School was cancelled Wednesday thanks to the Nor’Easter that blew in late-late Tuesday night. Call me crazy but I think the Mom in the Sky knew I needed a break from all things work. For starters, my department has been living with the smell of puke for the past four (four? four!) days. Fresh puke has a definite smell…four+ day old, decaying puke, well…that’s another story. I can’t even tell you how rancid the odor is. I simply can’t get into it. The biggest problem is we don’t know where it’s coming from. How disturbing is that? I’m ill everytime I try to sit at the reference desk.
Next, there’s the communication thing. Way back in the beginning when the New Guy took office he said future salaries and promotions would be dependant on merit. What did people think, that our little corner of the world would be exempt from the scrutiny? The fact that I’m *still* hearing about the reviews does nothing but irritate me now.
In light of the aforementioned “merit” scare I have done a little demerit dodging of my own. Last semester I sent over a teaching proposal to a much-in-the-dark department. I had culled ideas from my colleagues and included their original documents in the proposal packet. This week I get a call from the head of the department, “E., what is this crap? This page on ——? I can’t submit this! It’s full of typos; spelling, grammar, punctuation – you name it… and what’s with the justify center? It looks like sh!t.” My head was buzzing as I listened to him rant. I came this [] close to claiming the document as my own because even though it stated who authored the draft at the top (center, of course) I didn’t want the HOD to think I was calling him blind or worse, stupid. My name is clearly not — and he knows that. To point that out would be professional suicide. Luckily, I remembered my new motto, “Look out for yourself because no one else is going to do it” and I admitted it was a coworker’s report. To soften the blow of pointing out the obvious I added, “Maybe — forgot to put a name on it” knowing full well it was there. HOD grumbled and said, “well, if it’s all the same to you this garbage is going in the trash.” Ouch.
Then, there are the classes. I don’t mind them. Actually, I love-love-love teaching. I’m not standing in front of a class spouting the same crap everyday. I get to talk about different things depending on the class. It’s cool. What’s killing me is the schedule. Because I’m coming in to teach 2-3 hours early I’m putting in longer days. I’m getting out of sorts with life (as I bitched about earlier).
So, I thank the Powers That Be for giving me a reprieve from the current hell on earth.
Valentine’s Day Rethunk
KISA just sent me this link, asking me to check out tiger lily. If that’s the case screw the cactus. I’ll take a dozen tigers.
Love me if you dare.
Particle Theory
I spend a lot of time thinking about myself. I don’t think it’s a vanity thing. I think it’s an identity thing. Truthfully, I think it stems from an identity crisis of sorts. Some time ago I wanted to impress someone to the point of oppressing my personality. He liked pancakes at 2am. I was an 8am egg girl, but I learned to make flapjacks his way, and worse, love them. His likes and dislikes became my own through tons of time pretending. I faked so much I forgot who I really was. Was I a girl who loved golf or one who couldn’t stand the game? Was I sweats and tee-shirt, stand at the fridge chugging milk from the carton, or was I white slacks and silk blouse sipping a mimosa? I was in conflict with who I really was but at the time, true to form, oblivious. Blind. Friends tried to warn me as I lost my name, but I was too busy booking my next tee time. Helpless in a sea of Helpfuls.
I do believe that everyone “gets” something from the people they come into contact with. Especially the long-time, intimate contacts. I’m not talking mono or an STD. I’m talking about personality shaped by connection. Particles of personality clinging to the psyche that is undeniably “you.” I have an affinity for grape soda, hot dog and green olive pizza, Enigma, and apples with cheddar cheese because of someone introducing them to me. I’m sure I would have discovered these things on my own because in the grand scheme of things they were destined to be “favorites” (regardless of how I got to them), but I’m grateful the direction that led me there that much sooner. I practice yoga because one of the most important people in my life showed me the way. I dont’ do it for her but I can honestly say it’s because of her. I carry my father’s way of answering mail. I mimic my mother’s mannerisms when meeting strangers. I’ve adopted things and made them my own. I think I can name a particle I’ve acquired from every boyfriend I’ve ever had, even the golf fanatic…despite the fact I’ve definitely dropped the game.
