tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280555942024-03-14T05:18:01.092-04:00KulturFluffHigh/Low. Theory/Life. Academic/Popular.
<br>A place for everything, and everything in its place.kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.comBlogger331125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-35920904493302325352010-08-22T10:28:00.004-04:002010-08-22T12:13:29.254-04:00The Illusion of ShallownessMore on my month long absence later; suffice to say that I've been distracted. But I did pop my head up just long enough to respond to <a href="http://academiccog.blogspot.com/2010/08/in-which-i-grumble-about-comp.html">Sisyphus's post on anthologies</a>. And in doing so, got into a familiar rhetorical spot: the one where I argue for a larger awareness of students' priorities, only to be told that others' refuse to coddle students. I'll say here that I don't know Dr. Koshary, and that she (oh god, I hope it's a she. like I said, I don't know him/her well enough to determine that) wasn't rude, abusive, or anything even resembling that. This post, then, is really not about her response, but rather the logic that underpins responses like that one. <br /><br />One of the occupational hazards of teaching newer stuff, and using a lot of media (for lack of hazy identity concealing specifics), is that a common response to my classes and course content is "oh, the students must love that [eye roll]." It's a two-fer, really. Other faculty members assume A) that students immediately love the stuff that I'm teaching, and so automatically do the work and B) that there's no little to no thinking involved in doing the work. Unlike, for instance, the content of their courses, which students dislike initially, but has real relevance to the field/culture/canon, etc. On good days, this is infuriating, and on bad ones, it's depressing. Because here's the reality of what happens in my classroom: perhaps 2/3 of the students are really down with watching episodes of Sex in the City. But it's taken me years to figure out how to maneuver them through an analysis of the issues of race and class that come up in those episodes, and then to assess their own viewing practices, expectations, and see themselves as part of a larger target audience that shares and reproduces certain values. Is it the Miller's Tale? No. Is it an important set of critical thinking practices that they might use in their later lives? I like to think so. Is it easy? No. It's some of the most frustrating and difficult teaching that I do. Teaching theory is WAY easier (for me) than asking someone to critique and analyze her own predilections. <br /><br />I suspect, however, that the dismissive response to the content of my courses is exacerbated by my particular pedagogical philosophy---and herein lies the logic that exists in responses like Dr. Koshary's. My take on students is this: it's helpful for me to remember that they have a number of different, competing priorities, and sometimes my class is not at the top of the list. It's not helpful because I operate with an "anything goes, it's okay with me if you don't do the work, feel free to come to class late and unprepared, have multiple absences, don't think hard" protocol. It's helpful because I don't get offended and pissed off when these things happen. They happen, there are consequences, and it all feels to me like students are making choices (consciously or unconsciously) that will determine how they move forward---in my class and in others'. <br /><br />In Sisyphus's post, I linked this notion to that of her actual question, which was about course content, and perhaps that's why it all went south. But my other guiding pedagogical philosophy is this: it's okay--perhaps even advisable--to meet students where they are. Do I want all of my students to be able to read and understand complex Modernist novels or French feminist gender theory? Sure. That doesn't mean that I teach it to my first year students. As I think back over my last class of fyers, I can think of maybe two in the group who would have been able to get something out of, say, Frederic Jameson. But I would have to emphasize the "something" in that sentence. I'm not opposed to giving students content that's above their heads; but I find that it's a frustrating experience for me and them if they can't get any kind of handhold at all on the reading. What's the point of that? To show them that they're stupid? That they're bad readers? The majority of my students describe themselves this way on the first day of class---I don't have a significant need to prove it to them. They have four years to develop the skills they'll need to read and understand the kinds of work that specialists in their chosen fields read. And I hope to be part of that learning curve as they accumulate those skills. <br /><br />So here's the connection that has always baffled me, although I wouldn't have thought about it in this way if I hadn't been trying so hard to make the connection clear in my own head: why is it that many of us instantaneously interpret "compassion" as "coddling"? Are there so few pedagogical models of "compassion" + "challenging"=learning that we're unable to conceptualize that idea?kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-48886995456523213662010-07-21T09:33:00.002-04:002010-07-21T10:11:21.841-04:00On the Incredible Difficulty of Being Kind to OneselfIt's a beautiful Wednesday morning here. The heat wave has broken a bit, so up until 11 or so, it's still in the 70s. I can hear the sound of the wind in the trees, the sussurations of the sleeping cats. And I'm itchy. <br /><br />Yesterday, I had a beautiful moment, where I thought: "whoa. I think I'm done with the frantic itching. Yes, I was a bit scratchy when I woke up, but now that I've downed both my steroid pills and a Claritin, I feel good. Is this what concentration feels like? The utter lack of distraction from itching?" <br /><br />What's changed, you ask? Because I felt good yesterday, and because I'm signed up to participate in a team athletic event in five weeks, I went for a run. Without sunblock (because it would irritate my skin---irony!). In the 80 degree, humid weather. What would inspire me to do such a thing, you ask? Well, I wouldn't want to waste the extra energy of these steroids!! Might as well get something out of it!<br /><br />Jackass.<br /><br />After a Benadryl last night at 10, and then another at 11:30 when I couldn't sleep, and then waking up every few hours because I was all itchy (something that hasn't happened at all over the past 2 weeks of affliction), I blearily googled "poison ivy exercise" this morning, to discover that, yes, sweating can indeed intensify the rash and make you more itchy. %$^&**!!<br /><br />The real biter is this: despite the fact that I know that I'm suffering because I couldn't take some time off from working out, it's everything I can do not to go again. Or at least go to the pool. Part of that is because the steroids have the tendency to make me jumpy (ooh! look over there! shiny! what were you saying? what are we doing? I think there's something in the other room that I need to do, but I can't remember what it is. Hey, is the bathtub dirty?). Exercise of any sort tends to cure that right up. But the larger motivation, I think, is the difficulty of not doing what you think you should be. At any time.<br /><br />As I was finishing up my run yesterday (which, I must say, when fueled by drugs, is a sure way to shave some minutes off your time), I was thinking about all of the academics I know, and the ways that we push ourselves too hard, even when we know we shouldn't. This tendency, I think, is even worse with academics who are also sporty---all of my runner friends (who deign to hang out with me, poky and shambling as I am) want better times, push themselves, etc. And despite all of this push push push, to a one, there's also a berate, berate, berate. "I should be doing more." "I should have done that better." "I suck at this." Accomplishment, here, is just a set-up for giving yourself a grudging pat on the back before moving on to evaluate all of the ways that you should have done it better. <br /><br />Or, to go back to the cause of all of my itchiness. What's driving the self-flagellation right now? Sure, I ran yesterday, but I can't possibly take today off, or I'll have wasted everything I did yesterday. Sure, it will aggravate my affliction, but surely I have to get to training?!! If I were training harder when this started, I wouldn't be in this position! And while I'm at it, shouldn't I have gotten more work done by now? It's July already! <br /><br />It's a hard thing to learn: stop being so hard on yourself. Stop pushing and give yourself room to work on something. When I listen to my friends berate themselves for all that they should have done or should be doing, over and above all that they've accomplished, I've taken to giving them a bit of crap about it. "Right, and the most important thing is that you be as hard on yourself as possible, and refuse to acknowledge anything good that you've done." It's easy for me to recognize this in others, who I consider smart and accomplished and laudable. It's less easy to recognize this in myself (as in: "well, yeah, but I'm not like them."). I need more practice. [And why haven't I been practicing this before?!!----you see the problem here...]kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-77644642251335520872010-07-17T07:03:00.003-04:002010-07-17T07:17:45.523-04:00AfflictedOkay, so it's been more than a week since I've posted. So sue me. I've got a really good excuse. Seriously!! Wanna hear it? Here it goes! Let's start with a visual:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dshTgD_ZBaA/TEGObnClgRI/AAAAAAAAAFc/gbFPyIVXe1c/s1600/IMG_0011.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 238px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dshTgD_ZBaA/TEGObnClgRI/AAAAAAAAAFc/gbFPyIVXe1c/s320/IMG_0011.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494829625356157202" /></a><br />That's my arm, and my new favorite patch of leprosy on it. In all of the "I can't do x because I'm afraid to go out in public like this" correspondence that I've sent out this week, I'm oscillating between two different jokes about it. <br />1) The first rule of Fight Club is that you don't talk about Fight Club. <br />2) If I have to play a Jared Leto role, I would have preferred Jordan Catelano to Harry Goldfarb of Requiem for a Dream (see below):<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://missmaryd.typepad.com/cliff_pantone/images/2008/09/12/requiemforadream_l_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 225px;" src="http://missmaryd.typepad.com/cliff_pantone/images/2008/09/12/requiemforadream_l_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Sometimes, just for kicks, I throw in a joke about Job, and how I wonder where in Urbania I can find some broken pottery to scrape my sores. Because, folks, that's just the one that's easiest to take pictures of! Oh yes! They're everywhere!! My left leg is the worst, but the right one is quickly catching up, and I've got a few ambitious ones on the right wrist as well. <br /><br />Did I mention the itching? Because nothing really caps off unsightly, weeping skin craters like intense burning and itching. Yay! Little helps. As per info on the intrawebz, I've been using rubbing alcohol and tea tree oil to help dry these suckers up, but to no avail. <br /><br />Yesterday, I finally gave in and went to the urgent care, because the bread knife is starting to look better and better. (If I had a belt sander, I'd consider using it at this point.) The nurse who took my vitals proceeded to wipe down all of her instruments with alcohol at the end of my visit. And the doctor? His first sentence to me went like this: "Ms. Fluff? I'm Dr. X. (glances at arms/legs). You'll forgive me if I don't shake hands." Wuss. You think a little pus is going to hurt you?<br /><br />The diagnosis (aside from "most people can treat poison ivy at home, but you've managed to spread it everywhere"), included "gee, you've really burnt the hell out of your skin," and "tea tree oil is good for some things...like scabies. But that's about it," and "don't scratch." <br /><br />Two weeks on steroids, witch hazel and caladryl. I am DONE with yard work, folks. Forevah. As god as my witness, I will never pull weeds again!!kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-506691773350776802010-07-08T07:52:00.003-04:002010-07-08T08:13:43.264-04:00Do As I Say, Not As I DoSo, before I can even get to something vaguely substantive, can I just say that it's mothercussing HOT up in here?! It's not even 8 a.m., and it's 84 degrees and humid. In the house. Yagh. And this is totally not helping the small but virulent case of poison ivy blisters that I managed to acquire sometime last weekend. Balls. The only thing stopping me from pouring concrete over the entire yard so as never to have to maintain it would be the fact that it would really increase the heat factor. And thus, we've come full circle.