marianne schmarianne

Retail Therapy Gone Bad

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Sun, 23 Nov 2008 02:37:00 +0000

Can one be a socialist and also love shopping? More pressingly, can I be a socialist and continue to love shopping?

Before I answer, allow me to explain why I'm suddenly asking these questions. Until this particular point in life, I have taken great comfort in shopping. The women in my family--generations of them--have led me to believe, by example, that New Shiny Things make Everything better. This Everything can be anything: a burst of low self-esteem, a hard day at work/school, and/or miscellaneous personal catastrophes. Buying clothing, in particular, is a great comfort: when shit goes bad, my forebears argue, retreat into the material. The simple beauty of textiles--even those crafted into mass-produced garments by underpaid sweatshop workers in economically bankrupt countries around the world--lifts the spirits, making life livable again. What can't you accomplish when you look and feel fabulous?

For years now, I've been aware of the many problematic aspects of everything I just wrote. Psychologically, shopping is a cop-out. The gratification is short-lived, and you're left with the same problems you started with, except now you have no money. Philosophically, the connections between gender and consumption are troubling: women feel better after buying girlie stuff because our culture has wired us to feel better when we look pretty, ie, when we meet mainly patriarchal, bourgeois expectations for our appearance and behavior. And corporations have made billions off of the female desire to conform, linking our psycho-social-sexual development to the market.

I've been aware of this, but I've accepted these contradictions with the ubiquitous cop-out of my generation: "At least I admit it." As I gaze longingly at retail displays, I think smugly, "At least I know what's really going on." Astonishingly, my academic approach to feminine consumption also allows me to feel superior to other female shoppers. Listening to their inane conversations in the fitting room, I sneer and snicker, meanwhile giving in to the same unaccountable desire for the skirt that is, in their words, "OMIGOD, just SO CUTE."

Yes, I have been a hypocrite. But I am so damn comfortable in my hypocrisy, I don't want to reconcile anything. I'd rather be shopping.

Or would I? The problem is, I don't really enjoy shopping anymore. I used to be able to shop in disgusting, florescently lit, suburban environs for hours without wanting to vomit. Now I can't even approach a mall or "towne center" without choking back the remnants of lunch. Why? Well, this brings me to yet another contradiction: shopping makes me hate the masses. Behavior in busy retail spaces--screaming children, price-grubbing, long lines, personal-space violations--makes me crazy. Today, Mike and I had to buy some things at the Waterfront, and it drove us to drink (which is always easy to do at retail centers--booze is always close by). It also drove my seminarian husband to blaspheme: "Jeezes fuck," Mike yelled as yet another cell-phone driver cut him off in the parking lot.

While Mike isn't a socialist per say, he and I both stick up for the masses, being products of their number. Shopping, however, makes us project the problems of capitalism onto the very people it victimizes. It's hard to remember to blame the system when every shopper in Target is annoying as hell.

But, at other times, I can clearly see the capitalist tableaux for what it is. About a month ago, Mike and I went to Ross Park Mall to buy a gift for his mom. It'd been a while since I'd ventured into a mall, and quite a bit longer since I'd indulged in "upscale shopping." Ross Park, we soon found out, had been upscaled: the petit-bourgeois women and girls of the North Hills--with their dazed men in tow--scampered eagerly in and out of Nordstrom, Louis Vuitton, and Tiffany's. Mike and I, genuinely afraid, retreated into JCPenney, where we quickly bought the gift. "Let's get the hell out of here," Mike said, nearly running toward the exit. Once in the car, we both agreed that we were disgusted at the vulgar display behind us. The excess, the naivete, the unsatiable desire for the material--it was all too much. But most of all, it was the unveiled truth of the spectacle that disturbed us. We're all so SCREWED by the illusion of material comfort. It's why we're all slaves to the items that give us this comfort--and why, in my opinion, Americans put up with bullshit like "trickle-down" economics, for-profit wars, and miscellanous government corruption. What does it matter, if you have the new Louis Vuitton it-bag?

Wow.

To return to my question. Do I need to return to my question? I think the answer is quite clear. The love of shopping or the socialism has to go, because they can't--at least, for me--co-exist. And, at this point, it ain't gonna be the socialism. Once you look into the abyss, there's no turning back.

Losing my shit.

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 20:56:00 +0000

I am officially "losing my shit," as my friend Melissa would say. This election is far too abrasive for my delicate mental constitution.

Last night, Hot Metal held "Debate the Debate," a debate-watching discussion with actual rules such as "have respect" and "don't judge." I went to this debate and wound up losing my mind--also known as my "shit."

I probably shouldn't have gone, but I couldn't help myself: I'm a masochist when it comes to human stupidity. So I gathered with my politically diverse church-going friends, made small talk, ate a bunch of popcorn, and then promptly choked on it as I listened to Obama and McCain recite the same arguments they've been using for the last few months.

Obama wearily defended himself yet again against McCain's groundless accusations concerning his "terrorist" pals; McCain smugly continued to accuse him. "Joe Plumber" was addressed earnestly by McCain and ironically by Obama. Fingers were pointed; buzz words words sufficiently obscured meaningless, empty campaign promises.

This was all nauseating, but I didn't lose my shit until McCain defended Palin by claiming she understood "special needs" families! It was a pathetically emotional plea that has very little to do with the office of the vice presidency and how Palin is or is not fit for it. So, of course this means "Joe Plumber" or "Joe Six-Pack" must have loved every minute of it.

When McCain stared into the camera and addressed this anonymous Joe, I realized how this seemingly offensive ploy was working rhetorically. Joe's an American myth: the noble, hardworking, family-oriented American man who likes "straight talk" over beer and chicken wings. There are probably a lot of white suburban and rural men who'd fit this stereotype, at least on the surface. They're the type of person that urban professionals sneer at, that blacks eye warily, that Europeans regard as the stereotypical American. Joe, by the standards of the rest of America--minorities, women, youth, professional whites--is hardly exemplary; in fact, he's kind of an oaf. So why is McCain talking to him?

Well, because McCain IS Joe--with money. And there's a sizeable segment of middle America--Joes and their wives--who think Joe/McCain is a stand-up guy.

There were a few Joes at the debate last night, and they made me lose my shit out loud. I kind of yelled at them when they said they STILL didn't think global warming is real, when they sneered at the idea of voluntary taxation, and finally (and most explosively) when one of them said he found McCain's accusations that Obama had hung around with terrorists convincing.

Joe, why must you be so dense?

I tried to keep what little of my shit remained, but it was too late. I just HAD to bring up Sarah Palin so that I could point out her many legitimate failings, including being found guilty of abuse of power in Alaska just recently. And that's when I irrevocably lost my shit.

Now I will be known as the outspoken liberal. This has its pros and cons. It's good to have loud liberal voices in American churches--most of them are so ignorantly, blindly conservative. And I want people to know where I stand, why I think liberal values are so important. But I don't want to be the crazy ranter who shuts down dialogue and encourages polarity.

Did I become the crazy ranter? I don't think so. I DO wish I had kept an even tone. Desperate times, though, result in desperate measures, and sometimes my "shit" becomes negligible.

Stepmonster.

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 02:34:00 +0000

I have several friends whose parents have remarried despicable people. Many of these unfortunate friends have unflattering names for these people, all of them appropriate, but my favorite term by far is "stepmonster." This is what my friend Lacy calls her father's second wife, who is crazy. And mean. And, well, monstrous.

As of this past Sunday, I too have a "stepmonster." His name is Vince, and in my personal opinion, he sucks. Since I've already detailed why this is the case in a highly self-indulgent previous post, I'll spare you the rant. I will, however, add more evidence: when I told him I wanted to try to be civil and keep our family as functional as possible, he turned to my mom and said, "See, I told you: She's a little teapot and just needed to blow off a little steam."

Oh, the rage. I told him to beware The Rage of the Teapot (which should be the title of a mock-gothic novel, btw).

So, as I was saying, I have a stepmonster who has given my mom his name and will now begin ruining the rest of her life. But, I also have a stepsister who isn't a stepmonster at all. In fact, she may be my doppelganger. (Which might make her a monster to others, but not to me.)

She showed up at the wedding in jeans and a black t-shirt. She's much taller than me and looks like a gypsy, with dark, kohl-rimmed eyes and long black hair. She had an ironic smile and said she was just "trying to behave."

I liked her right away.

