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

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

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

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

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...

...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.

"How are you feeling, generally?"

Dr. Friday, my therapist since January, asked me this question toward the end of my monthly blab session on Thursday. And the answer wasn't simple by any means.

First, some background on my time in therapy. For three months, I saw Dr. Friday on a weekly basis. This was during the Really Bad Phase when I was in Serious Trouble. But apparently my mental health began improving, and in April, we cut back to two meetings a month. Then, in May, Dr. Friday brought up--wait for it--"termination." When he said that word, smiling optimistically, I began quietly panicking. What? WHAT? You mean, I won't be able to come see you anymore? You mean I no longer have to pay you to be a captive audience for my emotional problems???!!! These are all questions I shouted in my head. Outwardly, I tried to remain calm, but some of this turmoil must have registered on my face, because he suggested that IF I felt uncomfortable with termination, we could simply narrow our meetings to once a month over the summer and reevaluate in the fall. Visibly relieved, I accepted this compromise.

When I left that day, I began analyzing two issues: One, has my psychological health improved so much that I no longer need therapy? I mean, it has only been six months, and I've got twenty-six years' worth of depression and anxiety to sift through. True, we'd made some progress, particularly regarding the Shadow of My Father, but it felt like there was a lot more to do. Also, if the truth be told, I'd kind of resigned myself to being in therapy for life. And I no longer hated the idea. In fact, I'd come to kind of LIKE it.

Which brings me to the second issue: Why did I want to remain in therapy so badly? Isn't one supposed to be GLAD when one's therapist announces that one is no longer crippled by depression and anxiety? Yeah, you'd think so. But not me. As I brainstormed why, here's what I came up with. Option 1: I dislike any changes to my routine that aren't my idea, because this makes me feel Out of Control. Option 2: I'd come to regard therapy and the conditions that made it necessary as an essential part of my identity, and if I stopped going, I'd have to re-align my perception of myself. And finally, Option 3: Dr. Friday is the ONLY older man that I have been able discuss my personal problems with, making him a replacement father figure of sorts (figures). Quitting therapy would mean giving that up and possibly never finding that kind of relationship ever again.

I settled on all three.

So, when Dr. Friday asked me to describe my current state, I started thinking about my sublimated desire to remain in therapy. Would I allow this to skew my answer? And really, how AM I doing?

I'm not sleeping well, but I don't feel tired, and I'm using the extra waking hours to make stuff (see previous post). I'm not as obsessively anxious generally, but the other day I did sit outside of my friend's party for about fifteen minutes before I could muster the courage to go in. I've started smoking again, which is Very Bad for my health, but I'm also running three miles a day, which is Very Good. I've been getting along with my mom, but I've also been dealing with a lot of guilt and regret about other relationships (or lack thereof).

So, my answer? I told Dr. Friday all of the above, and he agreed that I'm vastly improved, but that I still need therapy. And so, the narrative continues.

I make stuff.

It's true: I'm one of those women who can be classified as "crafty," and it scares the shit out of me. Here's why it's so frightening: I come from a family filled with women like this who have created countless hideous crafts and subsequently ruined their previously tasteful homes by placing these crafts on unsuspecting walls, tables, and any other available surfaces. My mom is one of the worst offenders: in the past year, she has ruined six perfectly good chairs by stenciling pink roses on them; desecrated a wicker table, which was once brown but is now burgundy "flecked" (aka, spray painted) with gold; and made a mockery of the chandelier above her dining room table by covering it in rose-printed fabric. And these are just her latest offenses against good taste. For years I have been sneering at straw hats decorated in pastel silk flowers, stuffed barnyard animals wearing bonnets, and lace edging on every piece of fabric in sight. And I have always sworn that this would NEVER EVER EVER be me.

But I'm helpless: my compulsion to make things has overpowered my fear of being like my mother and having bad taste (which, sadly, are often the same fear). I may be in the process of becoming what I hate. Ever since I was a teenager, other friends with crafty moms and I have frequently discussed when the turning point occurs, and how. Do you wake up one day and randomly think, "Must have mauve calico curtains immediately!" Or is it a slippery slope, one that leads you from thinking a little bit of lace on the edge of the shams would be pretty to displaying stuffed geese in nineteenth-century outfits on your mantle?

Well, now I know: it's apparently a slippery slope. But, I stubbornly insist that the pillow shams I made for my friend Jill last week are not at all mom-like, and that while they may be the first sign that my judgment is devolving, they're still...pretty cool. She thought so, anyway.

Here's the concise version of what I did: Jill and I went fabric shopping at IKEA and (the dreaded) Jo-Ann Fabrics. Jill picked out bright green, turquoise, and eggplant fabrics and contrasting thread. I borrowed several pillows she wanted to cover, designed some patterns, and used my mom's sewing machine to stitch the shams. Then, I found several Art Nouveau designs in a book Jill lent me, sketched them onto cardstock, and turned them into stencils. Finally, I applied fabric paint (no, NOT the puffy kind that victimized me in the early '90s) with a "sponcer" (a sponge for stenciling). Here's the results:



Now, I know what you're thinking: a trip to Jo-Ann fabrics? Fabric paint? STENCILS??? This is dangerous territory. And I agree. But, for the record, I'd like to state that Jill and I made sure to ridicule the soccer moms buying ice cream cone-printed fabric destined for mother-daughter jumpers, and we relived nightmarish puffy-paint experiences while picking out fabric paint just to remind ourselves that this project was SO MUCH different than that.

