is the daughter of my high school dean. Oh, the irony.

So, back to enthusiasm-it's all I got; on a startling majority of my semester evaluations, students write that they appreciate my enthusiasm. I am still not entirely sure what this means. In fact, I'm not really sure exactly how to take those evaluations, what with the scantron and the "strongly agree/disagree" survey. Ick. There are some random odds and ends in written section that make me smile, but rarely anything about any of the assignments. Let's face it: by the time the students have filled out all those bubbles, they've reverted to standardized test mode and quit doing any thinking. So, this got me to thinking...

(whoops! more digressions)
The folks into student portfolios like to have a reflective letter included to serve as a 'road map' of the writings contained in the collection. This is nice. It's kind of a 'feel good' read for the teacher, in which the student talks about how much they learned, and how great an experience it was, and how much more they enjoy writing now, and how they've grown as a writer.
Yada...
Yada..
Yada.
Then, for the next portfolio at the end of the semester, they turn in the exact same letter. I've had it happen. Several times.

I'm sick of reflective letters. I'm sick of trying to patch assignments together based on theoretical methods of extracting the perfect reaction from students. I've already put them together, and assigned them--hell, a coupla semesters now. I can gauge, roughly, the success of the assignment based on the students writing, but what about their opinion of the scaffolding exercises? Did they make sense? Did they feel the discussion/reading/writing in class helped them for the larger assignment?
I'm desperate for honest feedback from the only people who really know my assignments--my students. So, for at least this semester--or until I gain some experience--I am coming up with a set of questions, specifically in reference to the latest assignment, for my students to answer anonymously. Typed. Optional, hell. No pressure, just give me some effin feedback.

Fast food, good cause

2008-09-07T11:30:00.000-07:00

My sister has an intimate relationship with my answering machine. Well, just about anyone who calls here halfway regularly does. I don't answer the phone. Its typically not worth it. Nor do I carry a phone around with me that will ring (inevitably) during class or some other such inopportune moment, particularly considering that I wouldn't answer that phone, either. So, people call and leave lengthy messages and I call them back at a time suitable to me. It's something about being busy all day long, deadline crunches, customer service, that makes me unwilling to give my free time away to someone who isn't even physically there.

Her answering machine message: Wendy's kids meals have really great toys right now. So if I'm out and about being graduate studenty and not eating, or only ate gummi-bears for breakfast (mmmm...), I should stop by Wendy's for a Kids Meal, and send the toy in her direction.

Dutiful sister and aunt that I am, I develop a hankerin' for some fountain pop and a Jr. Bacon, and now I've got this great CandyLand toy. This got me to thinking--if I always order the kids meal, I can develop a toy collection! Substandard toys, yes--but toys nonethless! At this point, when the kids come over, they go directly to the subwoofer, because they know that on top of it is the R2D2 figurine, and the upper half of Darth Sith (He's meant to come apart, as he gets chopped in half in the movie. Can't find his legs, though). In my defense, its not that the kids are horribly bored when they come over; they usually go run on the trail behind our house. Still, makes sense that I have a few tricks up my sleeve, even if those tricks are fastfood-quality toys.

I eat fast food. I do. I'm not going to turn my nose up and deny McDonald's three times before the cock crows. When I am out running the road (I've put 1500 miles on my Jeep since we bought it a month ago), Mickey-D's or some other such garbage is what's available. It suits my time schedule, and it doesn't upset my stomach. I don't have one of those ultra-sensitive "My stomach hurts when I eat roadkill because I eat well consistently" stomachs.

Anyway, one thing that often vexes me, in dealing with fast food, is the gigundo portion of food that I'm only really going to eat half of. Another thing that vexes me, is that I have eight nieces and nephews age ten and under, and no toys for them to play with when they come over (aside from the poor little star wars figurines that we've acquired-I say acquired so as to not underscore our geekiness). I believe I have found a single solution to these two unrelated vexations!

Somedays I'm on top

2008-09-05T19:32:00.000-07:00

Thursday was a day like that. I can't quite explain it--some people look at astrological cycles, or hormonal cycles. I don't get real into it. I just know that I was wearing a tie, and it was orange plaid, and any time any part of me is wearing orange plaid, nothing can go wrong.

Work was great. I was over-efficient. I locked myself in the office and made many phone calls, cleared up many claims. Some days, insurance companies are worth calling. A trick of the job is knowin when its a day to call them, and when to leave them well enough alone. It was the tie. Orange plaid.

My comp II class went extremely well, and it was a relief considering the anxiety I have every day going into that class. I had them read Ray Bradbury's short story "Kaleidoscope," a story I have been fascinated by since childhood. It was a scaffolding exercise for a four part "Personal Casebook" I'm having them create. I'm asking them to identify themselves in different aspects:
1.) where their names come from (does it fit you? would you want to change it? why? to what?)
2.) where they fit in, in terms of family, and how does being a daughter, aunt, uncle, father, etc... identify them. What do these titles and relationships mean, and how do they help as sources of identification?
3.) where they fit in the cosmos--whether its a religious thing, or a philosophical one, you can get a sense of your identity when you imagine yourself faced with imminent death (thus the Bradbury story) and
4.) pick a piece of artwork that you can relate to/identify with and explain how it relates to you.

Next in line is an assignment that will require some genealogy work, as I will ask them to consider where their familes come from (this may require some phonecalls to parents, but I'd like it to extend into cultural studies, because they then have to research their heritage). I want them then to pick a point from that culture and do a mini-research project on it...more details later. To be fair, I am sensitive to the student who may not have access to this information, whether they are adopted, or simply have limited access for whatever reason...

anyway, I have things up my sleeve and I'm excited to see that I have at least almost half the class interested in discussion, and even more than that with insightful things to say in their reading responses.

Sunburned from dancing

2008-09-01T19:01:00.001-07:00

It's always a bit anti-climactic, driving home after a performance. You rehearse for what, six weeks? three months? (It depends on the piece) And then its just over, and there's nothing left for you to do but to drive home. On any given day, I typically choose to ride in silence, unless its one of my Great Courses on tape . Tonight, I needed the quiet. I was woozy from all the sunshine, and all the smiles.

Smiles are exhausting. Not just the cheesy "on-stage" smiles. (Believe me, I have those specially designed to not fatigue my face). It's the genuine, o-my-god-they're-cheering-for-me smiles that get tiring. This particular performance is taxing because it's not just one, but three shows within a 5 hour span. That means you have to get psyched up, walk on "stage" (stage being the conventional term, but not really applicable to this particular performance...I'll get to that), psych yourself out, and stop shaking so that your pas de bureaux isn't sloppy, and get on with it--then you're done for an hour, only to repeat the process again, and in our case, a third time. Its an adrenalin roller coaster, and certainly takes its toll by the end of the day. We went out for beers afterward, but were so tired none of us had more than two.

My parents came, which meant a lot to me. I don't think my mother has been able to come to one of my performances since my undergraduate thesis in May 2001. She made fun of my costume (a very cutesy sundress, one that I've "ugh"ed over several times) and my dad leaned in to give me a kiss--again, with the exhausting smiles).

We did REALLY well, which is a relief. Six weeks is not a long time to rehearse, and I don't think we had all of us together at the same time until dress , which then went badly for technical reasons (btw, if someone knows of any dress rehearsal on earth that's ever gone well, please let me know!). It pulled together beautifully today. We dance on a stone sculpture, and then walk into a reflecting pond. Incidentally, said pond has multiple signs surrounding it "NO swimming NO wading" But it doesn't say NO dancing!(we also have an insurance policy specific to this event...silly bureaucracy) So, it's not a stage. As my dad says, "It's 3D" because our atmostphere, the sculpture and the pool, are as much a part of the dance as the choreography and the music.

I have been thinking so much about my Curriculum Vitae lately, and personal statements--in fact, that is what occupied my mind on my quiet ride home tonight. Here's something that I just spent 6 weeks to create. Its done in an instant, everyone's back home and there's a wee little line on the CV under the fucking "extracurricular" section, or something else just as lame. But this is something that hundreds of people came to today! I hate to think of the truly awesome and enriching experiences of my life as notches on a belt (mind you, that belt is purple velvet...) or lines on a CV. And yet, my graduate experience has taught me to do just that. I'm a paper doll--quite literally, because whoever sees my application sees just that, paper. These applications raise a unique and hair-raising challenge that I'm not sure quite how to meet yet.

Hallway Hello from Professor Emeritus

2008-08-28T18:56:00.000-07:00

Some professors are big hallway talkers, and others zip on by with a curt nod. I think that, although I'd like to deny it, I am a hallway person. I swear, it just clears my head to do a quick lap or two (the grad student offices smell sometimes, honest). Still, I had to laugh when, reviewing Gregory Semenza's Graduate Study for the 21st Century, I discovered that his classification of academic department 'types' lists grad students right alongside the Faculty-Hall Talkers.

(Segue into content of blog)

Yesterday I spied the most notorious "zipper" of the department, my theory professor last spring. I prepared to aim a nod in his direction and finish my lap, but then I realized he was stopped in the doorway waiting to speak to me. He wanted to talk to me about one of my answers from the final exam, and commend me on my performance. He had already done so in his email response last May, which was why I was surprised that he was handing out the real live "attaboy." If I had a tail, I woulda wagged it. Instead, I just shook my hind end awkwardly (note to self, stop shaking your hind end awkwardy in public).

I thought I'd share it. I feel kinda bad that only about 3 sentences from my essay actually dealt with the subject matter in an academic sense, and those are an awkward, crammed-in coupla sentences. The exam called for a description of the sublime in our own experience, backed by the definitions from the readings of Kant/Burke/Wordsworth. Keep in mind, when the writing is choppy and awkward, that it was a timed exam. Keep in mind, when the writing is smooth and clever, that it was a timed exam.

Enough with the disclaimers...(clears throat):

I had never really been on a ferry or a boat before, especially not for more than a quick trip across Lake Erie—and then, it was during the day, and my mother was with me the whole time. Usually, in those short little treks, we would have to park our car in the lot and then board the vessel. This time, we drove into the ferry and parked in one of the three humongous carports deep in its underbelly. It was nighttime, and so the lights from inside the ship shone outward into the dark. I couldn’t see the water, but the salty smell pricked in my nose and I could hear waves lapping against the ship. We were going to cross the Atlantic ocean between Nova Scotia and Newfoundland. The trip would take nine hours, overnight. It seemed as if we were in a hotel on water—what with the bad carpeting (I mean, where do people get those patterns?), lounges where people sat watching movies, a restaurant and a bar. There weren’t any luxury suites where I was headed, though. The beds were more like barracks. My poor mom and grandpa had to share a bunkbed. I lay there on the top bunk, my nose hardly a foot from the ceiling, and listened while the general clutter of people settling in died down and faded into a rumble of deep breathing, and a few occasional snorts.

I climbed out of bed and began to wander the ferry. The people at the bar were enjoying themselves and mortifying the waitstaff. The movie lounge was playing the same movie again, and there was a couple doing something there that they should have been doing back in the bunk (though it was just about as public in the barracks).

Bored and tired--but curious--I began to snoop. I found a back staircase where my footsteps echoed jarringly against the clanking metal, and eventually, somehow, found myself on the deck of the ship. When the door swung shut behind me with a loud clang, terror gripped me: I was alone on the deck of the ship, it was far past midnight. My mother didn't know where I was. Taking a few cautious steps forward, my fingers found the ship’s cold railing. I slowly exhaled as I took in my surroundings. Fifteen years later, I don’t think I’ve ever completely taken in that sight.

Black. Complete, utter blackness—surrounding me on all sides. I couldn’t tell where the ocean stopped and the sky started, or where the sky stopped and the ocean started. The stars glared fiercely as I had never seen them do on land. I suddenly understood the constellations, carrying on the lives and legends for eternity from within the stars. I suddenly--finally--understood God’s promise to Abraham, that these stars were his children, and so was I.