Later, she told me that she didn't meet her dad, my stepmonster, until she was twenty. Now, she talks to him on the phone about once a year. She said, warily, that she hopes my mom will be happy. It occurred to me that she might hate her father as much as I do. Or more.

The similaries continued to add up. She made a lot of bitchy, mean comments. For instance, when she saw one of our overgrown Italian cousins wearing a trendy fedora, she said, "Who invited K-Fed?" Like me, she's a vegetarian, and like me, she likes to rant about excessive cell phone usage. Like me, she likes to paint, but unlike me, she's actually really good and sells her stuff at festivals.

I would totally be friends with her. But I feel shy. Maybe my mom is her "stepmonster." Maybe she thinks I'm a stepmonster, too. God.

But, the thing is, I would love to have a sibling to share my angst. And she seems like she's very good at angst.

The answer is NO.

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 02:12:00 +0000

Today, as I innocently walked down my street, just yards from my own front door, my SOCKS were solicited by a self-proclaimed foot-fetishist in a passing pick-up truck.

Yep. That happened.

A blue pick-up truck stopped in the middle of my street, and the driver rolled down the passenger window and beckoned me toward him. He was an average-looking young man, twenty-ish, and I assumed he was going to ask me for directions, as this happens pretty regularly.

"Excuse me, " he said with a strangely excited, flushed face. "This is really embarrassing, and really weird, but I have a foot fetish and I was wondering if I could buy your socks." His voice cracked, and he looked desperate. "I'll pay you ten, twenty bucks if you'll just give them to me."

I would have paid him more to describe the look on my face at that moment, which I'm sure was an ugly mixture of shock and outrage.

"No, that's weird," I replied stiffly, and practically ran toward my house, where I immediately related the exchange to Mike, whose mouth promptly dropped open.

And then, as usual, the attempts at analysis began. Here are a few theories we came up with to explain this deviant behavior:

1. It was a dare. He was pretty young; even though he seemed to be alone in the truck, a friend may have been hunkered down behind the seat, snickering. It was a pretty small truck, though.

2. He was conducting a sociological experiment, measuring public reactions to sexual deviance. Or how far women will go when asked. Mike pointed out, though, that it was too legally risky for an official study.

These theories are, as Mike pointed out, preferable to the idea that fetishists can prey upon complete strangers at will. But maybe that's what happened. A few months ago, my friend Jessica posted a photo of herself on her blog with bare feet in the background, and a foot fetishist from Spain left a comment praising her feet and offering her a free trip to Spain so he could see them in person.

Listen, I don't have anything against benign fetishists, i.e., people who keep their fetishes to themselves and consenting adults who share them. But, if they ask me, or Jessica, or other innocents, the answer is NO: we will not sell you our sweaty socks, nor will we allow you to caress our feet in Spain.

The answer is, and always will be, NO.

Jury's Out

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 01:42:00 +0000

Today I fulfilled a "very important" civic duty--or at least, I tried my best. Yes, I reported for jury duty. No, I didn't make today's cut. In fact, I was one of the first people to be dismissed.

There are two questions on the all-important juror questionnaire that I did not answer satisfactorily. When I was defending these answers, maybe I gave the prosecution a little too much lip. And so, I took my nine dollars and my juror discount card and went on my way. Actually, I went to Franktuary and had a veggie dog called "The Italy." It had fresh mozzarella, basil, and tomatoes on it. While consuming it, I tried to sort it all out. In the end, I mostly have questions, cynical ones.

Here's what happened.

I arrived at the Allegheny County Courthouse at 8:25. I proceeded to the third floor, to juror's quarters, so that I could promptly report for duty. A series of three rooms was filled with a cross-section of the local population: middle-aged soccer moms in tapered pants, rumpled young men who obviously did not understand "business casual," frightened looking young girls, etc. There was lot of bad clothes, bad hair, and stupid comments. 8:30, our report time, came and went, and we were all still waiting around, looking bleary and confused. The only preparation we'd had for jury duty at this point was the "summons" sent to us a few months before, and this prepared us only for our arrival time, location, attire, and acceptable use of electronic devices. Having already accomplished these things, we had nothing to do, and no idea what to expect.

There had been no instructions on the summons about what a juror actually does, or how the selection process works. But there had been a stiffly worded statement in an antiquated font that informed us how important serving as a juror is to the US judicial process. Serving as a juror, it informed us, ensured that citizens would be tried by their peers. And do you know what THAT means? That our government is run by the common people!

I ardently believe that democracy only works when "the people" can make informed decisions. Apparently, our judicial system disagrees, and believes that us commoners can decide another commoner's fate best when we have absolutely no fucking clue what we're doing.

Wait. Perhaps I'm being too judgmental. At 9:00, when we were finally led into the courtroom, given identifications tags, the questionnaire, and juror pens, we were offered free coffee and tea and given VERY explicit instructions for operating the coffee machine. It turns out that the new juror coffee machine was a bit unusual, and had just been broken the week before by a juror who failed to follow instructions properly. So, despite the fact that the instructions were posted on the wall by the machine, a cross, middle-aged admin with giant hair spent about 5 minutes explaining it. Then we were told how to get to the bathrooms, and not to venture outside the juror quarters. Then we had to fill out our questionnaire, and were left alone for about an hour to write out our names and answer 12 questions.

So, about those questions. One asked if you or anyone close to you had been accused of a crime. I had to circle yes, because two people "close to me" have been. Then, another question asked if you would be less likely to trust the testimony of a police officer because of his/her job title. First, I answered no. Then, I scratched that out, and answered yes.

Around 10:15, after much rustling in the front of the room, three attorneys walked in, along with two young black men, looking baby-faced and uncomfortable in too-big suits. As the jurors were put in order, the attorneys scrutinized us and took notes. I got the distinct impression that they were already deciding, based on appearance, who they wanted on the trial. Meanwhile, I was making my own snap judgments. The prosecutor, I decided, was a douchebag. He had an aloof, stony face, and didn't look anyone in the eye. One defense lawyer was just kind of a goof: he took his shoes off and tried to cheer up his client, who looked like he might cry and/or vomit at any time. The other lawyer, a distinguished black man in a formidable pin-striped suit, I felt some respect for: he maintained distance without being a snob. He was respectful to everyone.

Luckily, I was number 5. That meant I sat in the front row, just a few feet from the interview table. I made a lot of uncomfortable eye contact with a defense attorney and the plantiffs, especially the one closest to me, the one near tears. The charges were read, and it was to be a murder trial: the two boys were accused of shooting another guy to death in Homewood two years ago.

The interviews began, and I decided that my first impressions were correct. The first woman to be interviewed was a housewife in her sixties. The prosecutor spoke first, and his tone reminded me of a pre-school teacher speaking to a class of four-year-olds. The goofy defense lawyer was no better. The woman had answered "yes" to the family member question, and there was much discussion about this. She had also answered "yes" to a different question about police officers. The goofy lawyer asked her why she would be MORE inclined to trust a police officer's testimony because of his/her profession. She said, "Because police are on the side of the law."

Later, after I had been interviewed, I found out that she had been selected.

As I listened to her, I suddenly really wanted to be a juror on this trial. Because her answers sucked. SHE sucked. She wasn't smart, and even though a person close to her had seen the inside of the judicial system, she still believed in it. In the goodness, the moral rectitude, of police officers.

When I was four, I watched, hysterical, as police officers jumped out of an unmarked vehicle and
forced my dad into their car. Later, I saw the mess they made of our house when they searched for drugs, and heard that they had threatened to take my mom to prison. For sixteen years I visited my father in prison and had to put up with lazy, fat-assed officers throwing their tiny portion of power into my face.

But it isn't just that. I watch the supposedly objective news. I hear about the racism, the sexism, the violence. Recently, in Homestead, a cop was caught having an affair with a 14-year-old neighbor. In the city of Pittsburgh last year, several cops were accused of domestic abuse, and none of them convicted.

I began to think that maybe those questions were a joke. Does ANYONE still trust police officers?

Soon it was my turn. I approached the table, sat down. The goof started in on me, with the others looking on. And suddenly I got that evil look in my eye, the one I get every time a cop pulls me over on the highway. The devil-may-care look responsible for my 7 speeding tickets.

I was asked, three times, to explain the problematic answers. The goof said, "I don't mean to pry, but..." and I said, "By all means, pry." It was a bad start. He said, "All of this amuses you, doesn't it?"

"Yes." In a perverse way, yes it does.