<br /><br />But while I've self-pityingly, with morbid fascination, watching beads of sweat form and roll down my leg while I'm indoors, sitting perfectly still, exerting as little energy as possible, I've also been trying to revise and resubmit this co-authored article that I should have finished last summer. While I was selling our house. And buying a new one. And pissing and moaning about that. <br /><br />There are several things that are not helping with the r&r (and may I just say, for the record, that there is a brutal irony in the fact that this kind of "r&r" is so antithetical to the <span style="font-style:italic;">other</span> kind of "r&r" which is what I should be doing in the height of the summer?!! ). <br /><blockquote>• we waited, like assholes, to go back to this article, and thus have to account for all relevant research that's been published since the first time we sent it out, up to and including a major revision of a primary piece that we're critiquing. Crapballs.<br />• in the course of examining said new research, I've pulled a couple of pieces from the journal that we're revising for. And while the articles are interesting (I guess), they're not world-rocking. There's nothing that I've read thus far that makes me sit up and say: "gee, I never thought of that!! This is totally going to change the way I think about x!" <br />• the above lack-of-revelation makes me wonder why we're working so damn hard on this revision.<br />• and then I realize that it's because my writing partner is an evil demon-sprite of revision integrity, in which she believes that anything worth rewriting is worth rewriting right, and thus we've torn this sucker down to it's pegs and started over with the detritus.<br />• I know that this should make me feel all high and mighty, but instead I keep wondering if we couldn't just make exactly the changes suggested by the editors and be done with the whole thing. A month ago. When we go back in our DeLorean time machine.<br />• I'm mighty suspicious of journal articles and scholarly publishing in general right now, and that attitude is not making me want to toe the line about academic discourse and formatting, all of which is tedious and necessary for this revision.</blockquote><br /> <br />Whew. The real biter, however, and the inspiration for the title of this post, is that it's only in these situations when I really realize what it is that I'm asking students to do when they write and revise. Last week, I sat down with a book and two articles that I knew needed to be integrated into the draft of the article. But where did they go? Did I need specific quotes, or did I need to gloss the argument of the pieces and use that to frame my points? In the article that is most closely related to my argument, do I need to dismantle the author's conclusions point by point, or is it enough to explain in a few lines the ways that our studies diverge? <br /><br />This week, I ran through all of the dreck rough material we pounded out trying to integrate this stuff, and found myself thinking: "good Christ, is there any consistent idea that holds this paragraph together? What is it's relationship to the rest of the section? Why don't we analyze this quote here? This idea is good, but really tangential to the point we're trying to make..." <br /><br />Sound familiar? So was the feeling of frustration/rage that built up. Only this time, it was aimed at me and my writing partner, not at a 20 year old budding novelist. Hi! My name is kettle---did you have something you wanted to call me?<br /><br />God willin' and the crick don't rise, we'll send this sucker out by the end of the week, and then hopefully I'll never have to think about it again. But I hope that I'll have some sympathy for my students when I blithely collect the drafts of their papers in the fall.kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-36127950616405253162010-07-02T08:40:00.002-04:002010-07-02T09:07:47.581-04:00The One Body ProblemPoor Kate, on whose <a href="http://k8grrl.blogspot.com/2010/07/one-of-those-weeks-where-i-have-nothing.html">post</a> I left a chirpy little comment today. Her thoughts about what inspires exercise really dovetail with a number of things that I've been thinking about over the past week.<br /><br />After The Epic Ride from Hades (see below), I did indeed lay off the bike for awhile. Actually, I had no choice---given that the brakes were non-existent, I had to take it in for a tune-up. But round about that same time, I started to have one of those weird "I think the universe is talking to me" moments. Early on in the spring, my super-athlete friend J had started training to do a local triathlon and had asked if I wanted to. I toyed with the idea for a minute in that "that sounds interesting! And so does hiking Kilimanjaro! And being an astronaut!" way, only to stop thinking about it when I found out that the date coincided with The Fluffs' trip abroad. But last week, it occurred to me: if the cursed paper had brought down the trip, then maybe I was supposed to do the tri? Could it be done?<br /><br />So in the blazing heat and humidity, I went for my first run in months. It was painful, and more sweaty than anyone outside <a href="http://www.300ondvd.com/">300</a> has a right to be. But I got it done. So if that part were possible, then maybe? To really know, I'd have to try a couple of the activities back to back. So the next day, I went to the gym and swam the tri distance, got out of the pool, changed my clothes, went upstairs and ran. [For the record, I find running after swimming no more difficult than running without swimming. You just smell worse.] Chlorine-chafing aside, it was doable. Holy crap, maybe I could actually do this thing?!<br /><br />I fully planned to rest the next day, since I could barely walk. But when J said that she and her awesome Amazonian partner were going to a training camp that night, I packed up my gear and picked up my bike and took out my wetsuit. And promptly had my ass handed to me. It's been awhile (high school, maybe?) since I've worked out hard enough to approach vomiting. By the end of the bike ride (which wasn't even the regulation distance), I was starting to hallucinate. I had always been climbing this hill, I would always be climbing this hill, dudes in tight shorts would always have their asses in my face as I climbed this hill... But I survived. I could barely walk the next day, but I didn't drown, and I didn't have to walk my bike. And I didn't cry. Not in front of anyone, anyway. Just internally. <br /><br />By the time I had gotten up the gumption to register for the race, it was sold out. Disappointed. Relieved? It would have been a great thing to obsess over (you have no idea how complicated clothing can really be until you see people try to figure out how to do three different sports in it. This should be a Project Runway challenge. Come on, Michael Kors, get all South Beach sport with a frisson of Chanel on us!). And in the run-up (so to speak) to the idea that I'd have to train for that sucker, I started planning out what I'd have to do each day, what I should be eating (see Kate's post on this too!!), recovery days, etc. <br /><br />Thinking about competition, or challenge, when it comes to exercise is such a different motivator than "my ass looks fat in this skirt." Because seriously, when it's hot, and I'm running (and I hate running), what's the motivation to keep going? Burning off another 100 calories? Bitch, please. I'll down that the instant I get back from the run! [And woe betide my running if the ipod falls on Aretha. Because then all I can think is "dude, Aretha is awesome, and she is a big woman. What the crap am I running for? I should be at home belting it out! And eating a donut!] <br /><br />But doing something hard to show yourself that you can? Or because you're going to have to do it in front of hundreds of other athletes and spectators who will point and laugh if you choke? That's motivation. [They won't actually laugh. They'd probably just pity you. Or judge. But I bet the pointing would happen.] And better yet, it's a way to think about your body in terms of what it can do, not what it looks like. Any change in the latter is the side effect, not the goal. I'm never going to be tiny---that's not in the cards. But I can haul ass up that hill on my bike, yessirree bob. And that's the ass that is so happy with what it can do that it doesn't even mind being padded out in public.kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-24392928149908852192010-06-23T07:43:00.004-04:002010-06-23T08:29:01.061-04:00Tour de FiascoAs I may or may not have mentioned, Senor Fluff and I bit the bullet a few months ago and bought bicycles---something we've been wanting to do since we moved to Urbania. After only six years of talking about it and putting it off, we finally did the deed, loaded up the credit cards, and jumped. (In a follow-up to my new-found bougieness, I must note that it's a hell of a lot easier to buy a good bike when you can put it in your garage, rather than chaining it up outside your house in the neighborhood where local thieves have been known to break into people's porches to take a bike. In our new neighborhood, people tend to leave their bikes outside their houses unattended for a few hours while they go inside to...? Fix their hair? Drink a vodka tonic? Get a fake tan?)<br /><br />It's been a good decision on a number of levels: it's a kind of exercise we can do together (Senor Fluff is a much better runner than me, and attempting to run together just makes me whiny and his knees hurt); it's allowed us to see more of the area; it doesn't seem to be as much of a monumental exercise task, and so both of us will do more of it, even when we're tired, or not motivated. <br /><br />So yesterday, I was scheduled to have coffee with a friend, and so I planned to squeeze in a quick bike ride and shower before our meeting. And I have rarely seen such a clustercuss outside of a faculty meeting in my life. <br /><br />It started out fine. I realized early on that I had forgotten my sunglasses, but it was a bit overcast, so I didn't want to take up the time to go back. I had planned to go for about 45 minutes, so I needed to go far fast to get it all in. I did the first half of the route at a good clip, and started up the hill that marks the official apex of what I had planned to do. It's not a massive hill, but it takes some doing, and so I was mostly looking down and pedaling. When I looked up as I neared the top, I saw that a woman was parked, in the lane, with her flashers on. She flagged me down, and so I slowed up, thinking that she might need something, or that someone was hurt or something. As I got closer (still going uphill, mind you), she said "can you give me directions to D_____?" Unbelievable. You're parked with your hazards on for <span style="font-style:italic;">directions</span>?! Whatever. I pedaled the last few feet to the top of the hill, and made to stop so I could tell her how to get there. Since I'm concentrating on her and how close her car is to the (virtually non-existent) shoulder, however, I misjudge the place where the crown of the road falls away into the dirt. And thus, unable to get my foot out of my clip, I go down like a bag of rocks. To the woman's credit, she helps me up and tries to dust me off, but still clearly wants directions. <br /><br />After she goes on her merry way (with excellent directions, I might add), I use much of the second half of my ride to get the gears square, since the chain has slipped during my fall. At some point, I realize that my legs have turned to jelly. (I should say that the <span style="font-weight:bold;">quads</span> have turned to jelly. The rest of my legs turned to jelly somewhere around age 22. Ba-DUM-dum!) "I better cut this short and go home," I thought, and turned around. <br /><br />As I approach the cut-off to the country road that leads to our section of town, I realize that a woman is standing on the shoulder waving me down. "No fucking way!" I thought. But yes! She wants to talk to me!! She's part of a news crew that's doing a story on the local road repairs! Full disclosure here: at this point, I have been riding for about 30 minutes. And I have <span style="font-style:italic;">fallen off of my bike</span>. And before I got on the bike, I hadn't showered in two days. Gee, what would I like more than to give you a quote about how the road crews effect me? So, greasy, dirt-smudged me recorded a spot for the local television crew, and then they asked if they could just get a shot of me riding away. Yes indeed!! Here I go!!