I didn’t dare look over the edge of the boat, I didn’t have to. I knew that the water beneath me went as deep down as they sky above me went up, and I was there, puny, balancing between the two—what was keeping me from just falling off? Which end was up? This moment altered my understanding of the universe. For the first time, I knew myself as infinitesimally small, and absolutely frail. My fear emanated from a part of me that I didn’t know existed, a deep primal instinct of sensory perception, and I perceived fear. When these big shot Romantic poets talk about the sublime, I am in their number. I had experienced the sublime long before I ever knew such a thing existed. Now, as a graduate student, I read Kant and Burke when they talk about the sublime and I understand them on a deeply intrinsic level. When I emerged on the deck of the ship and saw the gaping blackness, I experienced what Burke did. I understood the sublime as Kant determines it as well, in his enumeration of it as boundless, and of extensive quantity: never had I known the stars so well, and that there were so many. His sublime involves reason insofar as it pertains to morality, human purpose, dignity and endurance in life. Seeing the night like that for the first time was like seeing the planet naked, and my entire worldview shifted at that moment. The foundation of the sublime is in ourselves, and in our attitude. I took ahold of that moment and made it sublime by my interaction with it.

My biggest regret: I said "yada yada" too much today.

2008-08-25T18:27:00.000-07:00

I meant well when I got out of bed this morning, I really did. But the day was reluctant to play along. In the end, I felt triumphant--I mean, it was the first day, after all. I made it through.

First: Work. I was standing patiently, listening to my boss's instructions for a special therapy on a patient. This patient, whom I have known for some time, studies me for a moment then says, "Well, you must be well adjusted to married life--you sure do listen well."

Second: School. I got one of my first doses of outright competitive rudeness. I mentioned that I was dreading a class. Although I was referring only to its time slot (it is a late seminar), a young lady asks, "Oh, you don't like that it's old ?" I couldn't help getting ye olde vibe that she thought I couldn't handle *gasp* 17th century poetry. Ergh. I'm not a grad school grudge holder, and I don't think I can measure my worth by comparing how far back my literary tastes lie, but I couldn't help following her question with a very direct, "Where were you when we were studying Chaucer?"

Third: The mail on the counter. My suspicions were confirmed that I should take the GRE again. I mean, don't get me wrong--it was a'ight. But just that. A'ight. I had certainly hoped to do better on the analytical writing section.

All in all, it was a pretty good first day--I mean, I didn't black out. Once I was in the classroom teaching, the lights turned on and the performance began (I never considered myself a class clown until I was the one teaching the class:). The crowning achievement was my epiphany on the way home for a very fun and challenging opening assignment for my Comp II class (to replace the rather bland and insecure one I had initially considered).

Now I fear nothing. I have a plan!

New beginnings, new classes and interesting encounters

2008-08-22T15:34:00.000-07:00

I was "oriented" today. My syllabacuses were OKed. As far as my beginning composition class is concerned, I feel quite confident: this is my third time teaching it. Obviously, this in no way makes me an expert, but it certainly allows for some easier breathing compared to my second class, which I am teaching this semester for the first time. As of yet--despite a summer's worth of discussion with various family members and other teachers-- I still don't feel that I have any great ideas. I will do my best, and will always be at least a coupla steps ahead of my students. Aside from that, I got nuthin.

I need to realize that at this point in my teaching career, not everything I do in my classroom is going to be uber creative and completely original. While of course that is my goal, I need to worry about being efficient before I worry about becoming Ms. Frizzle (best teacher ever). It's going to take a few tries to taylor my assignments, finding out what works best along the way. Aside from that, my biggest enemy is confidence. What if I fail? What if someone walks away from my class thinking, wtf? I can't wait to talk to myself four months from now, to see what I have learned, and to see if I've figured it out or not!

I mentioned, in casual conversation with one of the faculty members (as casual as a conversation with a faculty member can be), that I found her syllabus and class structure helpful in preparing my own. I figured it might be an opportunity to hear her philosophy on the class itself, and the approach she uses with her students. Boy, I got more than I bargained for. She immediately invited me to one of her online forums--and not just via email: she took me to her office, had me sit down and sign in, and made sure that I was on her list. I learned very quickly that there is nothing casual about this woman. She is intense. Her career history is fascinating, and when I congratulated her on the book she had published that day, she shrugged, "Yeah, I've got two that came out today." I couldn't help but laugh at her deadpan tone.

It seemed very apparent that she was trying to take care of me, and so I wondered how clearly it is written on my face that I'm pretty much clueless as to how to go about this class. I appreciate her generosity with her time, as one thing I've learned in grad school is to be mindful of people's schedules. No, no, I'm hanging out in her sooper posh office while she recommends all kinds of sites and assignments. I was simply overwhelmed, and couldn't help wondering what I'd done to land myself in her good graces! I'm not one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, however, and know that I have found myself a powerful mentor for my teaching in the coming year.

GRE

2008-08-12T13:58:00.000-07:00

I went in with two personalities. One me said, you've got this in the bag; the other me said, you can always take it again. It was a lot less intimidating than going in to the LSAT--no 100 yard long line curling about in the lobby, no thumbprint. Just a couple of chairs and some smiling, helpful faces at the counter. Nonchalant. Go ahead, take your silly test.

I can't really just go in my sweats, though it may be the comfortable route. Casual chic suits me better for these occasions. So, I went in my "new" jeans. See, I got a few pairs from my sister-in-law last May that I had to bend laws of physics to fit into. A few carrots and push ups later, they're my new comfy jeans. A feeling of accomplishment, just by getting dressed. I'm already winning.

I love that they give me ear plugs and giant headphones--I felt like I was gearing up at the shooting gallery (my dad will be proud). How did I do? Well, instead of feeling like crying with shame at the end of it, I felt like laughing at my own ridiculousness-trying to pummel through 8th grade algebra. I felt like one of those really awkward little kid ballerinas, you know--those ones who scrunch up their hands and shoulders into something vaguely reminiscent of first position. That's what I look like trying to do math. A giraffe with strep throat. I could go on. When I told my friend my quantitative score, she straight up laughed at me. So the ridiculousness wasn't just me.

Verbal? A'ight. Just a'ight. I'll wait to see my percentile writing before I decide to take it again. Writing section? I thought I made some very compelling arguments and analyses...whether the graders feel the same remains to be seen. The hard part is over though. Now I know the staff, I know the layout. I can even bring my own earplugs--actually no, they probably wouldn't allow that.

And just for the record, I must be a glutton for punishment because I went to the dentist's office right after the test. Or I might just be sick, because my dentist office's staff always cheers me up. I love those gals (Note: these are not the evil wenches from the oral surgeon's office). They tell me to take more yoga because my jaws won't unclench, and now I have to get some weird "bite plate" thing. They said I can't just use an athletic mouthguard. (I asked).

Things coming up

2008-08-10T19:06:00.000-07:00

OK, OK, so the school year is looming closer and closer. It is my third year in a two year program. I feel like a fossil. A very young fossil with a lot to learn, but a fossil nonetheless. This was the plan from the beginning, but as it nears the end of things, it's harder to deal with. Watching my peers embark on career paths and enter into phD programs is difficult. I didn't attend their graduation because I couldn't help but feel left out--those are the kids I should have walked with (and, because I'm not completely emo, I'll add that I got some overtime for the shift that made me miss the ceremony. What's more important in the long run is that I showed up at the parties with booze). As it stands, the group I will graduate with is primarily rhet/comp, the majority of them slightly older than me, most of them with families. I get along with all of them, but can't help feeling slightly separated and yeah, a lil lonely.

And that's enough feeling sorry for myself. I am in a program with some great students who, because they specialize in the rhet/comp area, are more knowledgable in the teaching/grading aspect of things. I have a lot to learn from them--not just in the academic arena, but in the how-to-manage-a-family-at-the-same-time arena. Furthermore, I chose to do three years in this program from the getgo, so no reason to look down at my feet now. I plan to attack this year with as much energy as I have previously. I mean, heck--I've got a light load this coming semester. Two classes? Compared to my usual four? Bring it! Although (for the record) I will also busy myself with:

--teaching a whole new class, Comp 2, in addition to a completely revamped and web-assisted Comp 1
--applying to phD programs--I have seven in mind at this point (any input as to whether this is enough?)
--working on, if not completing, my Master's paper--hopefully as my writing sample to said phD programs.
--working on, of course, my personal statement: Why am I doing this to myself?
--working in a medical office, under my new title. In addition, I have become the office's primary transcriptionist (I told them I would no longer settle to be the "other" transciptionist. I am no one's mistress).
--performing in a few dance venues locally, in September and December--likely offering some choreography of my own (this will entail about 6-8 hrs per week, more so as things near the performance. My dance friends always laugh at me b/c I grade papers backstage. My family is horrified that I have finally become my mother, the woman famous for grading papers at red lights:)

Disjointed blog: Movie talk, Cat talk, Car talk

2008-07-26T21:33:00.000-07:00

I can never get through A League of Their Own without crying. Terminator gets me, too. Possibly the greatest romance ever told. Romeo n Juliet didn't go across time for each other.

Normally I'd be watching SNL at this point, but it appears we're not getting the local channels for some reason...

I mentioned this to Floyd, who recalled that I'd done some weed-wacking earlier. A certain , peculiar sound came to my mind, one that I heard just as I was using the wacker by the satellite dish. I guess I thought it was a weed. Unfortunately, I was informed that this is one weed that won't just grow back. Yeah, so...moving briskly along!

In other news, I'm going out of town for most of August. I was worried how Floyd would do taking care of the kitten and dog, but it seems that they're doing pretty well taking care of each other:

I love this one--looks like they fell asleep running:

And yes, we got the kitten as an accessory to the dog. As you can see, she is a miniature version of him, with all the same markings, even. Take that, Paris Hilton--what with your "Tinkerbell" dog and handbag. We just got a whole new kitten, straight up, to decorate our dog!

And my best news yet? I got a new car today! It doesn't make horrendous, gut-wrenching sounds when it's started, and *gasp* it isn't halfway rusted through in some places! Now, not to say the old truck wa'nt all that. It looked ugly but had brand new shocks, brakes, and many other essentials (I lost track). Still, I never had a connection with it, it was never "mine." The new one, though...it was meant for me. I'm really trying to treasure this 'new car feeling' because it expires about as quickly as 'new car smell.'

It was interesting and horrible to get "financed." I am so naive about money and credit its embarassing, though I learned a lot today. Either way, what matters is that I used to just get a new back pack for the school year...this time I got a whole new ride! :)

Mutability

2008-07-25T20:24:00.000-07:00

Mutability
We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly!--yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost for ever;

Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.

We rest. -- A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise. -- One wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:

It is the same!--For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutability.

-- Percy Bysshe Shelly
(I can't believe ol' PB stole my blog title.)

A random acquaintance in the vague past once said to me, "You know what I like about you, Beeyotch? You can talk yourself into and out of just about anything. " I haven't seen or heard from this person in years, and can't rightly remember if his name was Jordan or Jason, but his words ring true to me. I can give you a perfectly reasoned and logical argument about why I should go into a physical therapist program, and not English literature (indeed, this decision kept me up late nights, at one point in the semi-near past).

I often trip over my own arguments before they're even on the page, because I already know the counter-argument, or figure there's one out there. This doesn't make me good at arguing, unfortunately; it makes me good at getting flustered. Anyway, all of this blathering on is an introduction to my good news, and that is (despite previous blogs such as this one) I will continue working at my present place of employment. Funny-those people who knew me weren't surprised to hear about my letter of resignation. Those same people are likely unsurprised by this latest piece of news. What can I say? I didn't pull the "two weeks notice" as stunt. It just turns out that the job was a lot more willing to work around me than I thought they'd be.