I told him the bare facts about my dad. I told him I thought I'd still be able to make an objective decision. The plaintiffs were looking at me with large eyes. One of them almost smiled when I said, "Because of my experiences, I'm not naive. I think there are certainly some great cops out there, but I think there are some bad ones, too. I am certain that, on the stand, I am perfectly capable of seeing the difference."

Douchebag prosecutor pushed me over the line. He announced to me that my experiences with my father had been very "formative." I heard myself saying, "Yes, most childhood experiences are." When did I reach this level of sass? He then put words in my mouth, saying that I had mentioned that I was aware of corruption in the judicial system. I called him on semantics and said, "I wouldn't--and didn't--use the word corruption."

Soon after this I was thanked for my time and sent home. Or, more accurately, to Franktuary, where I stimulated the local economy by using my juror discount.

As I ate my veggie dog, I got offended. It began to occur to me that the whole juror thing was a spectacle, just a spectacle of democracy. Being a juror was about free coffee and lunch discounts and total cluelessness. Jury duty is not about democracy.

Here's why I believe this. The lawyers say they want people who can be completely unbiased, who can put their experiences and beliefs aside in order to be make the best decision. But who can do that? Most people think they can, but they can't. Experiences and beliefs are as much a part of us as blood and guts. We can't just suspend them. The problem is, only thoughtful people understand this. The man sitting next to me in the courtroom got it: he leaned over to me and told me so. And then he got dismissed. So, does this mean that the only people who will be selected for juries are those who think they can be unbiased? The unthoughtful and uncritical?

Also--and here's what gets me--saying that you would believe a police officer more than an average person does not make you unbiased. It simply biases you in favor of "the law," i.e, the prosecutor, who probably has an office in the same building as the police chief. The lady who was chosen and I both gave biased answers, but the prosecution liked hers better than mine. They aren't looking for the unbiased, but instead, the conveniently biased.

The fate of two young black guys from a Pittsburgh ghetto will be decided by people who think that police officers are honest, noble, and disinterested. Which means they probably have chosen to ignore the vexed relationship between cops and young black men such as these. Which probably means they won't pay a whole lot of attention to the complex social forces that may have caused these two young men to shoot another man like themselves. Or, the forces that have blamed them for a crime they didn't commit.

Innocent until proven guilty? Sorry folks, but probably not.

Nasty, Brutish, and Short

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Sat, 31 May 2008 14:56:00 +0000

There are so many people getting on my nerves these days. I drive to get groceries, and I get cut off in the parking lot and in the store aisles. I plant flowers, and people throw their beer bottles and candy wrappers on them. I walk around my neighborhood and step in dog shit that some diva was too lazy to pick up. I wear a skirt, and some middle-aged man in a pick-up truck has to whistle at me.

I edge closer to being a misanthrope every day.

But, to be honest, people get on my nerves the most when I am least satisfied with myself. In other words, I project feelings of inadequacy and self-loathing onto the population at large, which then makes me feel superior to them (and therefore, less inadequate and self-loathing). I can squint in angry disbelief at the world, shake my head in moral indignation, and think, in my curmudgeon-esque fashion, "I might suck, but at least I don't let my Chihuahua shit on the sidewalk. Oh, and at least I don't have a Chihuahua."

This allows my own faults to pale in comparison. So, for instance, I can compare my worsening shopping addiction to the shitting Chihuahua and feel like I'm still coming out on top.

But, after employing this strategy for nearly twenty-seven years now, I'm on to myself, and that makes the whole process a lot less effective. Recently, I have become painfully aware of the fact that elitist misanthropy is merely a quick fix for self-doubt, and furthermore, ultimately becomes very self-defeating. If humans suck, and I'm a human, then that leaves very little hope for personal improvement. If life is nasty, brutish, and short for everyone else, it will be for me, too--perhaps more so because I hate everyone, including myself.

So what can I do? Besides going shopping? Besides overeating?

Well, I guess try to be more Jesus-y. Jesus loved everybody, but this didn't mean he was a pansy. He was always telling people what's what. To broadly paraphrase, Jesus said: your faith is inadequate, you don't have much self-knowledge, you are painfully shallow, you reward all the wrong people in your society, and you don't really understand God, even though you think you do. Oh, and, you are so simple-minded that you don't understand anything I'm saying to you right now.

I like to think Jesus was a bit curmudgeonly himself. But he wasn't a misanthrope. All of this was somehow said in love. Although I don't claim to understand that kind of love, I tend to think that love is action, and these statements Jesus made were all active. He didn't sit at home in his carpenter shop and grumble about how stupid and unspiritual everyone was and how he was so much better than them. He actually went and told people about their inadequacies, often through parables that his bumbling followers didn't get. But he told them, and then he did things like save them from blindness, lameness, even death. Of yeah, and then there's the whole dying for all of mankind thing, probably the antithesis of misanthropy.

My interpretation: I can still complain about Chihuahua shit. But the next time I catch some coed letting their horrid little dog go at it, I should tell her off (heheh). Or maybe, if she's already split, I should clean it up myself (grumble, grumble).

Free time?

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Tue, 06 May 2008 12:03:00 +0000

The first (academic) year of my Ph D is over. The spring semester has dumped me over its edge, and now I am left to my own devices. The problem is, I'm not really sure what those "devices" are. I have a laundry list of things to do, school-related and no. But I can't get motivated. Instead, I wake up at 6 am to a mind coursing with plans. When actually get up, though, these plans vanish, and I manage to waste my day on facebook, or reading random novels at Joseph-Beth. Oh, and drinking. There's been plenty of that!

I did manage to work in the garden. The spring flowers--tulips, daffodils, hyacinths, crocus--have faded now, and I've planted some annuals around the perennials that have returned with vigor. I'm also raising some seedlings: "Green Envy" zinnias for the ornamental garden; purple and green basil for the herb garden (which has also become quite ornamental, I must admit). This gives me a sense of accomplishment, and the illusion that my time has not been wasted.

Meanwhile, the rest of my time has definitely been wasted. I've been attending the horrifying "Learning Communities Institute" (you may remember me ranting about this last year) to prepare for fall teaching. This time, I'm in a different community, one run by competent colleagues for a change. So things have been easier, and I've been able to enjoy the free lunches. Although I still need to swallow quite a bit of vomit and fight hard to maintain a neutral facial expression for much of the time.

And afterwards: novels and drinking. So unproductive and self-indulgent. So GREAT.

Irish Apocalypse.

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Sun, 16 Mar 2008 13:33:00 +0000

Yesterday, I presented a paper with some friends from school at WVU's graduate colloquium, and on our way back to Duquesne, I made the mistake of driving through downtown Pittsburgh after the St. Patrick's Day parade. The streets looked post-Apocalyptic. There were piles of green plastic cups drifted against overturned barricades, police cars and ambulances everywhere, and drunks of all ages staggering through the rubble, wearing bizarre green hats, jewelry, and apparel.

As we neared campus, we both feared and anticipated coming across our students drunk in the street. At the entrance to the Armstrong Tunnels on Forbes Ave, Melissa rolled down her window to ask two barely functional coeds why they thought it was fun to traipse around town drunk in garrish attire. But before she could do so, one of the girls turned to us and started whooping. "Yeah, St. Patrick's Day!!" she screamed, making Melissa's question immediately moot.

The glass walls of the bus shelter near campus had been smashed, and shards littered the sidewalk and street. A drunk dude in plaid pants and a newsboy cap nearly stumbled in front of my car. "Oh my God," Melissa said. "I have to get out of here."

Because we are a city of many Irishmen, and because the city officials are mildly retarded AND on crack, Pittsburghers are permitted to drink openly in the streets ALL DAY the day of the St. Paddy's Day parade. Many of the revelers are drunk by 10am, and they keep the green beer flowing as the day progresses. At some point, these people manage to trash the entire downtown area. Then, unsatisfied, they wander over to the Southside, where they stumble down the sidewalks in riotous groups, shouting, pushing, and vomiting. Mike was reading at Crazy Mocha, and every time the door opened, he heard unintelligible shouting. Then, the door would close, shutting out all evidence of the Irish Apocalypse yet again.

I find all of this very funny, but also very disgusting and terrible. Generally, I am amused by seemingly innocuous human spectacle: it all seems so alien, so strange. But I am pretty horrified by mass public drunkenness and the chaos that ensues. The mob scene that results when placid Pittsburghers blow off some steam en masse makes me think that our city--and our society at large--is barely holding our civilized facade together. What social force keeps us from this kind of chaos or worse every day? And will that force hold?