Music Lesson
Weber, Katharine. The Music Lesson.
I picked up Weber’s second novel after reading her debut novel Objects in the Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear. In Objects I fell in love with the narration immediately. The writing was so fluid I hoped everything Weber wrote would read the same way.
I liken Music Lesson to that of a second kiss. It’s not as good as the very first one yet still highly enjoyable. When I found out it was part of the Book Lust Challenge I almost put it on my “must reread” list because I liked it so much.
It’s the story of Patricia. She guards a stolen painting in a cottage in Ireland. Alone. Alone with her troubled past and complicated future, Patricia has time to contemplate the crossroads. The stolen painting becomes more than just “art” to her. It guides her through a metamorphism and an awakening.
BookLust Twist: From Book Lust under the heading of “Irish Fiction” (p126).
To learn more about one of my favorite authors, Katharine Weber, go here.
Child of Darkness
Furui, Yoshikicki. Child of Darkness; Yoko and Other Stories. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 1997.
I’ll be the first to admit it. In the beginning pages I wasn’t connecting to this book at all. The first story, “Yoko”, opens with a nameless, faceless, ageless man hurrying down a mountain. He comes across a women sitting on a rock in a ravine. She’s stuck, not by a force of nature, but a force of her own mind. She can’t move from her perch and needs him to help her get down. Later she blames the incident on acrophobia. What’s interesting is this is the one place in the entire story where the same scene is described from both her and his point of view. Later her issues are only described as an “illness” and the word acrophobia never resurfaces. It is suspected that the illness is shrouded in vagrity because the Japanese view mental illness as a taboo subject. Yoko is a strange woman. Sane one minute, paralyzed by her illness the next. The rest of the story is how the nameless, faceless (now we know he is young) man copes with a relationship with Yoko. Half accepting her mental state as is, half wanting to “cure” her.
The next story also deals with mental illness but from the perspective of someone who is dying of cancer (also a taboo subject in Japan). I am more sympathetic towards the cancer victim. There is a sense of insanity when you have been told you have the disease. I can only imagine what depths your psyche would sink to when you are told it’s terminal.
The third and final story is also about sinking into insanity. This time a
These stories, translated by Donna George Storey, also includes her critiques. It’s interesting to rewalk the stories with an analytical map. It’s like seeing a city for the second time after you learn it’s history. Everything looks different.
BookLust Twist: Under the heading “Japan Fiction” Nancy Pearl calls Child of Darkness “dark.” Yup (p. 32).
Against the Grain
In the spirit of that day I bought my husband a ticket to see The Pink Floyd Experience. On the surface this looked like a bad gift of torture for my KISA. He hates cover bands and that’s exactly what PFE is. Obviously. Well, not so obvious. In college I was treated to a Pink Floyd “Light Show”. We sat slumped in a darkened auditorium, heads tilted back, watching the ceiling for strobe lights and laser beams in purple and green. They played the real deal – the entire Dark Side album. I had a stiff neck for days afterwards and walked around with my head tilted to one side as if I suffered from being constantly curious or confused. Those of us who stayed for the entire show (those who didn’t mutter, “this sucks” as they made for the nearest exit), all had the crooked look.
But, I digress. This Pink Floyd Experience was certainly an experience. Three rows back from the stage and dead center. I couldn’t have picked a better seat for myself. Right smack in front of the drummer. After the first deafening song (In the Flesh) KISA leaned over and stated matter-of-factly, “well, they don’t suck.” I have to tell you – that’s always good to hear in reference to a gift given.
