Ah! Finally. The Red Army is gleefully marching along, and I feel so much better. Like a new woman.
No spotting this cycle, once the surgical aftermath had passed!
The small victories.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
Dating Myself (Synchronicity)
No, not as in asking myself to go steady and trying to get fresh during the movie. As in showing my age.
It's Friday and my brain's fried again. Not for any fun reasons, just due to too many hamsters running too fast to churn out too much bullshit. I'm also feeling that odd wired yet foggy feeling that precedes the march of the Red Army. No spotting, but it's also taking its time. I just want it to get flowing and leave me alone.
I'm going to spend a big chunk of today playing host to a young scholar from Obscure Corner of the World. She will be forced to go to an art opening and eat strawberries and drink Prosecco. It's my personal vengeance for all the TV, mutton, and hard liquor that her countrymen forced on me.
So instead of some long-winded story, may I offer some dated music? Those funky flash players never have what I want, but thankfully, there's YouTube.
This 80s gem has some lyrics I find oddly inspiring and comforting:
A connecting principle
Linked to the invisible
Almost imperceptible
Something inexpressible
Science insusceptible
Logic so inflexible
Causally connectable
Yet nothing is invincible
If we share this nightmare
Then we can dream
Spiritus mundi*
Hard to believe, but they played this song even faster live. But the vocals, naturally, weren't as awesomely overlapping.
*Spiritus mundi, spirit of the world, appears in Yeat's darkly beautiful, eerily current poem "Second Coming" but here I think for the Police, it's more Jungian. The collective unconscious, oversoul, world soul, etc.
It's Friday and my brain's fried again. Not for any fun reasons, just due to too many hamsters running too fast to churn out too much bullshit. I'm also feeling that odd wired yet foggy feeling that precedes the march of the Red Army. No spotting, but it's also taking its time. I just want it to get flowing and leave me alone.
I'm going to spend a big chunk of today playing host to a young scholar from Obscure Corner of the World. She will be forced to go to an art opening and eat strawberries and drink Prosecco. It's my personal vengeance for all the TV, mutton, and hard liquor that her countrymen forced on me.
So instead of some long-winded story, may I offer some dated music? Those funky flash players never have what I want, but thankfully, there's YouTube.
This 80s gem has some lyrics I find oddly inspiring and comforting:
A connecting principle
Linked to the invisible
Almost imperceptible
Something inexpressible
Science insusceptible
Logic so inflexible
Causally connectable
Yet nothing is invincible
If we share this nightmare
Then we can dream
Spiritus mundi*
Hard to believe, but they played this song even faster live. But the vocals, naturally, weren't as awesomely overlapping.
*Spiritus mundi, spirit of the world, appears in Yeat's darkly beautiful, eerily current poem "Second Coming" but here I think for the Police, it's more Jungian. The collective unconscious, oversoul, world soul, etc.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Stupid Things I Have Done, Part V
All of these seem to involve, at least tangentially, inebriation and music performance. Geez, must stop talking like an abstract...
Many stupid things I have done took place in Obscure Corner of the World, henceforth OCOW. It's a wacky place, where people of various heritages mix in the remote, forested reaches. On my first trip to OCOW, I went with three friends. One was an actor from New York, and the others his sister and her husband. We traveled by train to OCOW for days upon days, and you'd be amazed how a long train ride will really blow your mind. We started off very prim and proper, only drinking after the sun went down. But by the third day or so, we only made it until about noon before the beers were cracked and the vodka poured. We lived on ramen, savory pastries, instant coffee, and cheese.
Somehow, we made it to Big City in OCOW. Big City isn't really all that big, but by comparison to the absolutely empty nothing surrounding it, it's huge. Our friends in Big City had a surprise for us: One of them had been invited to a remote mountain village to act as guest star and MC at a big festival (this friend was an actor and local pop legend). He was going to take us with him in his new car.
The car was kind of like a Lincoln, but with serious tank-like qualities. This was good, because the roads are crap in OCOW. By the time we turned onto the final road toward the village, the path before us was just a boulder-strewn wash retreating into a deep ravine filled with massing black clouds. "Uh, which way do we go now?" I recall asking. When my friend pointed down the ravine, we all groaned.
The ride was bumpy, but lovely. High up in the mountains, we passed the beginning of a major river, where it still meandered in a hundred silvery streams in all directions, searching for its final flow. There were tiny hamlets with two rough wooden houses, surrounded by massive peaks unmarked by humans.
We finally arrived in the village, which sprawled out along a rocky mountain stream between a few large, bare hills. Above, the peaks rose, forested, frightening, and alluring. You wanted to get lost there, to wander over ridge after ridge.
But instead, we were taken into the school cafeteria and offered dinner. It was boiled meat, mostly, with homemade blood sausage and other carnivorous delights. And there was vodka. And candies and bread. That about sums up the fare in the village, the basic, traditional food of OCOW. I didn't fall in love with it for its cuisine, let's just say that.
Before long, everyone had eaten and drank more than enough, and we were shown into our rooms in a long wooden bunk house of sorts. There was a room for the girls and one for the boys. Though more women were clearly expected, my friend and I were along in the large dorm room. We picked iron cots next to the windows and settled in.
Not long after light's out, the door opened. The latch had yielded, and some man was barging into our room, muttering incoherently. We turned on the lights and yelled at him, recognizing him as the very drunk man who had introduced himself as a historian from a nearby area. He was so drunk out of his mind that he couldn't figure out why we were there, in his room, and why we were so angry. Soon, the hammer came down: The dreaded night watchwoman, a figure to be feared in these kind of places, worked him over in the way that only local women can do to their drunken male counterparts. The guy cringed, burped an apology, and crept away.
Soon, he was delighting us again by upchucking below our window. The charm of rural life!
The historian apologized the next day at breakfast. My actor buddy and I were the first ones of our party up, and we wandered, somewhat lost, over to the school. The historian and his comrades-in-booze were already taking the hair of the dog, and they raised their tumblers in our direction. While spooning our hot cereal (which is always awesome in OCOW. Love the stuff.), the now contrite historian came over and asked me to forgive his rudeness. I did, and he offered us a bottle of vodka. I told him, rather roughly, that we didn't want any vodka for breakfast. He nodded, giving me a sly little smile, and returned a moment later with something. Presenting it victoriously, he announced, "A dry white wine!" Nothing like wine and oatmeal and forced courtesy at 7 am.
But the historian wasn't even the most colorful drunk in the village. There was also Backwards Pants. We came to be very fond of him, and dubbed him BP because...wait for it... he always walked around with his pants on backwards!
His most memorable interaction with our crew came when we were dragged into performing for the festival. One of my friends played guitar. The rest of us sang. We sang a couple good ol' country songs, but our big closing number was a rendition of Warren Zevon's "Poor Pitiful Me." We added a very silly final verse, thinking no one would understand.
Never, ever assume, even in the wildest place, that no one will pick up on your stupid lyrics and your poetic reference to sitting on blocks of ice with your bare ass (what we added to the song). Very stupid. Blame it on the long train ride and the dry white wine. It turns out a grad student in anthropology--they're everywhere! They're everywhere!--was there, and wondered who the fuck we were, and why we were so damn stupid. She later told me so, when we met once again for the first time here in the States. Whoops.
The non-English speakers enjoyed our little concert, though. Except Backwards Pants, who got pissed at us after we wouldn't sing a song twice for him. He began to scream that he was going to launch a Minuteman missile at Los Angeles, thanks to us. Fortunately, this international incident was averted by some bad-ass local ladies, who dragged BP off.
Many stupid things I have done took place in Obscure Corner of the World, henceforth OCOW. It's a wacky place, where people of various heritages mix in the remote, forested reaches. On my first trip to OCOW, I went with three friends. One was an actor from New York, and the others his sister and her husband. We traveled by train to OCOW for days upon days, and you'd be amazed how a long train ride will really blow your mind. We started off very prim and proper, only drinking after the sun went down. But by the third day or so, we only made it until about noon before the beers were cracked and the vodka poured. We lived on ramen, savory pastries, instant coffee, and cheese.
Somehow, we made it to Big City in OCOW. Big City isn't really all that big, but by comparison to the absolutely empty nothing surrounding it, it's huge. Our friends in Big City had a surprise for us: One of them had been invited to a remote mountain village to act as guest star and MC at a big festival (this friend was an actor and local pop legend). He was going to take us with him in his new car.
The car was kind of like a Lincoln, but with serious tank-like qualities. This was good, because the roads are crap in OCOW. By the time we turned onto the final road toward the village, the path before us was just a boulder-strewn wash retreating into a deep ravine filled with massing black clouds. "Uh, which way do we go now?" I recall asking. When my friend pointed down the ravine, we all groaned.
The ride was bumpy, but lovely. High up in the mountains, we passed the beginning of a major river, where it still meandered in a hundred silvery streams in all directions, searching for its final flow. There were tiny hamlets with two rough wooden houses, surrounded by massive peaks unmarked by humans.
We finally arrived in the village, which sprawled out along a rocky mountain stream between a few large, bare hills. Above, the peaks rose, forested, frightening, and alluring. You wanted to get lost there, to wander over ridge after ridge.
But instead, we were taken into the school cafeteria and offered dinner. It was boiled meat, mostly, with homemade blood sausage and other carnivorous delights. And there was vodka. And candies and bread. That about sums up the fare in the village, the basic, traditional food of OCOW. I didn't fall in love with it for its cuisine, let's just say that.
Before long, everyone had eaten and drank more than enough, and we were shown into our rooms in a long wooden bunk house of sorts. There was a room for the girls and one for the boys. Though more women were clearly expected, my friend and I were along in the large dorm room. We picked iron cots next to the windows and settled in.
Not long after light's out, the door opened. The latch had yielded, and some man was barging into our room, muttering incoherently. We turned on the lights and yelled at him, recognizing him as the very drunk man who had introduced himself as a historian from a nearby area. He was so drunk out of his mind that he couldn't figure out why we were there, in his room, and why we were so angry. Soon, the hammer came down: The dreaded night watchwoman, a figure to be feared in these kind of places, worked him over in the way that only local women can do to their drunken male counterparts. The guy cringed, burped an apology, and crept away.
Soon, he was delighting us again by upchucking below our window. The charm of rural life!
The historian apologized the next day at breakfast. My actor buddy and I were the first ones of our party up, and we wandered, somewhat lost, over to the school. The historian and his comrades-in-booze were already taking the hair of the dog, and they raised their tumblers in our direction. While spooning our hot cereal (which is always awesome in OCOW. Love the stuff.), the now contrite historian came over and asked me to forgive his rudeness. I did, and he offered us a bottle of vodka. I told him, rather roughly, that we didn't want any vodka for breakfast. He nodded, giving me a sly little smile, and returned a moment later with something. Presenting it victoriously, he announced, "A dry white wine!" Nothing like wine and oatmeal and forced courtesy at 7 am.
But the historian wasn't even the most colorful drunk in the village. There was also Backwards Pants. We came to be very fond of him, and dubbed him BP because...wait for it... he always walked around with his pants on backwards!
His most memorable interaction with our crew came when we were dragged into performing for the festival. One of my friends played guitar. The rest of us sang. We sang a couple good ol' country songs, but our big closing number was a rendition of Warren Zevon's "Poor Pitiful Me." We added a very silly final verse, thinking no one would understand.
