Afflicted

Okay, 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:

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.
1) The first rule of Fight Club is that you don't talk about Fight Club.
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):

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.

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.

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?

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."

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!!

So Random that I should put "Random" in Quotation Marks

In the grand tradition of RBOC, I offer you "R"BOC, or better yet, URBOC (Unbelievably Random Bullets of Crap):

• 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.

• 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.

• 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 forever. 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?

• 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.

• 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 die 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!)

You can see what I mean about unbelievably random, right? Back soon, after I whip that paper into shape.

F'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.

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.

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.]

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.

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.

Holding Out

Look. 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:



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?"

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?"

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.

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?

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.

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.

High Drama

I'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.

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. In theory, 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.

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.).

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.

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.

Maybe that's the point at which the essay will miraculously write itself.

What NOT to Do After Finishing an Article

Oh, so many things not to do. Consider the following:

Minutes after finishing an article, DO NOT:

1. Save and send to the editor.
2. Write a 100 word biography.
3. Hit "send" without attaching the latter.
4. Write new email apologizing for not attaching your bio, and then send AGAIN without attaching.
5. Throw clothes in a suitcase for a weekend in the Big City with your husband's family.
6. Get in the shower and try to shave your legs quickly, thus necessitating extra time spent staunching the bleeding.
7. Drive in a frenzy to the train station, park in the overnight lot, do a funky run/walk through the parking lot to the station, only to arrive 20 minutes before the train leaves.
8. Get to the city, walk to hotel, check into two very expensive hotel rooms for husband's family.
9. ***do all of the above without eating.***

In the days following finishing an article, DO NOT:

1. Spend two days in the biggest tourist destination in America with four children.
2. Take them to the tallest tourist attraction in said city, which involves several thousand people all trying to get up or down in 6 tiny elevators.
3. Forget to do research on kid-friendly restaurants in said city.
4. Drag them all through the major, massive train station in said city with their panoply of luggage, and then onto the train, to convey them back to Urbania.

In the calm psychic space that follows from finishing an article, DO NOT:

1. Try to become a different person around your husband's family, who are genetically pre-disposed to being happy, positive people who see the best in everything while you are genetically determined to be an evil, cynical Eeyore.
2. Try to convince yourself that you like children.
3. Be overly mindful of your relatives' Christian values, because you can't control where the Museum of Sex is, nor the fact that its window displays feature hippos and rhinoceri humping, sometimes in groups of threes.
4. Obsess about your own fears of bacteria, as everything you consume is available for others to taste, sip, or try.
5. Imagine that any semblance of a time table will be cohered to.
6. Continue to collapse into bed every night, with the thought that it's only a few more days, and you can tough it out.

And WHY should you NOT DO any of these things? Because they depress your immune system, yo, and then you end up with a sore throat and body aches. On the positive side, this does excuse one from visiting the Baseball Hall of Fame, which is DEFINITELY on the NOT DO list. One bullet dodged, many more to go.

RBOC, Haters Edition

•If my backyard is any indication, then any second now Morgan Freeman is going to show up and demand that I build a very large wooden conveyance for the animals. Even if he required that I grow the Noah beard, I'd do it, and for two specific reasons: first, I could get Lauren Graham as my wife, and then I could give help her get in a major motion picture that's a hit, which she so richly deserves, because she's super, and we could be the bestest of friends because I too love Amy Sherman-Palladino and can talk really fast. Second, because building a fucking ark is preferable to finishing this god-forsaken article.

•What the crap happened to the bulleted list function in Blogger? Did it disappear? Do I have to hand-code it or something? Screw that!! Although, again, preferable to
finishing aforementioned article.

•Clearly, I need to get writing, and I'm looking for inspiration. So, I've been thinking that upon the increasingly-slim chance that I ever finish, I am going to fully embrace my (not so inner) geek girl and buy this t-shirt, despite the fact that it has cap sleeves, which have the delightful tendency to make my arms look like stuffed sausages:



•You people who write all the time and are super productive? What's your stinkin' secret? And what's the deal with nothing ever being done? I keep finishing stuff, only to have to do revisions. Writing is like No Exit, only with words.