Crushworthy.

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 05:38:00 +0000

No matter how much I attempt to intellectualize my love of Daniel Day-Lewis, I must admit that beneath my regard for his incredible acting lies what can only be defined as a school-girl crush. I love his crooked nose, his bemused and slightly ironic smile, his ability to lose himself completely in each character. And tonight, Oscar night, I loved his hoop earrings, longish hair, and soft-spoken acceptance speech.

Yep, it's a celebrity crush.

I'd like to tell you that I have been largely immune to celebrity crushes, but this would be a lie, and I think lying on my blog would be a mistake. So, to maintain the verisimilitude (or at least, the veneer of verisimilitude...mmmwhahahaha) of this text, I will freely admit that I have had several enduring celebrity crushes. Here they are, in roughly chronological order:

Leonardo DiCaprio, circa 1993-5. It became a total cliche to crush on Leo after Titanic hit the theaters in 1998, but before this he appeared on Growing Pains as the adopted brother for the show's final seasons, and he made a few artier films that captured my imagination: What's Eating Gilbert Grape and Baz Luhrmann's Romeo and Juliet. Back in my grunge phase, the perversity of his playing a retard and then Romeo struck me as irresistible. Factor in a greasy bowl cut, pasty, skinny limbs, and sea-blue eyes, and it was a hopeless cause: Leo became my first major celebrity crush.

Christian Bale, 1994-present. When I was twelve, I went to a sleepover at my friend Kate's house with about ten other middle school girls. After eating a shitload of sugar and telling ghost stories in the back yard, we watched a sappy musical put out by Disney called Newsies, which dramatized the plight of young boys who sold newspapers in turn-of-the-century New York. Christian played the main character, a runaway who dressed in cowboy attire and performed a pulse-raising song-and-dance number called "Santa Fe." There were several forces at work here that soon brought about my second celebrity crush: again, the skinny, pasty limbs; the greasy bowl cut; and finally, the sympathetic bad-boy character that enthralled my middle-school self so completely. For a while, Christian faded out of the scene, but I didn't forget him. Now, he's returned with American Psycho, Batman Begins, and The Prestige: all roles that have revived and sustained my crush.

Johnny Depp, 1994-present. One of my friend's older sisters had a giant Johnny Depp-circa- 21 Jump Street poster in her room. I saw it and yet another celebrity crush began. This time, it was the brooding eyes, the bad-boy persona, and the complete and utter weirdness that permeated his image. I watched Benny and Joon, What's Eating Gilbert Grape (again, this time to stare at Johnny), and Edward Scissorhands. When he ditched Winona Ryder and trashed a bunch of hotel rooms, I only loved him more. And now, there are so many more bizarre films to add to the crushworthiness: Ed Wood, The Libertine, Pirates of the Carribean...And so, my celebrity crush on Johnny Depp continues.

Ewan McGregor, 1999. For a brief time, Ewan McGregor ranked #1 on my celebrity crush list. I watched Trainspotting, it sickened me, and then I fell in love with him--even though I had just seen him sitting on a toilet, shitting. The accent, the tight jeans, the skinny/pastiness: it was too much for me. Then, I saw Star Wars Episode I and it was over. Completely over. How could he willingly participate in something like that?!

Daniel Day-Lewis, 2000-present. I took an intro to film class my sophomore year of college, in which I pretended to understand mise-en-scene and cinematography. One of the films we watched in class was My Left Foot, the story of an Irish cripple who also happens to be a total asshole. As the lead actor, I found Daniel irresistable, again because of the greasy hair, the pasty/skinniness, and the sympathetic badass persona. (Yes, when it comes to celebrity crushes, I certainly have a type.) And Daniel added a few roles that took my crush on him to new heights: Bill the Butcher in Gangs of New York and Daniel Plainview in There Will Be Blood. Oh, the creepiness. Oh, the complexity. Oh, the crush.

And now, for the most recent crushes...

John Stewart, 2000-present. I want to marry John Stewart. And it's OK for me to say this, because Mike wants to marry him, too. No, he's not pasty or skinny, and he doesn't have an Irish or Scottish accent, but he has enough irony to make up for it. When he appeared on Crossfire and told off the media, the pride and infatuation Mike and I felt practically made us pass out. Seriously. Despite the rise of Stephen Colbert, John Stewart will always be my favorite joke news anchor.

James McAvoy, 2006-present. Last year, right before Oscar night, Mike and I went to see The Last King of Scotland. That's when I developed a celebrity crush on James. First of all, we have the skinny and pasty factor. Next, we have the sympathetic badass persona. And finally, we have a Scottish accent, and I love me an authentic Scottish accent. This crush DEFINITELY continues, and is, perhaps, stronger than ever.

So, there they are, the most memorable of my celebrity crushes. The sad thing is, I'm probably forgetting a few. I guess that's what happens when you pretend to be the kind of person who doesn't have celebrity crushes.

The Cruelest Month

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 17:32:00 +0000

T. S. Eliot is wrong: February is the cruelest month, not April. I'm quite confidant that even the Hyacinth Girl, if she could reevaluate her situation, would agree.

February is cruel because it hangs like mustard gas in the Pittsburgh air, creating a sickly haze over the buildings and streets. It then infiltrates the body, creating an internal, infernal fog that colludes everything. Everything.

February resembles the cat-like haze in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." Eliot always weighs on my mind in February.

Last year, when February weighed on my mind well into March, I made a list of things to look forward to, so I could chin-up my way through the bleak winter days. The list was marginally effective--effective enough to try it again. So here goes.

1. Possible Spring Break trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains for five days. We'll be staying at a ski resort located in the state park and will be doing little to no skiing. Snow tubing might happen, though, as will hikes through the park. Ah, nature. How vexed you are.

2. Possible Spring Break shopping spree at the Grove City outlet mall. I know: this item is totally lame. But hey, I am a shameless fashionista, and I long for spring attire. Seersucker pants? Check! Cotton sweaters? I hope so! Canvas flats in bright colors? Laaawwwwd, please!

3. Barack Obama's presidential campaign. I can't wait until he kicks Hillary's ass. She sucks. Why must the first woman to run for president be a conservative war hawk in liberal garb? Also, I'm a sucker for Barack's idealism. The Audacity of Hope? Well, I can't help but believe in it, either.

4. Spring flowers. Last fall I planted tulips, hyacinths, and daffodils throughout my garden with the aim to cheer myself up in March. I can't wait to see their yellow, purple, and orange splendor.

5. Hot Metal Faith Community moving to the bar/restaurant across the street. No more being late for church...hopefully...and the opportunity to take a greater part in their social ministries here on the Southside. This will give me the chance to atone for being a Very Mean Person.

uhhh...i think that's it. A modest list, but yet, a satisfying one. Remind me that I said so, okay?

"Let's run away to Atlantic City, let's feel the wind in our hair. "

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 05:49:00 +0000

In response to one of my lethargic posts a few weeks ago, Em borrowed some lyrics from Ragtime to suggest a trip "down the shore." It was kind of a joke, but I think she knew that even bringing up the Jersey shore would make me come speeding across PA for a visit.

This sounds bizarre, but I love the Jersey shore. It's all so tacky and 1950s: the boardwalks with their tourist shops, wax museums, and trattorias; the overpriced carnival rides; the retro motels dotting the beach; the murky, syringe-laden sea. Oh my God, it's fantastic.

Em and I have a long and rather hilarious history of driving down the shore. The best (and worst) of these stories happened three years ago, in the middle of a string of ill-fated visits that each ended with me vomitting pathetically in Em's bathroom--and not from a stomach flu. I vomitted on this particular visit because I had sun poisoning. Hailing from upstate NY (where the sun seems to never shine) and being half Sicilian, I became cavalier with sunscreen during a long day of wave-riding at Wildwood. After six hours in the sun (!) and a beer or two at a pub, I realized that I probably had skin cancer. Blisters formed on my cheeks and thighs, and I was so uncomfortable on the way home that I took my pants off. But then we got lost--I think we somehow wound up in Trenton--an almost ran out of gas, and the gas attendant totally saw me (and my sun blisters) nekkid. Oh the horror, the horror.

The next time we went to the shore, I covered myself in sunscreen; unfortunately, at one point while I was bodysurfing, sunscreen was the only thing that covered me: there was a swimsuit top malfunction, and a handful of prepubescent boys innocently dallying in the ocean that day may or may not have seen their first pair. Again, the horror.