My "last day" was today. The younger doctor , the one who has now taken over the practice, talked to me. We really hashed some things out about reasons I should stay. Most significantly perhaps, a pay raise. One that made me agree to rescind said resignation letter.

A five-dollar-an-hour pay raise. To go along with my new title.

Daaaaay-uuumn.

Yeah, I'm gonna have to get a t-shirt made (with my obnoxious title on it. yes, its so obnoxious I won't print it here, because its so obvious they made it up).

Office meeting next week to discuss staff changes, i.e. Crazy Beeyotch is gonna come down on you with the hurt if ya'll don't shape up. Punkasses.

(Mis)Adventures with Kurt Vonnegut

2008-07-24T20:10:00.001-07:00

I read a lot today. A lot of Kurt Vonnegut, to be precise. I first encountered this author during my road trip from LA to San Francisco in April 2007. Ethan Hawke read The Slaughterhouse Five on audio CD. I was distracted, of course, driving--but I recall it being a pleasant experience. And so it goes.
Today, I finished A Man Without a Country in a few hours. It started off with the wry humor and smugness that I always like to think I'll be able to accomplish myself some day. But then it turned into a bitter rant against the country. While still humorous at times (my favorite quote: "The last thing I ever wanted was to be alive when the three most powerful people on the whole planet would be named Bush, Dick and Colon") the whole thing smacked so much of bitterness that towards the end I could hardly choke it down.

George Bush is an asshole.
No one should own guns.
The earth is going to catch on fire at any given moment because of our consumption of fossil fuels.
The world is going to hell in a handbasket.
Oh yeah, and America sucks.

I was annoyed and disappointed to read this "great American author" and because it was reminiscent of a whiny student paper--moaning and complaining about the injustices of the world and life without offering a fingernail of support. There's no solution proposed. Its just bitching. Save it for your blog.
Well, that's just what I did (obviously).

The Vonnegut scenario continues because, as it happens, I checked out two of his books from the library. What do you do when you're disgusted with an author? Read another one of his books! I figured that Cat's Cradle was published 1973...maybe he wasn't as curmudgeony then. Gaw. This one has more of a plot line, so its not just spewing out raw bitter. There's a lot of random aliens, and insanity, and I'm liking it better. Still. He's so angry, so negative...I don't know how much more I can take of it. I'm not saying that the man doesn't come across a solid point every now and again, its just all the garbage inbetween.

He's such a fad. He's so that guy at the coffeehouse who chainsmokes and wears black turtlenecks and always looks around with disdain at the people who put cream or sugar in their coffee. He's that guy who's always preaching about some cause and rolling his eyes at you that you haven't heard about the rampant anthill burning on 12th st, or some other such disgrace to humankind. And yet, in all his disgust for the human race, he manages to spend a lot of time talking about "Wide Open Beavers" as if that's helping anything. Ass.

Ick. What drove me even more crazy was the bit in A Man without a Country when he goes over fan mail. What kind of fans do you have, who write this: "I'd love to know your thoughts for a woman of 43 who is finally going to have a child but is wary of bringing a new life into such a frightening world." Please. You're 43, and pregnant for the first time. Write the guy who talks about upskirt shots and women with their legs splayed wide open, cos he's your last hope for true human dignity.

I dunno. I'm mad because Vonnegut is supposed to be so "cool" and all the hipsters who don't read books like to read his books. And this is all he's got? Whining? Give me a break.

Medical Office Workers

2008-07-17T08:25:00.000-07:00

Is it just me, or is the bulk of medical office workers a cranky, irritable bunch? I say this as a member of said profession, and feel myself more licensed to speak freely on account of this. Agh--it burns me up! That cheerless, monotone voice that greets you on the telephone after minutes of navigating through automated systems--the cheerless monotone voice that utters a few curt syllables before sending you back into the ethereal world of bad muzak and audio-mercials (I don't know the term for those lil blurbs during your hold time). How hard is it to offer a little intonation, a little emphasis or *gasp* a little human courtesy? I can gripe about phone etiquette all day long, seriously. My view is, if you don't know how to converse in a manner that exudes even a minimal veneer of kindness, then don't answer the phone (perhaps this explains the automated system?).

On the other hand: patients, do remember that the person you are speaking to is very busy, and it is not necessary for you to explain your plans for the entire day, and any opinions therein, in order for the employee to assist you. Also, it is not necessary for you to speak to the doctor. The doctor is seeing patients. You cannot be diagnosed over the phone (try putting the phone up to the puddle of blood, does this work?). Schedule an appointment, or go to the emergency room.

Today, I went to the office of an oral surgeon for a consultation. Impacted wisdom teeth, no biggie. I called an hour before my appointment to make sure my referral and x-rays are in place. I was answered with a sigh, and "hang on." After a few moments of hold music, the woman returned to the line and tersely replied, "Your things are here. See you in an hour." I felt like I had been a nuisance to this woman, and a detriment to her morning. And yet, it was very clearly stated on the intake forms--in all capital letters, no less--that the patient is responsible for securing x-rays and referrals. Even in abiding by office policy, I was an inconvenience.

Maybe they were mad because, on those intake forms, where everything was a barked order bordering on a threat, I found three spelling errors and circled them.

I was not greeted. The woman muttered "Can I help you?" without making eye contact, and while shuffling papers in an official manner. I shyly stated my name and presented my dental insurance card and my drivers license. Again, without looking at me, she said "You didn't bring your health insurance card?" I scrambled in my purse for the "requested" item and could feel the strain on the woman as she fought against rolling her eyes. I felt like a blundering idiot, and hoped against hope that no patient ever felt this way when entering my office. The recent offer of management rang in my memory, and I thought that I might just have to accept the offer on behalf of the common good, so that employees like these would no longer be allowed to intimidate patients--at least not under my watch.

As I was checking out (after being sufficiently impressed with the courtesy and 'bedside manner' of the oral surgeon) I was more comfortable, and the woman helping me was willing to smile. Once you've talked to the doctor, you enter a higher rank, I guess--or perhaps once its been determined that the insurance is legit. In the midst of our discussion regarding deductibles and annual maximums, a cellphone rang. Loudly. I recalled the domineering sign posted in front of the waiting room: "Absolutely NO cellphones. Turn cellphones OFF" The woman I was in mid-sentence with turned away from me and reached under the counter, producing a vibrating, singing, pink plastic monstrosity, and proceeded to answer it. She made her plans with the person on the phone, agreeing to meet after she got off of work at two. She hung up the phone and, without an apology or even an acknowledgement of the outrageous faux pas she has committed in front of my very eyes, asks when I would like to schedule the surgery.

I am livid. I am looking at other employees to see if anyone else has found this in the least bit out of place. No one seems to have noticed. So, now I'm helpless. I want to call her out for being unprofessional and straight out rude, but I'm stuck: I don't know which one of these ladies is going to be administering my anaesthesia, my IV, the nitrous...Do I really want to fly off the handle for what is apparently a common occurrence, and risk my own comfort? Call me paranoid, call me a wuss. I left without saying a word.

Tempting offers

2008-07-15T19:42:00.001-07:00

Introductory digression: I feel as rustic as can be, pouring homebrew from the spout in the garage with only the aid of moonlight! This kiwi-wheat is incredible! I've never seen anything like it sold, but I'd recommend it to anyone for a light summer beer. It's not as tart as something like "Summer Shandy," but holds all the smoothness of your "Hoegaarden" (forgive me if that's a mispelling).

My previous blog (here, if you're interested) talks about working for the sake of working, rather than out of a need to work. I also admit, however, that I am completely guilty of this very thing. For instance, I put in my two weeks and yet am readily taken in by their counter offer.

Let me be clear: I didn't put my two-weeks in out of hard feelings. Something has come up that will cause my absence for the larger part of July and August, and its something important enough to me that I would quit my job for it. I can't just "take off" for a month and expect my job to be waiting for me when I get back. They assure me otherwise. Even my co-workers, those that I was most worried about upsetting, are asking if I will come back.

My other reason for quitting, I admit, is that it was somewhat bothersome to me that, despite training 6 employees in the past two years (4 of whom still work there) and being directly and solely responsible for recovering thousands of dollars in unbilled transactions, I was never given a title. As far as my resume is concerned, I have never been more than someone's assistant. I understand that with a title, comes more responsibility, etc. The problem is, I have been understaking all that responsibility for some time now, bearing the brunt of co-worker's grumblings (even their grumblings against me when I settled fights), and yet the position/pay of office manager has been left with someone who has been on maternity leave for about two years.

(side note: while my current employer is not aware that I have a blog, or even an email for that matter, I only write about this freely because I have already discussed these things with them)

So I quit; my last day is in about a week. Now they are saying, dude, just come back after a month. There's a spot for you, and its a manager's position with corresponding pay raise. Come in once, maybe twice a week, whenever you want--make up your own hours. We need you.

Yowza. Just dim the lights, pour the martini, and call me tempted. It's really nice to be needed.

* * *

On the dance front, I have just begun rehearsal for a Labor Day performance. This same group also performed last year in the same locale, a great big wading pool downtown. Said wading pool is completely off limits to anyone without appropriate insurance policy, so its not exactly relaxing--and hey, we're only in it after months of rehearsal (of "choreographed splashing"). While the dance venue itself is essentially the same from last year (with a few different dancers), the venue has changed to include an auction of "local celebrity art." Now, I'm the last one to knock this great place I'm from, in fact I'm usually the first and last to defend it amongst friends, but as far as "local celebrities" are concerned, I wasn't sure exactly what she meant, this gal in charge. Then she mentioned the first volunteer to call with a contribution to the auction---*ahem* the mayor's wife. So, I guess I'm rollin' with the big-hitters, now. It should be a semi-intersting turn of events--likely including an unpleasant few weeks whilst I balance rehearsals with the start of the school year. I did the same thing last year, though, and lived to tell about it. In an ideal world, my dance rehearsals are an escape from the hustle n bustle of more demanding, if not thankless, everyday life.

Nine lives? Three down, six to go (and she's only 8 weeks old)

2008-07-11T15:19:00.001-07:00

In previous blogs (Das Kitten and this one), I have discussed Kitten's near death experiences. She has always managed to pull through.

Today was closer than ever...but it wasn't hypoglycemia. Nope--no maple syrup required. Today's the day she finally jumped up high enough to take a chunk outta these puppies:

Warning: gratuitous photo of canine scrotum.

**balls shown not actual size**

Fortunately, I think she's gonna make it (she's quick, that one). I'm not quite as sure about the dog, however...

Yay for homework

2008-07-10T19:30:00.000-07:00

I've gotten a lot done this week!
*
I am nearly through with Persuasion, our next book for group discussion (by group, I mean two of us at a bar, and a few people vicariously through email and phone conversation). In my summer class on Austen last year, the prof's famous mantra was "sometime next summer, when you're on the beach reading Jane Austen, think about this..." (after which he would introduce some intriguing tidbit). I'm just waiting for a nice sizzler, so we can have a Jane Austen bikini party.
*
I turned in my letter of resignation at work. This is bittersweet, to say the least. I am fortunate enough to say that I truly enjoy my job and get along with my coworkers (well, there's some love/hate bidness, but for the most part...) Nonetheless, due to extenuating circumstances surrounding the job and my own situation, the time has come .

Doc and I haven't really talked about it much. He is the one who asked me, during the interview, why he should hire me over the other applicants, many (if not all) of whom had previous office experience. I replied, point blank, "Because I'm going to work like a horse, with less mess." (I went home and told my husband that I blew the interview with that ridiculous statement.) Four years later, I have graduated from main therapy assistant to front desk to billing and personal injury specialist; I have trained six employees, four of whom have worked there for over a year now, if not longer. Doc still repeats the "horse" story-- verbatim-- when he is showing off about his staff.