I insist that I have not yet slipped into style oblivion, which seems to me like the tenth circle of hell. But you be the judge.

"Shopping urban in mom's suburban" and other adventures in summer employment

Before I begin this post in earnest, I feel the need to say this: I don't hate people. Per say. Really. I don't. Uh-uh. 'Kay?

Now, I'll say this: I have become an academic because I hate the "real world" (ie, corporate America and middle-class public life). And yes, often "people" are implicated in this hatred. However, in academia, people are secondary to ideas. Yes, people have created these ideas, but we can encounter them (the ideas and the people who created them) through written language. And honestly, that's how I feel most comfortable encountering others, particularly the scary but predictable monolith known as the general public.

But, because I'm still a student and my stipend ends in May, every summer I must leave the (relative) shelter of the academy and immerse myself in what I have come to know as the cesspool of public life: low-paying service jobs. Generally, these jobs are effective in that they send me running back to the university with open arms willing to be filled with books, papers, whiny students, and an even lower paycheck.

Here's a list of the crap jobs I've been forced to take over summer vacations since I was eighteen, ordered from least to most painful:

7. Office Assistant, DU English Dept.

Not a bad job, overall. I sat in a sterile, florescent office all day, but with people I could at least tolerate. The worst part of the job was photocopying ENTIRE 400-page books for a prof who needed to send the originals back to the library before she could read them. Yes, it was tedious, but at least I was working with books.


6. Library Student Assistant, McCartney Library

This was also a highly tolerable summer job. I had to put up with Dr. Moran, the hair-brained, high-tempered, and bird-like head librarian, and I had to "shelf read" pretty much the entire day, but again, at least I was constantly surrounded by books, which soothed me.


5. Temp, Office Team

I thought temping would be ok; after all, a lot of friends had done it with modest success. I should have known this would not be true for me. I was first sent to an Audi dealership in Monroeville, where I was expected to do three jobs rolled into one. This included answering the phone, which rang constantly; filing a never-ending pile of service invoices, which were organized poorly and placed in a separate room; and cashing out disgruntled service customers, which I technically wasn't supposed to do according to Office Team policy. Oh, I also had to screen calls for the business manager, taking the name of everyone who called for him and paging him to find out if this person was important enough to speak to. This happened about every five minutes. At the end of the two hellish weeks they offered me a full-time gig, but I ran far, far away. After a subsequent week-long stint at a poorly organized company where I had to ring a DOORBELL to get in every day, I quit the agency.


4. Ice Cream Scooper, Bruester's

This job seems painless enough, and you're probably thinking, as I was when I took the job, how difficult can scooping ice cream really be? Well, let me tell you: it's pretty damn difficult when you're 20 and working with 15-yr-old drama queens; when you've got shit for muscles and the ice cream is frozen hard; when the cash register tells you the total, not the amount of change you're supposed to give back, and you're bad at math; and when the corporate office is located across the street and calls to complain every time the line grows to more than five people long (which is ALL the time on summer evenings). My favorite incident was when one of the corporate bitches made me throw out an entire sundae because I had put it in the wrong kind of cup and used a little too much ice cream. I wanted to quit on the spot and walk out eating the sundae myself, but I needed the money, so I stayed for another month.


3. Freelance Editor

Why is this job worse than those listed above, you ask, when it seems like the perfect job for me? Well, because I had to work with Jaime, an insurance salesman who thought he was a genius but couldn't write to save his life. I had to read, like, the hundreth draft of his terrible manuscript and then ever so gently tell him how he should rework it (ie, rewrite it coherently). He did not take this so well, and sent me and the secretary for his publishing company about a million angry emails in which he criticized MY ability as an editor and basically acted like a condescending prick. And as you may know, it doesn't get much worse than a painfully mediocre person acting like a condescending prick. Then, I had to meet with him in person and spend three hours listening to his boring and inadequate explanations for why the manuscript sucked. I think I'll stick with teaching, where students HAVE to accept my criticism or else get a bad grade.


2. Housekeeper, Blossom View Nursing Home

Two words: Shit and piss. Everywhere. This is all you need to be told about this job and why it ranks second-to-last on the list.


1. Assembly Line Worker, American Thermoplastic Company

I don't even know how to START describing why this was the WORST summer job ever. Ok, how about here: I had to work on an assembly line with two frat boys and a strung-out Vietnam vet named Mickey, and we had to box binders with college names printed on them as fast as we could in order to receive a good "score" for the day. I made $7/hr listening to Mickey talk about his ex-wife and her name, Dina, which he claimed was tattooed on his penis. Oh, and I had to cover for him, working twice as fast, while he stared off into space. After Mickey was fired (he failed a urine test), I had to work with a kid who lied constantly, telling me to do this or that and then laughing hysterically when I believed him. Meanwhile, I was constantly hit on by big burly dudes who were intrigued by the fact that I was in grad school ("So I hear you're one a them smart chicks, huh?"). HELLLLLLL. I was actually relieved when I was diagnosed with mono after a month of work and had to quit.

You can understand, then, my angst at having to go out into the real world, once again, and find a summer job. Having ruled out doing most of the above ever again, I decided that I would venture into an area untouched by my experience as of yet: retail. Also, I wanted a job I could walk to. Luckily, I live two blocks from several retail chains. So I tried to make myself look cool and disaffected and started asking for applications.

Three days later, I found myself in the midst of a "group interview" at Urban Outfitters, where most employees clearly think they are both cool and disaffected. There were about eight of us in the group, including two managers, and I immediately guessed that all of them were younger than me. Luckily, I look like I'm 18, so I didn't discredit myself right away.