So, you can see why I love the shore: vomitting and nakedness plague me when I'm there. It's heaven.

But, it's winter (in case you hadn't noticed), and Em had a cold, so we decided to stay away from the shore this time and head into Philly instead. I am equally enthusiastic about Philly. The row houses, the nasal accents, the good Irish bars: what's not to love? Em and I also have a history there, including long hikes across town, into historical sites, across bridges, and into various bars. My favorite of these excursions happened a few years ago, when Mike, Em, Mark, Amy, and I found this crap bar with a great jukebox in the Old City, drank pitchers of cheap beer, and became pleasantly tipsy while we sang along to Van Halen & co.

This time, we went to a vegetarian restaurant in Chinatown, church in Fairmont, a diner near the art museum (where we sat uncomfortably close to four Philly dudes who kept staring at us and talking about "pussies"--a tried and true pick-up line, I don't doubt), the art museum, macy's (for some retail therapy, of course), and finally to an Irish pub just beyond "gaybarhood"), where we had Irish coffees and talked (loudly? hypocritically, after judging the dudes for the same thing earlier?) about sex.

And throughout the day, I realized that I could live in Philly pretty happily. All I want is an urban rowhouse with ironwork, a balcony, and a roof garden. There were plenty of those in Fairmont, where there's also a really spooky abandoned state penitentiary that hosts haunted houses for Halloween. I wonder, does the penitentiary raise or lower property value in the neighborhood? Because I would LOVE to live across from such a place.

Tomorrow I'm heading home, but I don't want to. I want to stay here and pretend everything in my life is fine. (Except for the vomiting and inadvertent nakedness that would inevitably occur if I were to linger a few more days.) But since I have to go back, I'll keep humming:

Let's run away to Atlantic City, let's feel the wind in our hair.
Sharing the day in Atlantic City, sea and salty air.
Let's run away to Atlantic City, no one can find us there.

Tony Soprano and Me

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 14:18:00 +0000

Mike and I are currently making our way through season 4 of the Sopranos. Since we consciously avoid television, we're more than a bit behind with most shows that we love--especially the Sopranos, which is, like, over.

But oh, how we love the Sopranos! It combines so many characteristics we value in entertainment: dark humor, murder, miscellaneous debauchery, psychoanalysis, dumb Italians: you know, all of the things that make us feel warm and fuzzy inside. And let us not forget its quasi-literary value: there's actually a collection of essays entitled The Sopranos and Philosophy. Um, awesome.

Of course, one of the things I love the most about the Sopranos is its internalized portrayal of the stereotypical Italian man. Tony Soprano, on the surface, is my dad reincarnate: callous, uneducated, chubby, hypocritical. And I'd like to believe that the show's investigation of his interior life--as shadowy as it may be--reflects my dad's anxiety, bizarre sensitivity, and inability to process the depth of his actions.

And, of course, I'm rather fascinated that Meadow Soprano mirrors ME in some ways: she's smart, cynical, an English major, interested in social justice (perhaps in reaction to her father's disinterest in any kind of justice?), and caught between shame and pride for a father she resembles in many troubling ways. Toward the end of season 3, Meadow and Tony have a late-night conversation filled with the unspoken feelings between them. One thing that is spoken, though, is that beneath their surface disagreements, they are alike.

(The next time I saw my therapist, he helped convince me that my similarity to my father did not necessarily mean that I would make his mistakes.)

But my favorite thing about the Sopranos BY FAR is Tony's surprising sensitivity toward the plight of animals. During the show's first season, Tony's obsession with the geese in his backyard becomes a main subject of the conversation between himself and Dr. Malfi. He sits crying in her office because he is so worried about the geese, and it becomes clear that his panic attacks are related to the geese in some integral way. Three seasons later, Tony murders the sinister Ralphie because of his responsibility for a horse's death, and sees the need to send Christopher to rehab because he accidentally kills Adrianna's dog while high.

This love and concern for animals is comic, but also an integral part of Tony's character. It reveals his rather complex contradictions, and becomes a major way that viewers can build sympathy for him. Or, potentially, it could motivate viewers to feel less sympathetic toward a man who can chop someone up with a butcher knife but can't stand to see an animal suffer.

If you read my "Tagged" post below, you know that this characteristic of Tony's makes me feel sympathy for him, as I share a similar trait. I don't necessarily consider myself a misanthrope, and I certainly don't chop people up with butcher knives (insert sinister laughter here), but I do regard humans warily, because they knowingly perpetuate all manner of evil things. Animals, however, are victims to human folly and the cycles of nature.

And so, that is why I feel sympathetic toward them AND Tony Soprano, whose love for animals complicates his relegation to the "evil" side of the good/evil binary. And possibly my dad's--and my own--as well.

Etc., whatever.

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Mon, 14 Jan 2008 01:43:00 +0000

Things have not improved since my previous depressive post. I've become mired in office politics at school. My mom claims she's in love. I'm buried under a load of work. And it's only the first week of the semester.

When I started this blog, I told myself that it would not simply be about my problems; that while it would certainly be about me and my experiences, it would not read like my high-school journals (currently being stored in my creep-tastic basement): I wouldn't "pour my heart out" in a trite, angsty way.

But sometimes, sometimes, life has no literary merit. Sometimes life really is just angst and melodrama. And one of those times is now.

So, I would simply like to say that things are glum. Everything seems to have changed, but I had very little say in any of the changes. And, when I did have a say, I was totally and completely wrong, or speaking in another language, or depressingly self-interested.

There are no safe places. And I like to have at least one.

relapse

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Fri, 28 Dec 2007 22:07:00 +0000

My mom has started seriously dating a cousin of my Dad's who is an alcoholic, a gambling addict, and a drug addict; he has no job and lives in a trailer in Wayne County. Oh, and he has an estranged daughter my age.

And Mom refuses to admit that ANY of the above is a problem because he tells her that he's "born again."

So far, two holidays have been ruined by confrontations: the day before Thanksgiving AND Christmas Eve we had intense hours-long discussions about it. Each time, I pleaded with her to back away, using every rhetorical flourish I could to convince her what a totally fucking BAD idea this is. And each time, she accused me of doubting the power of Jesus Christ to "heal" people.

How can I argue with Jesus?

Quite honestly, I'm angry and scared. And I'm not allowing this relationship to happen without fighting it. My next step? Driving to Rochester and staging a family intervention. After that? Confronting Vince. And then? Well, I don't know. I refuse to threaten to cut my mom off: that's a tactic she's all too familiar with. However, I don't know how else to get my message across: reason hasn't been working so well; neither has heartfelt emotion.

And so, one of the only people I have left in the world is going to deliberately betray me--and herself. She's essentially choosing this ASSHOLE over her only daughter.

This is why my depression has relapsed, just in time for the gloomiest months of the year and the beginning of the spring semester.

And I feel completely powerless to fight it.

Tagged.

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Wed, 19 Dec 2007 17:19:00 +0000

Jessica of Folk and Fairy (see link on the right) tagged me. Because talking about oneself is the ultimate self-indulgence, and because I just finished typing (and vomiting) for two weeks straight, I must oblige. While gorging myself with chocolate, my second-favorite indulgence, of course.

The rules:
Link to the person who tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
Share 7 random and/or weird things about yourself.
Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Here are seven random things about me. (Although, I kinda feel that this is redundant, since this blog is FILLED with random things about me.)

1. I become legitimately angry when people don't wear coats in the winter. Are they making some sort of statement by eschewing proper attire? Like, "I want to prove that women's bodies must be displayed not only in summer, but throughout the year! That's how much I love objectification!" Seriously, people. Dress for the weather.

2. Often I have more compassion for animals than people. Perhaps because they don't speak. And they're never under-dressed.

3. I hardly ever read a book chronologically, a quirk that irritates Mike endlessly. Usually I give the first and last chapters a skim; if I determine the book is good, I'll then proceed chronologically. If not, I will stop reading. If I have to read the book for class, I'll locate the sections that deal with a major character/theme and read only those.

4. I hardly ever read a book completely. Even if I love it, I'll still skip parts that don't seem important. I blame this on Dorrance Publishing and the hellish year I spent reading manuscripts there.

5. My last name is now Holohan. How random is THAT?!

6. I love domestic work that most women my age view as a chore/pastime of grandmas. This includes cooking, gardening, and sewing. Basically, I like making stuff. And then consuming it.