<br /><br />As I rode away, I was both obsessing about how hideous I imagined I'd be on the local news, and worried about how late I must now be for meeting my friend. Luckily, I was cruising down this long hill. And cruising. And cruising ever faster, wind whistling in my ears, all the way down to the bridge. <br /><br />There's no bridge on the way to my house. <br /><br />The news crew had stopped me right before the turn off route that goes toward my house. In pedaling away from them, I had gone straight on, down the horrible horrible hill. A few weeks ago, I rode down part of this hill by mistake, and it was so painful to get back up that I swore I'd never go this direction again. A friend of mine who just did a 50k race in May "studiously avoids that hill." The hill has about 3 or 4 steep climbs, one after another. And I was down at water level---ironically, just the place that the road crews were starting to work on. Thanks alot, lady newscaster! This fucking road repair affects me now!! So I turned around and climbed Epic Hill, cursing and sweating all the way. When I got to the top, the news crew was still there, interviewing a couple in a Hummer. The intern and cameraman cordially waved at me as I went by. <br /><br />Finally, I'm on my way home. I'm pointed in the right direction, and I'm doing my best to sprint, since I know I'm going to be late for coffee. And then the raindrops start to fall. And believe me, I wish I were shitting you. Racing home, I also discovered that the fall screwed up my back brake, but really, isn't that all just icing on the cake?<br /><br />So much for my love affair with the bike. It's dead to me. With bike rides like these, I'll be back in the pool in no time!!kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-90165707510356189222010-06-17T08:41:00.003-04:002010-06-17T09:14:09.796-04:00It's the Pictures that Got SmallAt Askesis U., we have a fairly aggressive PR department. The big announcement at fall commencement a few years ago was that we'd gotten a spot on the premiere national morning show. In the interim, a number of faculty members are called upon to participate in all sorts of local news pieces---the city paper, the local NPR affiliate, etc. I suppose it makes sense. It's a good way to get the name of the college out there, although sometimes I have to wonder if what the faculty contribute is really solidifying our reputation in quite the way that the administration might want. <br /><br />Case in point: a few days ago, I was contacted by Mr. Micawber, our PR guy. [He's actually a very nice man. But there's just this slight air of despondency about him. But what the hell do I know?] A local paper--not the big city paper, mind you, but the Podunk Town Register from up the road--needed an interview with a literature prof. The writer was doing a piece on an emerging trend in contemporary fiction, and would I be willing to talk with him? Seldom has someone been so quick to participate in her own exploitation. "Sure! I'm familiar with this trend! I can talk to him!" <br /><br />So I had a brief conversation with the guy. I should have known that I was in trouble when I came out of the box explaining how I thought this trend was part of a larger concern about the role of books in contemporary society. How many hours of Fox News would I need to watch to realize a loaded question when I heard one? "But really, isn't this all just really a fad?" "What do you think classic authors would think about this stuff?" <br /><br />Whoa there, cowboy. You've got yourself the wrong lit girl. I think you were looking for one of my colleagues who like to pound the table about the necessity of the canon. What, Stanley Fish wasn't available? Sadly, if you want a blurb from me for your article, you're going to get the line about how books are related to movies are related to rap music. After our increasingly uncomfortable chat, I looked up his blog, only to discover that he's a 55 year old cranky white dude who, in addition to writing for the Podunk Town Register, also owns a business that sells "authentic" trinkets from a certain Western European country known for clogging and abstruse Modernist writers who spent a lot of time in France. You all know one of these guys, I have no doubt. In making his argument---I mean "interviewing me"---he said: "I don't know if you're old enough to remember these guys in the early 70's who did this kind of thing in music." There's just no way for me to respond to that graciously. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://cliffbostock.com/sacreddisorder/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/norma-desmond.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 191px; height: 270px;" src="http://cliffbostock.com/sacreddisorder/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/norma-desmond.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Yesterday, I got gussied up so that they could take my photo for the PDR. I hope there's airbrushing involved, but I doubt I'm going to get that lucky. I'll be curious to see what, if anything, the writer includes of my incisive theory about the books. I expect to see single words like "and" and "the" as the only ones in quotation marks. Someone remind me never to go into politics. As a latter-day Norma Desmond, I'm afraid that I'm not ready for my close-up.kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-77368090122671785852010-06-12T17:23:00.006-04:002010-06-12T18:03:50.355-04:00Never Say Never, Now with Photos!When Mr. Fluff and I put our house on the market last summer and started looking for a new one (not necessarily in that order, which you can remind yourself of if you look <a href="http://kulturfluff.blogspot.com/2009/06/frenzy.html">here</a> and <a href="http://kulturfluff.blogspot.com/2009/07/fing-finally.html">here</a>), there were any number of criteria that I had for a new house. A quiet neighborhood, in which we wouldn't be subjected to the sounds of our neighbors at all hours was at the top of his list. At the top of mine? A remodeled, or already halfway decent kitchen andbathroom. I was absolutely done with having the construction crews ripping up two of the most used and important rooms in the house, and having to go without them for extended periods of time. Having lived through both in our old house, I was done with major renovation. Surface aesthetic changes I could deal with, but no plumbing, reflooring, or construction crews. <br /><br />The important thing, I suppose, is that one of us got what we wanted. <br /><br />The new Casa de Fluff is blissfully (see earlier post on suburbia) quiet, and that's a boon to my quality of life in ways that I would not have expected. However. Like any house built in the disco era, it has some serious aesthetic challenges, at least three of which require all of the things that I didn't ever want to have to deal with again in life. Ever. Seriously---isn't there some sort of maximum number of bathroom renovations any one person should have to face? <br /><br />Regardless, we chose this house, and we planned ahead, and so job one was to do something about the insanely hideous bathroom. Truly, the only thing that could have made this bathroom worse, in my mind, would have been metallic wall paper. [Scratch that. I suppose if the previous owners had been true CBGB wanna-bes, they would have installed that glass that only existed in the 70's. You know the stuff---it has the gold leaf running through it? Klassy. Thankfully, none of that.] But wallpaper you could steam off. There's somethings only a contractor or alternative licensed professional can fix. <br /><br />Exhibit B: matching sink and toilet, bizarre floor tile, and a "vanity" that can't possible live up to its name without wanting to kill itself.<br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dshTgD_ZBaA/TBP-1476SzI/AAAAAAAAAE8/61sjTirF7jE/s1600/old+bath+1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dshTgD_ZBaA/TBP-1476SzI/AAAAAAAAAE8/61sjTirF7jE/s320/old+bath+1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482005373210217266" /></a> <br /><br />We lived in this horrorshow for six months (and lest you think "gee, I don't know what she's complaining about. It isn't so bad," realize that I couldn't bring myself to photograph the years of grime and mold that had been allowed to build up in the grout to said tile, and the way that the inside of the blue toilet had turned green over time. I gag every time I think about what could have made that happen). Exhibit A: the blue tub. <br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dshTgD_ZBaA/TBP-Q6EeEYI/AAAAAAAAAE0/5v1eGoaJIvk/s1600/oldbath5.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dshTgD_ZBaA/TBP-Q6EeEYI/AAAAAAAAAE0/5v1eGoaJIvk/s320/oldbath5.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482004737859391874" /></a>, Finally, at the very beginning of my spring leave, I called in our trusty contractor and let him go to town, and I spent 9 hours a day for a week enduring the constant sound of power tools, corralling my animals, having my water shut off, and listening to the same audio tape of the Grateful Dead. I'd complain here about the hours of work leading up to the actual renovation---what with the researching fixturesand furniture, tile and grout, and driving across two states to fetch it all---but really, it was nothing in comparison to that goddamned tape. Argh! Curse you, Garcia, even beyond the grave!!<br /><br />Ahem. So, I spent days hanging with the renovation crew, learning about tools, listening to the Dead. We spent a weekend with an unworkable shower, and got really greasy in the meantime. In the end, however, we had new tile, a refinished tub, and white toilet (which is neither blue nor green, for which I am thankful every time I sit down to pee). And after much hemming and hawing, paint sampling and swatching, we have achieved bathroom nirvana. As evidenced below. A word of caution: because I was both too cheap and too impatient to live through the consequences of having them chip out the tub tile and replace it with something else, we left the baby blue interior tile as it was, which created some particular challenges in choosing a color scheme. I happen to think that the end result is very chic, and Yogini assures me that it's <a href="http://www.bodenusa.com/">Boden</a>-esque, which makes me hope that it's very British (pictures below, as demanded by my favorite <a href="http://academiccog.blogspot.com/">Academic Cog</a>). Either way, it's done, and I can rest easy. Except for the times that I spend in the dark, linoleum/formica kitchen...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dshTgD_ZBaA/TBQChSNx94I/AAAAAAAAAFU/nKSZmWkg9XI/s1600/newbath4.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dshTgD_ZBaA/TBQChSNx94I/AAAAAAAAAFU/nKSZmWkg9XI/s320/newbath4.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482009417265313666" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dshTgD_ZBaA/TBQCgmv05FI/AAAAAAAAAFM/oBUpTK6SobY/s1600/newbath2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dshTgD_ZBaA/TBQCgmv05FI/AAAAAAAAAFM/oBUpTK6SobY/s320/newbath2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482009405596951634" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dshTgD_ZBaA/TBQCgIZFIrI/AAAAAAAAAFE/Xr1t7_lgQFA/s1600/newbath1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_dshTgD_ZBaA/TBQCgIZFIrI/AAAAAAAAAFE/Xr1t7_lgQFA/s320/newbath1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482009397448483506" /></a>kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-42666557276096384532010-06-08T05:56:00.003-04:002010-06-08T06:24:48.468-04:00The Case of the Cursed PaperAt dinner with one of my favorite, if a bit awkward, colleagues the other night, I related the tribulations that I've encountered with a paper that I've been working on for the past few months. His response? "It's cursed." "Not yet!" said his sympathetic and slightly mortified wife. <br /><br />So what constitutes an almost-cursed paper? Like many things, it began as a lark. Mr. Fluff and I had been enthusiastically, if not rabidly, watching a particular television series together on DVD. It's not every day that our media obsessions match up, so when they do, we go after them with a vengeance (and when it's over, he goes back to watching some crap movie on SyFy, like <a href="http://movies.ign.com/articles/596/596173p1.html">Mansquito</a>, and I return to more civilized ventures, like <a href="http://www.hbo.com/in-treatment/index.html">In Treatment</a>, or re-runs of Dawson's Creek). And, as obsessive watchers of "quality tv" do, we'd discuss the implications of a Marxist-themed episode, or the questions that the show raised about race, etc., etc. Thus, when I saw a paper call that seemed to encapsulate our interpretation, I pitched the idea to Mr. Fluff. "This should be fun! We could write