*
I busted out the GRE book a few more times and, when I stop to pick up some notecards, I'll be unstoppable.
(until I get to the quantitative section, that is)

*
I polished off one brand-spankin-new syllabus for a remodeled Comp One course. This coming fall my classroom is web-enhanced, and I'd really like my syllabus design to take advantage of that. I haven't really even explored all of the possibilities just yet, but it was fun to revamp old assignments and "lectures" (if you can call the blatherings of a teaching assistant a 'lecture') with technological supplement in mind. Simply put, the world is at my fingerpoints. My biggest concern, at this point, is practice time--you know, I need to be able to navigate scary, expensive equipment with the help (and suggestions, I'm sure) of an audience!

Practically speaking, my students will be able to complete a large amount of their class work there, in the classroom. Now, I had a few fellow TAs suggested that this was a bad idea, that homework is homework, etc, and I should use time in the classroom for discussion and so on. Right. My version of leading discussion is turning red in the face and hoping someone else will raise their hand so that I don't have to have a ready response to the suggestions and comments. I am awful at facilitating discussion, and find that 80% of what comes out of my mouth is padding for the miniscule point I try to make. I have faith that with more experience, this will work itself out. In the meantime I have a media-enhanced classroom. Go watch youtube, kids.

Anyway, my take on the 'using classtime for classtime' is that its still classwork, and its ready access to a computer, which not all of my students have off campus. Besides, procrastination is procrastination. If they're not using allotted class time to write for me, then they're staying up till 2 am the night before and handing in a shotty essay.

Then again...with some of the latest conceptions(see blogs on concern for higher education) that higher education ought to consist of sitting in front of computer screens and having peer reviews--neglecting any type of teacher input-- part of me wants to get out of the digi-classroom, go all "O Captain my captain" and have class on the front lawn of the university. You know, make em write poetry or something.

More on syllabus type stuff later.

Two week's notice, and then some

2008-07-08T09:51:00.000-07:00

I guess I've done a giant turnaround this summer--from looking at getting a second job, to reassessing my life, time and money and realizing that I don't want--and more importantedly don't need--the job I have. I write this cautiously, particularly considering Notorious phD's recent post about the necessity of second jobs for academics; I am in a position that does not require me to have a job outside of academia. I am very aware of my good fortune, and in order to not sound like a total pansy, I can only add that my good fortune comes with a price:

1.) government restitution for my dad's Vietnam-induced [mental] illness (thank you, Uncle Sam)
2.) working full-time to maintain a marriage--but he's really good looking, so he makes the job easy;)

I want to have the chip on my shoulder, knowing that I worked my way through grad school and maintained my GPA despite having outside employment (which is a no-no at my institution). But am I working because I have to? No, I'm working for the inward satisfaction of working, the feel of being in control. Each week, outside of all the crazy stress of juggling my own classwork and that of my students, I would enter this haven at the office, because there things weren't so theoretical--let's face it, they weren't so challenging (though I have often accused insurance reps of being theoretical: "In theory your insurance covers this...").

Work provided an easy sense of accomplishment that was comforting, especially while I was in the midst of three (if not four, five...) ongoing projects at school. What's even better is that when it came to dictating letters, my "expertise" was always deferred to (by doctors, even:) thus stroking my ego. But the bottom line is, when it came to the paycheck, there was little to be done with it. It did little more than pad my daily trips to the Student Union or local crap-dash Irish pub to drink beer with friends. I tend to work just to work, something I always held against my mother, textbook workaholic.

I have been an employee, at one company or another, since I was 14, when I replaced my sister (who had to quit as she went into labor with her first child) as a cleaning lady for local businesses. I was the only sophomore who didn't have to get my lunch money from my parents and when it came to the "extra-curricular activities" of a deviant high schooler, lets just say I was able to fund myself.

I enjoy working, and I am aware that I work for the sake of working.

I have the rest of my life to work.

I kicked dinner's ass tonight!

2008-07-07T16:33:00.000-07:00

Normally on a hot & muggy-assed day like today, we either order out or grill. Today, however, Floyd was mowing the lawn (sorta...its kinda broken, so he just does chunks of the lawn at a time) so the grill was out of the picture. We didn't want to order out cos we need to watch our money for the rest of the summer. Why have one meal for $20 (wings/pizza) when you can spend that amount on say, 3-4 meals? And so, in 90 degree weather I donned my long sleeved shirt to guard against the freezing chill of the overly air-conditioned grocery store.

I thought I'd share this evening's success. We only have air conditioning in one room of our house, so we have to be very careful about what we cook if we don't want to be steamed out. This worked (in that it didn't cook us out).

"Chicken Athena" (with slight modifications made by me)
Note: This comes from a cookbook my aunt bought me for xmas, I don't know the name of it cos the cover is now missing (casualties of the kitchen). Every year growing up I would reveive a nice makeup kit from Lancome or Estee Lauder--I never had to buy makeup, ever! Then I got married and started getting cookbooks. Go figure.

You need:

*1 lb chicken, cubed (tonight I bought the pre-grilled/frozen chicken to save time/heat)
*2 cans (14 1/2 oz) stewed tomatoes (i get the kind that are spiced up w/ basil, etc)
*one jar marinated artichoke hearts (the marinade is pretty universal, unless you go to some fancy schmancy store where everything is gourmet, in which case you probably don't need my cooking advice anyway!)
*1 medium sized onion, chopped into big assed chunks.
*1/3 tsp rosemary, crushed
*crumbled feta (optional, but damn good. I recommend the kind laced w/ tomato and basil)
*a few handfuls of fresh spinach
*package tortellini (i get the green kind so's I can tell it apart from the chicken chunks and artichoke hearts, otherwise there's not enough color)
*1 tbsp olive oil

1.) In a big-assed skillet, brown the chicken/olive oil, then add the onion.
2.) add the tomatoes (sauce n all) plus the juice from the artichoke hearts. This is also a good time to add the pasta, as it soaks up alot of the liquid. Despite a few attempts with this recipe, I have yet to have it "thicken" as the original recipe supposes it will. Nonetheless, stir often for about 10 minutes.
3.) Add the artichokes and rosemary, plus the spinach. By the time the spinach gets good n slimy, the artichoke hearts have warmed up.
Its ready to serve! Sprinkle with feta if desired.

The best part? It only takes about 20 minutes and one dish to make this!!

Things that currently occupy my time

2008-07-03T12:20:00.001-07:00

I have been camping a lot recently. All that rain we had? Right in my tent. Nah, not really--I'm actually pretty good at camping, I must say. I set up four tents in the pouring rain in under a half hour last friday, then proceeded to move the tents 200 yards over, in pouring rain and mud b/c my brother needed them there. It was pretty much down to this--either bitch and complain about the rain, or accept it and have fun with it. When was the last time I ran barefoot across a huge field, wielding a 3-man tent over my head, and slid down a mud hill? (Last Friday, if you must know!).

I earned the title "camping queen":

I brought 3 tents, 3 sleeping bags, 5 folding camp-chairs, 8 flashlights, 2 battery-powered alarm clocks, 2 (gigundo) tarps, a plethora of plastic bags (ALWAYS keep one set of clothes/underwear sealed in a plastic bag, so that not if but when all of your belongings are soaked, you can drive home in a dry set of clothes), 4 rain ponchos (they didn't work, though. Think I had it on inside out), 2 umbrellas, three fireside sandwich roasters, banana chips, and an assortment of noodles/inflatable swimming thingies. The finishing touch was the giant hockey goals attached to the top of the truck. My most glorious moment, however, was when my sister-in-law's flip-flops broke (the mud wasn't kind to any of our shoes) and I had an extra pair--in her size (they were pink and sparkly, slightly but comfortably platformed, for $6).

This weekend--actually tonight, we are leaving to my family cabin in Maryland. My great grandfather bought an acre patch for each of his kids, and the family still enjoys it today. There's a lake, a creek, a pond, an octagonal church with a preacher that my mom always picks fights with (she picks fights with a lot of people, this makes her particularly endearing), clean crisp air and lots of woods. Recently, and on several occasions, bears, bobcats and mountain lions have been sighted. My family doesn't do much for birthdays (there was always too many of us to keep track of) and reels away from Christmas, but we do the 4th of July like nobody's bidness. Blowing stuff up, burning things down, and creating general havoc--count us in. The locals (er, natives?) in the valley always come around for our fireworks shows; the sheriff is our cousin--he always chips in on the fireworks fund:)

I like to come "bearing gifts." I bought my mom the 2008 publisher's guide for children's writers/illustrators. Amazon sent the version for "Novel/Short story writers" instead. Rather than return it, I shipped it off to my brother in Cbus, so that his poetry and stories can grace more than just telephone poles (although I like his approach). I bought my mom the appropriate book for her goals. I then bought my sister three sets of bamboo knitting needles and lots of yarn--'spensive yarn that she wouldn't buy for herself. I bought each of the kids a little something from the dollar bin--fancy notepads, miniature plush puppies, scented markers (omGAWD they smell good). I also bought my husband a book about beer, because I love to see people read and that's one of the things he likes to read about (He is also partial to books of mechanical inclination, guitar books, cookbooks, MC Escher books). On a side note, i cannot wait to try his latest beer. Its a wheat beer that he flavored with fresh kiwi, and I've got to tell you, just from taste testing it in the first stages of fermentation, it is incredible! Don't let the kiwi throw you off--it has a mild and subtle finish which I find delectable.

School is coming around the corner, as is the GRE. All in good time. For the first time since I started the program, I want to be done.

2008-06-24T19:30:00.001-07:00

I've reviewed my days in search of blogworthy events and indeed I have found none; and so I will blog mundanely about the mundane events that currently occupy my time which include, but are not limited to, watching kitten grow and learn, dog/cat sitting for my dad, transcription work, organizing my closet, reading The Three Musketeers and completing random shifts at work. Gosh, when I put it all down like that it sounds quite boring. I must assure you, gentle readers, that I am full of excitement and vigor!

Kitten had another scary episode the other day. Upon observing her slip into a semi-conscious state wherein she panted, drooled and twitched I researched, panicked, on the net and confirmed my suspicions. Her symptoms matched those that I described in the previous blog simply as "a very good impression of a kitten that is going to die soon," only they were much more severe. After reviewing a few websites, I concluded she was simply hypoglycemic, and so took the internet's advice and rubbed maple syrup on her gums (didn't have "Karo" syrup, which I guess is the stuff of choice for hypoglycemic kittens. I'd say they don't have much of a choice. She's lucky it wasn't "Lite" syrup, or raspberry flavored, or something similarly horrid). When I took her to the E-vet I was told that this was a wise move, and it did the trick.

E-vet stands for either expensive vet or emergency vet; one and the same. Long story short, the milk we've been giving her is not getting her the right sort of nutrients, or enough of them, and even though I'm supplementing it with dry/softened kitten food, she's not getting enough caloric intake. Thus the hypoglycemia. Well maybe if she'd calm down we wouldn't have this problem!

Obviously, this kitten is becoming very expensive. Here's where the transcription comes in. Typing typing typing all day lets me spend time with Kitten without making me feel like I'm wasting time (you know, wasting time just staring at her, cos she she's so flippin cute) because after all, I'm making money. She attacks my foot, which taps rhythmically on the dictaphone's foot pedal. The lines I've typed pay for the veterinarian instructions and follow ups.