As KISA & I furtively traded candies back and forth (one piece per song), the rest of the show was a mix of surprises. Starting with staring at the band members. All but one were old enough to be original members of Floyd. Water’s “character” looked like a metal rocker complete with long black hair, tight black pants and muscle tee. He kept pointing at things, showing off massive guns. I wanted to ask him which way to the gym just to see him flex. Several other members of the band looked like they belonged with the Dead. Again, we’re talking orginal line-up. The only guy who didn’t look like he stepped out of the late 60’s/early 70’s was the sax/cowbell dude. He had a metrosexual haircut and a pretty boy face. During his solos beams of light haloed his entire body, giving rock god status to an otherwise unassuming, slight figure. His coolest part was later when, umbrella in hand, he donned a suit of light bulbs ala The Delicate Sound of Thunder. So cool. In addition, we were treated to an amazing display of vocal range from Mr. Metal (my head still hurts from that), amazing bass solos, and there was even a flying pig.
The Setlist (thanks, Roadie Dude!):
1 –
- (Tigers Intro)
- In the Flesh
- Happiest Days of Our Lives
- Another Brick (pt 2)
- Shine On You Crazy Diamond #1-5 (one of my faves)
- Young Lust
- Sorrow (intro)/Have a Cigar/Sorrow (outtro)
- Sheep (I could have sworn they were going to bring out the pig at this point)
- One of These Days (video of military leaders, marching armies and war freaked me out)
2-
- Astronomy Domine
- Breathe/On the Run/Time/Breathe Reprise
- Great Gig in the Sky/Money (very green song)
- Us & Them/Any Color You Like
- Brain Damage/Eclipse
Encore
- Hey You
- Comfortably Numb
- Run Like Hell
Is There a Nutmeg in the House?
David, Elizabeth. Is There a Nutmeg in the House; Essays on Practical Cooking with More Than 150 Recipes. New York: Viking, 2001.
Elizabeth David writes with humor. She also writes about cooking. My kind of book. Sorta. In the rules of the Book Lust Challenge, I said that I wouldn’t read cookbooks from start to finish. I would read the intros and “skip” the recipes. I didn’t want to try every recipe; didn’t want to be David’s version of a Julia Child fanatic. Here’s the issue I have with Nutmeg. Essays run seamlessly into recipes and commentaries. I end up reading about how to make mayonnaise (my archenemy) step by step.
Nevertheless, I have learned interesting things such as:
*the potato is an aphrodisiac, capable of advancing a man’s “withered state” (p. 73). I kid you not.
*Nutmeg is underrated and people should carry graters with them to utilize this spice more often (p. 93).
*David hates garlic presses as much as I do (p.51).
Probably one of the best things I’ve learned from reading David’s Nutmeg isn’t really a lesson. It’s more of an affirmation – to “not to despair over rice” (p.139). While I don’t despair over any kind of rice per se thanks to Alton Brown and a whole episode dedicated to the grain, David’s words ring true with me on a deeper level, “Every amateur cook, however gifted and diligent, has some weak spot, some gap in her knowledge or experience which to anyone critical of her own achievements can be annoying and humiliating.” This statement even knocks the great ones down a notch. Ever seen Bobby lose a throw down? You get what I’m talking about.
BookLust Twist: Nancy Pearl adds this to her “Food for Thought” chapter in Book Lust (p.91) and goes on to say, “…Elizabeth David not only shares her love of food and cooking but writes so evocatively that you can smell and taste the ingredients and dishes as she describes them.”
Manchester Manic
We went to Manchester last night. Dinner ran late because of a dining dilemma. Fridays sorted it out and one of the best meals in ages was had. It’s nice not to be so manic about showing up on time to a show. Get there when we get there is cool by me. The music is getting better and better all the time, though. Drums are getting fuller and heavier. Guitar solos are becoming more complicated and achingly beautiful. Each song is developing more and more personality and deeper depth. To elaborate further would imply criticism of an earlier effort so I’ll leave it at that. My review of the heart. I said evolution and I meant it. I have decided I want to start a new Delicious trend involving the filler in the near end chorus.