•I really really need to buy an external hard drive and back up my computer, but damn things are expensive. In the Fluff calculus, they're roughly equivalent to a really beautiful pair of fall boots. Who chooses storage over that? The people who don't lose their documents, that's who.

•Dammit. I'm running low on hatin' and thus it must be time to write.

That Clinches It

Oh, goddamn it, Eliot Spitzer. Why do you have to go and do something so godawful stupid?!!

I should probably have more of a problem with Spitzer calling a high priced call girl from an interstate prostitution ring---on a political level, and as a feminist. But that's not the part that's really bugging me. It's the way that this incident figures in the dream of Eliot Spitzer---defender of the people, the icon of ushering in a new period of ethics in state politics, this totally smart, conscientious guy who's got a good enough sense of humor to show up on Colbert. If Spitzer had been just some run of the mill politician, then this would be a blip on the radar. Chalk one more up to the dudes who can't keep it in their pants; what else is new? Instead, Spitzer was an avatar, and this NY Times story tarnishes him in a way that it wouldn't have some other random elected official. I feel sad, and disappointed, and a bit heartbroken because it's an example of the ways in which these people in whom I've invested a good deal of hope and belief and trust aren't the people I wanted and expected them to be.

Truth be told, the Spitzer incident is just a national allegory for my own small circle right now, in a number of ways. A distant family member, who's been of such help to me in the past, has just sneakily bilked my step-father out of an inheritance; a colleague that I knew and admired from afar seems evermore affected by the swirling politics around her; etc., etc.

In many ways, I don't think that I'm particularly realistic or pragmatic when it comes to my relationships with other people. If I'm honest, I tend to create a narrative about people I know and view their behaviors and motivations through that narrative forever. And on top of that, I think I' m a bit of an inflater; if I like you and respect you, than I generally think you can do no wrong. In essence, I'm confessing to owning a psyche that is the equivalent of shooting myself in the foot. Or setting myself up to be hurt? Which crapped-out cliche is it that I'm reaching for, here? I'm looking for the one that succinctly describes the way in which it's a mistake to think that anyone is perfect, or lives in harmony and accordance with his/her stated principles. [It could be that I've been watching too much In Treatment, but I'm sure that this has something to do with my childhood... Perhaps Gabriel Byrne would like to talk to me about it?]

In situations like these, I find that it's becoming easier and easier, over time, to withhold judgment. Because, after all, I couldn't be more fallible if I worked for it. I'm a ball of contradictions and insufficiencies and as much as I like to think that I'm working hard to be a person of integrity, I'm also small minded and vengeful and easily swayed. Big glass house, that's me.

But even without judgment, bearing witness to others' shortcomings is painful and sad and disappointing on a global level. Not to sound like a 5 year old, but if no one is capable of consistency with their principles, then what's the point? Who is there to model my sad little attempts after?

So, thanks for nothing, Eliot Spitzer, except the reminder that good people are fallible, and that they can still do good work. Maybe that's the model I need to start taking more seriously.

Combustion upon Re-entry

Thank you, Daylight Saving Time, for making my last, crowded, too-much-to-do, too-little-time day an hour shorter. I can't tell you how much I appreciate that.

That tone, above? Dripping with sarcasm? That's me all over. I can't imagine why three days in a major metropolitan city, in a swanky hotel, eating cupcakes in the village, far far away from all of my pressing tasks and the psychological clusterfuck that is on the horizon would conspire to make the return home and back to the realities of work such a difficult event. Nope! Just can't figure out why!!

It was lovely to be away, it really and truly was. Even walking 80 city blocks a day was fun, although before I do it again, I really have to figure out a shoe solution. Here I thought clogs were totally going to do it, but not really. What do cool kids wear to walk?

What I realized yesterday, however, was that I was saving up all of these grunt tasks---massive amounts of grading, writing up a major end-of-semester assignment, a few recommendation letters, a few lingering program admin things, my contribution to a grant proposal, doctor's appointments----for break. In addition, while I was working on the dreaded article, I put off all of these tasks as well. So here we are! At the end of break! And my list is long and arduous! Suck!

I can't remember the last time I felt this despondent at the end of a break. Forget rest and renewal. I just want to crawl in bed and sleep. With a few cupcakes.