Never, ever assume, even in the wildest place, that no one will pick up on your stupid lyrics and your poetic reference to sitting on blocks of ice with your bare ass (what we added to the song). Very stupid. Blame it on the long train ride and the dry white wine. It turns out a grad student in anthropology--they're everywhere! They're everywhere!--was there, and wondered who the fuck we were, and why we were so damn stupid. She later told me so, when we met once again for the first time here in the States. Whoops.
The non-English speakers enjoyed our little concert, though. Except Backwards Pants, who got pissed at us after we wouldn't sing a song twice for him. He began to scream that he was going to launch a Minuteman missile at Los Angeles, thanks to us. Fortunately, this international incident was averted by some bad-ass local ladies, who dragged BP off.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Post-Op Blues
I know, it's been, like, forever since I've written about my lady parts. But I just had my post-op with Dr. Spunk, so the time is ripe to return to everyone's favorite topic.
We laughed a lot. He's kind of silly, and I'm a bit goof ball, especially when matters touch on this rather heartwrenching part of my otherwise fantastic life. He told me what he had told my guy: There was a tiny touch of endo in the area between uterus and colon, which he burned off. He took out three polyps and scraped away a bit of the lining.
I asked him about our chances. He said we likely had about a 30% chance of conceiving on our own per year. That made me feel somehow proud: See! We can do it; we're just retarded.
Then he gave me a fairly predictable (and therefore trustworthy, methinks) rundown on the treatment stats: 6% CC+IUI per cycle, around 20% for injects+IUI, 50% for IVF. I told him we needed to take two months or so off, in part because a Clomid hot flash would not be the perfect accessory for the big conference coming up in a few weeks.
On the way home, as I walked through this big windy field they're mucking up to build some ticky tacky townhouses and a little patch of woods, I felt really sad. I guess part of me keeps hoping for a miracle that will spring us out of this situation. I wish we could spend our savings making other dreams come true, instead of sacrificing it on the great baby altar. I feel like I've been sentenced to prison wrongly, and that some appeal will go through and suddenly release me.
I felt confused. This isn't a common feeling for me. I have strong opinions and often know what I want. I can't seem to really feel what I want in this situation. I just don't know: I want to do it all right now, and I want to do nothing. I want to kick IF in the balls and karate-chop it to the ground, and I want to walk away.
The more practical part of me, meanwhile, was running numbers. It's almost a meditative practice after a while: So, 20%. That means 20 gals get knocked up during cycle 1, 16 the next and let's say, oh, 12 the next. So that's almost an IVF cycle, right? For nine grand instead of twelve... Hmm... This practical part is, at the moment, leaning toward skipping the Clomid, which sucks and has a pitiful chance of success, and hitting the FSH this summer. I want this over with.
Oh, I also want to drink some Prosecco and eat strawberries. But I'm going to wait until Friday. Instead, I just scarfed an huge hunk of delicious local goat cheese.
We laughed a lot. He's kind of silly, and I'm a bit goof ball, especially when matters touch on this rather heartwrenching part of my otherwise fantastic life. He told me what he had told my guy: There was a tiny touch of endo in the area between uterus and colon, which he burned off. He took out three polyps and scraped away a bit of the lining.
I asked him about our chances. He said we likely had about a 30% chance of conceiving on our own per year. That made me feel somehow proud: See! We can do it; we're just retarded.
Then he gave me a fairly predictable (and therefore trustworthy, methinks) rundown on the treatment stats: 6% CC+IUI per cycle, around 20% for injects+IUI, 50% for IVF. I told him we needed to take two months or so off, in part because a Clomid hot flash would not be the perfect accessory for the big conference coming up in a few weeks.
On the way home, as I walked through this big windy field they're mucking up to build some ticky tacky townhouses and a little patch of woods, I felt really sad. I guess part of me keeps hoping for a miracle that will spring us out of this situation. I wish we could spend our savings making other dreams come true, instead of sacrificing it on the great baby altar. I feel like I've been sentenced to prison wrongly, and that some appeal will go through and suddenly release me.
I felt confused. This isn't a common feeling for me. I have strong opinions and often know what I want. I can't seem to really feel what I want in this situation. I just don't know: I want to do it all right now, and I want to do nothing. I want to kick IF in the balls and karate-chop it to the ground, and I want to walk away.
The more practical part of me, meanwhile, was running numbers. It's almost a meditative practice after a while: So, 20%. That means 20 gals get knocked up during cycle 1, 16 the next and let's say, oh, 12 the next. So that's almost an IVF cycle, right? For nine grand instead of twelve... Hmm... This practical part is, at the moment, leaning toward skipping the Clomid, which sucks and has a pitiful chance of success, and hitting the FSH this summer. I want this over with.
Oh, I also want to drink some Prosecco and eat strawberries. But I'm going to wait until Friday. Instead, I just scarfed an huge hunk of delicious local goat cheese.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Stupid Things I Have Done, Part IV
I spent a year abroad in Europe when I was 16, as part of an exchange program. I had never studied the country's language in school and basically knew nothing about the place.
I'm an only child, so I asked to be placed in a family with no kids my age in an urban area. I had to have my own room, I insisted. But I was a vegetarian, and that fact seemed to trump all else. I wound up in a small village whose name translates as "Gnome Home," where the air smelled distinctly of manure and the nearest city was an hour away by train. My host family was headed by a hard-working single mom with three kids, all around my age, one of whom thought meat was nasty. None of them spoke English.
My poor host mom! She worked three jobs. Worked her ass off for her kids. One was a Goth who had recently gotten chased by the police in a drunken mania, fallen off a bridge, jumped from a hospital window, and so on. The other was a roofer who enjoyed Metallica LOUD. The youngest, my host sister with whom I shared a small room, was into David Hasselhoff's pop oeuvre. I was a punky, arty type who owned the entire 4AD catalog.
After I started to understand some of what was being said around me, my host mom and sis and I began to get along. Eventually, we became buddies, and I learned a lot about their lives. I had to do lots of chores around the house, but I came not to mind that. I appreciated the lessons I learned about neatness, frugality, kindness.
Part of the program I was on included a mini-home stay in a really big city on the other side of the country. So, I left my bucolic working class environs for the bright lights. I had picked up the language with an unmistakable rural accent, which never ceased to amuse my temporary hosts. They were former diplomats, very cool and nice. They actually came to my first wedding. I still hear from them now and then.
Anyway, while there, I met some university students who were volunteering for our program. One of them was a beautiful gal with long black dreads and a nose ring. I knew I had to have one, especially since I had taken to dying my hair fire-engine red. This was long before the advent of piercing professionals, in the long-lost age of DIY nose piercing. So, I asked her how she had done it and she explained that it was really easy and basically painless. You numb your nose with ice, sterilize a needle in boiling water, put something like a carrot up your nostril for resistance, and go for it. Quickly stick a sterilized stud in there and voila! Nose ring.
When I returned to Gnome Home, I decided one fine morning to pierce my nose. I had the house to myself, strangely enough. This being Europe, there was no ice to be had. So I went down into the cellar and fished out a huge slab of deep-frozen meat. There, I also found a large, nobbly carrot. Too excited to sterilize anything, heart aflutter, I shoved the meat slab against my face for as long as I could take it. Soon, I'd lost feeling in my nose. I stuck the carrot up my far too small nostril and without taking too much time to figure out the most attractive location for my nose ring, bam! It was done. I had a needle through my nose.
I then realized that I really didn't have any appropriate stud on me. Shit. I riffled through my earrings, and was dismayed to see that the only really stud-like thing I had was a fake pearl earring. The fake pearl was huge and looked like some odd growth sprouting from my nose. But it was in, and I was on my way to infinite coolness.
It's really hard to conceal a newly inserted nose ring from your host mom when it's a honking faux pearl sticking out of the side of your face. I did my best, but I failed, and my poor host mom cursed me firmly in dialect, asking me what she was supposed to tell my parents when she sent me home all maimed.
The drama soon passed. I found a better stud and wore a nose ring for two or three years. Until I noticed that all kinds of people had them at my college. It was too trendy to be cool anymore, I remember deciding in a huff, and out it went.
I'm an only child, so I asked to be placed in a family with no kids my age in an urban area. I had to have my own room, I insisted. But I was a vegetarian, and that fact seemed to trump all else. I wound up in a small village whose name translates as "Gnome Home," where the air smelled distinctly of manure and the nearest city was an hour away by train. My host family was headed by a hard-working single mom with three kids, all around my age, one of whom thought meat was nasty. None of them spoke English.
My poor host mom! She worked three jobs. Worked her ass off for her kids. One was a Goth who had recently gotten chased by the police in a drunken mania, fallen off a bridge, jumped from a hospital window, and so on. The other was a roofer who enjoyed Metallica LOUD. The youngest, my host sister with whom I shared a small room, was into David Hasselhoff's pop oeuvre. I was a punky, arty type who owned the entire 4AD catalog.
After I started to understand some of what was being said around me, my host mom and sis and I began to get along. Eventually, we became buddies, and I learned a lot about their lives. I had to do lots of chores around the house, but I came not to mind that. I appreciated the lessons I learned about neatness, frugality, kindness.
Part of the program I was on included a mini-home stay in a really big city on the other side of the country. So, I left my bucolic working class environs for the bright lights. I had picked up the language with an unmistakable rural accent, which never ceased to amuse my temporary hosts. They were former diplomats, very cool and nice. They actually came to my first wedding. I still hear from them now and then.
Anyway, while there, I met some university students who were volunteering for our program. One of them was a beautiful gal with long black dreads and a nose ring. I knew I had to have one, especially since I had taken to dying my hair fire-engine red. This was long before the advent of piercing professionals, in the long-lost age of DIY nose piercing. So, I asked her how she had done it and she explained that it was really easy and basically painless. You numb your nose with ice, sterilize a needle in boiling water, put something like a carrot up your nostril for resistance, and go for it. Quickly stick a sterilized stud in there and voila! Nose ring.
When I returned to Gnome Home, I decided one fine morning to pierce my nose. I had the house to myself, strangely enough. This being Europe, there was no ice to be had. So I went down into the cellar and fished out a huge slab of deep-frozen meat. There, I also found a large, nobbly carrot. Too excited to sterilize anything, heart aflutter, I shoved the meat slab against my face for as long as I could take it. Soon, I'd lost feeling in my nose. I stuck the carrot up my far too small nostril and without taking too much time to figure out the most attractive location for my nose ring, bam! It was done. I had a needle through my nose.
I then realized that I really didn't have any appropriate stud on me. Shit. I riffled through my earrings, and was dismayed to see that the only really stud-like thing I had was a fake pearl earring. The fake pearl was huge and looked like some odd growth sprouting from my nose. But it was in, and I was on my way to infinite coolness.
It's really hard to conceal a newly inserted nose ring from your host mom when it's a honking faux pearl sticking out of the side of your face. I did my best, but I failed, and my poor host mom cursed me firmly in dialect, asking me what she was supposed to tell my parents when she sent me home all maimed.
The drama soon passed. I found a better stud and wore a nose ring for two or three years. Until I noticed that all kinds of people had them at my college. It was too trendy to be cool anymore, I remember deciding in a huff, and out it went.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Stupid Things I Have Done (and Witnessed Others Doing), Part III
As an undergrad, I had one main love, but we had a rocky relationship one of my close friends referred to as "the soap opera." Neither of us really wanted it that way; we just never got on the same page at the same time. Oddly enough, we remain on good terms to this day.