The music is what gets me. Still. Always has, always will. I make no excuses for the love of the sound. I’ll continue to invite people to shows. I’ll still be disappointed when they don’t show. I’ll still buy every shirt and testify that thongs are all that. I’ll go the distance despite the fall from grace. I’ll admit, it’s terrible to be trapped under the weight of insecurity, or worse, isolation. Gone are the days of These Are Days. I convinced KISA to stay until the very end despite a headache and a long drive home. Still, I take the blame for him not hearing his favorite song. There is nothing I can do about it. It was my request. I’m at the end of my mania. There are no new listeners to reel in; no new three-day weekend roadtrips to take. I’m at a dead end and to some it looks like indifference. Life moves in mysterious ways. Priorities of promotion have appeased me. The choices we make aren’t necessarily the easier ways out. But. I’m still trying.
I want to thank B with all my heart. With the warm hug and beautiful smile I feel as if you were there just for me. One birthday drink and you were gone. Too soon, my friend. So, thanks for making me feel so special and I’ll see you in Danbury!
Arthritis Foundation
I realize I just had a birthday, and I’m this side of 40, and I found another gray hair, and doctors have said I have “age issues” with my hips…but am I ready to be a member of the Arthritis Foundation? Am I ready to subscribe to Arthritis Today Magazine? The Foundation invited me this week. They plied me with the Drug Guide, the aforementioned magazine, access to a toll-free automated information hot-line (read: no human interaction; probably why it’s free), discounts on books & videos from the Foundation, and “arthritis specialist referral lists” (Wouldn’t my own doctor be the one to point me in the direction of a specialist?). They were even nice enough to send me a temporary membership card with the statement, “We Can Help!” Help with what? I realize arthritis is not strictly a geriatric problem. I know people younger than myself who are practically using walkers because their knees or hips are so bad. I know I’m not that far off considering my PT casually mentioned “replacement” the last time I stretched my hip for him, but I didn’t donate just the same.
To learn more about the Arthritis Foundation, go here.
Time Out
I’m declaring tonight Time Out Time. I cleared the schedule, cancelled Boston and called in my favors. Tonight it’s time to recharge the batteries. No. That’s not it. I’m not run down or worn out. Okay, maybe I’m a little tired since Dot came to town, but that’s not the half of it. I need me. I miss me. By nature I’m a solitary girl. I like being alone-alone. Me, Myself & Moi all hanging out, talking to ourselves. I want to do the laundry from start to finish. Not a wash here, four hours later a dry there. Folding five days later. And forget about putting it away. I still have piles of laundry sitting on the floor outside my closet – From Monday. I have piles of paperwork, begging to be sorted. I’ve lost track of what bills are due and which my husband quietly paid while I wasn’t paying attention. 
Distracted. I have been too distracted by work and things are starting to fray. Don’t get me wrong – having dinner with friends has been awesome and the catching up was way overdue. Monday night was the bomb because of the bond. Okay, the cheesecake was boss, too. Even on the way home I thought of things to babble. If only my cell phone wasn’t trapped in the pocket blocked by the seatbelt! Wednesday night was all about VentVentVent. Bending the ear of someone who has no clue. Not involved in any way, shape or form. Probably the best way I know to get unbiased help on IM, Podcasting, Second Life, VoIp, Domain names…you name it. Nice to not have to call the director on the carpet, but rather sweep her under the rug. I can’t think about that anymore, either. Like I said, frayed.
I want to whip up a girly mudmask to combat the zip that’s been hanging out on my cheek all week. I want to spend an hour in restorative poses while Yungchen sings to me. I want to read a chapter from each of the five books I’m supposed to be reading. I still haven’t written thank you letters from Christmas – not to mention my birthday. I’m hugged in a maternity sweater from my-not-pregnant-anymore sister and she doesn’t even know I got it, let alone how much I appreciate her hysterical gifts. She’s right – I wouldn’t give up the lobster, either!