7. If I was EXPECTED to do any of those domestic activities, a la fifties housewife, they would immediately lose their charm. I only like grandma stuff because it seems kinda counter-cultural. I like to announce that instead of bar-hopping on Saturday night, I whipped up some bread pudding, ate it all myself, and then sewed myself a new bag. (See what I mean about consumption?) If I were actually living in the fifties, I'd be smoking Lucky Strikes, wearing leather pants, and driving a motorcycle, NOT sewing poodle skirts, cooking pot roast, and cultivating peony bushes like Mrs. Beaver.

M'kay, now I'm supposed to tag seven people. But because I'm not into rules, I'm not going to. And the whole "tagging" thing smacks of that '80s friendship bread phenomenon--you know, that jar of yeasty, goopy stuff your mom would tote home from church and then pass on to other unsuspecting acquaintances after she had baked several loaves of mysterious bread? Bizarre!

So, I'm approaching this version of tag the same way I approached tag during recess: great! I got tagged! now I get to sit down while everyone else runs around for another half hour.

Never fear, though: there will be plenty more self-indulgence here at marianne schmarianne in the future.

type, vomit. type type, vomit vomit. vomit.

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Wed, 05 Dec 2007 19:23:00 +0000

In case you were wondering, that's what I've been up to these long, dark days of early December.

I'd forgotten, over my two year break from studenthood, how much I hate end-of-semester madness. You know, the feeling that you've worked your ass off all day and still have a grocery list of things to do. That centrifugal force has riveted you to the bed after you've drifted off, drooling on a book you were "reading." That you have so many ideas in your head that you will certainly explode or at least pass out from nervous exhaustion before you finish the damn paper. And, when it's all over, the feeling that your feverish effort has been for nothing, that you have not become a better person or helped anyone else to become a better person or really influenced the world in any positive way through your scholarly essays on Rebecca Harding Davis and Amy Lowell, which took many hours to research and write.

You know, THAT feeling.

I didn't overdo it, did I?

Still loving Linford.

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Fri, 09 Nov 2007 00:07:00 +0000

Linford Detweiler, of the band Over the Rhine, was the first writer to convince me that non-fiction could be beautiful and interesting. (I even got to tell him so once, and he appeared to actually care.) He did this through his folky, idiosyncratic autobiographical writing in which faith, landscape, and art merge with the self. And now, he's done it again:

"The thing about music is, you either feel it or you don't. And for whatever reason, when I sat down at the piano and Karin [his wife] opened her mouth, the room changed. We didn't plan it that way. It's just that the first time we performed together, people felt something on their skin and wanted to know what had happened, because it felt different somehow. All of a sudden we were feeling a bit shy. We didn't know what had happened, and Karin and I went our separate ways not long after we graduated. But I think that chemical reaction was lurking in the back of our minds."

A perfect metaphor for the tangibility of human connection. You can find the entire article, "Only in America: The Trumpet Child's Autobiography," in the November '07 issue of Paste, and Over the Rhine's new album, The Trumpet Child, in stores now.

"The Women's Movement has ruined you, Marianne."

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Mon, 05 Nov 2007 03:18:00 +0000

One of my professors actually said this to me the other day. In case you were wondering, the professor is a man--an older man in his sixties, who dedicates himself to dressing (unironically???) like a cowboy every day. Many of us have also decided that he has serious issues with women, as can be illustrated by the quote above.

Ever since I started my MA at Duquesne in 2003, this professor and I have engaged in an intermittent battle of wills and wits that has played out largely in the context of elevators: it's amazing how many witticisms can be exchanged between the second and sixth floors of College Hall.

Last year this battle intensified. A week into the fall semester, I realized I had the same schedule as this professor. Not only that: we taught in neighboring classrooms in buildings across campus. So, I often found myself walking with him to and from class. He did most of the talking. I would listen bemusedly most of the time, but sometimes I actually felt some pity for him: here he was, a few years from retirement, completely jaded and quite obviously certain that he had made little to no impact on students during the course of his career. And I became empathetic to the degree that I sometimes thought, "God, will this be ME in forty years?!"

But then we engaged in a pointless but furious battle of wills that led me to retract most of the empathy he had worked up in my hardened heart.

We began arguing over which route we would take back to our building after class. Imagine, if you will, a petite, young-looking graduate student squaring off against an older man in cowboy attire over whether we would take the direct route or the circuitous route that led past a university construction project. He became bizarrely insistent that I walk with him past the new building; I, in return, became equally insistent that we take the direct route.

Nobody really won: I went my way, he went his. This parting ended the battle for a while.

But now I'm in his class, and from the very first night I have been that obnoxious student who asks too many questions in a manner that borders on disrespectful. I am the opposite of demure, and I strongly suspect that he prefers demure women.

This preference of his became apparent during our next pointless battle, which took place in front of the microwave in the graduate office, i.e., MY office. I was in the process of microwaving a frozen dinner of some sort, and had realized that it needed to cook for another minute. Just as I placed the dish back in the microwave, I caught a whiff of cigarettes, whiskey, and stale coffee. Guess who? It was him, and he wanted to nuke his coffee. He insisted that I let him budge in front of me. I, of course, was equally insistent that he must wait, and pushed "start."

And that's when he said it, that thing about the "Women's Movement" ruining me.

(Seriously, who calls it that anymore???)

He says things like this to be controversial, the token misogynist in a department filled with feminists. Knowing this, I simply replied, "No, actually, I blame my father for that."

This statement, while a quip, holds quite a bit of truth. I've inherited most of my personality traits from my dad, so if my personality sucks, it's his fault, right? And then there's the whole 16 years in prison and unexpected death. Could these things count as "ruining" me?

Well, I guess that depends on what "ruining" means. In this professor's opinion, "ruining" appears to mean making a feminine-looking girl act in a way that traditional western society has dubbed "masculine": being stubborn, independent, assertive. And yes, I admit, rather bossy, snide, and aggressive from time to time.

Blaming this on feminism, though, is a fallacy. Yes, I am a feminist. Is this status responsible for my personality? Um, no. Does it keep me from repressing my personality? Sure. Isn't that called social progress? Does social progress ruin a person? As a Liberal, I answer that question with a resounding NO.

A-hem. Okay, I admit, I am beginning to sound strident. But, seriously Professor X. Stop being a dick.

My not-so-secret garden

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 01:42:00 +0000

My garden saved my life.

Really, it did.

As I've discussed a few times on this blog, this year has been Marianne's Mental Health Year. After a decade (or more, let's just be honest) of avoidance, I decided to give up the internal battle and discuss my deepest insecurities and shame with a fantastic cognitive psychologist named Dr. Friday. (Doesn't he sound like a comic book character?) Therapy, definitely, has saved my life.

But my garden has, too. Investing a lot of time and physical effort and psychic energy in PLANTS can really help one work through anxiety and depression. And while therapy is amazing, the intensity of each session can often leave one...at loose ends for a day or two. Work--mindless work--is the best solution.

So, in April, I built and planted a garden from scratch in my teeny tiny Southside back yard. I ripped up about fifty years' worth of weeds and sod and garbage, added some new soil, installed a weed barrier, and stuck A LOT of baby plants in the ground. In the process, I also discovered and uncovered an old brick patio that had been neglected for so long that it had completely disappeared beneath three to five inches of weeds and soil.

I wasn't really sure if the plants would live. After all, the soil around my house has probably been contaminated by years of soot from the steel mill that used to be two blocks away. And, I've never really gardened on my own before: I used to "help" my grandparents with their gardens, but that was years ago. Still, I went out to check on the plants every day, watered them, fertilized them, pruned them, and they grew. And grew. And grew.

To be honest, I have been pretty obsessed with my garden all summer, and I pour a lot of emotional energy into it. I even blush a little when friends and neighbors compliment it. It's a big accomplishment for me, and I actually take pride in it.

Taking pride in something I've created is a novel concept for me. As Dr. Friday has forced me to admit, I have always regarded my creations as inadequate, and therefore, I've been a bit ashamed of them. In fact, when I have found myself in a particularly forceful fury of perfectionism, my projects and their "glaring" faults seem to exemplify my inadequacies as a person.

This is why I'm in therapy.

But my garden (and Dr. Friday, of course) has changed this unfortunate negative thought pattern. And, in celebration of newfound self-esteem, I've posted photos of the garden as it has evolved through the summer and into fall.