In one of my escapes from the soap opera, I dated an English major who was a self-proclaimed feminist. Always beware of men who espouse feminism, ladies: They are usually fishing for pity and control. This guy had a really nice apartment, and we shared many surface interests--cooking, world music, literature--but there was always something manipulative and fucked up about our interactions. He loved putting me down and demonstrating how foolish/crazy/lost I was without him. And the sex sucked, too. I was too naive at the time to know what true love and support meant, or to recognize how I chafed, until I had done so much undermining of our relationship that the end came. He dissed me for my housemate. I hooked up with my soap opera hero again, and we had a year of ridiculous youthful bliss.
I hated English Major, unlike any other ex I've ever had. He still repulses me. I told him on no uncertain terms to stay away from my room in our house, which had multiple entrances. Of course, he could be in her room if my housemate so desired, but I asked him to stay away from me, especially because he lived only a block away. They could just go to his much nicer place, right? But no. He insisted on walking right past my windows or usually open door on a regular basis for the next semester. Finally, I clocked him one, slapping him so that his glasses flew across the room.
He then called my mom, telling her I had "struck him about the face." (God, what a prick.) This was my first and last foray into English major abuse, and the stupid thing mentioned in this post's title. My mom, bless her, responded with, "So, what do you want me to do about it?" The conversation went downhill from there.
The summer before this stupid drama unfurled, I lived with English Major at the apartment of one of the art department's profs. It was in a lovely, creaky old New England clapboard house. The downstairs apartment was occupied by other students supposedly holding down the fort for some history prof, the kind who likes strapping young men in his spaces. These boys had a deep love of two things, as far as I could tell: drinking copious amounts of beer and floor-shaking stereo volumes. Their favorite songs, in fact, the only songs they seemed to play after midnight were "Buffalo Soldier" by Bob Marley and "Dead or Alive" by Bon Jovi. These songs would play on repeat, as objects bounced across our bedroom floor in the wee hours.
That summer, in addition to slogging through a stupid relationship, I was working ridiculous split shifts at the university cafeteria. My first shift started at 5 am. So I had little patience to deal with meatheads yowling, "I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride..." etc.
One night was particularly bad. I told English Major to go talk to them, but they paid no attention. Cursing idiot men in general, I was about to go down there myself. Then the music stopped. Some quiet chortling began as the door downstairs slammed shut. Good, I thought, it's over.
Then, I heard a noise, a thud that shook the entire house. Another thud. Another. I stumbled into the dining room and looked out the window, down onto the street below. Quickly, I picked up the phone and called campus police. The conversation went something like this:
Operator: Campus police.
Me: Uh, hi. I live at so and so. I'd like to register a noise complaint against my neighbors.
Operator: What seems to be the trouble?
Me: They're throwing a big bunny at the house.
You see, the meatheads had previously pillaged a local mini golf course and stolen a large fiberglass rabbit. It had stood downstairs for a few weeks. That night, it seems the boys had had the brilliant notion that it was high time they tossed the 5 ft tall creature against the side of the house. As they did so, they screamed, "Die, big bunny! Die! Die!"
The police arrived, despite their skepticism. The boys ran back inside--no idea what they did with the remains of the bunny--and the more sober ones fled out the back door and drove away. They left a clueless, shitfaced friend downstairs standing stunned on the front porch. The officer asked what he had been up to, as a complaint had been made. His fantastic response: "Uh, I don't know. I was just standing here picking popcorn off my toes."
Indeed. Touche! There's the ultimate defense. The old popcorn-toes alibi.
Soon, the summer was over, the relationship was over, and I was over it. But the memory of the death of Big Bunny lives on.
In one of my escapes from the soap opera, I dated an English major who was a self-proclaimed feminist. Always beware of men who espouse feminism, ladies: They are usually fishing for pity and control. This guy had a really nice apartment, and we shared many surface interests--cooking, world music, literature--but there was always something manipulative and fucked up about our interactions. He loved putting me down and demonstrating how foolish/crazy/lost I was without him. And the sex sucked, too. I was too naive at the time to know what true love and support meant, or to recognize how I chafed, until I had done so much undermining of our relationship that the end came. He dissed me for my housemate. I hooked up with my soap opera hero again, and we had a year of ridiculous youthful bliss.
I hated English Major, unlike any other ex I've ever had. He still repulses me. I told him on no uncertain terms to stay away from my room in our house, which had multiple entrances. Of course, he could be in her room if my housemate so desired, but I asked him to stay away from me, especially because he lived only a block away. They could just go to his much nicer place, right? But no. He insisted on walking right past my windows or usually open door on a regular basis for the next semester. Finally, I clocked him one, slapping him so that his glasses flew across the room.
He then called my mom, telling her I had "struck him about the face." (God, what a prick.) This was my first and last foray into English major abuse, and the stupid thing mentioned in this post's title. My mom, bless her, responded with, "So, what do you want me to do about it?" The conversation went downhill from there.
The summer before this stupid drama unfurled, I lived with English Major at the apartment of one of the art department's profs. It was in a lovely, creaky old New England clapboard house. The downstairs apartment was occupied by other students supposedly holding down the fort for some history prof, the kind who likes strapping young men in his spaces. These boys had a deep love of two things, as far as I could tell: drinking copious amounts of beer and floor-shaking stereo volumes. Their favorite songs, in fact, the only songs they seemed to play after midnight were "Buffalo Soldier" by Bob Marley and "Dead or Alive" by Bon Jovi. These songs would play on repeat, as objects bounced across our bedroom floor in the wee hours.
That summer, in addition to slogging through a stupid relationship, I was working ridiculous split shifts at the university cafeteria. My first shift started at 5 am. So I had little patience to deal with meatheads yowling, "I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride..." etc.
One night was particularly bad. I told English Major to go talk to them, but they paid no attention. Cursing idiot men in general, I was about to go down there myself. Then the music stopped. Some quiet chortling began as the door downstairs slammed shut. Good, I thought, it's over.
Then, I heard a noise, a thud that shook the entire house. Another thud. Another. I stumbled into the dining room and looked out the window, down onto the street below. Quickly, I picked up the phone and called campus police. The conversation went something like this:
Operator: Campus police.
Me: Uh, hi. I live at so and so. I'd like to register a noise complaint against my neighbors.
Operator: What seems to be the trouble?
Me: They're throwing a big bunny at the house.
You see, the meatheads had previously pillaged a local mini golf course and stolen a large fiberglass rabbit. It had stood downstairs for a few weeks. That night, it seems the boys had had the brilliant notion that it was high time they tossed the 5 ft tall creature against the side of the house. As they did so, they screamed, "Die, big bunny! Die! Die!"
The police arrived, despite their skepticism. The boys ran back inside--no idea what they did with the remains of the bunny--and the more sober ones fled out the back door and drove away. They left a clueless, shitfaced friend downstairs standing stunned on the front porch. The officer asked what he had been up to, as a complaint had been made. His fantastic response: "Uh, I don't know. I was just standing here picking popcorn off my toes."
Indeed. Touche! There's the ultimate defense. The old popcorn-toes alibi.
Soon, the summer was over, the relationship was over, and I was over it. But the memory of the death of Big Bunny lives on.
A Little Rant about Academia (warning: dullness ahead)
I love my chosen profession, meaning I love research, teaching, discussing ideas with people who are very familiar with or completely new to my interests. I am passionately committed to helping young people expand their understanding and sharpen their minds, and I'm convinced that it's possible to make a tiny, but perhaps meaningful contribution to their lives as a college-level teacher.
But I hate some of the ideas that have crept into academia since the 1970s, at least in the realm of culture and its study. Because I study an obscure corner of the world, a lot of what I call the schlock work of history has yet to be done. And yet people--very, very nice people, mind you, whom I genuinely like--are giving papers on single phrases they heard from a couple of random people in 2007. Drawing sweeping conclusions based on two newspaper articles. Linguists and anthropologists can do this, apparently, padding their observations with theory that states the obvious in jargon terms. The kind of theory that's basically a form of log rolling for tenure.
This always irritates me. Not only am I very skeptical of most theory, which I think should be used to help us organize our evidence, not generate it, I am very bored with it. It seems so disconnected from what I feel is our actual mission as scholars: to bring information and new perspectives to as broad an audience as is feasible.
For instance, I don't know if post-colonial theory applies to Russia very well. I think you have to understand something about colonial administration on the ground before you can make that call. Moreover, you have to understand how the people on the ground at that time interacted with administrators (if they really have any power at all on the local level), their economic situation, cultural changes in the community, etc. Same goes for the Qing (Manchu) Dynasty, the last dynasty in China. The fact of the matter is, my anthro colleague in casual conversation felt comfortable drawing a conclusion on this front, while I didn't. My friend hadn't read a single original source from the era in question, just the theory and some secondary articles or something. Because we're dealing with an indigenous group, their history, their intellectual, cultural, and political achievements are invisible, irrelevant, static, and therefore don't require study.
I do what I do because I love the stories and people I've encountered. I always feel so sad when they are slighted. My work is historical, more or less, though based on culture and the arts, which means I can apply some anthro-type theory if necessary. But first and foremost, I see my task at the moment as getting whatever facts I can out there, in part because the narratives of the past have been highly distorted by politics, effectively erasing the achievements of an entire group of people. A lot of important documents and works of literature are only available in obscure languages, often written in obscure scripts.
I also feel a kind of resentment that my IF sisters will find familiar: The gently smoldering anger that comes from knowing that my bullshitting buddies will have a much easier time getting their wish than I will. In this case, that means finding a job, which will likely prove tough despite my skills, experience, and commitment to learning and teaching. That meaningless jargon equals jobs in many fields nowadays.
But in recognizing that anger, I feel somewhat liberated from it. I know I'm good, and I know that someone out there will appreciate that. It's just a matter of time. I thank you, if you've gotten this far, for reading my bitchy blathering.
But I hate some of the ideas that have crept into academia since the 1970s, at least in the realm of culture and its study. Because I study an obscure corner of the world, a lot of what I call the schlock work of history has yet to be done. And yet people--very, very nice people, mind you, whom I genuinely like--are giving papers on single phrases they heard from a couple of random people in 2007. Drawing sweeping conclusions based on two newspaper articles. Linguists and anthropologists can do this, apparently, padding their observations with theory that states the obvious in jargon terms. The kind of theory that's basically a form of log rolling for tenure.
This always irritates me. Not only am I very skeptical of most theory, which I think should be used to help us organize our evidence, not generate it, I am very bored with it. It seems so disconnected from what I feel is our actual mission as scholars: to bring information and new perspectives to as broad an audience as is feasible.
For instance, I don't know if post-colonial theory applies to Russia very well. I think you have to understand something about colonial administration on the ground before you can make that call. Moreover, you have to understand how the people on the ground at that time interacted with administrators (if they really have any power at all on the local level), their economic situation, cultural changes in the community, etc. Same goes for the Qing (Manchu) Dynasty, the last dynasty in China. The fact of the matter is, my anthro colleague in casual conversation felt comfortable drawing a conclusion on this front, while I didn't. My friend hadn't read a single original source from the era in question, just the theory and some secondary articles or something. Because we're dealing with an indigenous group, their history, their intellectual, cultural, and political achievements are invisible, irrelevant, static, and therefore don't require study.