I admit I was arrogant and selfish when I took this Kitten in; enjoying her cuteness and her fondness/need for me, because I wielded the great big bottle in the sky. I figured, I've handled kittens several times, I got this one in the bag. And here I'm doing it wrong, and got a decent slapintheface reality check when I had to tell the e-vet upon entering the facility "I think my kitten is going to die soon, please help." Gosh, if only you could have seen her. There isn't much more heartbreaking than a kitten that looks like its going to die, unless its a kitten that looks like its going to die and its your fault. I kept screwing up my face the whole ride there, fighting back tears because I couldn't help imagining the worst-something I do too often, I admit.

The last time we'd made the ride to the e-vet we left with a dead cat, James Bond Jr, whose still-warm limbs stuck out from its flip flopping body like knitting needles from a pile of yarn; like a deflated bagpipe. I don't think either of us have recovered from this, and the sting was worse when the vet tech, unknowingly, put us in the same room Bond breathed his last breath in on September 15. It was a treacherous trip that night to Meijer, at 1 in the morning, to buy shovels. I have never breathed this out loud...but when I laid him in the little grave we dug, he was still warm.

This is making me sad.

* * *

I am going camping the next two weekends, and then a canoe trip for Floyd's berfday. I've often found tranquil woods more condusive to introspective writing than any solid reading, and so I am bringing along the latest dollar store notebook to fill up with one liners and quips, dates to remember and "deep" thoughts. Or maybe I'll just play with fireworks and magnesium. Stranger things have happened.

Das Kitten

2008-06-18T09:51:00.000-07:00

On Monday when I came home for lunch to check on Kitten she was doing a very good impression of a kitten that is going to die soon. Since I didn't have a Kitten Oscar to give her for her excellent performance, I opted for my second choice, the Kitten Paramedics. The vet took her in right away (love this place--they're the same ones who only charged us $20 for an office visit when Dog chewed cinderblocks) and agreed with me that the kitten "ain't right" (my words, not hers).

Now, I fed Kitten before getting her to the vet--she had an appetite and was purring, but was also doing a lot twitching and making very strange sounds. She would start to to run and then collapse over on herself like a drunk ass. When I called for the appointment that's pretty much exactly how I put it: "Do you have a diagnosis for a twitchy kitten making alien noises?" This seemed to alarm the woman on the phone, thus the immediate appointment.

Of course, once the appointment is made, Kitten begins to behave (as much as the lil varmint can--she has been called Satan Kitty on occasion). She played nicely in her box the whole way there, and was fairly congenial with everyone (she had the entire staff melting, she's so cute) until the vet started to poke and prod at her. The vet called her "grumpy" and I took offense, as I would be grumpy too if you took my temperature that way.

What concerned the vet was Kitten's apparent lack of anything resembling motor control. Granted, she is only four weeks old; even still, she's a bit more "wobbly" than your average kitten (she has been called Drunk Kitty on occasion). This means there is something neurological going on. The vet used scary words that started with "cerebral" and ended with "--phasia" with a few daunting syllables inbetween, but it really just means wobbly.

She also used the term "head trauma" and asked if Kitten may have hit her head on something. Memories of kitten running full bore into the wall came to mind (she has been called Kamikaze Kitty on occasion), and then another memory of an unidentified 'thud' in the middle of the night. "It's possible" I shrugged. But this is OK, vet said, b/c Kittens brains are not fuly connected in all the right ways, so if they get shaken up, there's usually not any permanent damage done.

There is the mystery, however, of the kitten being found alone without a mother or siblings. Did Mama cat know Kitten "weren't right"? Possible birth defect. I am to keep an eye on Kitten, who is doing a better job of keeping an eye on me as she helps me type this blog. I am encouraged that despite her lack of motor skills she is practicing her leaps and her climbing and best of all, her purring.

Anything but transcription

2008-06-17T09:57:00.000-07:00

Medical transcription is tedious work, in case anyone wondered. What's worse in this scenario, is that even though I have the day off from work at the office, I have my boss's voice transported into my living room via this lil electronic device. Ugh. Of course, I do try to fiddle with the speed of the tape, so that he might sound like one of the chipmunks (I wish I could type fast enough to keep up!) and once, accidently, I slowed it down too much and nearly threw the machine across the room cos suddenly my boss was doing a very good Barry White impression (*eek!*).

And so instead of listening to my boss talk about patients on my day off, I am surfing around Amazon and blogging, and blogging about surfing around on Amazon: I am never sure how early to buy my books for the next semester. The good student on my left shoulder tells me to buy them now and peruse them in preparation for the semester. The hillbilly/ruffian on my right shoulder says something to the effect of "*@#!"

I've actually been doing a good job of reading this summer--mainly intros to norton/longman, and other various books I've accumulated--as vague preparation for a GRE in the semi-near future. In addition, I am enjoying Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time (yay, string theory!), not reading The Three Musketeers despite my book group discussion about it tomorrow, and stumbling through The Book of Marjery Kempe.

Part of my hesitation regarding Amazon ordering is the fact that I'm pretty much completely out of room for books in my house, without purchasing another book case and thus re-arranging and cleaning where I've rearranged, and its all quite exhausting just typing about it. Then it occurs to me that there's large number of books on my shelves that I just need to get rid of. Again I say, eek. The idea is terrifying...I mean, just how does one get rid of a book? Here is where my nerdiness, or perhaps my pretentiousness, comes to a hilt. There is a growing list of books that have been on my shelf for years and never opened; those that I saved from undergraduate classes that I figure I might use again at some point; those that were vaguely recommended at some point, or cross-listed with another book I've enjoyed or studied...do I really keep all of these? I like to think of having my very own reference library, and yet this hardly works, because when I need to do that sort of thing--you know, research--I find myself at the "real" library. Plus there's the internet, lots of readable texts there...And so while I have worked long and hard to accumulate such a diverse array of books, I think they have become simply more 'familiar' in the home than actually 'useful' and it will soon come time to shed a few pounds in the literary area.

I sold some books on Amazon, but a lot of what I have left isn't worth much--a random novel here or there doesn't fetch much. There's a "free book" shelf at school but I always feel its more reserved for faculty, even though I've "snuck" a few on there from time to time. There's also a local bookstore that happily takes books, by the box load, in exchange for store credit.

Just what I need.

(On a side note, the owner guy is kinda creepy--he talks to me about Jesus and yet, when a certain friend of mine visits that store, the owner brings him to the secret old-school porn section).

And I am off to type s'more and worry my aching neck.

Things that currently occupy my time

2008-06-12T21:00:00.001-07:00

Since it has heated up around these parts, my brain has vaporized. It's that wonderful part of the year when everything that touches me leaves its impression on me in sweat. When I drive there's a seatbelt streak across my chest; when I want to get up after sitting, even for just a moment, I have to allow time to peel myself off of the chair's surface.

Gross.

I have air conditioning in my Rustbucket of Doom. Yep. I turn it up on high and roll up the windows (well, all except the passenger side one, it doesn't do mucha anything). Steaming hot air pours out of the vents and my skin feels like it might blister. I usually can only keep the air on for a red light, or a city block--aw hell who'm I kidding? I count to ten as fast as I can then shut the damned thing off! But after sitting through that, the ninety degree, damp saturated air is a breath of fresh air.

In other news, I have picked up some extra work transcribing, and so its killing me to sit here in type when I'm not "on the clock" per se. Thus, I am working on photo blogging. Here is my week, in a nutshell:

Burning Magnesium makes for an oh-so-bright yard (I still crack up when I see all the empty chairs--they were only just recently vacated when this shot was taken, on account of the big-assed bright fahr).

Then there were a few decent storms, during which I stood guard on my front porch to make sure that if a funnel cloud forms over the top of my house, I would be the *first* to know about it (note: I have irrational fears of funnel clouds forming directly over my house) On a more practical note, I have larger, insurance related fears about people parking in the grass.

To give you some perspective-the dog weighs 95 lbs and stands about 2 1/2-3 ft off the ground (he won't stand up for me to measure him right now. It's late, I guess).

And of course, Wondercat helps to investigate, too.

Enough of that.

____________________
Grankids came to visit. They come in droves.

I tried giving teaching piano lessons.

Unfortunately, this is my most interested client, my namesake:

While we were busy on the piano, her older brother found me a kitten.

I took her home.

I've got her name narrowed down to one of the two:

"We are Not Keeping this Kitten"

"But YOU got a Motorcycle."

A strange weekend, every year.

2008-06-09T21:34:00.000-07:00

Old Neighborhood Annual Garage Sale.

This year I did not walk around much. I did not purchase a single thing; I did not even stop by a garage sale to turn my nose up at audacious book prices (that guy last year on Pothead Avenue wanted $2 for a paperback. I don't care if it was a classic, I told him he was an idgit--in no uncertain terms, and wished him luck with his flimsy sale. I do not wonder why my husband is not anxious to accompany me on such second hand endeavours).

My friends and I used to count down the days until the festival, and save up our dollars to spend on elephant ears and random trinkets. One year I bought about a dozen Beatles 45's for a quarter apiece. I had counted on them to make me big bucks. They now decorate my staircase. I did make big bucks, however, playing the flute on the street corner, and even wound up in the local paper a few times (apparently this time of year yields slow news days).

The nights that the festivities cooled down were always the most torturous to me. These were the times in which I would sit on my front porch and watch the passerby. I'd look curiously, if not longingly, at those college-aged individuals with bumper stickers on their cars, be-cigaretted and be-sunglassed and be-going-to-a-party-I-was-too-young-to-hope-to-go-to and hope that I would one day be in their number. Some days I wonder if I've ever grown out of this.

My favorite moment, however, was never the festival itself, wherein I felt like a tourist in my own neighborhood (and at the same time one who entertains tourists), but in the days following--when litter drifted across the streets once again trafficked by cars (having been blocked off for two days). Old bookcases and dressers. those with too many stickers and carvings on them to make the sale, decorated the curbsides.

And so, in my own tradition, I took a long walk today the silence following the festival is as refreshing as the moment of silence when you turn off the vacuum cleaner. I reviewed the avenues that adorned my adolescence, and found myself in a range of emotion. It's always faintly sad, to revisit such places, particularly when alone (otherwise you can distract yourself by showing off funny stories about the people who used to live in certain houses, etc). Today my t-shirt showed the sweat on my back, as it was the hottest part of the day; my feet have two new blisters because I walked many, many blocks.

The festival. This year saw the departure of another older brother, one whom I do not believe has left the neighborhood since our family's first encounters there, roughly 15 years ago. Apparently he has tired of living in the so-called "artists residence" (despite the few legitimate artists there, this place is more appropriately realized as a party haven for underaged and spoiled kids who play guitar or make crappy youtube films and call it art) and, thankfully, is moving out. On the slightly more awkward edge of that--he moved today to a semi-distant city with his girlfriend who, up until recently, I simply referred to as "Lil Miss Hotpants." She needed a nickname: tall, slender, attractive blonde, with a fresh law degree though obviously not a brain in her head cos she's dating the dimpled dorkbrain, my brother.

I wasn't much help packing, but I fed them pizza. I also insisted that the long-legged-wonder walk over two blocks (it only takes her two steps) and meet my parents since, after all, she's moving away with my brother. I don't think that's being unreasonable. Who ever said little sisters couldn't be as demanding and domineering as their big brothers? (Don't worry, I already asked her about her GPA. She passed my test, but barely.)

My parents were unusually gracious, especially given the circumstances, i.e "Hi, nice to meet you. Oh, you're moving tomorrow?" I was gracious enough not to point out the blaring double standard evident in the comparison between this reaction to "shacking up", and their reaction to myself when I moved in with the man who is now my husband (i.e. sound of shotgun being loaded, literally. Please give Floyd all due props).