In case you're interested, the back flower bed includes Siberian iris, osteospermum, "dusty miller," "hens and chicks," marigolds, and Scottish moss. The side herb gardens include basil (purple and green), dill, cilantro, rosemary, oregano, and a monstrous grape tomato plant. The front gardens consist solely of French lavender bushes and double petunias.

BTW: After three frosts, most of the plants are still thriving. Also, I'm in the process of planting spring-blooming bulbs: tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths (in memory of Eliot's "the hyacinth girl"). The tulips--tall purple and dwarf orange--have been planted in the front beds; the daffodils and hyacinths will be planted in the back.

Argument

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Tue, 23 Oct 2007 19:31:00 +0000

I like to argue. But not when I'm actually angry. And only about issues without much gravity, like aesthetics. (Okay, so aesthetics can be pretty important sometimes. But...you know what I mean...)

Today I had a random argument with another graduate student, and I THOUGHT it was going to be one of those fun, random arguments I love so much. But then things went horribly wrong. Or at least, I think they did. I'm really not sure.

We were laughing, and then suddenly... he was shouting. And I was trying to keep laughing, but it was pretty awkward, to say the least. Then we seemed to patch things up, but he wound up kind of storming out of the room.

Ummmmm.....????

This person, who is so crotchetly and cynical he could be an old man with a cane, likes very few people. He is embittered and, I think it fair to say, hates everyone. Usually I have a soft spot in my heart for people like this, and so, up until today, I fancied myself one of the people he hated least in our department. In fact, the other day we had a strangely long and funny conversation about shampoo. I found this endearing and thought it meant I was on his good side. Or at least, as far from his ire as anyone gets.

But no. I had to go and make a somewhat idealistic comment about our department and the improvements the professors are trying to make. This totally set him off, and he began shouting, "Oh, you're from another planet. ANOTHER PLANET!" While I tried to explain myself, he continued shouting this directly into my face, and I felt something (perhaps the Sicilian part of me?) snap. And so, I found myself shouting the same phrase back into HIS face! At this point, the more rational part of me won control again, and I tried to make a joke of the situation. But there was NO salvaging it. It was irrevocably awful.

When I went to teach my class today, which is, ironically, about rhetorical argumentation, I told my students that I had engaged in an argument that completely lacked "mature reasoning" (the staple of competent argument, according to our textbook) and, as a result, had become very "cranky-pants" (a term I recently introduced them to). Then I had to deliver a grammar lecture, which made my day even worse.

Now, at the end of the day, I'm feeling 1) kind of glad I had this stupid argument, because it was amusing to me and everyone else around at the time, and 2) ashamed that I allowed myself to get carried away and that I should never speak again.

But I will. And a lot. I just can't help but argue.

Details: I love you, but you're bringing me down.

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Wed, 19 Sep 2007 17:01:00 +0000

Details, details. How I love you, how I hate you.

I consider myself a detail-oriented person in that I am analytical, a perfectionist, and generally pretty perceptive. (And because those personality tests that we all secretly love to take have always told me so. And I can trust those, right? RIGHT?) Inevitably, I'm the person in the group who brings up the flaws in any plans we've made, and I'm preoccupied by the one person who seems to have something bothering them. I take much longer to think a project through than to actually complete it. And when a room needs to be painted, I volunteer to do the detail work--and I actually enjoy it.

But somehow, the details of daily life always escape me. In fact, I'm pretty sure that I've completely lost my short-term memory. Meeting today at 3? What? I was supposed to email a student about the assignment due tomorrow?! I'm supposed to do a presentation WHEN? We're hanging out with them TONIGHT? These are questions I ask myself and others on a daily basis.
I know, I know: I need to get a planner, set cell phone alarms, etc. I've tried that. In fact, I have a planner, and I use it, but there are always important events that I've forgotten to add. Or, I simply forget to consult the planner. Also, I turn off the cell phone alarm and then forget that it even rang.

As you can see, I'm hopeless.

And that would be fine, if my career weren't ALL ABOUT details. First, there's teaching, which involves countless details on a daily basis--details that a large group of students are depending on me to remember. On top of that, I'm taking two classes, meaning I have multiple due dates to keep in mind. And, since I'm basically the academy's bitch now, I have a whole list of extracurriculars to attend to, such as EGO (English Graduate Organization, and the pun is definitely intended) meetings, fundraisers, conferences, parties, etc. And somehow, I have to remember to show up for all of this stuff.

Clearly, I need a secretary to survive the PhD. But there's absolutely no hope for that, since my income is significantly less than a secretary would expect to be paid. What to do? Here are some options:

1. Become independently wealthy and hire a secretary. (Matt Reed and I already have a plan for this that involves Harriet Tubman's autobiography.)

2. Quit everything I'm doing right now, pop out some babies, and resign myself to huswifery. (although I'm pretty sure that I'd need good time-management skills to be competent at that. And, I'd go insane. "The Yellow Wall-Paper," anyone??)

3. Press on without a short-term memory and use the "absent-minded professor" stereotype as an excuse.

Which do you think sounds best?

Adventures in Public Transportation

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Thu, 06 Sep 2007 02:55:00 +0000

The fall semester just started; I'm exhausted and not thinking all that clearly at the moment. But I really need to tell you all about taking the bus.

For far too long, I feared the bus. From a rural Upstate New York perspective, the bus is an alternate universe where all sorts of ugly, sordid things congregate. It is commonly believed that one might get molested, hurt, or even murdered on the bus. Because my family members have this perspective, taking the bus never even occurred to me when I lived in Rochester. When I visited other cities, though, public transportation seemed like a natural choice: I took the L in Chicago, the subway in New York, and the streetcar in Toronto. All of these bus alternatives seemed very glamorous to me at the time, but as soon as I arrived at home, I was back in my car, speeding around Rochester and points east.

It was possible for me to avoid the bus because I've always had a car. From the moment I passed my driver's test at 16 until last month, I've been in the possession of several small, foreign-made vehicles that were given quirky names such as "The Mallier Kier" and "Fredo." (Each, of course, with pretty hilarious stories behind them.) They made it possible for me to live a very car-centric life for a long time, and for that I am (somewhat) grateful.

But now I take the bus. There are several good reasons for this. I sold my car for almost $4,ooo, and will be saving hundreds of dollars a year on insurance; I can also avoid paying steep downtown parking fees ($600 a year at DU!) and repairing the occasional smashed window/broken mirror, which is a given in city life. And, since I am trying to be as "green" as possible these days, I can also lighten my "carbon footprint" on the atmosphere.

But, honestly, I don't mind taking the bus because it gives me a great opportunity to stare at people and eavesdrop on their conversations. As I've mentioned previously on this blog, I have a love/hate relationship with the general public. While I am annoyed at/disdainful of/horrified by people much of the time, I am still intensely fascinated by them, and deep down inside my hardened heart, I feel...compassion for them. Yes, compassion. And the bus has become a space where my love and hate for the American public merges on a daily basis.

Generally, before entering the bus, I arm myself with sunglasses and headphones. These items ensure that I can stare at people and eavesdrop on them without them becoming aware of this, and, most importantly, without them trying to talk to ME. Conversation is to be avoided at all costs. However, this plan doesn't always work. And that's when things get interesting.

The first incident I experienced on the bus was, I've been told by hardened bussers, pretty extraordinary. The bus driver abruptly pulled over by Giant Eagle at Wharton Square, announced that he had to pee, and locked us all in the bus while he went to accomplish that. Of course, several passengers were outraged by this, including this shriveled little old man, who started ranting loudly about how the bus driver, by abandoning us to pee, was taking away our freedom as Americans. This became a spirited lecture on the many ways Americans are wronged by our government, which is the worst combination of communism and fascism and is being led by a complete moron. While delivering the lecture, he grasped a pole with one hand and with the other pointed ineffectually at all of us, trying to implicate us in the hopeless state of our nation. Passengers reacted in various ways to this angry little man. Some smiled sardonically to themselves, other nodded in agreement, some quietly expressed annoyance, and others ignored him completely. I laughed quietly to myself.

This incident has been followed by several more: the time a little old man warned me not to talk to recovering drug addicts who attend my church, or the argument I overheard between two black men regarding whether women are as morally perverse as men, the man (in a Pens jersey and sweatpants) crocheting a blanket at lightening speed, or the conversation between a young hipster and a middle-aged black woman about LA Gear sneakers. There's always something interesting happening on the bus. Which is why I'm not complaining--yet.

Dog Days

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Thu, 09 Aug 2007 15:11:00 +0000

These, my friends, are the dog days of summer. And I hate them. HATE them.