I do what I do because I love the stories and people I've encountered. I always feel so sad when they are slighted. My work is historical, more or less, though based on culture and the arts, which means I can apply some anthro-type theory if necessary. But first and foremost, I see my task at the moment as getting whatever facts I can out there, in part because the narratives of the past have been highly distorted by politics, effectively erasing the achievements of an entire group of people. A lot of important documents and works of literature are only available in obscure languages, often written in obscure scripts.
I also feel a kind of resentment that my IF sisters will find familiar: The gently smoldering anger that comes from knowing that my bullshitting buddies will have a much easier time getting their wish than I will. In this case, that means finding a job, which will likely prove tough despite my skills, experience, and commitment to learning and teaching. That meaningless jargon equals jobs in many fields nowadays.
But in recognizing that anger, I feel somewhat liberated from it. I know I'm good, and I know that someone out there will appreciate that. It's just a matter of time. I thank you, if you've gotten this far, for reading my bitchy blathering.
Friday, March 21, 2008
My Brain Hurts
Progress report on my to-do list:
1. Finished evil press release from hell.
2. Have some idea what I will talk about tomorrow at conference, contained in a handy-dandy outline. I'm one of those speakers who prefers to simply harness their blabber mouth via roman numerals, etc.
3. Got first installment of material from research contact, who's making progress with my requests. He's the best. My advisor liked my idea to meet twice a month over lunch and talk about my dis stuff. I'm supposed to submit 10 pages or so a day before each meeting. Could it be someday I'll finish this monster?!?
4. Got part way through the book review. Alas, it will have to wait until Monday or Tuesday.
5. Uh...oh yeah! Had a blast disavowing young teens of their misconceptions, blasting heavy metal and rap from my obscure corner of the world, projecting funny images on a big ol' screen, yelling. Their teacher took me out to lunch, too!
So, 4.5 outta 5 ain't bad, right? Now I have to bake cornbread for a potluck tonight and clean up the house, as we're hosting a few grad students from out of state who are coming to the conference this weekend. But by the goddess, my mind aches. I realize there's just so much juice you can squeeze out of your brain, before it starts draining your entire body. Ugh.
For Easter, my mom sent us a big gift box, which will hopefully include something sweet. We're planning on going for a hike. I can't wait to NOT USE MY BRAIN for a whole day.
1. Finished evil press release from hell.
2. Have some idea what I will talk about tomorrow at conference, contained in a handy-dandy outline. I'm one of those speakers who prefers to simply harness their blabber mouth via roman numerals, etc.
3. Got first installment of material from research contact, who's making progress with my requests. He's the best. My advisor liked my idea to meet twice a month over lunch and talk about my dis stuff. I'm supposed to submit 10 pages or so a day before each meeting. Could it be someday I'll finish this monster?!?
4. Got part way through the book review. Alas, it will have to wait until Monday or Tuesday.
5. Uh...oh yeah! Had a blast disavowing young teens of their misconceptions, blasting heavy metal and rap from my obscure corner of the world, projecting funny images on a big ol' screen, yelling. Their teacher took me out to lunch, too!
So, 4.5 outta 5 ain't bad, right? Now I have to bake cornbread for a potluck tonight and clean up the house, as we're hosting a few grad students from out of state who are coming to the conference this weekend. But by the goddess, my mind aches. I realize there's just so much juice you can squeeze out of your brain, before it starts draining your entire body. Ugh.
For Easter, my mom sent us a big gift box, which will hopefully include something sweet. We're planning on going for a hike. I can't wait to NOT USE MY BRAIN for a whole day.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Flippin' IF the Bird
I have a completely nutty desire: to train for a sprint triathlon. IF treatment be damned.
The sprint is much, much shorter than what you think of as a normal, long-distance triathlon. You only swim around 750 m, bike 12 miles, and run a 5 k. There's a really cool 12-week program at our local Y run by a certified trainer, and it's only 6 hours of workouts and drills a week. When I saw the announcement after my workout yesterday morning, I was strangely excited. I really wanted to do it.
Then my IF voice chimed in: "But how will it impact your fertility?"
It was so frustrating. I tried to find some kind of indicator from the ambivalent Dr. Google about what a reasonable amount of training might be for someone in my position (i.e. possibly moving on to CC +IUI, but not at IVF yet). CC does make your ovaries a bit, uh, sensitive, but it's nothing like IVF stims. Oddly enough, almost every site you get when you Google "fertility triathlon" says something to the effect that, "You don't want to be training for the triathlon when trying to conceive!" Wink, har har. Blech. No? You'd rather I pretend to use an elliptical while poking the latest celebrity with a bump in the eye with my magical voodoo pen?
But this triathlon training program isn't a high-performance athlete thing. This is a very doable challenge, and the training process is what I'm really interested in. I want to improve my skills, see where I can go, but slowly. I'm not in this to lose weight--I'm fine with the way I am, my guy loves it--just to learn and experience something new and exciting, to find new horizons in my body. The times in my life when I've been training intensely at a sport have been when I've felt at my best, especially if I coupled exercise with an excellent diet and lots of quality lounge time. I'm toward the top of normal BMI right now, and I have every intention of eating enough yummy butter, cooling veggies, and crunchy hippy muffins so that I more or less stay there. Yeah! More food!
There's a bigger issue behind all this back and forth, of course. IF isn't letting me do what I really, truly want to do. I'm supposed to limit myself because of some vague idea, barely supported with medical evidence, that training 6 hours a week might somehow affect my hormones. I feel so sick and tired of putting everything on hold, of hanging my dreams up on a peg because of some future that may never, ever decide to dawn. I've had every single one of my former crutches taken away from me--my ignorance, my sanity, my drinking, my frigging morning coffee, for Pete's sake. I can't say no to everything I crave. Why not say yes to this one, small thing?
So, I'm going to do it. I'll ask my RE about it at our post-op follow-up next week, but I'm pretty sure Dr. Spunk will say it's fine. He thinks most things are fine. He even teased me that I needed to smoke and drink more and eat more fast food. That card!
Have you had any dilemmas, where you felt torn between IF piety and your red, beating life? Outside of the wine store, that is.
(More distraction below...)
The sprint is much, much shorter than what you think of as a normal, long-distance triathlon. You only swim around 750 m, bike 12 miles, and run a 5 k. There's a really cool 12-week program at our local Y run by a certified trainer, and it's only 6 hours of workouts and drills a week. When I saw the announcement after my workout yesterday morning, I was strangely excited. I really wanted to do it.
Then my IF voice chimed in: "But how will it impact your fertility?"
It was so frustrating. I tried to find some kind of indicator from the ambivalent Dr. Google about what a reasonable amount of training might be for someone in my position (i.e. possibly moving on to CC +IUI, but not at IVF yet). CC does make your ovaries a bit, uh, sensitive, but it's nothing like IVF stims. Oddly enough, almost every site you get when you Google "fertility triathlon" says something to the effect that, "You don't want to be training for the triathlon when trying to conceive!" Wink, har har. Blech. No? You'd rather I pretend to use an elliptical while poking the latest celebrity with a bump in the eye with my magical voodoo pen?
But this triathlon training program isn't a high-performance athlete thing. This is a very doable challenge, and the training process is what I'm really interested in. I want to improve my skills, see where I can go, but slowly. I'm not in this to lose weight--I'm fine with the way I am, my guy loves it--just to learn and experience something new and exciting, to find new horizons in my body. The times in my life when I've been training intensely at a sport have been when I've felt at my best, especially if I coupled exercise with an excellent diet and lots of quality lounge time. I'm toward the top of normal BMI right now, and I have every intention of eating enough yummy butter, cooling veggies, and crunchy hippy muffins so that I more or less stay there. Yeah! More food!
There's a bigger issue behind all this back and forth, of course. IF isn't letting me do what I really, truly want to do. I'm supposed to limit myself because of some vague idea, barely supported with medical evidence, that training 6 hours a week might somehow affect my hormones. I feel so sick and tired of putting everything on hold, of hanging my dreams up on a peg because of some future that may never, ever decide to dawn. I've had every single one of my former crutches taken away from me--my ignorance, my sanity, my drinking, my frigging morning coffee, for Pete's sake. I can't say no to everything I crave. Why not say yes to this one, small thing?
So, I'm going to do it. I'll ask my RE about it at our post-op follow-up next week, but I'm pretty sure Dr. Spunk will say it's fine. He thinks most things are fine. He even teased me that I needed to smoke and drink more and eat more fast food. That card!
Have you had any dilemmas, where you felt torn between IF piety and your red, beating life? Outside of the wine store, that is.
(More distraction below...)
Weird People I Have Known, Part I
I'm sure more stupidity will spin from the windmills of my mind at some point, but for today's distraction, I bring you a tale of a very odd person I once knew.
When I first got to the little college town where I got my MA and am now working on my PhD, I got involved in a musical improv group, probably one of the best of such groups I've ever worked with. That's also where I met my current husband, who was a wild, woolly, somewhat smelly, hard-drinking, mindblowingly funny musician. That's also where I met a very weird guy I'll call Strawberry.
First, let me explain what I mean by weird. Here, I use the word not only in its positive, quirky, eccentric sense, but also to mean disturbing off-center. Strawberry was a healthy serving of both.
Strawberry was from a certain country in Asia Minor. He cultivated a long handlebar mustache that he twirled up at the ends like Dali. He was a bit taller than Prince. He'd been studying classical music at our local conservatory, and he had a bit of the diva beaten into him. But he had also come to the conclusion that in the U.S., anything was permissible in the service of Art.
Our improv group, one fine day, decided we'd play a gig out in front of a fratty sports bar, right after last call. I don't know how, but the jungle telephone brought out a mob of about 50 or so people chanting at around 3:30 am or so. We dressed carefully for the event: I wore black with a black veil and sunglasses. My future man wore a monk's habit (ha ha). Strawberry got it into his head that he needed something special, so he rented a strawberry costume--the kind where the legs stick out the bottom of a stuffed, red fabric fruit--and proceeded to wear it daily until it fell apart. Hence the name.
Strawberry was an interesting and very skillful musician, but he didn't quite understand the spirit of improv, which is to listen and then be creative. To form something spontaneously as part of a group. One gig, I recall, he basically took an unprompted 15-minute solo, pulling out all the Chopin-esque stops. It got so out of hand that one band member mimed the "cut it short" gesture, the hand chopping sideways over the throat. Strawberry's rhapsody chimed on, however, for, as he later insisted, he was convinced that gesture meant, "Please, by all means, keep it up!"
Now, I'm not making up this next part . This is one of those cases when indeed, truth is far stranger than fiction.
You see, Strawberry was a nudist. One of his frequently asked questions was, "Does anyone here have a problem with male nudity?!?" This was usually a signal that he was about to strip, regardless of the answer. I have a clear memory of Strawberry, naked and hairy, being chased relentlessly around the yard by my future husband, who is about twice his size. Strawberry squealed in mock terror, Husband yelled like a berserker, and we watched in stunned silence.
Despite his quirks, Strawberry had a lot of luck with the ladies. One day, I got an email in my inbox from Strawberry. His emails were always good for a laugh because they were filled with flowery language and RANDOM things in ALL CAPS. It was a wedding invitation: He had made the acquaintance of his destined soul mate a few weeks before, somewhere in the wilds of the Northern Midwest, and they had decided to wed. Naturally, the wedding was clothing-optional. Guests were also requested to bring musical instruments to serenade the couple with. From the trees. At our local elf sanctuary (read: nice patch of forest with lots of Mardi-Gras bead shrines and geodesic domes). But, guests were warned, there was poison ivy afoot. And nettles. And it was a vegan potluck.