Spitting and Swallowing

Now, I know what you're thinking. And while I'm more than happy to talk about whatever practices you dirty-minded people do in the privacy of your own homes, this is actually a post in reference to my life post dental surgery. Let's just say that my love for the chance to suck up some nitrous has dissolved. Unless, of course, I'm going to get some more right quick.

Since Wednesday morning, I've had a constant dull ache on the side of my tongue. It feels like a cross between having taken a cheese grater to it and a charley horse. As the day progresses, and I use it more (you know, for such optional activities as eating, drinking, and talking), it takes on a different quality. In addition to the feeling of raw and achy, on special occasions of use it gets a sharp, just-stuck-it-in-a-220 volt socket feeling that radiates from the back to the tip. Good times.

You just don't really realize how many times a day you swallow until it hurts whenever you do it. And, is it just me, or is it everyone for whom mouth pain activates the salivary glands? The more it hurts, the more I swallow. The more I swallow, the more it hurts.

So on Thursday, I called the dentist. Her office is closed on Friday, so I figured yesterday was my last chance to get things taken care of. Could she have slipped with the zapper? Is this the blowback from excessive novacaine shots? Is it bad karma from my first blissful 30 years of life without a cavity?

According to the hygenist, it's because the wound site is rough, and so my tongue is rubbing up against it and getting "irritated." I beg to differ. My tongue isn't "irritated," it's "enraged." It's about to go postal. It's 1990 Sean Penn when confronted by photographers. Regardless, the weekend treatment is to swish with hot salt water every hour or so to speed healing. Which I then quite daintily spew into the bathroom sink. I'm sure that this is in an Emily Post book somewhere---proper spitting etiquette, anyone?

So, as we enter the weekend, spare a thought for my poor tortured tongue, swallowing on the one hand, and spitting on the other.

Kajagoogoo Sings My Theme Song

"The Neverending Story"? Anyone remember that little charmer? In truth, before HZ busts me, it's not really Kajagoogoo, but the band's former lead singer, Limahl. So sue me. The point is, dear readers, that this is the semester without end!!

I keep making a list (but not checking it twice), and the list keeps getting longer, not shorter. There's grading to finish for one class, and then there are a set of intership evaluations I need to write. I need to meet with a colleague and a student who is thinking about grad school. There are many, many pages of a student independent study project that needs to be evaluated. I need to fill out a %&*$$!@ assessment form for my ACUN. A woman writing for the college alumni magazine has just sent me a copy of the story she's writing to make sure that she's quoted me correctly. I had a grant meeting yesterday, and the deadline for an abstract for a collaborative article is due Friday. Meanwhile, emails from my own students and from students in the program in general keep trickling in, with questions and course substitutions, etc. Saturday is graduation. Any chances I'll be done by graduation?!!

I'm planning a post for break that talks about my experience with administrative work, now that I'm preparing to hand it off to someone else. When I look at the list above, however, I can see the ways that admin work extends the scope of the semester. Fully half of the tasks above have to do with getting the ACUN bedded down for the holidays. Needless to say that the work to revive it will start just about the time I'm in a panic about writing syllabi for the spring.

According to my theme song,

rhymes that keep their secrets
will unfold behind the clouds
and there beneath the rainbow
is the answer to the neverending story

I have no freaking clue what that means.

Screwed, Blued, Tattooed

That title comes to you courtesy of my father, who had such a flair with the common vernacular. That was one of his favorites, along with "my way or the highway," "who's we, white man" and "it must be 5 o'clock somewhere in the world." A charmer he was. But I find that some of his phrases float back to me at certain moments when I'm deeply in need of some cliched, vulgar way of describing my situation. And that's it in a nutshell.

I had the best of intentions today, I really did. I got up early and busted out those last three papers (one of which I'd been saving because the student makes me grind my teeth. Often in her presence. You know when you have someone who just gets on your last nerve? Like comes to your office and tells you how sick she is and coughs all over the place and then touches everything and leaves? Or else, despite your warnings, decides to use Yahoo answers as a secondary source in her paper?!!). Did that, and then got ready to chip the 1/4 of ice off my car and go into school. Except that my favorite neighbor's car wouldn't start. So we called AAA. And they came in about an hour, and then took another 45 minutes to load up her poor little coche on the tow truck. And by that time, it was almost 1. So I got to my office, dealt with a couple of crap admin tasks, and then started working on another stack. Why do I never learn?