I just need to get back to me. I’m doing things halfassed lately. Yoga is a quick 5-15 minutes. Reading is a sentence here, a paragraph there. Knitting is a few rows, a few purls in between. Plants are drooping. Piles of laundry are growing. Taxes are lurking. I should get to them before I have to put out an APB on my W2.
To those of you I promised Boston to: Saturday. I will be where I said I would. Promise.
Static Sticking
My husband becomes a devil this time of year. His eyes glint with mischief and he can barely contain a smirk as he struts around our apartment. It’s like he drags his feet on purpose, just because he can. It doesn’t hurt him, yet for us girls it’s torture. It’s almost as if he enjoys inflicting this pain on the women in his life. I’m talking about static electricity. My KISA doesn’t need to build up a charge before zapping us. It just happens. He will sit on the couch and distractedly pet the cat. Pat. Snap. I watch as she flinches before contact every single time. Pat. Snap. Pat. Snap. Her ears flatten or a second and I can hear the electric crackle from across the room. It doesn’t hurt her much but it makes me shudder. When it comes time for me to make contact with KISA I practically slug him across the face to defuse the shock. Nine times out of ten it doesn’t work. I get jolted anyway. I’m sure the neighbor can hear me scream…ten houses away. And. He. Laughs. How cruel is that? We are not a violent household, but it sure sounds like it in the winter. I let out yelps of pain so loud I’m just waiting for the day someone calls the cops on us. It’s so bad that I want to ban certain articles of clothing that snap and crackle when removed. I had a sweater that puts on a spectacular light show when taken off in the dark. I gave it Goodwill. Touching metal anything is torture. Getting in and out of my car is hell. File cabinets. Light switches. Door knobs. Desk drawers. Doing laundry – having to peel the nightgown from running pants. I have to resist the urge to OD on dryer sheets.
All this electricity has got me thinking about the things we collect. A trait developed and adopted…sort of like a stray sock stuck to a towel fresh from the dryer. What is inherently me and what have I picked up from time served in a relationship? Something I’ve been thinking about. More on that later…
SoapBoxRant
It’s starting again. Those commercials and catalog “sales”. All getting ready for that day. Some people call it the Hallmark Holiday. Some people call it Emotional Blackmail or the TakeMeForAllI’mWorthBecauseIEnjoyBeingSuckedDry day. I call it the most annoying “holiday” from hell. I’m talking about Valentine’s Day. You know the one, always falls on February 14th. It’s the excuse of the lonely to whine about the state of their loneliness. It’s the prerogative of the newly in love to be even more PDA about their relationship. It’s the guilt-inducing, high-hoping, let-down day of the month that I (obviously) can’t stand.
When I first met my husband, back when he was barely even a potential date I ranted to him about VD. I’m sure he thought I was trying to impress him by not being “that chick” but I was serious. He sent me flowers. Two days before 2/14. The card said, “Happy Friday?” It was Friday. My kind of guy.
I hate the idea that people expect a gift on Valentine’s Day. Don’t get me wrong – I’m all about someone thinking of me, but not if it’s because the calendar said to. I don’t ever want someone to buy me flowers because “it’s the thing to do on 2/14.” Forget about chocolate – that’s just as bad. Is it so strange to want a cactus on January 12th? Is it odd for me to say, “give me something sour on All Souls Day”, or “surprise me with pickles and peanut butter next Tuesday”? I love roses, but not if I can predict not only their color, but their arrival date as well. Where is the fun in that? What’s worse is the thought of someone struggling to buy something just because 2/14 is the day to do it. Add the guilt of forgetting and it’s even worse. I hate, hate, hate it. I know I’m in the minority and that’s okay. There are legions of Love Day lovers out there. They’ve joined ranks with the I-Have-To-Have-A-Date-For-New-Years-Eve people (another ridiculous notion). My thinking is outnumbered by “Thinking of You” cards decorated with red and pink hearts. Shoot me now. Send me a cactus while you’re at it.