So, to sum up, guests were required to 1) put down the tempeh cassarole; 2) climb a tree, instrument in hand; 3) strip; 4) play said instrument; 5) avoid poisonous and stinging plants on the descent.
Sadly, the marriage didn't last. Strawberry returned to his homeland, where he refuses to remove his clothing in public or dress like a fruit. Only America gets to see his truly freaky side.
When I first got to the little college town where I got my MA and am now working on my PhD, I got involved in a musical improv group, probably one of the best of such groups I've ever worked with. That's also where I met my current husband, who was a wild, woolly, somewhat smelly, hard-drinking, mindblowingly funny musician. That's also where I met a very weird guy I'll call Strawberry.
First, let me explain what I mean by weird. Here, I use the word not only in its positive, quirky, eccentric sense, but also to mean disturbing off-center. Strawberry was a healthy serving of both.
Strawberry was from a certain country in Asia Minor. He cultivated a long handlebar mustache that he twirled up at the ends like Dali. He was a bit taller than Prince. He'd been studying classical music at our local conservatory, and he had a bit of the diva beaten into him. But he had also come to the conclusion that in the U.S., anything was permissible in the service of Art.
Our improv group, one fine day, decided we'd play a gig out in front of a fratty sports bar, right after last call. I don't know how, but the jungle telephone brought out a mob of about 50 or so people chanting at around 3:30 am or so. We dressed carefully for the event: I wore black with a black veil and sunglasses. My future man wore a monk's habit (ha ha). Strawberry got it into his head that he needed something special, so he rented a strawberry costume--the kind where the legs stick out the bottom of a stuffed, red fabric fruit--and proceeded to wear it daily until it fell apart. Hence the name.
Strawberry was an interesting and very skillful musician, but he didn't quite understand the spirit of improv, which is to listen and then be creative. To form something spontaneously as part of a group. One gig, I recall, he basically took an unprompted 15-minute solo, pulling out all the Chopin-esque stops. It got so out of hand that one band member mimed the "cut it short" gesture, the hand chopping sideways over the throat. Strawberry's rhapsody chimed on, however, for, as he later insisted, he was convinced that gesture meant, "Please, by all means, keep it up!"
Now, I'm not making up this next part . This is one of those cases when indeed, truth is far stranger than fiction.
You see, Strawberry was a nudist. One of his frequently asked questions was, "Does anyone here have a problem with male nudity?!?" This was usually a signal that he was about to strip, regardless of the answer. I have a clear memory of Strawberry, naked and hairy, being chased relentlessly around the yard by my future husband, who is about twice his size. Strawberry squealed in mock terror, Husband yelled like a berserker, and we watched in stunned silence.
Despite his quirks, Strawberry had a lot of luck with the ladies. One day, I got an email in my inbox from Strawberry. His emails were always good for a laugh because they were filled with flowery language and RANDOM things in ALL CAPS. It was a wedding invitation: He had made the acquaintance of his destined soul mate a few weeks before, somewhere in the wilds of the Northern Midwest, and they had decided to wed. Naturally, the wedding was clothing-optional. Guests were also requested to bring musical instruments to serenade the couple with. From the trees. At our local elf sanctuary (read: nice patch of forest with lots of Mardi-Gras bead shrines and geodesic domes). But, guests were warned, there was poison ivy afoot. And nettles. And it was a vegan potluck.
So, to sum up, guests were required to 1) put down the tempeh cassarole; 2) climb a tree, instrument in hand; 3) strip; 4) play said instrument; 5) avoid poisonous and stinging plants on the descent.
Sadly, the marriage didn't last. Strawberry returned to his homeland, where he refuses to remove his clothing in public or dress like a fruit. Only America gets to see his truly freaky side.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Stupid Things I Have Done, Part II
There are just so many stupid things to choose from... Unfortunately, I don't have any visual aids at my fingertips (I'm terrible at documenting my life with photos and such). But here goes with more stupidity from yours truly...
One of the elaborate shows we put on for our little weekly was a tribute to Dada. The show was surrounded by a weird drama, in the shape of a curmudgeonly high school student (bless his heart) who felt the need to singlehandedly defend Dada's honor by posting fliers all over town with "CANCELLED" written in big, bold letters.
The show did go on, and was packed with our local scenesters, dressed in their absurd finest. Like the ladies covered in polyester fur. Or the group that blew up large balloon sculptures. I, being in my drinking days, borrowed a crushed velvety halter top dress in Pepto-Bismol pink with little rhinestones and a very odd feather skirt from my petit Japanese housemate who was really into ballroom dance. On my more substantial frame, the dress barely hung on for dear life and barely covered the tops of my red fishnet thigh highs. I think I had red platform shoes, too. Kind of a circus whore ensemble.
As a small part of the evening's entertainment, a friend of mine and I watched a random episode of Friends, jotting down whatever lines we could. We then stood before the crowd, reading our lines with our backs to a big screen at the back of the stage, so that nothing synched up properly. I read all the female, he all the male parts, and we recited them with deadpan, Schwarzenegger-esque accents. This performance is still remembered among the aging hipsters of our fair city, I'm proud to say. Truly, it was absurd (and stupid).
But the real stupidity started later. After someone smashed a toilet bowl in the middle of the club and danced around spraying his fellow moshers from his wounds, I felt it was time to make my exit. A buddy of mine, dressed in a stylish yellow velour leisure suit with a poison-green tie, suggested we go to the bar where everyone in town always ends up after a certain hour of night. There, the buttrock and bad beer know your name.
Anyway, here I am, in my circus whore get up, gallivanting around this bar, a bit tipsy, but pretty close to sober, at least for those days. My friend asks me what I'm drinking, and heads off the bar. Meanwhile, I start chatting with these history grad students, summarily freaking them out with both the outfit and my insane amount of energy. After what I swear was only 15 minutes, my now completely shitfaced friend returns with a drink for me, grabs me and sticks his tongue down my throat, then passes out on the barroom floor.
This is a real faux pas in this bar. Being the closest available party, I was charged with his removal and escort home. But I can't just plop him in a cab in that condition in our town; the cabbies won't stand for that. So, I have to take him home. It's important at this moment to mention one singular fact about my friend: He's the son of the head of my department, and he lives with his parents. So my mission,whether or not I chose to accept it, was to get my buddy back into Prof. X's house while dressed as a trick-turning trapeze artist. Gulp.
Of course, it was raining. And the cab the bouncer called never showed. It was 3 am. I was cold in my garb, and my friend kept trying to make a break for his car. Restraining my poor bud, I somehow--don't ask how--convinced this random Asian guy if he could please give us a ride, I'll pay him whatever he asks. He kindly refused payment, and we piled my friend in the back, as the history grad students looked on, stunned. A lot of help history grad students are in pinch!
The guy and his German girlfriend proceed to have a serious relationship talk for the entire ride, figuring, I guess, that I was just as blotto as my buddy. I was cursing my fate, wondering why I had been chosen to listen to the seemingly endless "But it's just not working for me, you know?" especially because now I not only had to get my friend into Prof. X Central, I had to either walk five miles home in the rain in the middle of the night in my slut suit, or sleep there.
I chose the latter. My friend had enough wits about him to open the door and find his room, and he tumbled into his single bed, snoring as he fell (I swear). I curled up on the carpet, using a sweater or two from his closet as pillows. Somehow, I'd had the foresight to bring some old gym clothes with me, so I put those on under and over my dress.
The next morning, fate was kind. Prof. X was out, and his wonderfully kind and sweet wife drove me home. I later got some awkward thanks from Prof. X for "helping him out." I told him no thanks were necessary.
One of the elaborate shows we put on for our little weekly was a tribute to Dada. The show was surrounded by a weird drama, in the shape of a curmudgeonly high school student (bless his heart) who felt the need to singlehandedly defend Dada's honor by posting fliers all over town with "CANCELLED" written in big, bold letters.
The show did go on, and was packed with our local scenesters, dressed in their absurd finest. Like the ladies covered in polyester fur. Or the group that blew up large balloon sculptures. I, being in my drinking days, borrowed a crushed velvety halter top dress in Pepto-Bismol pink with little rhinestones and a very odd feather skirt from my petit Japanese housemate who was really into ballroom dance. On my more substantial frame, the dress barely hung on for dear life and barely covered the tops of my red fishnet thigh highs. I think I had red platform shoes, too. Kind of a circus whore ensemble.
As a small part of the evening's entertainment, a friend of mine and I watched a random episode of Friends, jotting down whatever lines we could. We then stood before the crowd, reading our lines with our backs to a big screen at the back of the stage, so that nothing synched up properly. I read all the female, he all the male parts, and we recited them with deadpan, Schwarzenegger-esque accents. This performance is still remembered among the aging hipsters of our fair city, I'm proud to say. Truly, it was absurd (and stupid).
But the real stupidity started later. After someone smashed a toilet bowl in the middle of the club and danced around spraying his fellow moshers from his wounds, I felt it was time to make my exit. A buddy of mine, dressed in a stylish yellow velour leisure suit with a poison-green tie, suggested we go to the bar where everyone in town always ends up after a certain hour of night. There, the buttrock and bad beer know your name.
Anyway, here I am, in my circus whore get up, gallivanting around this bar, a bit tipsy, but pretty close to sober, at least for those days. My friend asks me what I'm drinking, and heads off the bar. Meanwhile, I start chatting with these history grad students, summarily freaking them out with both the outfit and my insane amount of energy. After what I swear was only 15 minutes, my now completely shitfaced friend returns with a drink for me, grabs me and sticks his tongue down my throat, then passes out on the barroom floor.
This is a real faux pas in this bar. Being the closest available party, I was charged with his removal and escort home. But I can't just plop him in a cab in that condition in our town; the cabbies won't stand for that. So, I have to take him home. It's important at this moment to mention one singular fact about my friend: He's the son of the head of my department, and he lives with his parents. So my mission,whether or not I chose to accept it, was to get my buddy back into Prof. X's house while dressed as a trick-turning trapeze artist. Gulp.
Of course, it was raining. And the cab the bouncer called never showed. It was 3 am. I was cold in my garb, and my friend kept trying to make a break for his car. Restraining my poor bud, I somehow--don't ask how--convinced this random Asian guy if he could please give us a ride, I'll pay him whatever he asks. He kindly refused payment, and we piled my friend in the back, as the history grad students looked on, stunned. A lot of help history grad students are in pinch!
The guy and his German girlfriend proceed to have a serious relationship talk for the entire ride, figuring, I guess, that I was just as blotto as my buddy. I was cursing my fate, wondering why I had been chosen to listen to the seemingly endless "But it's just not working for me, you know?" especially because now I not only had to get my friend into Prof. X Central, I had to either walk five miles home in the rain in the middle of the night in my slut suit, or sleep there.
I chose the latter. My friend had enough wits about him to open the door and find his room, and he tumbled into his single bed, snoring as he fell (I swear). I curled up on the carpet, using a sweater or two from his closet as pillows. Somehow, I'd had the foresight to bring some old gym clothes with me, so I put those on under and over my dress.
The next morning, fate was kind. Prof. X was out, and his wonderfully kind and sweet wife drove me home. I later got some awkward thanks from Prof. X for "helping him out." I told him no thanks were necessary.