So it's 10:30 and I have a stack of rubrics and 21 short (2 page) assignments to read before the final tomorrow at 11. Who's up for a little sleep deprivation?

Suck It, Delayed Gratification

So I know that all of us are in grading jail right now. And I have no doubt that everyone thinks that she is the worst procrastinator. You're reading blogs, you're cleaning your bathroom, you're watching the America's Next Top Model marathon on MTV (and what's up with that, anyway?). Blah blah. I just took the last two days off. Haven't read a single paper. Top that!!

Clearly, this is nothing to brag about. By Tuesday morning, I should have graded: 15 research papers and 14 presentations; 21 portfolios and 21 online research projects and written a final exam. What are the chances, ladies and gentlemen? Nil, say you? I have to agree. I sort of knew when I put this schedule together that I was going to be screwed, but I have so actively screwed myself with my total lack of focus on Friday and Saturday that it's now a dire situation. And it occurs to me that this has been my pattern ALL SEMESTER LONG. I've put off grading and prepping and then, at the last hour, have run around like a chicken with my head cut off. Or, in more realistic terms, I run for two days on no sleep and caffeine. Making me both Princess McGrumpypants and verging on the edge of hysterical hallucinations on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

I've never been one to engage in delayed gratification. You know those studies about kids who can wait to eat the candy, and then they grow up and become successful and famous and svelte? Not me. Not even close. Give me that marshmallow and damn the consequences. But at some point, you think the realization of sleep-deprivation and pain would sink in. Or that it would sink in prior to the moment of realizing my screwage.

But no. Apparently I'm going to end this semester like I started it. If anyone wants me, I'll be grading and self-flagellating.

**ETA: Twelve hours, ten papers, two meals. Sucking wind. Totally and completely hosed. Hoisted by my own petard. I'd try to locate another lousy cliche, but you get the picture.

Words of Wisdom; George Michael Edition

I could whine endlessly about all of the things that have prevented me from blogging for the last 11 days, but I'll spare you. Suffice to say: grading! writing! grading! driving to the DuPont State! eating! grading!

More important to say this, perhaps: I'm sitting in my office, contemplating the great wisdom of George Michael. No, I'm not planning on propositioning an officer of the law in a public bathroom, but I am humming (to the extent that it's hummable) that great paean to modern life: Monkey. If you don't have on your fluorescent shorts right now, let me remind you of the first stanza:

Why can't you do it?
Why can't you set your monkey free?
Always giving in to it. Do you love the monkey or do you love me?

Ah, George. Wisdom for the ages. Applicable in so many different situations, but particularly this one. I'm sitting in my office being stood up by a student who has missed 3 weeks of class. I'm on my second day of a headache. In a meeting this morning, the apparently invisible, throbbing railroad spike in my eye was making me nauseous. A quick trip to the student center armed me with Advil, chips and a Dr. Pepper (caffeine and fat being key to holding back the full-on migraine). In an hour, there is a meeting that I've been dreading for three weeks. Dread of the "wake up in the middle of the night sweating, shaking with a combination of fear and indignant anger" variety.

So why, dear readers, am I still here?! Because I just can't get enough pain and nausea? Because I'm two teeth above de Sade level masochism? Because inertia is the most powerful force on earth? All true. But I think I'm going to let George speak to me. For today, I'm going to let my monkey free. Because, dammit, I don't love the monkey more than I love me. If you need me, I'll be at home watching Oprah.

When You Know You're in Trouble

• When it's still dark out when you get up, and you're in Daylight Savings time.
• When you think to yourself: do I need a cup of coffee before I start grading?
• When it's 10 a.m. and you're ready for a nap.
• When you still have two papers to grade, an article to read, and classes to prep in the next 3 hours.
• When you haven't showered yet.
• When you woke up formulating arguments against the faculty members who passive-aggressively dismissed your field and blamed it for the downfall of an entire core curriculum requirement during a meeting with the Provost yesterday.
• When your plan for the weekend is to both catch up on grading AND write an abstract.
• When your birthday is a week away and you haven't had time to play for it.