it together!" <br /><br />I suppose that this could be a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_War_of_the_Roses_%28film%29">War of the Roses</a> kind of story, in which we destroyed our marriage and brought the house down around our ears as we argued over the paper. That part, however, went just fine. I'd do some writing and thinking, hand off a draft of the abstract to Mr. Fluff, who'd tune it up, we'd discuss the ways that our argument was trending, what kinds of secondary stuff we should examine. Easy peasy. So when our abstract was accepted to a conference in Europe, I thought, "huzzah! Clearly, the universe accepts our work together, and is pleased!" But before I could book tickets, Mr. Fluff clucked his tongue. "It's in a month. Will we be ready in a month? You just finished the semester, it's Christmas. Maybe we should wait and try a different one." <br /><br />Undaunted (despite the fact that the conference was hot on the heels of some work I'd done with my grad students in the fall), I found a national conference with a panel that fit the bill, and we slid the abstract in just under the deadline. We heard back from the organizer the same day. We were in, and needed to hurry up and pay the registration fee. (This probably should have given me pause about the quality of the conference, no?) But fine. We paid up, and I started making plans for the conference, which just happened to be in my favorite of the 50 states. "Perfect!" thought I. "We'll give the paper, and then we'll take the rest of the week for vacation!" I booked the conference hotel, and then a sweet little B&B up the road from the conference city. I researched restaurants and day trips and hikes. And then, the morning before we were supposed to leave, the airlines cancelled our flight because of the terrible, horrible snowstorm of '10. And we weren't able to rebook until the following Sunday---the final day of the conference. Wah!! <br /><br />After hemming and hawing, we decided we'd go to favorite state anyway for a vacation, eat the costs of the conference, and submit the abstract elsewhere. Third time is the charm, right? <br /><br />Two months ago, I submitted our abstract to a conference in the UK, wherein it was accepted. We paid the exorbitant conference fee, and I've been scoping out the various online airfare sites, trying to find something reasonable. Oh, and in the meantime, I've also read a number of articles on this show, read a classic cultural/theoretical tome, and, oh, you know, <span style="font-style:italic;">written the damn paper to submit it early to their website</span>. Last Friday, Mr. Fluff gets a call in his office, stating that his boss is quitting, and that he'll need to step into that role and run the entire office and all of its programs by himself for the next three months. And, of course, he'll need to cancel his upcoming trip. <br /><br />Son of an f'ing bitch. <br /><br />I think we can officially call this paper cursed. I'm cancelling the trip, and the paper, and etc. This wretched piece of work has cost me countless hours, as well as probably $600 in conference fees, and that's if we exclude the cost of the trip to favorite state which I wouldn't have taken if we hadn't already planned it. Do I just surrender, and bury the cursed paper in my yard with a tiki and an evil eye amulet? Do I let it sit, and hope that I can give it again somewhere? Is Mr. Fluff's computer build on an Indian burial ground?!!kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-72751469180154349162010-06-07T09:18:00.002-04:002010-06-07T09:42:44.861-04:00Bougie McBougersonI'm now closing in on almost a year in the "new" house, and I find that the 10 months here have brought into stark relief the difference that location can make. There's a phalanx of people here that are hard-core proponents of the ethical obligation we have to live in the city. And they're not wrong. After all, by leaving for the 'burbs, Mr. Fluff and I have taken our money out of the tax base and the school tax base; we've abandoned the mixed (as in, both rental and owner-occupied) neighborhood; we drive slightly further to work (and can no longer walk). In essence, there's a good deal of clucking and nose-looking-down-upon that we've undergone over the past year. And I have to admit, there's a sense in which I've mapped myself onto the way of life out here that is a bit disgusting. Case in point---here's what my day has and will look like:<br /><blockquote>•make smoothie with fresh fruit and omega-3s<br />•peruse books for fall classes<br />•get some exercise---either a bike ride or a trip to the gym<br />•make lunch with remaining produce from CSA<br />•meet friend to discuss fall lecture series<br />•paint (not so)newly-remodeled bathroom<br />•make dinner with remaining produce from CSA<br />•watch something on TV that I'm streaming from Netflix (because I refuse to deal with the cable company)</blockquote><br /><br />It's a little too much, isn't it? I feel like I should be sipping tea with my pinkie finger raised. Now if only I w•as driving my hybrid SUV to and from the Farmer's Market or the PTA meeting today, I'd be fully a part of the neighborhood. Stepford Wife, anyone?<br /><br />But if we look at it in another way, here's what I would be doing if we had stayed in our old house:<br /><blockquote>•go into disgusting basement to open windows for cats<br />•make breakfast (sure, it could be a smoothie---no real difference here)<br />•make arrangements to address one of any number of urgent projects that will prevent the house from falling down: new roof, flooding in the back yard, crumbling masonry, etc.<br />•get some exercise, but feel guilty for not doing something about the front and/or back yard, both of which threaten to overtake the house<br />•dream about buying a bike, but realize that it would probably be stolen, as that's the number one crime in neighborhood<br />•make dinner<br />•watch something on cable<br />•go to bed, only to be awakened at 2 by our neighbors' furious, drunken game of backyard beer pong. <br /></blockquote><br />There's just no question about which of these ways of life is better for my blood pressure and peace of mind. And if anything, this is the life of the professors that I had (minus the wine-tasting and rose-growing that seemed endemic to my undergrad profs). But it's undeniable that there's a certain amount of privilege at work here. In part, it's class-related: we could never have bought this house without having improved and sold the first one, and my parents' assistance was key to that. In part, it's the privilege of partner-dom: being able to afford living in the 'burbs is possible only because we have two incomes; being socially comfortable living in a neighborhood of families and retirees is the advantage of heteronormativity. And the fact that I've had 4 months to enjoy hanging out in this house most days is professional: the job I have has given me a significant amount of unstructured time. <br /><br />So, I'm a girl of the suburbs, without a doubt---it's taken me no time at all to settle into this life, even as I recognize all of the advantages that it takes to live here. And I understand that I'm contributing to a problem with urban life by eschewing it. But there's no question that I'm happier and more calmer here. Perhaps if I just wear my "McBougerson" name tag when I'm out running errands, there will be less clucking from the hard-core city folk?kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-19063793379410531342010-05-30T08:45:00.002-04:002010-05-30T09:14:32.090-04:00All the Smart People WantYesterday, I had the unexpected opportunity to have coffee with someone I sort-of knew, and his wife, whom I totally didn't know, and it was great---like a little oasis of inspirational connection with cool people. <br /><br />"Bully for you," you say? Right. But here's the thing: this kind of happy synchronicity is so very very far outside my comfort zone. In the face of virtually all situations, I choose not to expose myself to a potentially-uncomfortable interaction with near-strangers, particularly without a well-worked out escape route. I am the person for whom the app exists that makes it look like someone is calling you and you have to go. <br /><br />I met Baldie a few years ago because he was one of a group of people that I worked with on a project. Smart guy, very extroverted (in inverse proportion to the amount of hair he possesses, thus the name). We had a number of good conversations at the project meeting, and then a couple of follow-ups over the years: I saw him at a conference or two, exchanged emails, etc. I found him to be charming and also a bit "charm-offensive" on occasion---you know the dudes who refer to themselves in the third person? As in the ones who say, about themselves, stuff like "and I told them that Baldie McShine was having none of that!" Yep. Sort of like that. [Why I'm simultaneously attracted to and repelled by these guys is fodder for both therapy and another post.]<br /><br />Last week, I noticed on Facebook that he and his wife were headed out on vacation, and would be driving by my city, and on a whim, I wrote to tell him that, if they had time, he should drop in for coffee or lunch. Let me say, for the record, I never really thought that he would. Who stops on a road trip to see people?! Um, apparently Baldie does. So with great trepidation and no escape plan (he caught me really flat-footed, as in "we'll be there in about an hour, will that work for you?"), I headed out to meet them. <br /><br />Mrs. Baldie, or "Hash" as I think I'll call her (reasons below), was far more delightful than I would have expected. As was Baldie. I don't know if this is his pre-vacation stance, but he was natural, and relaxed, and using the first-person pronoun. [As I think about it, it may also be the case that he has settled into a solid job at a fairly prestigious SLAC, and so can relax a little.] Our conversation, as noted before, was really enjoyable, in that "wow, you think Polanski is a douchebag too? And you are appalled by Dr. Drew? Be my friend!" kind of way. [And here's what really made me love Mrs. Baldie: I was explaining how much I missed having cable, and the lucky happenstance of catching something on it that is just crap that you wanted to see. Her reply: "That's my favorite thing too! Who knew that I really needed to see Independence Day again, for the eighth time? What I really wish I could do is settle down with it with a big bowl of hash, and eat the old ice cream, the kind with the ice crystals in it." You want to be friends with her now too, don't you?]<br /><br />Toward the end of the conversation, the topic turned to the "now what do we do with our lives" topic that is so much a part of my mental geography of late. Both of them laughed and talked about how they'd been thinking about getting new degrees, although it was difficult to support that idea---not for the reason I thought (cost, application, time commitment)---but rather because they have the skills to read something hard in a particular field and use secondary criticism to get more out of it. If that's the case, then why go to a program? "It's obvious," said I. "We all just want to have great, focused conversations with smart people." <br /><br />As I walked them back to their car, it became clear to me that outside of the academic programs that I've been in, which really helped to engender those kinds of conversations, I would really have to be focused about creating them. I wonder if, in fact, that's one of the reasons many of us choose this profession: because we imagine that it's as close to a guarantee of those interactions as we can get. Baldie, it seemed, was making an effort to find these kinds of things too, or else he and Hash would have kept right on truckin' up the freeway. There are many things that I have thought I need to spend more time doing, now that my leave is up: write more, read more, get more exercise. But this seems like something I need to practice and develop an intention for as well---getting myself into social situations with smart people. Why has it taken me so long to figure that out? <br /><br />I'm going to see if I can find a copy of Independence Day. Happy holiday, y'all. Go find a smart person and see what they can tell you.kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-37431278373959342742010-05-26T09:04:00.002-04:002010-05-26T09:21:19.223-04:00So Random that I should put "Random" in Quotation MarksIn the grand tradition of RBOC, I offer you "R"BOC, or better yet, URBOC (Unbelievably Random Bullets of Crap):<br /><br />• We are headed for a record high today. It is not even June. I am unprepared for this kind of heat, as it scrambles my brain and makes me want to nap in the cool downstairs part of the house all day long. I remember when we were looking for a house last year, and finding nothing, and I thought that air conditioning was negotiable. It is not. We have air conditioning, and yet can barely hold the upstairs to 82 degrees. But it's a dry 82 degrees, I suppose. Regardless, I think it means that I should have someone come out and look at the system. Le sigh.