Stupid Things I Have Done, Part I
To distract those in need of distraction, I offer you a true story from my own life, since I can't think of any more jokes, no matter how I try.
I used to drink a lot. Emphasis on A LOT. This heavy drinking period came after my first marriage broke up--I got married young, to a nice but wrong guy--and it involved doing many, many stupid things of various sorts. Some of them are so embarrassing or boring that I won't relate them here. However, there are some things that are kind of stupid and, hopefully, kind of funny.
I ran with an artsy, hipster crowd back in those days: We went to all the rock shows, ran the local arts/entertainment weekly, put on wacky benefits, imbibed booze by the gallon. I can't for the life of me recall how this happened, but suddenly, I found myself involved in a girl band. We had a banjo, a Casio keyboard, and two Moogs. We called ourselves Kuentwerk, an homage to the great Eurotrash electronic wizards of yesteryear. We each took a stage name, Spice Girls-style. I believe mine was "Basket Case Kuent." That more or less sums up how I felt at the time.
Our music was... different. If you've ever tried to play a Moog (an early synthesizer capable of making a range of amazing noises), you know it's like herding cats. You twiddle this nob one way, and you get a blork sound. But then you mess with it again and everything goes bleeeep. Because we had our musical limitations, we stuck mostly with covers, such as The Runaways' "Cherry Bomb," Willie Nelsons' "Ten with a Two" and Billie Ocean's "Loverboy," which we interpreted as a touching ballad of madness cum cheerleading routine. One original I remember, which we wrote using the "exquisite corpse" approach to lyrics, was poignantly titled "Smarter Than You."
Somehow, one of our friends got us booked at one of the main nightclubs in town, opening for someone (oh, the poor, poor band after us!). We had hung up all sorts of strange flyers and made up interviews with ourselves, which were published in the arts weekly, of course. We rehearsed our chaos diligently.
On our big night, I recall I had on a blue gown with a big, poofy skirt, further poofed by a bright blue crinoline. I had these bizarre blue socks that looked like I had shot Grover and turned him into legwarmers. I had these fuzzy, fluffy elbow-length gloves. I wrapped myself up in a black trashbag. In short, I looked insane. The other gals were similarly attired. We were all three sheets to the wind, thanks to the bottle of bourbon we had taken liberal swigs out of before going out on stage. I think we spilled some of it, along with a big glass of water, all over the club's equipment.
None of this would have been that memorable (thanks to the booze) if the place hadn't been packed. I don't know why, but the club was bursting with everyone I knew in town. Part way through the set, I saw the video camera: Our local public-access channel was filming. For months afterward, our set showed on local TV. Eventually, someone put it on a DVD collection of nutty local bands.
So, even if I had wanted to forget my drunken musical dalliance, I couldn't. Everyone told me what they thought was the funniest part, or that they had heard me singing on TV or something. Basically, it was a perfect storm of embarrassment, looking back. One of many, I'm afraid [sigh].
I used to drink a lot. Emphasis on A LOT. This heavy drinking period came after my first marriage broke up--I got married young, to a nice but wrong guy--and it involved doing many, many stupid things of various sorts. Some of them are so embarrassing or boring that I won't relate them here. However, there are some things that are kind of stupid and, hopefully, kind of funny.
I ran with an artsy, hipster crowd back in those days: We went to all the rock shows, ran the local arts/entertainment weekly, put on wacky benefits, imbibed booze by the gallon. I can't for the life of me recall how this happened, but suddenly, I found myself involved in a girl band. We had a banjo, a Casio keyboard, and two Moogs. We called ourselves Kuentwerk, an homage to the great Eurotrash electronic wizards of yesteryear. We each took a stage name, Spice Girls-style. I believe mine was "Basket Case Kuent." That more or less sums up how I felt at the time.
Our music was... different. If you've ever tried to play a Moog (an early synthesizer capable of making a range of amazing noises), you know it's like herding cats. You twiddle this nob one way, and you get a blork sound. But then you mess with it again and everything goes bleeeep. Because we had our musical limitations, we stuck mostly with covers, such as The Runaways' "Cherry Bomb," Willie Nelsons' "Ten with a Two" and Billie Ocean's "Loverboy," which we interpreted as a touching ballad of madness cum cheerleading routine. One original I remember, which we wrote using the "exquisite corpse" approach to lyrics, was poignantly titled "Smarter Than You."
Somehow, one of our friends got us booked at one of the main nightclubs in town, opening for someone (oh, the poor, poor band after us!). We had hung up all sorts of strange flyers and made up interviews with ourselves, which were published in the arts weekly, of course. We rehearsed our chaos diligently.
On our big night, I recall I had on a blue gown with a big, poofy skirt, further poofed by a bright blue crinoline. I had these bizarre blue socks that looked like I had shot Grover and turned him into legwarmers. I had these fuzzy, fluffy elbow-length gloves. I wrapped myself up in a black trashbag. In short, I looked insane. The other gals were similarly attired. We were all three sheets to the wind, thanks to the bottle of bourbon we had taken liberal swigs out of before going out on stage. I think we spilled some of it, along with a big glass of water, all over the club's equipment.
None of this would have been that memorable (thanks to the booze) if the place hadn't been packed. I don't know why, but the club was bursting with everyone I knew in town. Part way through the set, I saw the video camera: Our local public-access channel was filming. For months afterward, our set showed on local TV. Eventually, someone put it on a DVD collection of nutty local bands.
So, even if I had wanted to forget my drunken musical dalliance, I couldn't. Everyone told me what they thought was the funniest part, or that they had heard me singing on TV or something. Basically, it was a perfect storm of embarrassment, looking back. One of many, I'm afraid [sigh].
Monday, March 17, 2008
Translated Humor, with a side of sprouting veggies
First, I promised Denise a joke, though this one isn't really off-color. I'll share one that's both educational (i.e. expands our understanding of another culture) and unusual (as I've doubt you've heard this one at the water cooler), and possibly remotely funny. It's a Russian joke, so it's black humor of sorts.
Two human resources guys were hanging out in their office at a big Russian company (yes, they do exist), looking at a huge pile of resumes. The younger one, a guy fresh out of b-school, was eagerly reading through his half of the stack, taking the time to peruse each application. The older guy, an old battle ax from the Soviet days of yore, sat back, smoking a cigarette, just watching. Then, he grabs his pile and bzzzzzt. Runs it through the paper shredder.
"What are you doing?" cried the young guy in shock. "There could have been some excellent applicants in there."
The older guy looked him right in the eye and leaned in. "They weren't lucky, you see. We don't need any bad luck charms here at this company."
Uh, sometimes humor doesn't translate. I'll try again tomorrow. Perhaps I'll just tell you about something really stupid I've done in my life, so you can laugh at that.
****
Since I don't have much else to report, and you can see by my to-do list that I'm a bit on the busy side, let me tell you about our garden.
We did our first outdoor planting yesterday, of mache, two varieties of arugala or however you spell it, and minutina. In the garage, we have several varieties of heirloom tomatoes, some funky Hungarian sweet peppers, and eggplants underway. Next week come peas (snow and snap), more mache, maybe some lettuce.
We also drove out to a nearby horse farm and filled several large garbage cans full of shit. Contrary to what you'd expect, good ruminant manure that's composting properly (and not sitting in an anaerobic environment like a holding pond or something) smells good. It's so stuffed with nitrogen that it composts extremely quickly. Yesterday being a nice, cool morning, steam was rising out of the mountain of decomposing horse shit as we forked it into our cans. A smell like good earth and grass rose out of it. We mixed it with the plant residue from last year's garden, which had been languishing behind our shed. By the time we plant out our tomato and pepper seedlings, it'll be nice rough compost, full of beneficial bacteria and nutrients.
I love this process, the closed system of nature. The simplest solutions are usually the best in this game. If only the rest of life were so.
Two human resources guys were hanging out in their office at a big Russian company (yes, they do exist), looking at a huge pile of resumes. The younger one, a guy fresh out of b-school, was eagerly reading through his half of the stack, taking the time to peruse each application. The older guy, an old battle ax from the Soviet days of yore, sat back, smoking a cigarette, just watching. Then, he grabs his pile and bzzzzzt. Runs it through the paper shredder.
"What are you doing?" cried the young guy in shock. "There could have been some excellent applicants in there."
The older guy looked him right in the eye and leaned in. "They weren't lucky, you see. We don't need any bad luck charms here at this company."
Uh, sometimes humor doesn't translate. I'll try again tomorrow. Perhaps I'll just tell you about something really stupid I've done in my life, so you can laugh at that.
****
Since I don't have much else to report, and you can see by my to-do list that I'm a bit on the busy side, let me tell you about our garden.
We did our first outdoor planting yesterday, of mache, two varieties of arugala or however you spell it, and minutina. In the garage, we have several varieties of heirloom tomatoes, some funky Hungarian sweet peppers, and eggplants underway. Next week come peas (snow and snap), more mache, maybe some lettuce.
We also drove out to a nearby horse farm and filled several large garbage cans full of shit. Contrary to what you'd expect, good ruminant manure that's composting properly (and not sitting in an anaerobic environment like a holding pond or something) smells good. It's so stuffed with nitrogen that it composts extremely quickly. Yesterday being a nice, cool morning, steam was rising out of the mountain of decomposing horse shit as we forked it into our cans. A smell like good earth and grass rose out of it. We mixed it with the plant residue from last year's garden, which had been languishing behind our shed. By the time we plant out our tomato and pepper seedlings, it'll be nice rough compost, full of beneficial bacteria and nutrients.
I love this process, the closed system of nature. The simplest solutions are usually the best in this game. If only the rest of life were so.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
My Shit in Order (thanks to Luna)
The only thing worse than feeling slacker guilt is being called on it. Though I haven't been a complete lounger since the surgery, I've definitely been taking things a bit easier than usual. Luna
somehow sensed this remotely and thus tagged me on this particular meme. Her timing was perfect: I have a lot happening in the next few weeks, all of it incredibly dull, I'm sure. But here goes...
The rules:
Step 1. Reference back to the blog that sent you.
Step 2. Make a list of 5 things you have to get done this week, no matter how small.
Step 3. Get 2 other people off their asses to get their shit in order.
1. I have to finish this damn book review that's more than a year overdue (though the journal editor told me not to rush for various reasons). The books are good, and I've finally read them (always a plus), and this shouldn't be too hard. A matter of about 4-5 hours, methinks.
2. I have to write a press release for my former boss, after we interview his client on Monday. When not pretending to write my dis or blabbing away online, I make some extra money by writing stuff about "world music" musicians and their wacky projects to tempt jaded journalists into covering the aforementioned.
3. I have to prepare a presentation on a certain period in Inner Asian history for high schoolers and give this presentation on Wednesday morning. I've done this before; it's actually a lot of fun.
4. I have to make something up for a conference here at my university next weekend. Something about these certain plays about women in the 1920s and nonsense like that. Bored yet?
5. I have to start on my dis completion plan, which includes calling my overseas research contact who's fallen off the face of the earth recently so that I can get some archival materials I've been promised. This being something I can control (unlike IF), I've decided I'm going to write a chapter a month April-August. I want to get my adviser/committee head on board to meet with me twice a month over lunch, to force me to actually get something down on paper. It's all rolling around in my brain, but I've been too stymied or distracted to sit down and get it out. I feel that the time is ripe, and this is my moment to get the bulk of the bullshit done.