I shouldn't have worried about that, because it soon became clear that just about everyone in the group was a complete idiot. (If this sounds mean, I'd like you to refer again to the opening sentence of this post. It's still true! Really!) There was a glam-punk kid who let everyone know that he fancied himself a writer; a girl who supplied too much personal information every time she spoke, as if she were writing in a diary; another girl who spoke far too loudly, making me wince; a girl who claimed to be a dj and told everyone she was "a lover, not a hater"; and finally, an awkward girl who told us that she didn't feel "cool enough" to work at the store.

Here are some questions that the managers asked us during this interview:

If you could take only two items to a secluded island, what would they be?

If someone gave you $100 right now, what would you do with it?

What CDs have you bought recently?

Name your two greatest strengths and weaknesses.

What's one thing that really upsets you?

All I could think was: Seriously??? You're going to hire me based on my answers to these questions? Sweet.

But there was a catch. Everyone else had to answer too, and as they were all complete idiots, you can imagine what kind of opportunity these questions afforded them to be completely idiotic. I got through it by mentally stabbing myself in the eyeballs about a thousand times.

The next day, I got hired. Unfortunately, so did a few of the idiots, which made me feel very insecure.

Then, I went to training, where all of us new hires and two managers went over a few booklets that outline company policies. On the back of each booklet this phrase is printed: "Shopping urban in mom's suburban." Maybe I'm thinking about it too hard, but I still find the phrase baffling. My favorite policy, located in the customer service pamphlet, is an all-important acronym, VIBE: Values and Interaction to Build our Environment. Every employee on the sales floor is expected to put VIBE into action, to make it a verb, not just a noun. Shit.

During my first shift, I worked with a guy named Nick, who, while showing me how to run the fitting room, also embodied what VIBE really means. He started telling me that the company wasn't doing as well this year, because "who wants to pay fifty fuckin' dollars for a t-shirt?" Then, he brought it home: "I really don't give a shit about this company." I laughed, relieved to have immediately found someone as apathetic as myself about corporate success. We were totally vibin'.

The job is easy, and I found myself liking it, in an apathetic sort of way. Basically, I fold and straighten clothes for five hours, which appeals to my not-so-hidden compulsiveness about clothing.

However, it soon became evident that I would need to get ANOTHER job, since the store seems to think "part-time" is about six hours a week. So, through a circuit of connections, I found myself employed at a failing tie shop that has literally six customers a day. The manager was about to quit because the corporate office wouldn't specify if/when the store is going to close, and she needed a few employees to basically hold down the fort until this happens. It's the perfect summer job, in a lot of ways: I'm alone with books, the internet, and satellite radio for most of the day, and the company has already written off the store, so there's very little pressure to actually sell anything. In short, a good foil to the VIBE philosophy.

So far, I'm pleased with my summer foray into retail, because I get to work with other people who hate people. I mean, who seriously dislike people sometimes. Yeah.

But, only time will tell where these jobs will fall on the crab job list. I'll keep you posted.

Heat

"...And, like that, I'm back in that valley with its broken-combed mountain tops and the wolves at night and the ever-present feeling that the world is so much bigger than you, and my mind becomes a jumble of associations, of aunts and a round table and laughter you can't hear anymore, and I am overcome by a feeling of loss. It is, I concluded, a side effect of this kind of food, one that's handed down from one generation to another, often in conditions of adversity, that you end up thinking of the dead, that the very stuff that sustains you somehow tastes of mortality."

Bill Buford, Heat

Last week Mike and I took a long-awaited beach vacation, and it went exactly as planned: we dutifully took the elevator from our seventh-floor condo to the beach, where we sat in reserved beach chairs and read books all day. (OK, I also did a lot of staring, mostly in grandma mode: from behind my sunglasses, I disapproved of every skimpy bikini, every instance of bad parenting, and every tipsy kite-flyer within my line of vision.)

So, as you can imagine, my reading list was of utmost importance. I began obsessing about it two weeks before vacation and walked out of Carnegie Library Main with a ridiculously large stack of books. I could barely see over them as I walked to the car. If you'd run into me that day, scattering the books across the sidewalk, you would have noticed a few typical beach reads in the pile: novels from a bestselling author published in the last year or two. You also would have found a non-fiction work by Bill Buford, former fiction editor at the New Yorker, called Heat (An amateur's adventures as kitchen slave, line cook, pasta-maker, and apprentice to a Dante-quoting butcher in Tuscany). This meandering but engrossing account of Buford's time spent in the New York restaurant industry and at the mercy of Mario Batali, an acclaimed chef, is actually about the central role food plays in our lives--for some, to the point of obsession. Because of this, Heat was my favorite vacation read.

To explain why, I need to provide some background info. As I've already mentioned in a previous post or two, I come from a family obsessed with food. My dad's family, Sicilian immigrants from a small coastal village called Real Monte (you can see the African coast while standing on the beach on a clear day), quite literally regarded food as THE essential element of spiritual and social life. My Nono made his living at a meat factory, then came home and cultivated his extensive and meticulously planned garden. My Nona spent her days turning the vegetables he grew into delicious recipes that she had inherited from generations of women in her family. Neither of them (or anyone they knew) EVER had an important conversation without food present; similarly, food (its quality and portion size) was the main way they decided whom to befriend: if a paisan fixed a lackluster meal, or failed to offer a suitable abundance of sweets during a quick visit, they were blacklisted. Period.