Brother and Beautiful Blonde are gone now. I stopped by earlier. I had promised to help clean, and understood that they weren't actually moving until Tuesday morning. Monday afternoon I found the house empty. This made me feel more like a little sister than ever. I missed the boat. I put down my bucket of cleaning schtuff and took a walk. I stopped in several treelawns to examine telephone poles, and review the posts.

he's boxed up his staples and staple guns, my brother has, and so his occasionally profound poetry will no longer grace the telephone poles of the neighborhood in which we grew up.

Minutes of book group meeting, sorta.

2008-06-05T08:59:00.001-07:00

The so-called "book group" hit the ground running yesterday. The large majority of discussion hinged on matters of menfolk, adventures in the working world, and random bits of hilarity punctuated by requests for more Newcastles. At certain intervals we would return to the book and discuss its nuances and themes, and even take notes on the grandiose thoughts that spewed forth from our master's degrees, such as:

______________________
"Who was the third Musketeer?"

"Well, there's Athos, Porthos...and Abednego! But, who was that fourth guy?"

You mean Donatello?"

______________________

Genius, I tell you. Genius. Almost as good as last week's tattoo. On to the book (which actually is not The Three Amigos-er, Musketeers-as the previous conversation would have you believe. Like I said, there were digressions)... Haven Kimmel's She Got Up Off the Couch is the sequel to the New York Times Bestseller A Girl Named Zippy and, for anyone interested in a lighthearted romp through the heart of the Midwest--told in the voice and perspective of an exuberant young girl--this is the book to read.

Comprised of seemingly unrelated episodes of the young girl, Zippy's, life, this book makes us love and appreciate her, as we become familiar with the architecture of her family and town. The matter-of-fact narration makes for some hilarious and endearing moments, for instance, Zip describes a woman cooking with persimmons: "she even made something with the word "pudding" in the title although of course it was not real pudding because it wasn't chocolate and hadn't come from a box. I was too polite to point the truth out."

The plot moves forward as Zippy observes the progress of her mother, Delonda Jarvis, through college--from the decision to "Get up Off of The Couch" to earning her Master's degree in English and finally, teaching. Concurrently, or perhaps I should say consequently, Zip's parents' marriage lands in the trash bin~I can't say this is a spoiler, as the fact seems apparent from the very beginning of the book. Her father's first dialogue in the book, well towards the end of the first chapter, is a response to watching his wife drive off with a friend to take the College entrance test: "Time was, a woman wouldn't have gotten in a man's marriage that way."

Despite her father's chauvinism and self-centeredness (he always managed to have nice, new clothes, while his daughter trompsed about in second hand everything, even wearing his old shirts, which she was swimming in), we must be careful not to write this man off. His character develops subtely throughout the tales, and we see him through the tender eyes of his daughter, who adores him despite all of our reasons she shouldn't. We don’t often see Delonda communicating directly with her daughter; instead, Zippy narrates her mother's telephone conversations with friends, or discussions with professors. This indirect source of information continues throughout the book, although we see the two bond when Zip accompanies her mother on campus.

[I must depart from the book for a moment here, to express the nostalgia that this book stirred up in me (and my sister, too, I daresay, as she recommended it to me). How often did I sit at the bottom of the stairs, eavesdropping, or even overtly lying on the bed with her, while my mother called her friends from school and church to discuss the important matters of school and church. I loved it when I got to go to classes with my mother. I'd sit there with my multiplication tables, or some scrap paper and crayons, and ignore the old professor who wouldn't stop talking. She would often introduce me afterwards, because she always had follow-up questions to the lectures. Like Zippy said "I went right on hating school as much as any vegetable left in vinegar, but Lord I loved college." Less than ten years later, I sat in the exact same lecture halls, on my own, and finally understood why my mom took me with her: It's scary. ]

Delonda Jarvis' example of stubborn dedication is undeniably a source of inspiration to her two daughters. While they worried about her in the rickety car during her commute, and their complete lack of money, very early in the book, Delonda's influence is felt in Zip's realization: "I knew I should still be worried, but I suddenly felt that anything was possible, and that most things, though certainly not all, would turn out okay."

The dichotomy between youth and age runs throughout the scenarios and, as some of us may relate to, Zippy pinpoints the exact moment as a child when she realized that her life and body would change, too, in the course of time. She was no longer invincible after this realization, and not much later breaks her arm to a horrific extent in a roller-skating accident--I might add how thankful I am that someone finally exposed the true danger of the rollerskating "whip."

Also prevalent in the book is the narrator's wavering stance on Christianity. Zip makes enough knocks at the Bible to make one wonder at her faith, but parries these with some profound observations of the influence of Christ in her life. She sees through the fraudulence of some religious practices, both by her peers and by adults--when she is forced to go to church camp she is the only one who does not accept Christ as her Savior. She also seems to be the only one aware that many of these young women were simply using their conversions as alibis--that after they dedicated themselves to Christ they found it easier to sneak off in the woods with their boyfriends, because no one would suspect them...

In the midst of her aversion to religion, the young girl obviously seeks something larger; "it seemed to me that there was something gigantic going on and it was near to me and also very far away." And so we see the ruminations of a young girl contemplating Christ, or God, or what-have-you--whichever you choose, and whether you are believer or not, I daresay this is something most of us have experienced at some point.

The book weaves about with hilarious and heat-rending tales of small-town life; Haven Kimmel retells the story of childhood with some rural Midwestern distinctions--the fear of tornadoes, the occasional run-in with an angry bull, a perfect wonderment at the number of cats and dogs on a farm (let alone the barn animals) and a general familiarity with farm life, horrendous blizzards, and of course, the rite of passage in which we play with tape recorders. This is a quick, light-hearted read, though it contains some darker overtones. I highly recommend it.

Hurt--an excercise in Modern dance

2008-06-02T18:12:00.001-07:00

Perhaps its the amount of Johnny Cash I've been hearing lately, as my husband teaches himself guitar, but this piece really struck a chord wtih me.

I've got the dancing blues

2008-06-02T17:08:00.000-07:00

I have gone through phases in my dance life, between complete stagnance, and then on the other end of the spectrum when I danced upwards of 25 hours a week (oh, that lovely Humanities Senior Thesis!). By all measure, this is a "time of plenty" in my dance life. I am involved in two sectors of the same company. The first component is paired with a drum ensemble; we perform traditional west-African, Haitian and Carribean dance. The second part of the company is one bent on choreographing and dancing in the Modern style.

Lately, I must tell you, I have been experiencing some difficulty in my enjoyment of dance. I rehearse at least twice a week, and perform at venues in varying levels of grandeur at least every two months (whether it be a small showing at an elementary school, or a blowout at the Art Museum).

And yet, despite a seemingly comfortable schedule, I am, somewhat unsatisfied. Part of this comes from the rehearsal schedule itself, which coincides with great chunks of time in which I could be spending quality time with the man; we rarely see each other during the week (AHA! It wasn't just school!) and so the weekends are spent stealing moments between rehearsal time and running errands.

On top of the scheduling factor is the general upkeep of rehearsal time. It is not well spent. There are far too many breaks for discussion--whether or not it is related to dance. I am guilty in participation, so I must limit my disdain. What truly frustrates me, however, is the time sometimes spent vocalizing our way through the movements, rather than just doing them.

Part of my vexation, I do believe, could be partially assuaged if I were to become more aggressive with my own choreography. I have attempted a few times to introduce new pieces to the group, and for one reason or another I falter. It has to do with lack of confidence and fearing that I am boring the group; however, I absolutely need to get this out of my head. As much as I truly ADORE [most of] the choreography with which I am presented, it is essential to maintain a large amount of diversity and eclectic movement within a dance company. I need to color the repertoire with my choreography.

The latest piece we are working on is to the music of "Dead Can Dance" and, reflecting the cold detachment of the vocals, vaguely depicts the stillness of winter. One of the pieces I attempted to introduce is largely based on summertime feel, and I would like to re-incorporate it now, as a contrast to the winter bit. It's a bit I presented in one of my choreography classes a million years ago, set to "Steppin Razor" (the Sublime version, actually, not Peter Tosh). In addition to this (now I'm gettin too big fer my britches) I'd like to see the group come up with autumn and spring pieces.

Perhaps the seasons are hackneyed, I admit. But a unifying theme through a few of our pieces would be lovely, in my opinion. Besides all that, a little side project of my own might just be what I need to get me out this dance rut. It's unfair to have a "rut" experience in the one activity that is meant to enliven and inspire.

Speaking of inspiration, I thought I'd share something that I enjoyed this evening. I've seen Alvin Ailey Company twice now , and they are beyond magnificent. When all else fails when one is seeking inspiration, youtube search "modern dance" :)

Here's a blurb, first off, from http://www.alvinailey.org/page.php?p=bal_d&sec=aaadt&v=30:

Alvin Ailey said that one of America’s richest treasures was the cultural heritage of the African-American - ”sometimes sorrowful, sometimes jubilant, but always hopeful.” This enduring classic is a tribute to that heritage and to Ailey’s genius. Using African-American religious music - spirituals, song-sermons, gospel songs and holy blues - this suite fervently explores the places of deepest grief and holiest joy in the soul.

and here's the video link to its dramatic opening piece:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=APpll8MVs74

I hate standardized tests

2008-05-28T20:34:00.001-07:00

Like many people, I share a long and bitter history with standardized tests. Mine began in kindergarten, though why I had to take such a test then is beyond my understanding, or recollection. I do, however, recall the argument:

It was one of these--"Which one of these do not fit?" and they'd have, say a dog, cat, fish and giraffe. The latter, of course, is not a common household pet and thus, for the simplicity of my example, was the correct answer. The question I recall is a bit more involved. I was given the following geometric shapes:

a.) square
b.) rectangle
c.) circle
d.) triangle

Which of these do not belong with the others? Well-its tricky, if you ask me, even now. See, the answer is the circle--it doesn't belong because it doesn't have any pointy edges/angles sticking out, right? But I argued long and hard with the lady giving me the test. The square, rectangle and circle all have one thing in common--that is, they can all be divided up easily into four parts, while the triangle cannot. And so I had insisted upon the poor little triangle whilst it indeed appears I was sposed to vote for the circle.

I share this story because I am attempting to prepare for the GRE, but running into the same type of problem. For example, here in the "analogies section":

14. SKI : SNOW
A. drive: car
B. gold: putt
C. dance: step
D. skate: ice
E. ride: horse

What was your answer? Don't bother defending it, if it wasn't "E" as there's no such chance on the test itself---perhaps explains why I am particularly bitter. But, just to humor ourselves (and for people to educate me, if I am indeed being asinine ), don't you think that the relationship, analogically speaking, is closer between ski/snow; skate/ice, than it is between ski/ride; snow/horse?

askdfjtuioeghiudhviuehfgerughweiurtywetr--in other words, "grrrrr"

I hate standardized tests.

I have another example:

TARANTULA : SPIDER
A. mare: stallion
B. milk: cow
C. fly: parasite
D. sheep: grass
E. drone: bee

My thought was "C" because a tarantula is a type of spider, as as fly is a type of parasite ( although i suppose this is arguable?). I was indeed tempted by "E" I will admit, but was immediately concerned with the fact that typically all the drone bees are male, and a tarantula spider is by no means automorically male. Thus, I opted for C and was corrected. I should have gone for E, the correct answer.

Am i absolutely wrong about my approach to these craptaculous tests? I have yet to meet a single person with a positive attitude towards standardization of this sort, except of course for those who score well on them. These are the people I just hate in my heart, secretly, whilst I heartily congratulate them on their performance, after whcih I suddenly have a bout of coughing, that sounds like this:

*cough* pull a TONYA HARDING *cough*

but my body guard never comes through.