Whew. Actually, I'm one of those wacky folks who likes to be either really busy, or really lazy. I hate the in-between state of having a few odds and ends to do, but nothing urgent. Which means that I'll take the rest of today off, with the exception of finally getting our seeds started this evening.
I'm passing the buck on to Io and Ahuva Batya.
somehow sensed this remotely and thus tagged me on this particular meme. Her timing was perfect: I have a lot happening in the next few weeks, all of it incredibly dull, I'm sure. But here goes...
The rules:
Step 1. Reference back to the blog that sent you.
Step 2. Make a list of 5 things you have to get done this week, no matter how small.
Step 3. Get 2 other people off their asses to get their shit in order.
1. I have to finish this damn book review that's more than a year overdue (though the journal editor told me not to rush for various reasons). The books are good, and I've finally read them (always a plus), and this shouldn't be too hard. A matter of about 4-5 hours, methinks.
2. I have to write a press release for my former boss, after we interview his client on Monday. When not pretending to write my dis or blabbing away online, I make some extra money by writing stuff about "world music" musicians and their wacky projects to tempt jaded journalists into covering the aforementioned.
3. I have to prepare a presentation on a certain period in Inner Asian history for high schoolers and give this presentation on Wednesday morning. I've done this before; it's actually a lot of fun.
4. I have to make something up for a conference here at my university next weekend. Something about these certain plays about women in the 1920s and nonsense like that. Bored yet?
5. I have to start on my dis completion plan, which includes calling my overseas research contact who's fallen off the face of the earth recently so that I can get some archival materials I've been promised. This being something I can control (unlike IF), I've decided I'm going to write a chapter a month April-August. I want to get my adviser/committee head on board to meet with me twice a month over lunch, to force me to actually get something down on paper. It's all rolling around in my brain, but I've been too stymied or distracted to sit down and get it out. I feel that the time is ripe, and this is my moment to get the bulk of the bullshit done.
Whew. Actually, I'm one of those wacky folks who likes to be either really busy, or really lazy. I hate the in-between state of having a few odds and ends to do, but nothing urgent. Which means that I'll take the rest of today off, with the exception of finally getting our seeds started this evening.
I'm passing the buck on to Io and Ahuva Batya.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
And again, she's going on about spring
There's an interesting saying in Russian that sums up the tensions in spring: Vesna krasna, no golodna. Spring is fair, but hungry.
While our ancestors in temperate climates reveled in the increasing light and warmth, spring meant you were scraping the bottom of the barrel--literally--in your food stores. Though a few wild plants might present themselves, basically there was nothing to eat. Hence Lent among the Christians or semi-Christians: for forty days, you went on a religiously supported diet regime, in hopes of making it through to the appearance of something edible. In northern Europe, people would hole up in their homes, wrap themselves up for warmth, and spend most of the last chilly, hungry days of winter sleeping to avoid starvation.
But we can enjoy the bright side of spring untainted. Our bellies are full. We're bursting with energy like the birds. Judging by your comments, we're all on the same page here. And I hope we can all claim this joy, regardless of the bitterness that seems to cling to us, unjustly. That's my little wish for all of you today. [Cue big-ass smile.]
Today, I'm going to try to finish reading for this book review I've had on my to-do list for an eon; put together our seed starting medium so that we can do some seed blocks this evening and get our planties going; do a bit of clean-up out in the yard and maybe dig and cook some of our parsnips that have waited out the winter underground. I'm eager to see how sweet the cold has made them.
The cats continue negotiations, some friendly, some tense. They are all characters, with strong personalities but very sweet dispositions. I will post pics very soon, I promise! Our camera is acting up a bit, so it's been tough to get anything that doesn't look like a strange blur where a cat should be.
While our ancestors in temperate climates reveled in the increasing light and warmth, spring meant you were scraping the bottom of the barrel--literally--in your food stores. Though a few wild plants might present themselves, basically there was nothing to eat. Hence Lent among the Christians or semi-Christians: for forty days, you went on a religiously supported diet regime, in hopes of making it through to the appearance of something edible. In northern Europe, people would hole up in their homes, wrap themselves up for warmth, and spend most of the last chilly, hungry days of winter sleeping to avoid starvation.
But we can enjoy the bright side of spring untainted. Our bellies are full. We're bursting with energy like the birds. Judging by your comments, we're all on the same page here. And I hope we can all claim this joy, regardless of the bitterness that seems to cling to us, unjustly. That's my little wish for all of you today. [Cue big-ass smile.]
Today, I'm going to try to finish reading for this book review I've had on my to-do list for an eon; put together our seed starting medium so that we can do some seed blocks this evening and get our planties going; do a bit of clean-up out in the yard and maybe dig and cook some of our parsnips that have waited out the winter underground. I'm eager to see how sweet the cold has made them.
The cats continue negotiations, some friendly, some tense. They are all characters, with strong personalities but very sweet dispositions. I will post pics very soon, I promise! Our camera is acting up a bit, so it's been tough to get anything that doesn't look like a strange blur where a cat should be.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
More blathering about cats and flowers
Since there's no news this month from Ladyland, post-op, and I'm all out of deep thoughts at the moment, I'm going to babble more about my cats.
The newcomers basically demonstrated that they were determined to roam the house at large, and we let them, with no major problems. Mr. Pepys, named for the eminent man of letters, was less than delighted, but not too hard on the new fellows. He seems slightly out of sorts, so I'm trying to give him an extra dose of love (and special treats). Bilbo (shelter name that seems to stick like glue), the little black kitty with the funky tail, is kicking everyone's ass, simply by walking around and not giving a damn. Jack (also shelter name, also sticky) has found his courage and is happily climbing into windows and attempting to gnaw on house plants. Spitting and hissing comes at regular, but infrequent intervals, as the men sort out who's who. But overall, a very peaceful transition to what we hope will be a merry sausage fest. I'm proud of our Mr. Pepys, who has shown his excellent kitty quality by being what in feline terms seems to be an incredibly gracious host.
I'll post pictures soon.
Outside, I noticed the first crocus in bloom yesterday afternoon. Just now, I walked through the yard, barefoot on the cold, damp grass, and saw that they were everywhere, the flowers of my labor. Their tiny white, cream, yellow and purple blossoms are so perfectly proportioned and shaped. They're not showy, but such tiny shouts of spring that I almost broke into tears when I found a particularly pretty cluster near the air conditioner. Hope, I found myself thinking, hope has come. Nature makes it so plain: Things begin to burst forth from their silent sleep, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.
The newcomers basically demonstrated that they were determined to roam the house at large, and we let them, with no major problems. Mr. Pepys, named for the eminent man of letters, was less than delighted, but not too hard on the new fellows. He seems slightly out of sorts, so I'm trying to give him an extra dose of love (and special treats). Bilbo (shelter name that seems to stick like glue), the little black kitty with the funky tail, is kicking everyone's ass, simply by walking around and not giving a damn. Jack (also shelter name, also sticky) has found his courage and is happily climbing into windows and attempting to gnaw on house plants. Spitting and hissing comes at regular, but infrequent intervals, as the men sort out who's who. But overall, a very peaceful transition to what we hope will be a merry sausage fest. I'm proud of our Mr. Pepys, who has shown his excellent kitty quality by being what in feline terms seems to be an incredibly gracious host.
I'll post pictures soon.
Outside, I noticed the first crocus in bloom yesterday afternoon. Just now, I walked through the yard, barefoot on the cold, damp grass, and saw that they were everywhere, the flowers of my labor. Their tiny white, cream, yellow and purple blossoms are so perfectly proportioned and shaped. They're not showy, but such tiny shouts of spring that I almost broke into tears when I found a particularly pretty cluster near the air conditioner. Hope, I found myself thinking, hope has come. Nature makes it so plain: Things begin to burst forth from their silent sleep, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Kitty Cats
I love 'em. We just adopted two of them from the awesome shelter in our town. One's a little male who's all black but for a white spot on his chest. He's got a little bobtail. He chirps a lot. The other's a tabby with a lot of gravitas who's a bit more wary but also more laid back.
They're staying in the guest room until our other cat, Mr. P, the king of all he surveys, deigns to accept them.
I just love them all. They are the best. I'm so happy.
They're staying in the guest room until our other cat, Mr. P, the king of all he surveys, deigns to accept them.
I just love them all. They are the best. I'm so happy.
My Lucky Stars
Mrs. X encouraged me, rightfully, to thank my lucky stars for my good pelvic and uterine fortune. And today, finally, I think I can.
Perhaps it's because the sun is shining and the high is expected to crack the fifties. The days' length has crossed a certain threshold. The birds are going bonkers in the sun. I feel the sap rising.
On days like today, I know my life can't be about this one thing. I can't sit in this non-place with no dimensions or qualities, longing for the past when I was ignorant, longing for the future when I may be delivered from my disappointment. I feel like I've been hunkered down, defending my walls, but that now it's time to ride out and meet my opponents--whatever they may be--head on. I'm thinking of some Icelandic story I heard, about a woman left behind by her seafaring husband who rushed out to meet a party of raiders, breasts bared, pounding her sternum with a sword and screaming bloody murder. Needless to say, she kicked their asses and protected her home.
I had a dream a few months ago that involved a bunch of evil-doing Russians and miscellaneous dastardly Asian scientists--I had just watched the Manchurian Candidate--who had found some bizarre dragon, a creature that wasn't particularly evil, just filled with this aggressive, intense energy. The villains had a family in this weird arena-like space and they unleashed the dragon on them. Somehow, I was also there, and I stepped in front of them. Somehow, I defeated the dragon, though he became part of my face, a miniature beast on my cheek. The bad guys just sort of shrugged their shoulders and freed the family, and no one said even one word of thanks to me for saving their lives and doing this amazing deed. On some level, I was fine with that because I hadn't acted to get thanks, but I was still ticked off that no one recognized that I had just done the impossible.
I've been thinking about this dream quite a bit lately. Not sure what any of this means, but hey, it's a blog, it doesn't have to make any sense at all. Regardless, I thank my lucky stars for these feelings, as foolish as they may be.
Perhaps it's because the sun is shining and the high is expected to crack the fifties. The days' length has crossed a certain threshold. The birds are going bonkers in the sun. I feel the sap rising.
On days like today, I know my life can't be about this one thing. I can't sit in this non-place with no dimensions or qualities, longing for the past when I was ignorant, longing for the future when I may be delivered from my disappointment. I feel like I've been hunkered down, defending my walls, but that now it's time to ride out and meet my opponents--whatever they may be--head on. I'm thinking of some Icelandic story I heard, about a woman left behind by her seafaring husband who rushed out to meet a party of raiders, breasts bared, pounding her sternum with a sword and screaming bloody murder. Needless to say, she kicked their asses and protected her home.
I had a dream a few months ago that involved a bunch of evil-doing Russians and miscellaneous dastardly Asian scientists--I had just watched the Manchurian Candidate--who had found some bizarre dragon, a creature that wasn't particularly evil, just filled with this aggressive, intense energy. The villains had a family in this weird arena-like space and they unleashed the dragon on them. Somehow, I was also there, and I stepped in front of them. Somehow, I defeated the dragon, though he became part of my face, a miniature beast on my cheek. The bad guys just sort of shrugged their shoulders and freed the family, and no one said even one word of thanks to me for saving their lives and doing this amazing deed. On some level, I was fine with that because I hadn't acted to get thanks, but I was still ticked off that no one recognized that I had just done the impossible.