So, it's no surprise that I related to my dad's parents mainly through the medium of food. We could never understand each other very well (they spoke very little English; I spoke very little Italian), but food and its preparation became an alternate language. Nono walked me through his garden, pointing with pride to young cucumber that I was allowed to pick early and eat whole. Nona let me help stuff ravioli with cheese, beef, and peas, and flip veal cutlets sizzling in olive oil while she supervised. I was allowed to taste the pasta to determine if it should be cooked longer (she never used a timer).

It was a family tragedy that I refused to eat red sauce for the first twelve years of my life. Nona and Nono both averted their eyes, seemingly in pain, when I covered my spaghetti with butter and cheese, but at other times they would study me covertly, as if trying to figure out the mystery of a blood relation who willfully rejected the family tomato sauce. "Americana," Nono would murmur, shrugging and seeking comfort in the garden.

My palate, at that age, had been formed by my mom's side of the family, English, Irish, and Dutch in nationality. At DeWitt family meals I could eat American comfort food at its finest: buttery mashed potatoes, deviled eggs, cheeseburgers. With my grandmother, a former home-ec teacher, I made snickerdoodle cookies and apple pie; I fried crumbled hamburger for mild chili; I learned how to use somewhat uncommon kitchen tools such as a flour sifter, and I was instructed in the details of competent cooking: always crack your eggs into a separate bowl before frying them! Always use a knife to level off a cup measure of flour! (I complied while she was watching, but when she left the room the details were totally lost on me.)

My parents, while from these very different backgrounds, met and fell in love because of food. My dad took my mom on a date to a steakhouse with a buffet salad bar, and she (a 115-lb model at the time) ate him under the table. He fell in love with her appetite; she fell in love with him because he was willing to satisfy it. To this very day, nothing makes my mom happier than an all-you-can eat menu.

All of this to say, an (unhealthy?) obsession with food is embedded in my DNA. Reading Heat, particularly the passage quoted above, helped me to understand the role that food has played--and continues to play--in my life. Even when I couldn't talk to my dad about anything important (which was most of the time), we could still talk about his sauce, and how he'd adapted it from his mother's recipe (he added onions). When I don't want to tell my mom about my bad day, I can describe--in great detail--the meal I made last night, and she is enthralled.

In this way, food does become a sort of alternate language, one that gives a new perspective to memory, one that reveals unspoken truths about identity. Food can be like memoir.

Rediscovering Mother's Day: A photo essay. Or, Why I miss Rochester in the springtime.

I'm not a very good daughter most of the time (for reasons that will go unrecorded for now), but I managed to score some much-needed bonus points this last weekend with an extended visit to Rochester, during which I participated in many mother-daughtery activities. Here's a photographic record of these activities, which I actually enjoyed--mostly.


During my childhood and adolescence, my mom would often spontaneously take me out for country drives along the shores of Lake Ontario. My favorite drives were the ones where we would find ourselves chasing the sunset, trying our best to get to the shore before the colors faded. Well, on Friday, Mom and I found ourselves on another of these sunset chases. This time, however, the sunset was swathed in a curious mist rising off the chilly water and drifting onto the shore.



The photo above depicts this mist floating above an inlet on the Webster side of Seabreeze. I made my mom pull the car over so I could grab some shots. This one's my favorite.



Later, as we were walking down the pier, Mom spotted a blue heron standing quietly in the water. I managed to get this shot seconds before he flew away.



The next day, I "helped" my mom nanny Julia Collins, the three-year-old daughter of a childhood friend. We went swimming at the Webster Aquatic Center and swinging at Webster Park, which sounds simple enough, but I was EXHAUSTED by mid-morning. I became aware, yet again, of why I'm not ready to have kids: the swings lose their charm in a BIG way after about 20 minutes. When I'm with Julia in public, though, everyone thinks I'm her mother because we're so much alike: long brown hair, big brown eyes, and a neurotic temperament. She's basically a preview of my own future progeny. This photo shows Julia doing her "cheese!" face while Mom force-feeds her french toast. She and I will have to start a support group someday.



On Mother's Day, Mom, Grandma, Chuck, and I had lunch at Sannibel Cottage, a new restaurant named for an island on the Gulf Coast of Florida. It's my mom's favorite restaurant, which means it MUST be good. In case you've never met her, the first thing that defines my mom as a person is her food fanaticism. The woman loves to eat, and she has a magical metabolism (which I am SO GRATEFUL to have inherited) that allows her to consume vast amounts without becoming obese. Mom and I both put our metabolisms to work at Sannibel that day, devouring rolls with honey butter, salads with mango dressing, and large main courses. I had an excellent dish called "gritty shrimp," which combines Gulf shrimp with grits in a garlic-butter sauce and fresh asparagus. SO GOOD. As you can see from the photo above, my mom's metabolism is about the only thing I inherited from her: she's looking gorgeous, as usual, and I'm looking...like my dad.



After lunch, Mom, Grandma, and I headed downtown to the Lilac Festival, where I suppressed my crowd anxiety and checked out countless varieties of lilacs. I must admit, though, that my favorite flowering bush was the unidentified one in the photo above. However, I do really like the French variety of lilac, like this one, in front of which Grandma and I are posing:



I'm also really into the tulip bed, particularly the dark purple variety:



(PS: My mom took this picture, and she hasn't really learned how to zoom yet. In fact, digital cameras in general freak her out.)