I had to go through summer school because I couldn't pass the 9th grade proficiency test in math; it wasn't until my third time through that I passed (I"ll have you know that i flunked by 6 pts the first time and 3 pts the second time). Meanwhile, I went on to take "Math for the Life sciences" (essentially precalc/calc) at the college level (one of those big lecture hall courses) when I was 16 and received a B+.

Typically--though its been a lil while since I've filled out an application (I've got plenty of practice comin up)--there's a slot wherein you can explain your shortcomings insofar as standardized tests are concerned. I have an easilyo demonstratable issue with these tests and yet, I am reaching a point in which I'd prefer not to accentuate any hint of an illegitimacy on my part and instead focus on the illegitimacy of the tests, and the testing system itself! Yes, I feel that there is a shortcoming regarding the procedure and practice of the GRE itself...take THAT. I hope that somone readig this can enlighten me on exactly what the GRE is able to do that a decent interview (whether online, via telephone, or in person) cannot.

We complain about these automated systems that dominate our lives now-whether its "please hold, we have an important message..." or "due to a significant call volume, all operators are currently busy with other calls..." or "please listen carefully to the fllowing options, as our menu has changed [but the menu is always the same!]" but I am as of yet unconvinced that these crap-ass fill-in-the-bubble tests, or 'click here' tests, are anything different than an automated weeding out process in lieu of an actual interview. In thirty years, or less, dear god I hope, when I conduct new-student applications, perhaps I will be corrected. In the meantime, if someone reads this and finds my assessment to be absolute malarky, please say so. Otherwise, I will continue to spout off and be generally cranky.

If nothing else, it might make me stick out more than my fellow applicants, who would likely spend their time more wisely explaining their 'test taking shortcomings', than my aggressive "GRE Blows" approach. Perhaps I am experiencing a bitter moment in my preparation for the test, forgive me.

An exciting day to be my pet

2008-05-27T19:24:00.000-07:00

Something happened to me today which has never, ever happened to me before, and which I doubt will ever, ever happen to me again--

I walked out of the vet's office and only paid $20, which was my bill in full.
I really needed a vet visit where they gave me good news (last time, we had to put a kitty down), and this was it--although the dog's teeth are indeed chipped, no root canal or extraction is required. Perhaps, the vet kindly suggested, he shouldn't be chewing on any more rocks. Cinder blocks, we corrected. He had been chewing on cinder blocks.

Nonetheless, the vet's advice was duly noted.

Here's the old man (though he looks quite perky in this picture!):

In other news, the cat dragged something in today--more specifically, something attached itself to the cat. I don't know where she found this thing...

Didja get a good look at it? Try this one:

That's right! It's a praying mantis! As far as the cat was concerned, however, it was a shishkabob attached to her face...

Animal matters

2008-05-27T19:03:00.000-07:00

Something happened to me today which has never, ever happened to me before, and which I doubt will ever, ever happen to me again--

I walked out of the vet's office and only paid $20, which was my bill in full.

I really needed a vet visit where they gave me good news, and this was it--although the dog's teeth are indeed chipped, no root canal or extraction is required. But perhaps, the vet kindly suggested, he shouldn't be chewing on any more rocks, or cinder blocks.

Duly noted.

He got a bath today n everything--so he wasn't so greasy so as to slip out of the leash. He's been known ta try it. Nope, now he's a lil too dry skinded for my comfort.

Here's the old man (though he looks quite perky in this picture!):

May is a long month for an academic

2008-05-26T21:06:00.001-07:00

I don't really feel 'out of the woods' until June comes in. I mean, I only finished up my semester May 2, and still had students portfolios to evaluate and grade for the week after that. Patients at work, when they're scheduling their next appointment, want to comment on how "quickly the month as gone by." I smile politely and nod, thinking to myself how desperately I wish it were June, just to get the end-of-semester cooties out of my head. This month won't end; instead it maliciously holds itself over my head.

I have yet to clean out my office, but that is because I have yet to receive my office assignment for next semester--not to mention my teaching schedule. As a result, I am essentially unemployable. A wonderful opportunity has presented itself, via my father-in-law, to work for a multi-million dollar software company, and yet I am unable to present something as simple as my availability for the fall. Urgh. I worked, at the price of my sanity and nearly my marriage, through the last year of school-in addition to taking classes and being a TA. The office is now paying me back by giving me bullshit hours during which time I train new employees--they have not given me ample time to complete my regularly scheduled duties, and then wonder why certain things aren't getting done. Whats even more frustrating is that there have been two people I poured time and energy into that were then fired shortly therafter ( I swear, its not me!). So now I'm just hoping that I'm not wasting my breath on these young ladies.

In other frustrating news, I joined a student "resistance movement" (for lack of a better term, though I am sure anyone else in the group would be quite mortified if they knew I was using this term) and yet, I feel that it is backsliding. We got some 'attaboys' from various news crews and even some faculty, but where are we now? Last week, when the president (against whom we have organized ourselves) held one of his meetings, I was the only one there out of my entire "resistance movement." wtf? (for lack of a better phrase). I have no intention of backing off; I am perfectly comfortable appraoching these things on my own, but the question remains, where did everyone go?

back to work angst:
The third new employee has a scheduling conflict with her other job that directly affects my life. Because she only knows 1 week ahead of schedule what days she will be available, I only know 1 week ahead of schedule which days I will be training her. long story short-- As a result, I have had to turn down a trip to the grand canyon.

sajfd;oiasudfoiuterwhqer.

Please forgive my frustrated scrawl. I just feel that I 'm being walked all over and I've worked too hard to deserve this type of treatment! This is summer; this is a time to make plans. And I can't becuase apparently a noobie (newbie?)'s schedule is mor eimportant than mine. Add that together with not knowing my fall schedule, and I feel completely detached from my own life, and absolutely not in control. I am not able to make long term plans or decisions. My brother, the poet, would laugh at how uptight I am...But this is my life! Don't I have a right to know when I can pencil myself in?

Mispellings

2008-05-23T15:38:00.000-07:00

OK but now let me tell you about last night's hilarity. My Roadie and I get together for a beer. I gotta just call it as it is, girl--we were not in our normal charismatic partnering last night, let's face it. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but that's just it--reading. When we're not in class together, and don't see each other for a week its like, conversation peters out. Am I wrong? Our friendship is founded on nerd-dom.When we begin discussing literary tropes in our newfound book group, things will swing right back to normal.

Two eligible bachelor-types sit down at the bar. One discusses the Spurs wtih the Roadie(I stand by, clueless:). The other smells like cigarettes and, from the way he talked to me, apparently thought he was cooler than me. He contributed a few titles to my list of books I wanted to read, and thought he was really cool in doing so. I thought he was pretty unoriginal to boast about how much Hunter S. Thompson and Vonnegut he's read. Yay. He's so suave, in fact, that he's got a Thompson quote tattooed on his calf. He lifts up his pantleg so I can admire his ink. And there, in lovely black letters, was the quote:

When the going gets wierd, the wierd turn pro.

Take another look if you have to, folks, and then begin to laugh uncontrollably at this idgit. That's one hell of a fuck-up, and that ain't no Sharpie . Not one but TWO mispellings in permanent, deeper-than-skin tattoo ink.
*for those of you who still haven't gotten it, "wierd" is spelled "weird." Now, go check your tattoos.

In my woozy mind, I considered my options--smile and let him continue to think that he's cooler than me, or break it to him gently and smash his bravado. obviously, i chose the latter, though I'm not sure I was incredibly tactful. I prefaced my observation with, "I'm only telling you this because there's no chance of us ever sleeping together"
Dont ask me where it came from. He was aghast, and offended at my assumption (but that's what I do, when a guy at a bar strikes up conversation. I'm either really paranoid, or absolutely right)--but didn't really even have time to reflect on it in his horrifying realization that it was, indeed, mispelt.

Ass.

2008-05-22T21:39:00.001-07:00

The many faces of Beeyotch
While the days of rigorous and unforgiving deadlines is temporarily over for me, I am nonetheless swamped and pulled in 15 different directions at any given time. I've certainly learned to be a smooth 'time' operator. Let me walk you through the many facets of myself that I manifested today.

I woke up as extremely thirsty, fairly groggy, and mildly hung over Beeyotch. This is commonplace.

I was "Aunt" Beeyotch for a little while, mid morning, while I enjoyed the company of my beautiful niece, Rosie. Her parents were there, too, but I'm not their aunt. Besides, she's cuter--Here's from yesterday, when I was "photographer Beeyotch":
(disclaimer-my digi's not working really well right now, so these are a disposable...I guess a bad photographer blames her camera...)

Then I was New patient Beeyotch at my new doc's office, and I got a shot in the hiney that will [hopefully] make me sneeze less, or stop waking up from inability to breathe. Right now I still feel slightly sniffly and, what's worse, I feel like someone punched me in the ass. We'll see, I guess. We'll see.

Now its time for Work Beeyotch-you know, in the scrubs, darting about from room to room doing patient therapies, figuring out patient statements and giving my boss the ol stinkeye when he starts taking too long telling jokes (the same jokes every time, mind you. I can recite them).

I transformed from work Beeyotch to Resistance movement Beeyotch (I'd forgotten to note but there is a shoe change accompanying each of these dimensions. For this occassion, I went with fur n' sequins. I brought beer, which may have offended some, but after all these crazy changes through space and time, I needed a constant (nods to LOST fans out there) and BEER IS MY CONSTANT.
After some beer-mongering and opinion-mongering, I took off the shoes and went barefoot to transition into DanceCompany Beeyotch (with toes freshly painted for tomorrow's performance). [I was a little bit late, but I find this is true to form for extra-curricular Beeyotchs, such as DanceCompany Beeyotch and Resistance movement Beeyotch. My latest theory is that because money dictates my life, if I'm not paying to be there, or being paid to be there, I'm not so pressed about it. I'll get there. New Patient Beeyotch and WorkBeeyotch are 98% on time]. Rehearsal was a nice way to wind down the evening, and get my blood going a bit. New Patient Beeyotch learned that she officially weighs more than she ever has in her life to date, and wonders vaguely, looking at her gardetto's and beer...what ought to be done.

Wifey Beeyotch landed the role of the final home stretch towards bedtime. Pink fuzzy socks wtih a pink dingleberry are warmin my feet. I even made dinner (I know, after all this!:) and will begin folding laundry once this blog is finished. Then I will become She Who loves Dr. Who in the comfort and privacy of the living room at midnight...aw yeah-those clothes hampers make me HOT.

I guess that's a poor note to end on, but its a reality, one I live quite frequently. When my superhero hours are over, I'm just Floyd’s number one gal, and that's a great thought to end the day with.

I am in over my head

2008-05-07T18:27:00.000-07:00

I volunteered to be on a committee I have no business being on. But dammit, no one is listening to the faculty here, let alone the students...and I guess I just want to get in on the action. They probably want nothing to do with me. I have Arts & Science cooties.

In other news, I am drafting a letter to my representatives in Congress about the budget cuts to higher education that so many of the big wigs at the last meeting were complaining about. I am, admittedly, rather in the dark about these matters. I have preferred my life in a box, until, perhaps too late, my little cardboard home was shaken by big scary outside forces. Now I want to voice my opinion and I don't mess around with the footsoldiers. I go to the big big general-managers-in-the-sky, and start my foot-stamping there. But--what do I say? Please stop cutting off the money supply to my university...now, I want to sound elegant and educated, not whiny. urgh. Is there a Government-policy-for-dummies out there? It's all written in hieroglyphic lawyer speak--only less interesting. I've got to get my foot in the door, somewhere, and thats the easy part. The part I'm worried about is saying something halfway intelligent once I've got everyone's attention.