Anyone else know she's in trouble?

That Time Again

Yep, it's that time again. You know the one I'm talking about. There are about a 5 weeks left in the semester. You're tired and grading constantly. Students are tired and reading and working on papers and projects. They aren't quite at the "I'm having a nervous breakdown in your office" point yet, but you can see it on the horizon. Your colleagues are exhausted and grumpy sitting in too many meetings. All of this leads to the inevitable: one way ticket to The Land of Miscommunication, where all of the denizens either A) stare at each other in confusion; B) continue to re-state (badly) the same idea over and over again, regardless of the respondent's reaction; C) stomp off/mumble obscenities under their breath/leave the room and talk smack about each other. If I could get some more sleep and finish this stack of grading, it would be hilarious. If you're in that mystical, well-rested space, I hope the following examples entertain.

• In a 45 minute conference last week, I worked through a theory article with a student. In that conference, she used two different examples that she thought exemplified particular points in the theory. I explained, very carefully, why neither would work (not least because the first is an annoying chestnut about multiculturalism that drives me nuts). She tried to defend them, but in the end abandoned them. Last night she sent me a copy of her draft. In it, she uses both examples, and now attributes them to the author of the article.
• During a committee meeting today, one member would make a statement (e.g,, "When we last talked about this, we decided that cows were, in fact, mammals). Another member would then turn to me and away from the other member, and dismiss that statement (e.g., "Cows might be mammals, but it's not as if we've decided that as a group"). This happened over and over and over again, for 30 minutes.
• I met with an advisee about today, to discuss her minor. She asked if I had a copy of the 2004 catalog, so that she could look up the requirements. She then showed me how those didn't match the requirements in listed in her file. After 20 minutes of discussion with the department chair and the registrar, I discovered that the advisee is actually in the 2002 catalog, which is, in fact, consistent with the information in her file AND written, quite noticeably, at the top of that file. It should also be noted that this advisee is not a strong student. When I first started working with her, her main interest was horses. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But it may be the case that there's a certain intellectual communion happening there. Evidence for this claim is documented throughout her transcript. This, and several warnings from me, however, are not enough to deter her from taking 20 credits in the spring.
• When I got home this evening, I put together the ingredients for Jamaican jerk pork--crock pot style. After I got it all in the crockpot, I asked Senor Fluff if he thought it was cold enough to leave it out on the counter. "No," he replied, "but we could put it on the back porch." "Forget it," said I. "The rabid squirrels will eat it. Do you think I can fit it in the fridge?" "No." At which point, I proceed to make room for it in the fridge. Senor Fluff expresses surprise: "I thought you wanted to leave it out?"

I could have explained, at this point, that I asked about how cold it was in an attempt to avoid the prospect of arranging the whole refrigerator. I wasn't really bucking for trichinosis for the whole family. But what's the point? Once we've entered The Land of Miscommunication, it's better just to let it go. Don't use your words.

Suckfest

My parents are visiting.
I'm only half-way through a pile of papers that I have to return to students at 1 today.
I'm being observed in my afternoon class.
The barometer has dropped, leaving me with the requisite headache.
It's raining.
I have no groceries in the fridge.
I'm conferencing with students later in the week. Do I schedule half for Friday, to get them out of the way, or do I bump them to Monday, so I have a day to recover?
The polish on my toenails is chipped and quite scrofulous.

This list could go on and on, but you get the point. Welcome to the suck.

Back in a day or two, with characteristic, renewed vim and vigor.

Hah.

E.T.A: Now the mother-biting email server is down. WTF!!! And I can't even decide whether this is good, because it gives me a much needed excuse, or whether it's bad, because it means that I can't finish student papers until I can get access to them. Six of one?

Hole in the Space/Time Continuum

This was the semester that I had it all figured out. I used to teach on Mondays and Wednesdays, because many many meetings happen on those days, and so I used to try to get a few days (say, Tuesday) at home to prepare for classes. Of course, in practice, the way that worked out was a day that looked like this: meeting/meeting/class/meeting/class/come home and fall down dead.