Overall, it was the best weekend I've spent in Rochester in a long, long time. I haven't missed my hometown in a while, but when I stood on that pier, between the fog and the sunset, I realized that there's something about the place that I've internalized, that has become a part of my psyche in an unspeakable way. Often I want to forget the past and look to the future, and I've often wanted to abandon Rochester because eighteen rather gloomy years of my life were spent there. Yet the past is caught up in the landscape, and the landscape has become a part of my identity. I can't abandon it without abandoning myself.

I have a similar relationship to my mom: we've been through some tough things together, and often I want to forget those things. But to do so, I would have to sacrifice a large part of my connection to her.

Instead, I'm going to keep the memories around, but dilute them with water, to take the edge off.

Insomnia, gardening, and Pollyanna-ish realizations

First, about the insomnia. This week, sleep apparently became optional to my body. Three nights in a row I laid awake, staring at light reflecting on the bedroom ceiling. My bed, once a refuge, became loathsome. I resorted to sleeping pills.

Then, I realized that outdoor labor makes the body remember that it's supposed to shut down when fatigued. I've decided to transform the weed-infested strip of dirt outside of our house into a garden of sorts. According to my gardening manual, this means that stripping the sod, removing roots, and replenishing the soil is necessary. Once I started this task, I also realized that removing random pieces of garbage from the last ten years or so would also be necessary. Under a few inches of dirt, I found a foam ring that looked suspiciously like the remnants of a padded toilet seat, a pepsi bottle, an old container of lip ointment, a few lighters, a metal hanger, a very long, unidentified strip of plastic, and a bunch of other crap. I felt like I was excavating life on the 2700 block of Jane Street since my landlord stopped caring about the outdoor appearance of the house.

I'm now on Day Two of this project, and the flowers aren't even in the ground yet. I spent yesterday morning clearing out bricks and other debris; today I finished that job and added some much-needed organic matter. Tomorrow I will install the weed barrier, plant the flowers, and top it off with some cedar mulch. No problem, right? We'll see.

In the midst of the gardening and insomnia, I've managed to engage in some "positive thinking," which I have cynically labeled as "Pollyanna-ish realizations" in the title of this post. These realizations revolve around the nightmarish learning community meetings discussed in two previous posts. After participating in this nightmare, I have been forced to admit these positive things:

1. I am a good leader and teacher. I take charge easily, I communicate straightforwardly, and I get things done. I can come up with really interesting teaching ideas. Even in the face of adversity (ie, a bad leader that must be surmounted).

2. Jesus put me in this horrible situation so that I would make this realization. Funny how he does things like that.

3. Even if the situation sucks, it is REALLY funny.

OK, now that I've satisfied my therapist, enough of that. Back to self-loathing, which is much more comfortable to me.

Freshman Bigotry

Because I think that one of literature's main purposes is to make us uncomfortable with reality as we know it (including our complacencies, biases, and misconceptions), I teach Tony Kushner's Pulitzer prize-winning drama, Angels in America: Millenium Approaches, to my students. If you've never read it, the play depicts the interconnected conflicts of several characters who struggle with AIDS, homosexuality, religion, and American politics in 1985, which Kushner calls (using Stanley Kunitz's words) "a murderous time." Subtitled "A Gay Fantasia on National Themes," it questions the binary oppositions that we Americans have internalized and allowed to control our thinking about controversial issues. In my class, I focus particularly on the oppositions of power v. powerlessness, freedom v. bondage, and justice v. injustice--and how the play reveals that none of the "priviledged" terms (power, freedom, and justice) are exactly what we think they are.

That said, my students have a very difficult time getting past the most blatant issue: homosexuality. These eighteen year olds, who seem to regard themselves as worldly, cynical, and badass, who regulary view graphic violence and sexuality in commercial films, are shocked--SHOCKED--at the profanity and graphic sexuality in the play. They're so distracted by these aspects that they can't even really begin to find meaning in it on their own. While grading their written responses, I read, over and over, "I've never read anything like this before," and "I don't understand what this is about." Some of them are so taken aback that they begin to sound almost elderly at best and hatefully bigoted at worst. Here's an example of the former:

"...I still do not see how this could have won the Pulitzer Prize, and to be honest, I do not see how anyone can even consider this a good piece of American literature. The language and content used is so vulgar, that if reading this play were not for a grade, I would have put down the book by now. There are ways to express certain things without having to capitalize the work 'fuck' or using other curse words on almost every page of the entire play...."

And here, sadly, is an example of the latter: While students were in discussion groups last Friday, I heard my "troublemaker" student (a guy, of course) telling his group that he thought homosexuals DESERVED to get AIDS and die. The other students (to my relief) reacted with shock and horror at his statement. He saw that he had my attention at this point and repeated the statement. I had to make a quick decision: how do I respond to my burgeoning bigot? Do I ignore him? Do I make a big deal about it? Do I silence him? To my own astonishment (so many things I say while teaching astonish me), and because I was highly medicated at the time, I very calmly told the student that his statement was precisely the kind of thing I did not want to hear in my classroom. He attempted to defend himself by saying that his opinion was religious in nature. I could tell that he was delighted with the negative attention, so I went with the silencing option, just to spite him. I told him that he needed to beware of his audience, and that I require students in my class to be respectful of everyone in the room. Then he said, "I know. Teachers have told me this before." !!! So I ended the conversation by telling him he should know better, then.