<br /><br />• I need to post a paper for a conference on Friday. The limit is 8 pages. I have five beautifully polished pages, and an additional 10 pages of crap/notes/musings where the real meat of the paper is. Balls.<br /><br />• Having melanin sucks. I'm happy to go with being pale, and am for about nine months of the year. But despite regular usage of sunblock, it takes very little for me to acquire weird tan lines, and they last <span style="font-weight:bold;">forever</span>. To wit, my bathing suit tan lines just faded in March, after the summer spent in the pool. Meanwhile, I went on an early bike ride on Friday, which lasted for about two hours. And now I have the farmer's tan. Two hours! That's it! So, do I slather sunblock half way up my arms and do yardwork tomorrow in an attempt to get it to even out? Do I embrace self-tanner? Do I just suck it up and live with the ghost of a white t-shirt for the next eight months?<br /><br />• My cats, who are cute and fuzzy, want to eat early in the morning. Like, at 4. We have tried any number of tricks to get them to leave us alone. Feeding them late has no effect---they get on the bed and paw at us, purring, until we get up and feed them. Closing the door has no effect---they claw at it and rattle it in the frame. Putting sticky tape on the door worked for exactly 6 days, and now they've apparently decided that sticky paws are worth the trouble if it means they can eat. I am running out of ideas. Save us. I beg of you. <br /><br />• I am signed up for not one, but two group athletic events, one in August, and one in September. Despite that, I have little to no motivation to train in the actual sport that I will be doing. Where's the panic? I could <span style="font-style:italic;">die</span> in this sport, you know. (there. there was a slight frisson of fear there. Maybe that's what I need: I should spend time visualizing my own death in a watery grave because I failed to train. problem solved via gruesome, worst case scenario thinking!)<br /><br />You can see what I mean about unbelievably random, right? Back soon, after I whip that paper into shape.kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-92043941046250199192010-05-08T09:39:00.003-04:002010-05-08T10:05:15.647-04:00Faculty Behaving BadlyDo you think I could make a million dollars by pitching a show to a cable network that's based on highlighting the most egregiously-awful faculty behaviors? Could I be the Chelsea Handler of higher ed? <br /><br />I think the pilot might involve the abuse of the campus-wide/whole-faculty email function. I'm sure that some IT guy, when he programmed this function into the mail service, figure that it would be a crucial function. There ARE announcements that the entire faculty needs to hear: graduation speakers, faculty governance issues, all-school calendars, etc. And actually, I like to know about speakers, concerts, class presentations, even if I can't or don't plan to attend. Hell, I don't even mind the occasional "I left my thumb drive in Classroom 117, has anyone seen it?" message. What I cannot abide, however, is the use of this communication feature as a means to castigate others publicly and/or pontificate. And really, how often is it one without the other?<br /><br />Case in point: weeks ago, a committee sent out an announcement about a program they had designed for the campus community, and very kindly were inviting people to take part in. And then the email responses begin. <br /><blockquote>•Cranky Western Civ Guy: "I don't approve of the content of this program. Shouldn't we instead be forcing students to take part in [ideology A]? Your program contributes to the downfall of Western culture." <br />•Young Hipster Dude: "on the contrary, I've taken part in a corollary of said program, and it is works as a sincere questioning of the make-up of Western Culture. Which would be obvious if you'd read anything about said program."<br />•Dr. Can't Let A Conversation Go On Without Him: "I'm also concerned about the status of Western Culture. Kids nowadays. What are we going to do with them? I suggest that all take part in a a multi-hour re-training program that supercedes the one that this committee planned." <br />•Professor Literacy Advocate: "Based on this fascinating discussion, Western Culture is something we're all interested. The suggested program, however; approaches this in new and exciting ways which I support."<br />•Dr. Gravitas: "I think the point here is that the initial committee got off its collective ass to plan something, and thus it's their show. If you all want to plan something else, do it your damn selves."</blockquote><br /><br />Thank you, Dr. Gravitas!! If only you'd included the phrase: "now stop cluttering up my inbox with this crap, you pompous windbags!" That endpoint notwithstanding, the "conversation" finally died down, based, I think, on the reasoned position of Dr. G, as well as the relative weight of his seniority and stature. <br /><br />BUT THEN!! <span style="font-style:italic;">Weeks</span> after this has all finally gone away, Dr. Endowed Chair chimes in! As if none of this has happened! He too has concerns about the effects of said program, and the way that the students will interpret the implications of "our" decisions to run said program!! Oh, wailing and gnashing of teeth! And we're off, again, into round four thousand of faculty who see this as their opportunity both to express their individual opinions about the state of Western Civilization as we know it, and to offer their own brilliant suggestions about what the campus as a whole should be spending its collective time thinking about. [Thankfully, this last round ended in what I can only imagine is a shared sense of incredulity that shocked people into silence. Dr. Insano suggested, based on recent ecological events, that we all carefully examine and discuss <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Under-Volcano-Novel-Malcolm-Lowry/dp/0061120154/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1273327339&sr=8-1">this Malcolm Lowry novel</a>. <span style="font-style:italic;">Sweet Jesus on a popsicle stick.</span> <br /><br />I'm floating a new suggestion amongst my colleagues who are equally suspicious of this abuse of the campus email, and it goes something like this. There should be some sort of non-negotiable, semi-punitive sacrifice that community members must make if they want to use this function. Non-negotiable, no exceptions. I suggest that they be forced to give up a toe. Then we'll see how important you REALLY think your contribution to communal discourse is.kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-25954408205292049292010-05-01T08:30:00.002-04:002010-05-01T08:55:49.317-04:00A Tale of Two TaskmastersAs I read around the academic blogosphere, I see that you all are coming into the home stretch. You're reading papers, managing student freak-outs, and switching into summer mode: simultaneous relaxation and research. So congrats to all of you. While you're busy feeling both exhausted but accomplished, I'm relaxed and freaking out: my leave is OVER!! And what do I have to show for it?!!<br /><br />As per usual, I find myself oscillating between two opposing poles. On the one hand, my inner sadistic schoolmarm is flagellating me. What's worse that wasting a three month leave? That one is ostensibly given for research? Shouldn't I have mapped out a fabulous book project by now? Or drafted three articles? Or painted the Mona Lisa, trained for a marathon, and cooked my way through all of Alice Waters' books? <br /><br />On the other hand, my inner overly-compassionate voice (who I imagine as an old school, baked, middle-aged hippie) is talking me down. The origins of sabbatical, after all, lie in "sabbath," as in rest. And I've done a lot of resting, that's for sure. I've traveled, I've reconnected with friends and family. I've spent a lot of time thinking about the kinds of bad work habits I've accumulated over the past five years. I've become pretty conscious about the consistent, negative talk in my head that goes on (see sadistic schoolmarm, above), and convinces me that it's not worth starting anything. For the record, it's sort of shocking, when you really write it down. Here's a sampling:<br /><blockquote>•"I didn't follow-up trying to publish my diss, so I've wasted all that work."<br />•"I didn't continue my diss research, and now I'm so far behind I'll never keep up."<br />•"I've given far too many conference presentations and failed to turn them into articles."<br />•"It's too late for me to pick a research field now."<br />•"Everyone I know has done/can do x, and I have tried and I can't, so I should just give up."</blockquote><br /><br />What a total and complete <span style="font-style:italic;">bitch</span> that schoolmarm is! And just so you know, I totally recognize that this is textbook, and that I sound like a case study in a "pathetic academic psychoses" review. <br /><br />I'm trying to go with the baked hippie, here. (Please don't ask me where these characters come from. Why can't the hippie be a Buddhist or something? Beats hell out of me. But he's a hippie, for sure.) For as much as the arguments that the schoolmarm are making aren't <span style="font-style:italic;">wrong</span>, exactly, I think that for me, the last three months have been about slowing down enough to realize the accumulation of crap that I've built up during the tenure process in a toxic department. (The schoolmarm narrowly missed being a nun, but that would make her so close to an actual colleague of mine, whose discourse is so close to this kind of negativity, that if I had her talking in my head, I'd have to quit my job and move to Woodstock.) Sure, it would have been great if I could have just jumped at the chance of a leave to dive into a pre-established project that was a natural extension of the work that I'd done on the diss and continued doing throughout my years as an assistant prof. But that's not what my career trajectory looks like. Instead, it's a messy testament to getting interested in a number of topics and ideas that are loosely aggregated around a couple of consistent big ideas. I'm still learning how to focus those and describe their relevance. And more importantly, I think I'm figuring out who I want them to be relevant to, and that might not be a strictly academic audience. <br /><br />So suck it, sadistic schoolmarm! You can have my spring leave, but I've still got my hippie summer! Here's to hoping for some compassionate, productive research in the coming months, that comes out of peace, love and folk music, rather than pain, suffering and judgmental silence.kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-51304065568924232252010-04-20T15:43:00.003-04:002010-04-20T16:12:59.513-04:00I'm Number Two! I'm Number Two!<insert><br /><br />So, I took off to visit the in-laws (which is a story in and of itself, let me tell you). And on the one day that I managed to sneak off and get myself some internet access, I discovered that I was the runner-up for the unexpected job interview I had a few weeks ago. Oh mixed feelings, how I love you! It's been so long!<br /><br />I didn't say much about that job, as it was both full of promise (involved lots of the kinds of work I love to do and don't get to do as much of as I'd like: brainstorming with faculty; implementing pilot programs; talking about pedagogy; using other people's money to try shit out) and, simultaneously, full of problems (an academic job of sorts, but not at a college; negotiating with the new people and my existing job to bounce between them; expectations that I'd spend a lot more time in the office and on the ground at the new place). It was weird---the details of the new position would have been hellish, and yet I was so absolutely drawn to the idea that I could do the other stuff that it almost seemed as if sorting through them would have been worth it. Finding out that I didn't get it was both a disappointment and a relief. <br /><br /><blockquote>Disappointment=<span style="font-style: italic;">why don't you love me?</span> and also, to be honest, a little bit of <span style="font-style: italic;">but I was hoping that you'd save me from going back to my real job and the wretched interactions with some of my colleagues!