It's been a long time

2008-05-07T11:53:00.001-07:00

I love hearing the spray of rain coming off of cars going by. It is 3 pm. I spent the last hour in a rose-scented bubblebath reading She Got Up Off the Couch by Haven Kimmel. I usually am only able to spend 15-20 minutes, tops, in the bathtub. But today there was a wonderfully good read in front of me, perfectly temperate water, the sound of rushing rain outside and, most importantly, nothing to do. I turned in my student grades today, picked up my graded final exam and came home. There's dishes in the sink that need done, and folded laundry to put away--there's always stuff that needs doing, but gone is the intense urgency that accompanies *everything* during the school year. I don't know yet what classes I'm teaching next semester, though I assume some form of Comp II and a Comp one section. I'll get to revising my syllabi once I know. I have two more days off of work, during which time I will spend my hours similar to how I did today--at my own slow, distracted pace. Distracted because I am inevitably high strung and feel as though I need to be doing something at all times, but slow because another part of me knows it will get done. This is the first time in months I've managed to simply read a book and lose all track of time in doing so. I'd forgotten this feeling. This is why I majored in English. I sat on the porch and chainsmoked late at night trying to figure out what to do with my life--go into physical therapy, move overseas...and finally it occurred to me that the only thing I've ever done that was worth a damn is read, and sometimes write, so why not give English a shot? Two years later with a 4.0 and a chip on my shoulder to match it, I think I made the right decision. What I'd lost during that time was the ability to lose myself in reading, as opposed to grinding out major literary themes and tropes. Granted, all that is lovely, but sometimes I want to read about a girl growing up in Mooreland, Indiana, watching her Mom defeat the patriarchal system on her own terms.

My fingernails are growing back

2008-05-06T05:05:00.001-07:00

The semester is over! Aside from posting my own student's grades, I am finished until August--a surreal thought, particularly because last year I went through the summer (bad idea). I'm waiting to post my grades because two students have not turned in their final portfolio. There's a mean part of me (that is becoming more developed as I grow a thicker teaching skin) that wants to just flunk 'em, nuff said. However, since they have to upload it to some silly "academic myspace" type website, I am giving them the benefit of the doubt that they are merely having some technical troubles. I attempted to post some things on there to prove it was easy, and found myself surprised at the inadequacy of the site. Nonetheless, the department and university encourage us to use it, and since it means I'm not bogged down by 25 3-ring binder/folders, I typically use it for the final portfolio.

I have a lot of thinking to do over the break. I plan on reading numerous syllabi and blogs to try and figure out a more effective system. The first year is harrowing, and yet I feel I have developed immensely as a person and as a student (as a teacher, well I'm not so sure just yet!). I am very bad at facilitating discussion, and that comes from my own insecurity with my opinions. We'll get there. But for the more bureaucratic issues, such as whether or not to accept late papers. It is difficult for me to keep track of who turned in what, and when--not to mention the crunch it puts on my grading time. Part of me thinks, be human, people make mistakes. Part of me says, get with the program. These kids are typically first or second semester college students, still pretty wide-eyed at the world that just opened up in front of them. Anywho, that's just one problem, I have many more revisions to make, even just to my teaching philosophy. Maybe I'll put it up here, and see what people think.

Some days, the life of an academic just can't compete!

2008-04-25T14:33:00.000-07:00

I finished the first of a series of final papers and exams today. I wish I could say that I felt better now, or at least in some part relieved--instead, I'm only experiencing the horrible doubt and self-review of what I said in the paper, and then the wrenching feeling in my gut as the full weight of what's due next week sinks in. Of course, I've got some things prepared and I've been thinking ahead, but the bottom line is, there's a lot of work to be done in a short amount of time. Then again, Dr. Who is on tonight. Mmmm...David Tennant. Speaking of men whom I am desperately attracted to, my hubby completely trumped my success story today (first final done, 'member? I know, Tennat throws me off, too) when he announced that his company is on the news because the owner's son has been kidnapped--ransom note n everything. I thought that just happened in the movies--and, according to the FBI my impression is just about right, these things don't really happen that often. The poor kid is 26 years old and has been missing since April 1. Just when I thought life as a gradstudent was getting exciting...

On Recommendation Letter Etiquette

2008-04-24T15:31:00.000-07:00

As noted in previous blog entries, I am still fairly new at the ins and outs of Grad school. The latest curiosity I have encountered involves the existence--or lack thereofof some secret system of etiquette surrounding the request of letters of recommendation; more specifically, once requested, how does one gracefully inquire after their progress? On the one hand, you don't want to haggle the prof kind enough to write one for you (lest they use some faculty code on the letter to indicate "student was impatient"--ala Seinfeld's Elaine Bennis, the "difficult" patient); on the other hand, its not going to do you any good if the recommendation doesn't meet its destination in a timely fashion.

If there is anyone out there reading this, please feel free to leave advice.

There's a different me inside this student

2008-04-23T17:04:00.000-07:00

I'm new to this bloggy world and, in some sense, looking over the blogs of other academics, I am slightly terrified. Those ahead of us in academia--farther down the road, however you want to put it, tend to be rather intimidating. It's frustrating that even in a pseudonymous world I am likewise intimidated. I don't know where this complex comes from, but it must be part of the mandatory bipolarization of a graduate student--to be completely humbled by our professors and published authors, yet able to enter in and converse with them intellectually; to be confident and sophisticated in front of our students so we don't reveal how unqualified and untrained we are (I often feel like quite a fraud when it comes to grading time); and finally, to be cavalier and brash wtih our colleagues and cohorts while we commisserate in the trenches. I think that list actually requires us to be tripolar, but lets not get picky.
What I'm trying to get at is that I'm fairly new at this whole game and just trying to learn the ropes. I don't want to sound whiny and overwhelmed but, well, its the end of a very long semester. I will be a much different person by next wednesday when I receive my grades and figure out if I managed to pull this semester off.

please allow me to complain, just for a moment

2008-04-22T19:48:00.001-07:00

Tuesdays are very long. At the end of them, I find myself needing to vent a little bit. They require my presence on campus from 8 am, when I teach Composition, through my three classes for the day--no biggie, really, except that the last one lasts from 7-10 pm. The 14 hours on campus is, to say the least, harrowing. To be fair, I could go home for a little while, and I have done so a few times. The bottom line is, however, that between getting out ot my car, home, and back to a parking spot--its not worth the hassle; particularly becuase in my time at home in the afternoon, my time is hardly spent 'relaxing'--I am still completely in 'ON' mode. I have learned it is actually less tiring somehow to just stay on campus and use my time gap between 4 and 7 to catch up on research, homework, grading, etc.

Normally, when I get home, I fix myself a snack and do some light reading. If the day has been rougher than usual, I watch some TV (though usually while folding laundry, my favorite pasttime while watching TV, besides the actual sitting and relaxing part). Tonight I was not afforded such luxury and, I write this blog because I feel that lately, apart from typical end-of-semester stress, my life in 'OFF' mode has been just as harrowing.

The garbage cans were still in the front yard; they had not been taken in. I do this. The dog needs food. I run up to the grocery store and buy him food. While I let my soup simmer, I empty the dishwasher and throw a load in, press start. While I am doing dishes, I call my renegade roadtripping friend (who, although otherwise fairly tame, today spontaneosly up and drove to Bosstown for a campus tour of LastChance University--more on that later). I'm not listing all of these things to demonstrate how awesome or diligent I am, or how much I am like my mother in my use of lists; I am voicing some frustration that when all of this busy-bodiness was going on, between 10 pm when I arrived home and 10:30 when I sat down (after the 14 hour day), my husband was picking at his new guitar with leisure. Granted, he had just gotten home himself only about an hour before, but as I have just shown--I got a number of things done for the benefit of the household. Had he contributed a bit before resorting to his own relaxation, we could have divided the time and the work, and saved any of you reading this froma legthy blog about a loing daythat doubled in length in just one half hour.

There’s not a term for post-menstrual syndrome

2008-04-21T16:32:00.000-07:00

But whatever it was, I was all kinds of out of sorts today. I was moody and loopy and my feet hurt. Damn shoes. They wouldn’t have hurt so bad except that I had forgotten my comfy tennies in my office, and so the image of the velvet converse kicks sitting there, empty, haunted me and somehow made my toes pinch even more. What also made my toes pinch was walkign back and forth to the bus stop, becuase it was one of those days. Perhaps explains my mood.

I am uber-sensitive about all thigns car related and you would be too, if everytime you fixed one thing (by you, i mean my husband) another thing went wrong. Its just plain embarassing. at least its predicatble, ill give it that. Also i have learned a lot about diagnostic noises and smells by driving pieces of shit (by this i am not making a humorous scatological reference. I am using the word ’shit’ to notate that this vehicle is less than par).

I used to have a van that I adoringlly called the ’bomber’ van--no exhaust, dented and scratched to high heaven, the whole bit. It had character, pizazz...above and beyond everything else, I was nineteen and I had a car. Now I try to wear a business suit and that suit, albeit a monkey suit, was expensive and now has rust stains on it from brushing up against the jimmy.

in other news, i was gettin gmyself very worked up about the state of my car, my house, my life and finding myself thinking things that i have heard come out of my mother’s mouth my entire life, things that always made me cringe, but never so much as when i understood them today. she would say very bitter, negative things and frankly, i always thought--blow things otu of proportion. by this i mean, for example, we never had people over growing up, becuase she was so preoccupied with the state of the house. i am often embarassed by my house, my car, my life, but I would like to welcome people in, [ir]regardless. if its uncomfortable for you, leave, and tell your neighbors what a filthy car, house and life i have.

fuck you betterhomesandgardens.

but the ending is happy, becuase my sister called, and we both had that deflated tone of voice that we get when we realize that we are being just like our mother (in the negative sense, bc theres lots of admireable qualities about the lady). transmetropolitan areas we were inthe same rut,and i think we got eachother out of it. well, i know htat i felt better when i got off of the phone.
dorothy wordsworth’s got nothing on Mrs. Scarlet.

its come to this

2008-04-20T22:02:00.000-07:00

I invited poison into my house.

all myhusband and I have done htis week is fight over channels, making snide remarks about each other's choices.

I have been invited to par-tay at wesley's pop explosion bu i let the answering machine play it out while I watched Dustin Hoffman yell through the big window in the finale of "the graduate"

the three gigantic projects comprising my final grades for this semester lay unfinished--yay, untouched--in my bookbag while I figure out how to work the DVR recorder.

but now i have to stop this blog because Karate Kid is on.

journal of a twelve year old

2008-02-02T12:44:00.001-08:00

In my journal as a twelve year old, I made lists of goals: "stop biting nails/100 ade average/betterdancer/better at sports/control PMS/get new shoes/get $100".
I quoted Operation Ivy and my brother's basketball plaque on the same page.
I wrote a poem about a blind squirrel and a saga about a hunter killed by his own dogs who haunted the woods every full moon.
I was twelve and I wrote about things that troubled me. A lot of those things still trouble me.
Sometimes I want to drink a beer before I go into work. Some days I do just that.
I juggle cars like other people juggle tennis balls.
I'm doing a good job of controlling my hormone levels. I told my fiancee that its his job to clean the bathtub. I didn't kick the dog even though I really wanted to, and I didn't switch the laundry even though it has been damp in the washer for more than a day.
I spent yesterday with my mother.
I'll probably have to wash those clothes again.
It's nice to remember when recess was the most harrowing part of my day. I had to squeeze every bit of those twenty minutes catching up with my friends before being locked up in the classroom again and contenting myself by making faces at them from across the room.
I used to play football with the boys just to prove a point. The truth is though, that I really just didn't know how to play.
The only thing that's different now, since I was twelve, is my best imaginary friend, Clark Elehway.
Here's to you, Clark.

My mother's poem, which i helped her "workshop"

2008-02-02T12:38:00.000-08:00

Look
at my hands
I didn't know I was so old.

Look at my hands--
I did not know
I was so old.