After class ended, I found myself preoccupied with my little bigot and my response to him. At first I felt that I had responded too calmly. I mean, if someone had said something similar about African Americans (like, "They deserved to be lynched!") I probably would have kicked the person out of my classroom. Was I playing into gay oppression with my even-handed response? On the other hand, was I wrong NOT to engage in a moral discussion? If I really want to change their minds and hearts, shouldn't I have challenged that student to articulate his views, as horrifying as they may be? Maybe if he had failed to defend himself in a rational manner, he would be more likely to see the flaws in his thinking.

After obsessing over the situation for a few days, though, I'm standing by my decision. I wouldn't give a voice to racism in my classroom, or sexism, so I don't think I should give a voice to homophobia, either. And I'm not sure how much value an impromptu discussion of moral values could have. I make it a point to refrain from debating my students on "hot button" issues because there's really no conclusion to these arguments, and I am determined that my classroom WILL NOT resemble The O'Riley Factor in any way, shape, or form. So, I shut the bigot up. Hopefully he'll get the message someday.

Lest I sound too negative, I do need to point out that many students are really into the play, even though it confuses them. One student wrote, "The piece displayed some good points and made me thoroughly analyze my own thoughts on some of the topics and conversations held throughout the story." I can't reach every student, but I can get some of them to start thinking about the world in radically different terms than they once did.

After all, am I not, myself, the product of such an effort? There was once a time when I was surrounded by people who, following Falwell's lead, would agree that AIDS is the embodiment of God's wrath. Thanks to the Humanities profs at Geneva College (of all places!) I was rescued from freshman bigotry: literature scooped out my brain (with all of its complacencies, biases, and misconceptions) and put it back in, rewired it, and set it on a radically different path. Now it's my turn to do the rescuing, and while it may seem like I'm doing a shitty job at times, I'll just have to keep the faith. If it happened to me, it can happen for others as well. I have to believe this, or I'll never get myself out of bed in the morning.

I'm sick and that's sad.

I thought I would escape winter without a cold, but no. A blast of cold weather (soon after an 80 degree day) has allowed a cold virus to assault my weakened immune system. I tried to ignore the cold for a few days, which of course only made it worse. So, I am pouting at home today instead of working. I love spring.

Springtime on campus = ew.

Today the temperatures have crept past seventy for the first time this year, which seems like good news. However, I work on a college campus, which means that this is actually bad news. Ordinary college students who just last week slumped around campus in their hoodies, boots, and pajama pants have now removed ALL of those items and replaced them with much smaller pieces of fabric that, if you look closely, can be identified as miniskirts, tank tops, and shorts. I'm referring to the girls, of course; the guys are just as bad, though: many of them are wearing beaters or have removed their shirts entirely. And, the combination of exposed female skin and warm temps have transformed them into loud, smirking assholes. (Many of them were assholes before but kept this under wraps, just like the girls kept their skin.)

I try very hard to believe that humans are, in fact, much more sophisticated than animals, but often I find my efforts challenged, particularly when the mating rituals described above are boldly displayed before my resistant eyes.

Sadly, these primal cycles affect me too. Today I wore a skirt with bare legs and open-toed shoes, and I noticed that some of my male students behaved...differently. Some were louder, more show-offy. Others were more gentlemanly, deferential. Still others tried extra hard to participate to my liking. Basically, whatever they thought they could do best, whatever has won them most attention in the past, that's what they did, probably subconsciously.

But who am I to say? I'll never REALLY understand men. Even though I used to hate it when women said that, now that I'm married, I know it's true. I know Mike VERY well as a person, but as a man, he remains mysterious to me. This is why I once swore I would never marry: at the time, my idea of being in love was conquering the other person, and you can never truly conquer what you don't understand. (Ironically, when you DO come to understand that thing you don't want to conquer it anymore.) But now I'm down with ambiguity. What else do we have to keep for ourselves other than our own mystery? I know I want to keep (horde maybe is a better word) just a little bit of mine.

But anyway, back to complaining about college mating rituals. The bottom line is, if such a sordid, archaic thing must happen, I wish they would at least keep it out of my sight. Maybe I'll start failing girls for showing too much leg and guys for noticing. But who am I to question or disrupt nature? Maybe I should just accept the inevitable.

Offers

Despite my somewhat irrational fears of rejection on all fronts, I have received two "offers" (aka acceptance letters) from PhD programs: one from WVU and another from Duquesne. Both have offered me a full scholarship, teaching fellowship, and stipend of about 13 grand a year for five years. Now I must choose.

For a few days, the situation seemed very complex. For a while, before I was accepted at either school, I was sure that I wanted to go back to Duquesne. Then, I was accepted at WVU and got a very flattering email from a nineteenth-century Americanist who specializes in Native American literature. She told me that they were "very excited" about my application materials and that she personally found my work very interesting and very much wanted me to choose WVU (the word "very" was used often). And so, I wavered. Scholars excited to work me? It seemed too good to be true, and as I (sadly) crave validation that I really do belong in this field, I was a sucker for the praise.

But now that I've received an offer from Duquesne, and just as much validation from professors who know me pretty well, I find myself wavering again. Why not return to a department where I've already "proven" myself? This afternoon I was so conflicted that I made a trusty "pro/con" list for both schools and talked through it with my friend Jill. After this exercise, I realized that I only want to go to WVU for one reason: Timothy Dow Adams, an autobiography specialist and co-editor of a scholarly journal on autobiography. And honestly, I don't really think that reason is good enough. What if he's a jerk? What if I decide I don't want to write my dissertation on autobiography after all? Then I'm stuck in West Virginia, which is VERY unappealing to me.