End SoapBoxRant. thank you.
Sex Switching
My husband asked me to make a hair appointment for him. I asked him to call our insurance agent to fix a crack in sirsy bug’s windshield. Why? I suppose it’s a matter of stereotypical comfort. He didn’t want to be the one to book a haircut at a lala ladies’ salon and I didn’t want to talk to some macho man mechanic. No matter. We look out for each other and that’s what our partnership is all about. But, here’s what’s bothering me. On the surface we’re fitting profiles I’m not pleased about. I did the girly thing. He did the guy thing. If I were my father’s daughter I’d changing my own sirsy oil and rotating the tires while I’m at it.
It got me thinking. What is it with sex stereotypes? Exactly who is the person driving the silver Honda with the rainbow butterfly decal that I’m following home? A homosexual lepidopterist? I assume “girl”. The car is slow, so I add “young” to my assumption. Am I switching sex based on sight?
Standing Next To Kin
I can’t really say I get hyped up over the Superbowl. I think I watch it more for the half time show (or the commercials) than anything else. Unless the Patriots are in it. Then, there’s something to make some noise over. I like the dynasty thing. I’d like to see more of it just because it wasn’t always this way. Remember the days of Drew? Change is good.
But, the Patriots weren’t in 41 so I could care less. Every game has a loser and this time I didn’t worry over who it would be. Even the commercials were nothing to make note of. Going into this we knew this would happen… yet we still insisted on gathering, gambling, eating and drinking. Any excuse to get together and be in each other’s company after all this time.
They’re all my husband’s friends. After all this time if he went his way and I went mine, they would all stay on his side so they’re his friends. I’m okay with that. We all like each other well enough and J and I aren’t going anywhere separately anytime soon. So, it’s all good, as they say. But, they’re still his friends.
Somehow, the wives got on the subject of kids. This has never happened before. I should mention that out of the six couples none of us have anything that fits the description of child. S & B are just past newlywed and I made the mental faux pas we all do. I assumed they would want one, would be starting one anytime soon. I thought, new state, new jobs, new house. Give them time to settle and when all is not so new they’ll announce the new addition. Not so. Not so to the point of not ever. wow. We women shot reasons for the lack of babe back and forth like a volleyball, each getting better than the last. Finally, we decided we would have to have a “not having a baby” shower for each of us in the group. It was funny and for once it felt good to laugh about it. It was good to stand next to kin.
Hello, hurtable
In my book called life there is not one that chapter that doesn’t have at least one sentence of guilt. I’ve heard that purging is a good way to get rid of things, especially guilt. Let the spew begin:
If I could put you and her together, you would be the perfect woman…or, wait. She would. ** I blame you for this family’s problems. ** She’s just a better friend. ** He’s just a best friend. ** Ever believe in second chances? ** We made each other better people…too bad it’s for someone else. ** I don’t want anything to do with — and you are —. ** I never want to not know you. ** I want a divorce. ** I’m looking forward to seeing sirsy without you. ** This won’t hurt too much. ** I quit. ** Can we switch rooms tonight? ** You will grow to hate him. ** I didn’t want you. ** Once you have had the perfect cake, who needs frosting? ** I’ll be your best friend. ** You’re not that kind of friend. ** We’re too different. ** I just want you gone. ** You are not welcome in my house. ** — was a one night stand. ** It’s not that I don’t believe you, it’s that I don’t believe IN you. ** It will never happen again. ** I can stop anytime I want to. ** The leaf is falling off the tree. ** — died instantly. ** Libraries will be obsolete in a few years, anyway. ** What are you, stupid? ** I don’t have a problem with — ** Are you sure it’s okay? ** I’m okay.