So this was the semester that I was going to do it; I'm going to commit! I switched to a Tuesday/Thursday schedule, with the understanding that I'd be on campus a minimum of four days a week. Those days, however, would be less rushed and crazy because I would segregate the teaching from the meetings. Best of all, I would be able to prep on Monday and Wednesday for the Tuesday/Thursday classes. I'm willing to be on campus more if it means I have more prep time and am not crazed!

Ha. It is to laugh. Because today, Wednesday, I had four meetings. Last Wednesday, I had five meetings. The Wednesday before that, it was another four. It may be the case that service/administrative work functions on the goldfish model---it expands to fill the time to which it is allotted. So now, I've created the 278 pound goldfish. Look out, Manhattan; it's coming for you!

At 9 p.m. on the eve before I teach, I find myself faced with an interesting set of options for tomorrow:

1. I could finish my class prep and go to my morning meetings (oh yes, there are more). But I'd have to blow off finishing the article I swore I'd send off tomorrow morning AND the paper I'm due to give on Saturday at a conference.
2. I could attend my meetings and finish my projects, but cancel my classes.
3. I could finish my two projects and cancel my classes and meetings.

I know that people are feeling the teaching/research/service crunch all over. Really, I know. But since I can't clone myself or rip a hole in the space/time continuum to make myself some extra hours, I'm in a quandary as to which of my three fundamental professorial responsibilities I'm supposed to let go for tomorrow.

That goat farm in New Mexico is looking better and better...

Goldilocks Syndrome

Like many of my neighbors, I've been cursing a blue streak about the bizarre heat wave in the Northeast. WTF, my friends? If only someone would perform a longitudinal study of weather patterns to determine if global warming were really happening, or if it's only some paranoid plot by the left to make us recycle and shit.

Oh wait...

Right. So yesterday, here in the Great Green North, the projected high temperature was 90 degrees. Yes, in October. This is a pisser for a number of reasons: first, it's damn hard for me to work when it looks like summer outside. Second, it's hot and I'm sweaty, and I had just about enough of that crap during May, June, July and August. Third, I'm sick of all of my summer clothes. Fourth, I live for sweaters, and my favorite sherpa-lined hoody is languishing in the closet, picking up dust, feeling bad about itself. I'm coming, my love! It's only a matter of time! Fifth, let's not forget about hair, and the frizziness that accompanies hot weather. The Asian fro? Not a good look.

This list could go on, but mostly it boils (and I do mean boils) down to the statement "This kind of heat in October is against nature. And it makes me cranky. Hulk smash."

So yesterday, I'm in the shower, and I opened the window in the bathroom. I love a hot shower, but I don't love a steamy bathroom when it's 90 out. The outside air was cooling the water, it seemed; I kept turning it hotter and it wasn't searing my skin off.

Click, click, click (the sound of the rusty gears in my brain shifting.)

A quick check of the basement, home of the major household machinery, reveals a leaking behemoth of an ancient hot water heater.

It's a holiday weekend (Thanks, Columbus, for killing Indians! We celebrate you and all your works!), we have no hot water til the guy comes on Monday.

The final kicker? The high temp. tomorrow is 68.

Yours in cold showers. Happy weekend to all.

One Hand Tied Behind My Back

Why, why, I ask you, can the stupid gits in my neighborhood not encrypt their wireless? My poor little MacBook is so confused; it's picking up 4 different signals at any given time. It's not that I don't totally groove on watching the little wheel spin while a page loads. Really, it renews my deep connection to the cycles of the earth. It gives me a sense of peace that far exceeds the one I would receive from being able to complete my damn work online. It's only 9:30. I really do have all night, by gum! What would be truly super would be if it were the same neighbor with the child who cries around the clock--the one we often refer to as "McScreamy." If he could manage to interrupt my train of thought AND my wireless connection, he'd be the neighborhood all-star. Hell, if someone could manage to pull a Nancy Kerrigan and bust out one of my knee-caps, we'd have a trifecta of gargantuan proportions.

The real rub, in all of this, is that I've gotten really used to watching YouTube clips in between student blog posts. When the videos won't load, it's just back to back student blog posts. There is no joy in mudville, my friends. None at all. I lay this all at the feet of my neighbors, damn it. And in the meantime, get the sick girl more cold medicine!

Thus endeth the rant. Back soon with far less crankiness.