So, I think I'm going to go back to Duquesne, as a degree from there will allow me to pursue the career I want: a tenure-track position at a small liberal arts college. But first, five more years of hard work, including one or two in the library, researching and writing a 150-300 page dissertation. I must hate myself. But, academia is the only workplace for me, and I do kinda love it, in the same way that I love large meals, which I know will result in a stomach ache, gas, and fluid retention, but that I just can't stop myself from consuming.

Why does like have to fluctuate between darkness and light? And why is the darkness so appealing to me? Grrr.

St. Patrick's Day

I'm always surprised at what a big deal St. Patrick's Day is in Pittsburgh. Especially here on the Southside, where there are (purportedly) more bars per square mile than anywhere else in the country, two of them Irish. This meant that drunk yinzers staggered by our house from morning til night, most of them wearing everything green they could get their hands on, which made for some pretty humorous moments.

But my favorite St. Patrick's Day moment by far was the sight of a drag queen, decked out in a green mini-dress, gigiantic blonde wig, and heels, drunk and attempting repeatedly to walk through a revolving door that had been locked. Hilarious.

Other than an opprtunity to laugh at drunks, St. Patty's Day means very little to me. I'm not a big drinker, and even though I now have an overtly Irish last name (that rhymes very unfortunately with my first name), I don't really identify all that much with the teeny bit of Irish blood that I inherited from my mom (which is actually a very controversial topic in her family: her grandmother's generation denied that they were Irish to avoid discrimination/stereotypes). I can appreciate some Irish literature (I've even been won over to Joyce), I like some traditional and contemporary Irish music, and I'd like to visit the country someday, but these things are not a large part of my life. And honestly, the Celtic aesthetic doesn't really resonate with me, probably because it's so overused, and by individuals categorized under a different form of nerdiness than me.

Mike is Irish and Eastern European (like many Pittsburghers), but he's never been that interested in his nationalities. While I'm a first generation American, he's probably a third or fourth, and while I grew up with my Sicilian grandparents, his Irish grandparents died before he was born. So, he's just as uninterested in St. Patrick's Day as I am.

Still, I'll look forward to my occasional visits to Piper's Pub and The Harp and the Fiddle, where I will indulge in strong Irish beer and the VERY few items on the menu without meat.

Grading makes me want to vomit.

I used to think that there could be nothing more psychosis-inducing than writing papers, but I've discovered over the last few years that I was wrong. Grading papers is far, far worse.

There's so many of them. And they're all so bad. Well, not ALL of them are bad, but most of them are. And it takes forever. And I just know that no one will bother to read the comments I've spent days laboring over. And of course I've procrastinated, leaving most of the papers until the end of spring break, making the whole situation even worse.

I'm having an existential crisis over it. I know, I know: I practically have an existential crisis every day. But this one is particularly shameful and adolescent.

I considered paying someone to grade the papers for me, but unfortunately I would fail my students if they paid someone to WRITE their papers, so I feel morally obliged to do the work myself.

Why God why.

Now I have to go grade some more, meanwhile choking back my lunch. Seriously, make it stop.

Lost in Translation.

What's left to do the last week of a cold and dismal February (which also happens to be the week before Spring Break at DU)? Find humor in situations that others will NOT find funny when you try to relate them later. Here are three things that were HILARIOUS to me this past week, but a lot less humorous in the telling:

1. Last Wednesday, I was trying to teach two poems by Robert Browning to a class of 18 freshmen, and they were SO not getting them. When I came back from my 11 am class, I was discussing the situation with a few other adjuncts, and it somehow became this elaborate joke that involved...snakes and vaginas. Um, I really have no idea how it happened, but we were all laughing hard enough that our sides hurt. The next day, one of them, Craig, told me that he had been working out that afternoon and suddenly was overcome with the humor of the situation. Another, Benji, told me that she tried to relate the joke to her husband, but it just didn't translate. And so, I'm not going to even try to explain it all now--just know that the joke, odd as it was, offered a few good moments during bad days.

2. On Friday, Mike and I were reading an aquaintance's blog, and discovered a link to a site devoted to science-nerd haikus. And on that site, we found this work of genius:

"E Coli in My Butt"
I learnt this today:
There's e coli in my butt
Also in my gut

--Henry James

I probably laughed about this for two-three days straight. Why? I'm not really sure. But the fact that the author attributed it to Henry James makes it even funnier.

3. Immediately after Martin Scorsese won his much-deserved Oscar, "The Departed" also won Best Picture. Martin had already left the stage, but a camera followed him as he learned the news. And because he is a nervous little man, he hurried back to the stage. At this point, the camera cut to a brief shot of him pointing and yelling (nobody could really tell at what or whom), and I lost it. I probably laughed for about ten minutes, which was uncomfortable, because everyone else we were watching the Oscars with had stopped laughing long before. Again, I had no idea why it was THAT funny to me, but later Mike reminded me that I've been surrounded by tiny, nervous Italian men my entire life. I guess that'll do it.

Process versus product.

I'm having a hard time enacting the "process versus product" mentality. I have fully embraced it philosophically, but I just can't seem to make it work for me.

Here's why:
1. I am a perfectionist, and perfectionists expect a perfect product to justify all of the effort expelled during the process of creating it.

2. I am impatient, and usually a process of any kind takes time and patience to enjoy. Generally, I just rush toward the finished product so I can begin the whole frenzied mess all over again.