I've been thinking about this dream quite a bit lately. Not sure what any of this means, but hey, it's a blog, it doesn't have to make any sense at all. Regardless, I thank my lucky stars for these feelings, as foolish as they may be.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Brainkillers
So, I've been unable to post because it felt kind of like drunk dialing. Meaning my mind has been so unruly and groggy on the drugs that I didn't feel I could be responsible for my utterances. At one point this weekend, I had the distinct impression that a wolverine-like creature was curled up beside me. Though the rest of my brain understood perfectly well that there was no wolverine, the feeling persisted, like a phantom limb.
See, I'm still not making any damn sense...
But I have to thank all of you for your incredibly supportive, sweet comments. I don't know where I would be without the TMI-braving, IF-ass-kicking digital sisterhood. You gals are the best. What would I have done if I hadn't heard your wise advise re: fiber?
Now, instead of the excitement I felt pre-op, I'm feeling almost disappointed. Is it bizarre that I wanted them to find something more...definitive? Like a huge-ass polyp from hell that would have all the docs nodding, "Yep, that's it. No one's getting knocked up with THAT thing in them." Instead, I almost have to consciously remind myself that according to the doctor, I have basically no endo worth mentioning (good news, cross that possibility off the list), and that polyps of any size have been shown to interfere with implantation and I had three of the suckers, albeit small ones.
Instead, I feel like I'm back in Nowheresville, the nothingness and impossibility that is IF for me. Fortunately for my mood, I'm feeling stronger and the weather tomorrow promises to be very warm and springlike. Time to get out and hoe a bit.
See, I'm still not making any damn sense...
But I have to thank all of you for your incredibly supportive, sweet comments. I don't know where I would be without the TMI-braving, IF-ass-kicking digital sisterhood. You gals are the best. What would I have done if I hadn't heard your wise advise re: fiber?
Now, instead of the excitement I felt pre-op, I'm feeling almost disappointed. Is it bizarre that I wanted them to find something more...definitive? Like a huge-ass polyp from hell that would have all the docs nodding, "Yep, that's it. No one's getting knocked up with THAT thing in them." Instead, I almost have to consciously remind myself that according to the doctor, I have basically no endo worth mentioning (good news, cross that possibility off the list), and that polyps of any size have been shown to interfere with implantation and I had three of the suckers, albeit small ones.
Instead, I feel like I'm back in Nowheresville, the nothingness and impossibility that is IF for me. Fortunately for my mood, I'm feeling stronger and the weather tomorrow promises to be very warm and springlike. Time to get out and hoe a bit.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Catch of the day
I'm writing from inside a cloud of V.ic0din, and it's 5:30 am, so please forgive me if I make no sense or start describing the pink elephants on parade or whatnot.
The surgery went well, though we almost ran out of gas en route (and I had even asked him if he needed to get gas! Ah, men). Our catch on this fishing expedition: 3 small polyps and 2 teensy patches of endo that were respectively yanked and "zapped" (I believe that's the official medical term Dr. Spunk used). Unfortunately, those are all the scintillating details I have, as Dr. Spunk came out and had a tete-a-tete with my guy while I was out cold.
After an hour and a half on the road, we were home. My wonderful, wonderful man made a delicious dinner of salmon with capers, roasted fingerlings (yes, I am addicted to fingerlings), quinoa and spinach. Then I passed out on the living room floor.
That brings us to today. My poor guy has to go in early to dig himself out from under the mountain of work that has likely piled up during his absence. I've got lots of DVDs, some good books, a few cooking magazines, lots of yummy but easily digestible food to keep me company in his stead. I'm looking forward to a day of drug-induced haze prone in front of the laptop, neurons randomly firing.
The surgery went well, though we almost ran out of gas en route (and I had even asked him if he needed to get gas! Ah, men). Our catch on this fishing expedition: 3 small polyps and 2 teensy patches of endo that were respectively yanked and "zapped" (I believe that's the official medical term Dr. Spunk used). Unfortunately, those are all the scintillating details I have, as Dr. Spunk came out and had a tete-a-tete with my guy while I was out cold.
After an hour and a half on the road, we were home. My wonderful, wonderful man made a delicious dinner of salmon with capers, roasted fingerlings (yes, I am addicted to fingerlings), quinoa and spinach. Then I passed out on the living room floor.
That brings us to today. My poor guy has to go in early to dig himself out from under the mountain of work that has likely piled up during his absence. I've got lots of DVDs, some good books, a few cooking magazines, lots of yummy but easily digestible food to keep me company in his stead. I'm looking forward to a day of drug-induced haze prone in front of the laptop, neurons randomly firing.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Beer, Bowling, and Buttrock (with some bonus deep thoughts)
There are some unexpected advantages to living in a town that's part hick, part hippy. My guy and I indulged in some of them last night: I picked up some sushi and some local wheat ale at the hippy co-op. We then went bowling at a place that the Coen Brothers would reject as "too down home," and proceeded to cram the jukebox with Alice Cooper, Van Halen--"Panama" is an excellent accompaniment to the crack of pins--and Rush. (Come on, now, sing it with me: "No, his mind is not for rent... to any god or government..." Ehem. Sorry. Where was I?)
Three games, shoes, tunes, and tater tots cost less than the ocean combo and shrimp dumplings. My guy and his childhood friend--a soft-spoken guy of Baltic heritage with excellent musical taste--took me to the cleaners. They wiped the lane with my sorry ass.
I am the worst bowler, ever. I'm overjoyed if I hit anything (except the gutter and my fellow bowlers, of course). For that reason, I dislike bowling.
But I did it, and I actually enjoyed the evening. I didn't think about my impending surgery, my koosh ball-lined womb, or anything vaguely related to IF. I dropped my need to be good at everything, to be hyper-aware of what others can achieve and I can't. I was just kicking around, trying my best and having a good time with two good guys. Nobody there gave a shit about anything but bowling.
I felt like I learned a strangely useful skill: being bad at something and still enjoying it. I wonder, can I do the same thing in the IF department? I mean, kick back, relax, rent the funky shoes, and say, "Whatever, I'm bad at this. Who cares?" Ah, the freedom! I can almost smell it.
With that in mind, I'm getting ready for tomorrow. I've got my cozy pillow, my thoughtful magazine, some yogurt and juice for afterward, soup and DVDs for my recovery. I'm drinking water like a Tuareg camel and ingesting more fiber than a wood chipper. I'll give you a full debriefing on Friday (I hope). Saturday latest.
Three games, shoes, tunes, and tater tots cost less than the ocean combo and shrimp dumplings. My guy and his childhood friend--a soft-spoken guy of Baltic heritage with excellent musical taste--took me to the cleaners. They wiped the lane with my sorry ass.
I am the worst bowler, ever. I'm overjoyed if I hit anything (except the gutter and my fellow bowlers, of course). For that reason, I dislike bowling.
But I did it, and I actually enjoyed the evening. I didn't think about my impending surgery, my koosh ball-lined womb, or anything vaguely related to IF. I dropped my need to be good at everything, to be hyper-aware of what others can achieve and I can't. I was just kicking around, trying my best and having a good time with two good guys. Nobody there gave a shit about anything but bowling.
I felt like I learned a strangely useful skill: being bad at something and still enjoying it. I wonder, can I do the same thing in the IF department? I mean, kick back, relax, rent the funky shoes, and say, "Whatever, I'm bad at this. Who cares?" Ah, the freedom! I can almost smell it.
With that in mind, I'm getting ready for tomorrow. I've got my cozy pillow, my thoughtful magazine, some yogurt and juice for afterward, soup and DVDs for my recovery. I'm drinking water like a Tuareg camel and ingesting more fiber than a wood chipper. I'll give you a full debriefing on Friday (I hope). Saturday latest.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
A Mini-Break
My dear guy and I have discussed taking what, for lack of a better term, I'll call a "mini-break" from medical treatment after my surgery. I know I'm nuts, but I just want to see what happens for a month or two after the polyps go to endometrial Valhalla. I want to garden, start a new phase on my dis that involves intense amounts of writing, not have hot flashes at major academic conferences or our group's big concert, and see what's up with my old pal Spot.
Moreover, my acupuncturist has promised to dope me up on some serious babymaking Chinese herbs and hit me with her super needle of conception doom.
Then, in May or June depending on our finances, feelings, health, and gluttony for punishment, we'll return to the Clomid/seed injection strategy. Give that a few more whirls. Go from there.
I just don't care anymore. I mean, I care enough to show up on time at the hospital, etc. But not much more than that.
Moreover, my acupuncturist has promised to dope me up on some serious babymaking Chinese herbs and hit me with her super needle of conception doom.
Then, in May or June depending on our finances, feelings, health, and gluttony for punishment, we'll return to the Clomid/seed injection strategy. Give that a few more whirls. Go from there.
I just don't care anymore. I mean, I care enough to show up on time at the hospital, etc. But not much more than that.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Intuition
I've always felt a powerful connection with that arational part of the mind, the intuition. I've often had hunches about things that proved true, or blurted out something, only to find I'd hit the nail on the head without trying. That's key: without trying.
You see, if you start trying to have an inkling, intuition eludes you. It slips away, retreating further and further into doubt. It starts telling you what the rest of your mind wants to hear, stuff that's flat out wrong.
Throughout these years of infertility, I've found myself grabbing poor intuition, so long my helpmate and friend, by the neck and throttling it for information. This waterboarding of my subconscious hasn't yielded anything but a loss of confidence in what used to be one of my main ways of knowing.
Thus, I'm very confused about something I've felt, in that intuitive way, lately. I feel fertile. I know, denial, right? But I'm the first person to tell you I'm infertile if you ask me. I happily participate in the infertility community and identify as infertile. I know I have reliably gotten my period every month, and what that means. Yet, when I dare to listen, some tiny voice deep inside says, "Calm down. You're fertile and you will get pregnant. Something's just a little off..."
Insane, isn't it? How the mind works?
I'm writing about this because I feel there are plenty of guides out there to the gross contours of the IF psyche. But I'm curious if there are even more insidious, subtle seeds of madness that drive us up the wall, things that we think are specific to our own minds, but actually happen to all of us. So, in short, is it just me?
You see, if you start trying to have an inkling, intuition eludes you. It slips away, retreating further and further into doubt. It starts telling you what the rest of your mind wants to hear, stuff that's flat out wrong.
Throughout these years of infertility, I've found myself grabbing poor intuition, so long my helpmate and friend, by the neck and throttling it for information. This waterboarding of my subconscious hasn't yielded anything but a loss of confidence in what used to be one of my main ways of knowing.
Thus, I'm very confused about something I've felt, in that intuitive way, lately. I feel fertile. I know, denial, right? But I'm the first person to tell you I'm infertile if you ask me. I happily participate in the infertility community and identify as infertile. I know I have reliably gotten my period every month, and what that means. Yet, when I dare to listen, some tiny voice deep inside says, "Calm down. You're fertile and you will get pregnant. Something's just a little off..."
Insane, isn't it? How the mind works?
I'm writing about this because I feel there are plenty of guides out there to the gross contours of the IF psyche. But I'm curious if there are even more insidious, subtle seeds of madness that drive us up the wall, things that we think are specific to our own minds, but actually happen to all of us. So, in short, is it just me?
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