(I feel like I capitalize the word "hate" a lot on this blog. Hmmm.)

First, there's the weather. It's been in the nineties and insanely humid all week; I can't go outside without cursing. Stepping out the door feels like walking into a gooey wall of tapioca pudding fresh from the stovetop. And the sad thing is, it isn't NEARLY as delicious. Yesterday, my friend Jill and I discussed which month is worse weather-wise: August or February. We agreed that February is worse due mainly to lack of sunlight, but August weather definitely comes in for a close second.

Next, there's the back-to-school situation. At some point back in May I convinced myself that the end of August would never come, that even though I had made definite plans to begin my PhD and continue teaching, these plans were just abstractions, things I could talk about with acquaintances to shallowly impress them but not actually have to DO. Well, school starts in about two weeks and I still can't seem to flip my "this is reality and you should be concerned about it" switch.

Which isn't something that should surprise me: I've always been a terrible procrastinator. Well, actually, it may be more accurate to say that I've always been a FANTASTIC procrastinator, because I always seem to produce my best work at the last minute. However, I'm still consumed with panic each time I procrastinate (which, ironically, probably enables me to do good work). The other day I told Mike, who is also a serial procrastinator, that we should just accept our work habits as they are and stop panicking. But I'm not sure that's really possible.

All this to say that while I'm feeling glib about the coming tasks right now, I will soon feel miserable about them, and the misery will be heightened by my memories of the glibness. And, in thinking about this emotional process, my glibness is being spoiled. Gaaaa.

So there you have it: dog days. A bittersweet gob in the throat, sweat on the brow, and a growing seed of dread in the pit of the stomach. And gone far too soon.

Three's a (weird and creepy) crowd

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Tue, 24 Jul 2007 15:22:00 +0000

This last weekend, while attending Mark and Amy's wedding reception, I was hit on in a way that I've never been hit on before. Re-read the title, and I'm sure you can guess the specific way I'm referring to. Um, ewwww.

It happened at the end of the evening, when the remaining guests were more than a little tipsy. I was, of course, one of these guests, and I was definitely tipsy. (I actually have wedding drinking down to a science: only one drink before dinner, so I don't get sleepy when the bar temporarily shuts down, then three drinks containing hard liquor in quick succession after the cake. This allows me to get just drunk enough to actually have fun dancing, but not drunk enough to fall down while dancing.) I won't go into all of the details, and I won't mention who did the propositioning, but I'm 90% sure that a certain couple strongly hinted that they wanted to have sex with me. Together. At the same time.

oh, MY GOD.

Here's the thing: I'm friends with many people who are sexually adventurous, even promiscuous. But group sex? I only know a few people who have admitted to it, and most of the time they're ashamed. They say things like, "It happened on accident" or "We were all just really drunk and weird things happened." In my opinion, group sex is on the Dark Side. It means you are sexually deviant and probably have severe emotional problems. It should not be something you're proud of, unless you're Hugh Hefner or that asshole from Girls Gone Wild.

And, I admit, I am a huge prude. I've always been extremely guarded about my body. I've never made out with a stranger or near stranger (unlike most people I know--even the prudish ones!). While I have gone astray in other areas of life, when it comes to sexuality, I've always kept to the straight and narrow. And while I admit that I could have had a lot more fun at certain points in life had I been more willing to experiment, I'm proud of my prudishness and feel that I've done the best thing for me.

So, of course, when this proposition occurred, I was very weirded out and had to take a few minutes to analyze the situation. Had what I thought just happened actually happened? If it had, why?! Given who had done the propositioning (which will still remain unspoken), there were sooooo many levels of weirdness to sort through. And everyone was tipsy, making logical thought a lot more difficult.

With few options of escape open to me, I simply danced as far away from the offending couple as I could. But suddenly, everyone started creeping me out. Friends and acquaintances who had seemed innocently friendly moments before became sinister and suspect for sexual deviance that might possibly affront me at any moment. After all, the couple had seemed perfectly nice pre-proposition. It occurred to me then that sexual deviance is a lot like adult diapers: with the right clothes, they can be hidden, and no one will ever know about your incontinence unless they get close enough to hear the tell-tale rustle.

With my neuroses in full swing, I began wondering "why me?" Is there something about me that screams "I want to have sex with you AND your fiance?" I don't exactly wear my prudishness on my coat sleeve, but I never thought someone would be comfortable asking me to do a threesome.

The next morning, thinking about the situation again, I put the thought that the proposition had anything to do with me out of my head. Some people are just...odd. And I'm not--at least, not in THAT way. Go me.

You know you've married the right man...

noreply@blogger.com (marianne) — Thu, 19 Jul 2007 03:08:00 +0000

...when, on your second wedding anniversary, he arrives home from work in the midst of a heated phone conversation with a friend about the new Smashing Pumpkins video, and says this: "...it's so stupid that it's kind of cool, except he's wearing that fucking wedding dress."

Overhearing this, I was suddenly struck by how lucky I am to have married such a strange man.

The "He" being spoken of is Billy Corgan, of course, the eternally angsty rock 'n roll idiot savant behind the Smashing Pumpkins, a grunge-era anomaly that captivated many a moody adolescent back in the mid-nineties. Mike was one of those moody adolescents: he listened to Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness (both discs, and even the songs sung by James Iha and D'arcy) every day after high school and considered Billy Corgan to be a great voice of our generation (never mind that Billy is actually a generation ahead of us). "The world is a vampire..."; "I fear that I am ordinary..."; "We only go out at night...": these are musings that had Mike pumping his fist while crying a single tear in his bedroom every evening as he mourned the injustice of his middle-class, suburban existence.

I laugh at him, acting superior, but really, I liked the Pumpkins a lot, too. And I was, in many ways, the quintessential moody adolescent of that era: I wore black every day; I stayed up late, reading and writing existential poetry by the glow of my blacklight; I snuck clove cigarettes from the older boys I hung out with; and most importantly, I feared that despite these things (which I hoped made me soooo much more interesting and complicated than anyone else my age), I was, nonetheless, ordinary. Billy, who had reached the age of thirty by this time, legitimized my adolescent angst.

But, although I think I'll always appreciate the memories the Pumpkins evoke, and I'll always think that some songs (such as my favorite, "Tonite, Tonite") are fantastic, I'm done with them. I refuse to forgive Billy for quitting Zwan (which I really liked), making an atrociously embarrassing solo album, and then getting the Pumpkins (ie, himself and Jimmy Chamberlin) back together for a new album with the unfortunate title Zeitgeist. To me, grunge-era reunions are a sad cliche at this point. In fact, they remind me of Ethan Hawk, the grunge posterboy. While Ethan had it goin' on in Reality Bites and Before Sunrise, he refused to quit while he was still hip and now tries to write introspective novels and screenplays that are, of course, mediocre at best. Similarly, the Pumpkins of old were iconic; they should have left it at that. But no: Billy's got to beat the proverbial dead horse.

All this to say, I disapproved of the new album in theory even before I saw the horrible artwork and read the quasi-political lyrics. In my mind, there was no WAY it could possibly be good. Mike, while wary, had hope. The Pumpkins had always meant more to him than me: like many adolescent (and adult) males, music wasn't just music to Mike; it created an identity. While I mulled over Billy's gloomy, egocentric lyrics for a while and then called it a day, Mike obsessed over Pumpkins trivia, became part of a Pumpkins web ring, and bought rare Pumpkins imports online. [Mike claims that none of those things actually happened, but I think that's the embarrassment talking.] Clearly, for him, there's much more at stake.

But, while Mike claims that the new album is growing on him, there's still one thing that he can't forgive: Billy's dresses. Or, to quote him accurately: "Those fucking dresses." Billy started wearing them in the late nineties and no one really knows why. When the Pumpkins performed at the MTV awards circa 1996 or 97, Billy wore a long black sheath. Soon, he had a silver one, too. The melancholy adolescent boys, still nursing their homophobia, became disillusioned with their solipsistic hero. Mike tried to ignore the dress, but just couldn't. It began to symbolize everything that was going wrong with the latter day Pumpkins.

So this is why Mike is so pissed: he was hoping the album would be good, and it's not. Even worse, Billy's brought back the dress with a vengeance. It's apparently a wedding dress with all sorts of odd accessories. I haven't seen it myself, because I don't care. What I do care about, however, is Mike describing this dress and his feelings about it, because it's hilarious. And on our second wedding anniversary, it reminds me again why I fell in love.