</span><br /><br />Relief=<span style="font-style: italic;">I teach two days a week in the fall</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">I don't have to spend the summer prepping for another job<br /><br /><blockquote></blockquote></span></blockquote>In addition to these two feelings (which were somewhat expected), I find myself awash in a couple of surprises. The first is an unexpected sense of "if you really wanted that, then I'm glad you didn't pick me." The chair of the committee wrote to let me know that everyone really liked me, but that they ended up going with someone who had a very different academic background than me. It was such a delightful experience to be able to think: "wow, it really has nothing to do with me. If you all wanted that, then I'm not your girl." As I mused on it later, I also found myself thinking that I think they've made a mistake---given the way that they described the position and its role, I think they've chosen someone who can propel the few far, but will leave the many behind----something that's pretty antithetical to the way that I think about my goals as a teacher and as an administrator. In comparison to my experiences on the academic job market, this is a pretty clean and heartening rejection. And it's weird--but hopefully not crazy--to think that I'm not a big loser because I didn't get the job. <br /><br />The other big surprise, I have to say, is that I think the process may have led me to some thinking about a new project. I'm a bit nervous to say that out loud---I might kill it just by whispering it. But it may be the case that in the day-long, adrenaline-filled rat race of applying for a job, I began to articulate a position that has some potential in it. Maybe. Stay tuned. <br /><br />While you're waiting, take a look <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OuNzcbCrNHg&feature=PlayList&p=A1C26836904CA4E9&playnext_from=PL&playnext=1&index=58">at a golden oldie</a>, and the one that inspired the title for this post (the scene starts around 2:35)kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-89457650640885284652010-04-09T10:28:00.002-04:002010-04-09T10:57:26.947-04:00Writer-phobiaLast night, I went to a reading by one of my favorite authors of all time (and this includes the dead ones). He's someone I wrote part of my dissertation on, someone I teach rather frequently, and someone I have been calling "My (insert ethnicity here) boyfriend" on Facebook in the run-up to his talk. The more that I anticipated seeing him up close and personal, however (and the more that I indulged in fantasies of him picking me out of the crowd and sweeping me away to his private love nest in New Jersey), the more uneasy I began to feel. What if he proved, in person, to be so much more disappointing than the man-myth I'd built him up to be?<br /><br />I think this fear is based on at least two crushing experiences I've had with living artists. The first, and less devastating, was hearing a <span style="font-style: italic;">Fresh Air</span> interview with a pre-<span style="font-style: italic;">Hulk</span> Edward Norton. Remember when people thought EN was going to be the next DeNiro? He was writing, directing, dating strong (semi-crazy) women like Salma Hayek and Courtney Love. All of this worked to build up the closest thing I'd had to an actor crush since Cusack in <span style="font-style: italic;">Grosse Pointe Blank</span> ("my psych profile fit a certain...moral flexibility"). In the interview, he talks intelligently about working in Fight Club, about being related to one of the first American city planners. So everything is well and good until Terry asks EN what his favorite book is. Wait for it. <span style="font-style: italic;">Catcher in the Rye</span>. CATCHER IN THE RYE? What are you, sixteen?! (Look, I've got no beef with CitR, but I don't think you can be an adult and claim it as your favorite book. If you have to go Salinger, than at the very least go with Franny and Zooey. Better yet, don't go with Salinger at all. And CERTAINLY, Big Ed, don't start talking about your affinity with Holden Caufield.) <br /><br />Game over. <br /><br />Later, I had the opportunity to hear a famous lyrical novelist read his work and answer questions. Loved him. Wanted to have his babies. Hot Sri Lankan man who had a way with words and a deep baritone voice? Sign me up! During the Q&A, being the nerdy little graduate student that I am, I asked him about a pet theory of mine: that his first novel, an invented biography of a jazz legend, was in fact structured like jazz music---seemingly improvisational, variations on a central melody, etc. The answer? "I'm a poet and it was my first novel. I just couldn't hold the structure together." <br /><br />I hate everyone, and particularly authors who are incapable of judging their own works. <br /><br />I spent the entirety of the Q&A last night waiting for My (insert ethnicity here) boyfriend to tell some inane or horrifying anecdote about his process, or his reading list, or his unselfconsciousness of his own work. Thankfully, none came. He was articulate and charming, and lovely; neither solipsistic nor incapable of self-questioning. Whew. The crowd was small, and I could have easily waited in the short line to talk with him and get a book signed. I dallied for a minute considering the option, but headed to my car instead. I was too afraid to ruin it. <br /><br />It occurs to me that I really should stop working on living writers, if I have to live in fear that their work is so much less impressive than they are as people. Is it unfair to ask artists to be as smart in person as they are on the page or screen? Would I be willing to hold myself to this same standard?kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-44012770617536309982010-04-02T10:13:00.003-04:002010-04-02T10:34:48.182-04:00Making DoorsIn the continuing saga of my mid-life, mid-career crisis, I had the opportunity to talk with two people from my academic past: my undergraduate advisor and my dissertation advisor. Honestly, I'm still impressed that these two pick up the phone when they see that it's my number on the display, because nine times out of ten, I'm always calling with these weird, not-really-academic questions. And yet, the kinds of advice I get: out of the mouths of the patriarchs!!<br /><br />My undergrad guy, who I will forthwith call Rainer, in deference to his advanced age, gravitas, and love of all things reich, was quick to tell me that this discomfort with the profession---and what I do now---is nothing new. "Totally normal, Fluff. Even pedestrian!" Always the metaphoric thinker, he first suggested that post-tenure is a "pivot point." Which way did I want to turn, now that one foot was stationary? Some, he noted, turn to administration for a new outlook, while others find a new angle on their research. All this image gave me, really, was agita. It could have been because I was picturing myself in a shiny basketball uniform, complete with long, saggy shorts, desperately pivoting trying to decide which way to pass the ball. <br /><br />"Think of it this way," he continued. "You're looking down a very long corridor right now." Yep, I thought, about 30 years long. "You have to figure out some ways to make some doors for yourself." Is that not a bleak image? Jeeeeebus. Without some imagination and creativity, I'm going to be stuck in this same goddamned hallway for the rest of my life? Noted, there are way worse hallways---hallways where you shovel shit or sit in a cubicle and have someone yell at you, for instance---but 30 years of hallway is still 30 years of hallway. <br /><br />Diss advisor had similar advice, although a bit more of an open approach. [Dude, in the misty past, did I ever give DA a name? He needs one. And since the hallmark of writing the diss was our mutual distraction by <span style="font-style: italic;">Sex and the City</span> episodes, his name henceforth should be: Dr. Big?] Big, who happened to visit a few years back, was careful to remind me of what a great corridor I've got myself on. "Look, Fluff. It's clear that you're valued, and you get to teach stuff you like. I've got students right now who are fighting for 4/4 positions at Idaho State with a three-quarter load in comp." (And again, I have to ask myself: am I the last generation of academics who could get a semi-decent, not outrightly exploitative job? Damn! That is some f'ed up shit right there.) "Take another look at what you've got," Dr. Big said, "but you might start thinking about other ways to work. What you have to ask yourself about any opportunity is: 'when I get in the car to go to work in the morning, am I happy?'" And then he delivered some incredibly sage advice about a position I'd been turning and turning over in my mind for a week, since my informal lunch. <br /><br />All of this to say, there's something about the corridor image that works for me (the pivot? not so much). So what are the doors that are available to us, post-tenure? How do you make a door out of a wall? Or at the very least, how do you decorate your damn hallway so that it gives you something interesting to look at while you traverse it? <br /><br />I had lunch with one of my newer colleagues yesterday, and she mentioned that one of the benefits of this job is that she can choose her panic---as in, she can decide when to apply for a conference or a seminar, and thus light the "must write and be smart now" fire under her ass. It made me realize that pre-tenure involves managing panic, and making it work for you. Outside standards push you down the corridor, sometimes at breakneck speeds, and you're desperately trying to stay in that hallway. Once the hallway is your fate, I think the propulsion changes; what I'm looking for is the thing that will pull me down the hall---where I'm running toward something, not frantically away from it, and as an added bonus, I'd like the pull that's so strong it opens up a door. <br /><br />I think I've now officially exhausted all of my metaphors for one day. More soon.kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-83986623966604651402010-03-22T08:40:00.003-04:002010-03-22T09:04:31.321-04:00On the Importance of Maintenance ShoppingTwo weeks ago, I had the delightful opportunity to meet my good friend Frenchie in the big city to do what we do best: gab, eat, and shop. It's something that we try to do once a year, and this time it was enabled by my wonderful, miraculous leave. Generally, we have to wait until the summer when both of us are available, but this time, we were able to go on her spring break. <br /><br />As we tooled around the city, I found myself in the clearance section at Ann Taylor (hey, it happens). I tried on a bunch of stuff, from the feathered to the spangled, but found myself at the register with three items: a black cowlneck sweater, a black cardigan, and a black tweed skirt (a departure, actually, given that it's got pockets and pleats). Not exactly my most fashion-foward moment. As I waited in line, I defaulted to the rationalization of "maintenance shopping."<br /><br />What exactly is maintenance shopping, you ask? Strangely, I'd never articulated it that way to myself before, but it's the utterly necessary task of buying and/or replacing the must-have items in your closet that you go to again and again. Black cardigans aren't exactly exciting, but when the one that you have is little but a collection of fabric pills and mended holes, it's time to do some maintenance shopping. I should note as well that it's easy to let maintenance shopping become a rut---and you'll know when you're there when you get home, stow your new purchase next to its brethren in your closet, and then when you go to wear it, you can't tell it apart from the others---but it's not a task to be neglected. It's not exciting, but it's necessary.<br /><br />An academic leave does not engender maintenance shopping (at least not for me). This is the time when I realize how shallow other parts of my wardrobe are, in fact. I'm now wearing jeans that have been idling at the bottom of the stack for years, I keep running out of clean t-shirts, and my sweat pants are on permanent rotation. My array of professional clothes are hanging in a deserted end of my closet, all lined up with nowhere to go (and I'm just hoping that some of them will fit when I have to put them on again). Given that my sartorial experience for the next 4 months will involve the same t-shirts and sweatpants, maintenance shopping was pretty far down on my list of necessary expenses. However, Frenchie's visit goaded me a bit. "If nothing else," I figured, "it will be less I'll have to find and pay for come fall." <br /><br />The bigger lesson here, however, is that maintenance shopping is important for exactly the reason that fashion experts tell us to always have one LBD in our closets----you never quite know when you're going to need it, and when you do, you can't guarantee that you'll have time to go and find something. Case in point, when a semi-random employer that you never really expected to hear from calls you and asks you to come for an "informal lunch" the next day. 24 hours notice is barely enough time for me to check in with every person who's ever given me advice about this kind of thing, let alone to go through my closet to see what fits and isn't stained. Thank you, maintenance shopping, for ensuring that I at least looked cute on short notice. [I just mis-typed that as "shirt notice" which would be a far better title for this post...]kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-3586711648613443522010-03-16T08:32:00.002-04:002010-03-16T09:06:53.398-04:00Oil Me.I can't help feeling a bit like the Tin Man as I return to this blog---I'm so rusty I'm frozen in place. Perhaps some girl with cute shoes and a dog will come and rescue me? And then I can go and get a heart! Or discover that I had one after all!