3. I am obsessed with products of all kinds and what they do for me: beauty products, clothing, albums, movies, etc. Do I care about the process that L'Oreal engaged in to produce my face wash? No, not really. This, sadly, also applies to movies and other things I should care more about than my face wash. For instance, while Mike is usually just as excited about the "making of" feature on DVDs, I'm just...not. (The only exception here is books: I often write critical papers on the process an author went through to write/publish a book. But I don't enjoy the process of writing the paper AT ALL.)

So why am I thinking about this now? Well, I started painting again last week after a seven-year break, and I was having a pretty hard time getting started. By that I mean that I was indulging in a lot of "negative thought patterns"--exactly the sort of thing I'm supposed to be avoiding, according to my therapist. Every time I tried to paint, I remembered why I'd quit: it wasn't fun anymore. Instead, it became self-conscious and something I felt pressured to do well. Also, I had a crisis of representation: I was painting in sort of a quasi-realist/impressionistic mode, and I wanted to transition into a modernist mode, but I couldn't make that work for me. So I quit.

And I was on the verge of quitting again, until my therapist cornered me with his pesky logic and insight into my character. He reminded me that it was pretty telling that I couldn't even enjoy something that's supposed to be fun and relaxing; he also pointed out that I wasn't engaging in the process of painting at all (or the subject matter of the painting), but instead fixating on the final product. "And that's not saying that frustration isn't part of the process," he said. "But remember, the act of creating the painting is much more important than the painting itself."

He was right. And he was even more right when he told me that I need to start regarding my life that way as well. But now I have to figure out how to actually DO that.

At church today, Jeff talked about how, throughout the ages, individuals have constantly tried to find a way to rid themselves of the sins of the flesh and live the life of the spirit. He related the example of St. Francis, who, to eradicate lustful thoughts, made himself a "snow wife"--a snowwoman, basically--and then rolled around in the snow to cool himself down. Um, weird. Jeff then suggested that maybe if we start serving others as Jesus (and Paul) command us to, it may be the equivalent of nailing our fleshly impulses to the cross--a much more useful alternative than, you know, the snow wife.

It seems that my predicament is a similar one: I'm feeling so blinded to the answer to my question, that I'm tempted to fashion a bizarre St. Francis-like alternative to make myself at least feel as if I've found the answer, when I'm really just responding to flesh with flesh. But, truthfully, I know that figuring out how to enjoy the many processes of life will be ... a process. Damn.

February on my mind.

I hate February. HATE it. To me, it is equivalent to those horrible early morning hours (3-5 am)when you'd rather be asleep, because if you're awake it means a.) you have insomnia, or b.) you had to wake up way to early, most likely for an unpleasant task. This sums up my attitude toward this nightmarish month: I'd rather be sleeping, especially since I have some really great flannel sheets on the bed right now.

But unfortunately, life goes on, in all of its awful February mediocrity. Here's what I've been doing to try to spice things up:

1. I made a Myspace page. Yeah, I know, it's barely even cool anymore. And when it was cool, it was only ok for teenagers. But, I tend to do things after the novelty is worn off. For instance, vegetarianism: hip in the nineties, but expected in 2004, when I decided to give it a shot. And I'm still loving life sans meat. So there you go.

2. I've been scoping out the spring fashion that I cannot afford to buy. I try to pretend that my obsession with fashion is simply artistic, but really, it's a VICE. Each month, despite my best intentions, I blow all of my spending money on new clothing. I just--can't--help--myself. But, part of the frustration of being a fashion hog in February is that the stores are loaded with springy items, like sandals and even bathing suits. And because I always want to immediately consume my new purchases, I can't justify buying spring clothing at the moment. However, I can plan for the future. (Yes, I plan my wardrobe. Sad, I know. I blame my mother.) And this year, I've noticed the stores are full of an item I searched EVERYWHERE for last year: open-toe flats. And there are many colors, so I'll have options. This is very exciting. Yay.

3. I've been baking and eating cakes. I used to be pretty awful at baking, but with a bit of practice, I've improved substantially. Last week I made a tasty chocolate-pistachio cake that turned out beautifully. There was a bit of an issue with the chocolate topping--it turns out that dark chocolate doesn't melt very well--but everything turned out fine, and I got to use my most unnecessary wedding gift: a fancy glass cake plate. This week, I'm planning to make a two-layer carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. Here's my rationale: If I can't hibernate through the month of February, I'll at least eat like I'm going to.

4. I rescued a kitten that was trapped beneath my kitchen floor. She was about two months old, and nearly dead of starvation, but she had the loudest meow I've ever heard. I pulled her out of a small trapdoor that my landlord never sealed and promptly gave her a can of food, which she inhaled. I was all set to keep the kitten, but Alice was VERY angry, so I had to give her to my neighbor. But, at least she's alive, out of the cold, and in a good home.

5. Mike and I have been watching Battlestar Galactica, a very nerdy but AWESOME sci-fi series. I'm not usually a sci-fi nerd, but this series has really won me over. I'm so into it that often I regard my day as a mere prelude to its melodramatic glory. Once again, sad.

6. Finally, I've been dreaming of the beach vacation we're going to take in May. Having won Mike over to the sublimity of spending a week reading on the beach last year, I can't stop thinking about how much better it will be this year, since we've decided to literally do nothing but sit our arses on the beach and occasionally go out to eat. Only three months to go...

Still, February isn't just a month: it's a state of mind, and it's kicking my ass despite the aforementioned activities. What I need is an impromptu trip to Europe. If anybody's willing to buy me a plane ticket to Paris, let me know ASAP. Not to sound desperate, or anything...