<br /><br />In the spirit of full disclosure, I really hate The Wizard of Oz. I know it's heresy to all of you Garland-worshippers and members of the Lollipop Guild, but I've never been able to get on board the train (flying house? whatever). But the metaphor remains, I think, and since I appear to only be able to think in metaphors, it will have to do until I can find another. <br /><br />So what have I been doing since, oh, <span style="font-weight: bold;">JULY 31st</span>? (good grief.) Mulling. Wandering, sometimes in the desert. I did effectuate a house move, which really threw me for a loop (I don't recommend it, kids, I really don't. Especially not the weekend before classes start). I taught my first semester with tenure. I backed out of a major conference at the last minute because I couldn't finish my paper. I pulled off a pretty tremendous athletic feat, only to beat myself up about it later. I weathered the pedagogical nightmare of the most severely disabled student (and her team of resource people) I've ever had. And, as you might imagine, I complained. A lot. <br /><br />Here's the part that's going to be tricky: garnering your sympathy, even as I reveal my incredible, incredible privilege. Because here's the deal: I'm on leave this semester. For good behavior. And it is everything you might imagine it to be: lots of time to read, and think. Weekends are mine own. I've seen movies, I sleep through the night, unplagued by anxiety dreams. I work out when I want to (and because I have to, because leave=fatness, let me tell you). Bliss. Thank you, oh gods of academe, for this most excellent of job perks. <br /><br />In the midst of all of this goodness, then, what could I possibly have to complain about?! Truly, bitch, wtf? Feel free to do some slapping around, if you must; it's nothing I haven't said to myself already. The economy has tanked, taking the profession with it. I'm lucky to have a job, lucky to be tenured, incredibly lucky not to be furloughed. And yet, I'm plagued by this rudderless feeling. Call it mid-life crisis, call it bourgeois pseudo-nausea...I attribute it directly to the post-tenure moment, and I'm stuck between wondering if it's a professional problem or it's one that I've just created for myself by running my career in the wrong way. Basically, it goes something like this: work work work to get into college, work work work to get into graduate school, work work work to finish dissertation, work work work to get a job, work work work to get tenure, work work work to? for? Bueller? <br /><br />I think that I've always imagined that I was a pretty independent thinker. I've been lucky to have been in situations where people that I admire and respect were willing to listen to some pretty hare-brained, cockamamie ideas that I had and to help me to go forward with them. This post-tenure, academic leave situation, however, gives the lie to that whole idea. For what feels like the first time in my life, I'm without an inspirer/mentor, and really, without a clear goal. And without those things, all work seems arbitrary. Could I write an article on this contemporary novelist that no one is publishing on? Sure. Could I research a famous columnist who needs more academic attention? Yup. But I could also learn to play an instrument, or build a website, or practice my armpit farts. They all seems equally valid and exciting on any given day. All this directionlessness is making me absolutely fucking batshit crazy. And sendentary---because without a direction, I can't bring myself to move at all. I'm going to assume that someone would tell me if there were an albatross hanging around my neck, right? [Look, Ma, from <span style="font-style: italic;">The Wizard of Oz</span> to <span style="font-style: italic;">Moby Dick</span> in 10 paragraphs or less!]<br /><br />My return to the blog, then, is a bit of a flail, but one that I'm hoping will be productive. I've missed this little thing, and those of you who remain (and how impressed I am by those of you who continue to write! Kudos! I bet you have goals and shiz!). Let the navel-gazing begin!kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-3467254725185450532009-07-31T09:52:00.003-04:002009-07-31T10:07:26.452-04:00F'ing Finally!Well, folks, I think (I hope, I cross my fingers that I am not jinxing myself by writing this sentence) that it's all over. I just heard this morning that the sellers of the house we'd like to buy, and are deep in to negotiations with the mortgage company about, have agreed to take less than our formerly agreed upon price, based on the low assessment. It's taken about a week to get to this accord (think Yalta), but here we are. <br /><br />It occurs to me that there are two ways of looking at this all-consuming, debacle of a summer project that we've engaged in. <br /><br />1) If you subscribe to some sort of deterministic, happy-go-lucky, faith-based universe, someone could argue that this has all turned out for the best. Despite the fact that we are selling our house for less than we think it's worth (and, perhaps, at a loss, given what we've done to it in the past 5 years), the price reduction on the new house will actually give us a narrow margin of overage that is the beginning of a renovation budget. Or, in the eternal response of my parents: it all worked out in for the best, right? Well, sure, if you don't count the hours of sobbing and nail-biting, and my continued intense hatred of the buyers of our house. [Just between us: I'm far more lax about spills on the carpet than I was a month ago. It may even be the case that a small yacked-up hairball sat in a corner of the carpet for a day or two before I did something about it. And in the meantime, the weeds continue to grow, because I'll be damned if I'm going to expend one ounce of energy on behalf of the buyers. Note to future homeowners of America: it's not the best idea to piss off the people who are going to live in "your" house for a month before you settle.] <br /><br />2) If you subscribe to an O.Henry, pain-is-entertainment universe of dramatic irony, however, I'll simply note that we've resolved our summer housing project on precisely the last weekday before I go back to teaching. <br /><br />Choose your own adventure, kids. I'm tempted to spend the day doing whatever I damn well please as a sad substitute for the past two months of summer that I've missed out on.kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-28491365727137716502009-07-26T11:45:00.005-04:002009-07-26T12:10:03.491-04:00Holding OutLook. It's not like I'm purposely holding out on you or anything. It's just that I can sum up the last three weeks of my life like this:<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dshTgD_ZBaA/Smx6UvPEQXI/AAAAAAAAAEs/MqRCq_3PrMw/s1600-h/funny-pictures-cat-hates-everything.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 258px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dshTgD_ZBaA/Smx6UvPEQXI/AAAAAAAAAEs/MqRCq_3PrMw/s320/funny-pictures-cat-hates-everything.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362795752987050354" border="0" /></a><br />No LOLz here, my friends. I mean, sure, I got to take a much-needed and delightful break to see friends in the big city. But the tenor of July, for the main part, has been a combination of rage and despair, hope and dashed hopes, flavored with a soupcon of "seriously, this has to be over soon, right?" <br /><br />Tense updates in the negotiations about selling our house continue. The going consensus of our realtor and lawyer is that the buyer's realtor is invested in squeezing us for every penny she can. My favorite quote from Friday: "it's clear that they're not going to do the work on which they're basing this estimate. It's just about getting you to give them the cash." To wit: despite the fact that they based their original offer on visible structural issues, they now want us to take more money off of the final price of the house for those same issues. I spent much of the weekend entertaining various revenge fantasies, in which both the buyers and the realtor have infestations of mold in their respective houses. But those, I think, are probably healthier than the whining that I often find myself falling back on: what is wrong with these people? Is there absolutely no point at which they'll consider, even for a second, acting in a way that's honest and/or fair? And when did I turn in to such a Pollyanna? As my contractor likes to say: "People are scumbags, Fluff. Haven't you been around long enough to figure that out?"<br /><br />Meanwhile, we found a house we're very interested in. Does it need aesthetic updates? Yes. Does it violate my requirement for a post-'84 kitchen and bathroom? Yep. In addition, I'll just say one word: paneling. But, bless its heart, it's on a half acre plot and it's a 12 minute commute to work. The owners accepted a very reasonable offer with no haggling, for which I thank them profusely. Forge ahead, says I. Pay for yet another structural inspection (on top of the one for the house we lost to contingency). The result from the inspector: it's sound, and it has a nifty, brand-new furnace. The result from the appraisal: it's worth $10,000 less than you think it is, which will affect your financing. <br /><br />Thus, on this happy Sunday, I wait to hear whether the owners want to amend our contract to adjust to the appraisal. Meanwhile, however, the house we're living in is going to go, assuming that there's not some other way the buyers have of nickel-and-diming us to death. Rock and a hard place, anyone? <br /><br />My summer class begins in a week, and will be immediately followed by a very full fall semester of teaching and service, and a couple of conferences to which I've committed. Of course, I had planned to spend the summer drafting out those conference papers, so that the fall wouldn't be so hectic. Instead, my entire summer has been consumed by the house. Assuming (and this is a big assumption at the moment) that the purchase of our house-in-need-of-renovation goes through, we can also assume that I'll spend a good part of this coming year, and perhaps the much fought for sabbatical coordinating reno rather than writing. All of which, I think, leads up to a big career FAIL on my part. My big post-tenure plan was to reinvigorate my research agenda, and not only have I f'ed that up for now, but seemingly for later as well. <br /><br />Truly, I hate everything. Except you, readers, despite the fact that I've made you wade through my solipsistic whinging above. I'll be back with some sweetness and light, I hope, or at least some of the snarky sarcasm I'm too self-indulgent to locate right now.kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-5224212110692186992009-07-04T10:46:00.002-04:002009-07-04T11:13:15.215-04:00Ain't No Drama Like a Housing Drama'Cause a housing drama don't stop!<br /><br />After eighteen days of maintaining a perfect showroom of a house, we were told that someone was going to make an offer on it. And that was good, because at the same time, someone had made an offer on the house we wanted to buy, and so we'd have 48 hours to close the deal on our own house and thus maintain our contract with the sellers of the house we wanted. "Well," I thought. "This is either all going to fall into place, or it's all going to fall apart." <br /><br />In this, as in so many things, I'm painfully naive. <br /><br />Because when the offer on your own house is $20,000 below the asking price, it makes for a long and tense negotiation. And when you're staring down a ticking clock on buying a different house, it can make for a particularly nerve-wracking scenario. As a friend said to me: this is the REAL <a href="http://www.fox.com/24/">24</a>, yo. Where's Jack Bauer when you need him to waterboard someone? Of course, I seldom see JB figuring amortization schedules on the fly. (In truth, I seldom see Jack Bauer at all----I hate that show.) Finally, with 20 minutes to go on the deadline, I told the lawyer to drop the contract on the house we wanted. The offer just wasn't going to clear the amount that would make me feel comfortable with the mortgage and closing costs. (Oh, and BTW: living in the state with the highest closing costs is no picnic. Just saying.) The lawyer, in his pithy vernacular, calls this "killing the deal," as in "Fluff, don't call me at 10 of to tell me to kill the deal. I need more time to write up the letter." or "Fluff, the clock is ticking. Should I kill the deal?" Yes, goddammit, kill the deal, and with it my last month of fantasizing about having coffee on the sunporch of that house, looking out into the wooded backyard. Kill my vision of a small, pristine turquoise office with white furniture. Kill it all. <br /><br />Ah, but it the midst of that, another decision still needs to be made!! What about the offer? Hello, long night of the soul, and thank you to the 3 people who were patient enough to listen to me running them through the various considerations governing the sale. I'll spare you the outrage, the sobbing, the sleeplessness. We'll just say that it's done, and that I'm confident it was the right decision, even if a disappointing one. Oh, and that when my cat missed the litter box this morning and peed on the floor, I was sorely tempted to leave it there to soak into the floorboards in all of its cat-pissy odiferousness. <br /><br />So now, we're frantically looking for a house to buy before we're turned out on the street. Now, of course, I remember how hard it was to find something that I liked in the first place. Now, I'm considering living in places I've never thought twice about, because it appears to fit our bizarre criteria. Would it have been better to have let the deal live and have eaten ramen for a few years? I suppose we'll find out in the next month or so. Meanwhile, keep your eyes open for a house that's really quiet, but within easy driving distance to work, that has a post-1984 kitchen. Preferably mid-century modern. With a combined living/family room. And a fireplace. And hopefully central air. And hardwood floors. <br /><br />How hard can it be?kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-46196095017353808762009-06-14T22:19:00.002-04:002009-06-14T22:38:26.000-04:00Working Hard or Hardly Working?It's at times like these that I realize that I've spent far too much time around old codgers who speak in cliches. Because I can't think about working hard without the accompanying "or hardly working? Hyuck, hyuck." It occupies the same mental geography as "hot enough for you?" and the answer to the question "is today Sunday?" (which is, of course, "all day!"). I'll just put on my sans-a-belt pants now and call it a day.<br /><br />The point of this meandering, however, is that I've been rethinking my attitude towards work. In part because I've just spent the last week and a half putting in a goodly number of 10 hour days of manual labor getting our house ready to go on the market. Which, as my friend likes to say, sucks donkey balls. I painted, I cleaned, I painted, I moved stuff around, I found clever hiding places for all kinds of crap, I packed and moved stuff to friends' garages and basements, etc., etc., etc. Then I've meticulously maintained the cleanliness and uncluttered nature of our house for the last 4 days that the house has had showings. Much of this has been a solo effort, too, because Senor Fluff was away at a conference. Let's just say this for the record: it's been a long time since I've had sweat running in my eyes <span style="font-style: italic;">inside the house</span>. This morning, I crawled out of an upstairs window onto the roof of my house with a broom to sweep up a pile of vegetal detritus because the realtor noted that the guy coming today asked specifically about the age of the asphalt. I've got some nasty form of tennis elbow from painting trim and windows. I've taken to wiping my cats' feet with a wet paper towel to prevent them from tracking litter dust across the tile floor. <br /><br />Aside from my whining here (and internally), I've spent much of my time reflecting on my relationship to hard work. It occurs to me that for the majority of the last four years (give or take), I've been half-assing a lot of things. Class prep, research projects, home improvement. You name it. I have any number of reasons for this: I'm tired; I hate everyone, and particularly the person the work might benefit; hard work without a definitive payoff is akin to pouring sand down a rat hole. This last one is a particularly powerful rationale for me. I'm seriously unwilling to do something unless the payoff is clear, reliable, and valuable. But how often does that happen, really? And what the hell am I doing if I'm not working hard? (Lamenting the sad mis-use of Isaac Mizrahi on <a href="http://www.bravotv.com/the-fashion-show">The Fashion Show</a> for one, but that's a different story.) <br /><br />So putting the house on the market has been a new experiment in hard work. There's a payoff, sure, but it's far from guaranteed, and at best it's going to be very probably a long, drawn-out ordeal. I'm hoping that by reminding myself what it is to work hard on the house without a definitive reward is to acquire some inspiration to work hard on my research. Meanwhile, my inner old man tells me that this is character-building. And wonders if it's hot enough for you?kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-66496488143993818602009-06-05T07:14:00.002-04:002009-06-05T07:26:38.680-04:00FrenzyWell, the 'rents touched down, and I took a few days to travel with them. Things were, as usual, not nearly as bad as I expected they might be. Part of it, I think, was having the ability to identify the source of my animus toward my step-father, so thank you, blog! The other part was probably due to the fact that I consciously told myself, over and over again, that the number of vacations that I have left with my parents is probably limited. They're not geezers or infirm, or anything, but I couldn't help but notice the ways that they're slowing down a tiny bit, need more bathroom breaks. That realization became my mantra when, for instance, we drove across an entire island at 30 miles an hour and read every business and street sign aloud, a la Rainman. <br /><br />If anything, what I discovered on this trip was that my parents and I share a fundamental habit of mind: thinking that each of us knows best. I, for instance, kept trying to tell them that I didn't want to hit the highway during rush hour near a major city renowned for it's insane drivers. "How bad can it be?" Oh, I don't know...multiple people driving on the shoulder like it's a lane bad? Meanwhile, my stepfather barked at us for taking out a map on a walk to try to assess the best way of getting to our dinner location. "People will know you're not from around here!" He's not wrong, of course, but we happened to be in a suburb of the city where kids routinely pay $50,000 a year to go to college. If someone's going to be mugged (which isn't likely), it's not going to be us in our schlubby clothes. And finally, my mother refuses to take any money and gets all aggressive about it. We're all right, all the time. Except when we're not. <br /><br />But now I'm home! Glorious home! Let the fantasy summer begin! Oh, except that while I was on vacation with my parents, I sorta bought a house. And now I have a month to sell mine. And it has to go on the market next week. <br /><br />If you need me, I'll be in a frenzy of painting, cleaning. decluttering, putting on switchplates, painting, gardening, painting, and moving furniture. Keep your fingers crossed...kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28055594.post-6301513094932198642009-05-30T10:24:00.006-04:002009-05-30T11:06:19.843-04:00High DramaI've spent the past week doing anything but working on my essay, which I at first attributed to deep personal failings. Because, you know, who wouldn't? As of this morning, however, I've been wondering if there is a far more reasonable happenstance to blame.<br /><br />My parents are arriving tonight for a week-long stay. Now, my parents, as a pair, rarely stay with us. They're people who like hotels, and I'm happy to let them stay in one (honestly, our humble little abode doesn't really compare to a schmancy hotel by the airport. It's just no contest). Furthermore, they're not even going to stay long in the town; as die-hard Westerners, they come to the East to look around. That looking, however, has taken on all sorts of possibilities over the last two weeks: a variety of states, coastal and mountain destinations, big cities and small villages. To protect the innocent (namely me), I'll use Western U.S. geography for an allegory. Imagine if you lived in Phoenix, and you had visitors who were going to stay for a week and wanted to rent a car and see San Diego, Santa Barbara, Catalina Island, Utah's national parks, and maybe Mexico. <span style="font-style: italic;">In theory</span>, they could do it, right? In practice, however, as the local, you imagine that it might be a bit taxing. That's been the on-going conversation with my mother for the past two weeks. Almost every day. For an hour or so at a time. Mr. Fluff's joke is that at breakfast tomorrow, they're going to announce that they want to go to North Carolina.<br /><br />As I went into emotional overdrive this morning while making oatmeal and planning to clean the house, weed the front lawn, etc., I realized that the issue with their visit and my unfinished essay is not, as you might imagine, the sheer number of hours that I've spent on the phone with my mother. The issue is the way that this instance is entirely representative of a family dynamic that we've inhabited since I was 12. My mother and my step-father were married when I was 14, and were together for years prior to that. Inheriting a growing teenager could not have been a picnic for him, I have no doubt. And while I'm reasonably sure that I made all of the appropriate noises about welcoming him into the family, etc., my guess is that I was less than accepting, and pretty passive aggressive about it (because that's how I roll, yo.).<br /><br />It's always been the case, I think, that my mother has had to negotiate between him and me, that we have little ability to communicate with one another, and that each of us demands that she put our needs and desires first. Mr. Fluff, always the Freudian, pointed out to me this morning that regardless of the biology, it's a pretty classic Oedipal conflict here (without the need for the penis, of course). And I can acknowledge that, even as I recognize that there's a slight twist: I think there's a good deal of anxiety on the part of my step-father, as well, that he might be the one forced to separate from the mother. I think that it's incumbent upon me to realize that, and yet it's difficult to do when his needs or desires condition everyone else's actions (case in point: as of yesterday, my mother cancelled reservations at City A so as to spend more time near City B, because she was pretty sure that that's what he wanted, although it had not yet been approved. Twelve hours til touchdown, plan still in progress...). There's something else in the mix too, that I can't quite wrap my brain around: my step-father was the only adult in my adolescence who was deeply invested, I think, in proving me wrong, or making sure that I was punished. He was the one who questioned my motives, read my diary, grilled me, etc. All of which, of course, put my mother in the enviable position of having to defend me, or to carefully consider whether he had a point (which, to be fair, he sometimes did). He may or may not have consciously thought that this was his contribution to parenting. It's also the case, however, that these may have been attempts to tip the balance of my mother's regard and affection toward him and away from me. Which is a pretty shitty thing to do to a 14 year old kid. To say that there's some lingering resentment and habit of suspicion, then, would be an understatement.<br /><br />In other words: I think part of the trouble focusing on the writing this week has been because I was cranking through all of the turmoil that this situation creates, and they haven't even shown up yet. And all of this is a crying shame, because I so enjoy seeing my mother, and to the extent that it's possible, I think my step-father has attempted to radically revise his relationship with me. What that might suggest as a way forward, however, eludes me, except to say that I suspect its the case that I need to find a way to communicate my feelings directly to him, without involving my mother as the third, mediating party. In other words: I think I need to be the person that my 14 year old self couldn't be.<br /><br />Maybe that's the point at which the essay will miraculously write itself.kfluffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09067013188119828400noreply@blogger.com0