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What I learned this week:
The last couple of weeks have been phenomenally busy at work, but it’s not like I didn’t know they would be. Much like all my instructor friends know the last few weeks of the semester mean spending all their time in grading jail, I know the first couple weeks of the semester mean spending all my time doing the “Come to the Writing Center” dog and pony show. The goal is that by the end of the 2nd and 3rd weeks of the semester someone (90% me) visits all the English 100 and 101 classes. Yes, Virginia, at a school with an undergraduate population twice as big as that of your home town, that is A LOT! You know what else it is? It is exhausting.
Yes, I do this every semester. Yes, I know it is coming. There just isn’t anyway to prepare for the amount of energy it takes to give a 10 minute monologue to different audiences 3 times an hour. In a way it is like grading jail, just front loaded.
Surprisingly, this post isn’t really about complaining. I know. Shocker. It’s about what I’ve come to realize, over the last two weeks.
- If I ever have a nervous break down it is going to happen in the middle of one of these visits. I’ll be in the middle of the “Here’s why you should use our service” spiel, and I’ll just throw up my hands and walk out. I may or may not mutter obscenities under my breath.
- This is the semester that the consultants put together a welcome video that we can shop around to hopefully lessen the number of human visits. I’ve given them no choice, and a deadline of April 15th.
- Oddly enough, when that happens I plan to use that time to start a classroom visit campaign to another set of classes. Have we discussed my masochistic nature? I’m pretty sure we have.
- If I ever finish the dissertation, and get my ‘real’ degree, I’m going to have some serious soul searching to do about whether or not this is the place for me.
- Also, I’m pretty sure you know you are a writer, when not writing/writing very little for two weeks gives you ulcers.
Really, all this week I’ve had stomach issues of one kind or another. Today they culminated in dull pain every time I ate. So, for the next week or so it is all bland food/and herbal tea for me. The caffeine headache ought to kick in tomorrow afternoon in the middle of a writing binge fest.
Other Anniversaries
For some unknown reason the DH and I were sitting on the couch doing other things while we watched football. Football. To say we never watch football is probably an understatement. The DH only watches when his home team plays, and hardly ever even then because his home team is terrible. They must have been playing though, because there was definitely football on the television.
The DH could have been drawing, or pouring over his book of 501 German verbs. If I remember correctly he was obsessed with German at that moment; and, all the man needs to learn a language is a 501 verbs book and a dictionary. I distinctly remember that I was working on another job letter. I’d just put the final touches on everything, and hit “send” for my online application. At least I assume I hit send, because I did eventually get a rejection letter from that school.
The memory isn’t all that clear because it was about then that my phone rang. When I saw that it was Dr. Phoenix I knew it wasn’t going to be good. I remembered sitting at the high butcher block table in her kitchen while Dr. Phoenix explained to me why she hated the phone. “Calling someone just seems rude. You never know what their doing, and you might be interrupting them. I prefer email because then they can respond to you on their own time.” An unexpected call from Dr. Phoenix on a Sunday. It was never going to be ‘good news.’
The shock and confusion of hearing someone else respond to my tentative “Hello?” must have registered on my face because the DH immediately muted the television. Nimue told me in a shaky voice, “Dr. Phoenix and Fender are okay.”
“What’s going on?” I demanded.
“It’s the Spawn. He’s dead.”
To this day I don’t really remember the rest of the conversation. I remember asking if I needed to come over, and what I could do. As if there was something anyone could do.
Others who were closer to Dr. Phoenix were already at her house, and others who knew Spawn better would be grieving more, would need support as well. For that night, and days to come, I did the only thing I could do – I cried.
Spawn and I rarely came into contact. In fact, it seemed impossible to me that the rosy cheeked, precocious child I met when I began my graduate work was the young man who had to bend over to hug me the last time I saw him. He had the most amazing smile. As little as I knew him, he was always kind and generous to me.
Nothing in my life, not even learning to walk again, has been as hard as seeing Dr. Phoenix’s pain – as wanting desperately to bring her peace, and knowing no one can.
All I can do is remember. Remember the child who made me laugh. The family that made me want my own. The first house I encountered that felt so much like a home that being there made it easier to breathe.
There is a a picture. Dr. Phoenix and Spawn, very young – maybe 3, in the last of the sun on a windy beach, with a dark gray sky in the background. They are laughing, smiling, and he is reaching toward someone out of the shot. It is the most perfect moment of joy. It is what I choose to remember.
Bonne Anniversaire Ma Meilleure Amie
As far as cruelty goes April has nothing on January. Back in the day when I was a teaching assistant January wasn’t so bad. You could always count on student loans to get you through the drought between December 20th and January 31st. Now that I just work for a university, and there are no loans to be had as I try to stretch a check that barely makes it 4 weeks into something that will last 6. I can’t think of an adjective to describe how poor we are – skint seems to come the closest.
As you can imagine anyone in my life with a January birthday pretty much gets the shaft. Sorry folks. Couple that with the fact that January is a busy, busy month for me at work, and everyone is pretty lucky just to get a text on the day. Oddly enough before grad school January was just a prep month for me. A respite between holiday shopping and the horror of February’s birthdays, holidays, and anniversaries. Seriously, in February it’s easier for me to count the days that don’t involve celebrating.
The assault on January began with Poppa G, my brother-in-law. One birthday in the whole month. It wasn’t bad. Then my sister-in-law got married, whoops there’s another one. My brother got married, and suddenly the month is getting down right crowded. Suddenly, the poorest month of the year is also the one rivaling February for gifting obligations.
There is, however, really only one birthday in January that matters enough to make me regret my inability to lavish my friends with tokens of my love – January 21st is the day to celebrate ma fille, the Ouiser to my Claree, the Cajun Princess.
Born on the opposite ends of the Mississippi – literally, yet I can honestly say her people are my people, and if I could ever get her north of the Mason-Dixon I know she’d feel just as at home in Frostbite Falls. It is strange and remarkable to think that I’ve only known her seven years; and, can in fact, remember seeing her for the first time at orientation, sitting in that stifling hot room looking around trying to figure out who to hang with. As in most social situations by break time I ended up outside with the smokers, and I’m pretty sure that from their our fates were sealed, not by ease of conversation, but by easy silence. It’s unbelievably difficult to find someone you can just sit with.
It is even more difficult to find someone willing to find your husbands car, visit you in the hospital every day, learn to be your “gentleman caller” as you go up and down stairs. There is no way I would have made it through the last three years without her. There are not enough words in English or French to describe how our lives have become entwined, or how much it blows that I can’t throw her a costume party
or bake her a bleeding armadillo groom’s cake.
Since we are stuck in separate cities today, and I suck at actually putting cards in the mail, I thought the least I could do was publicly declare my undying love and devotion for a woman who has been a sister to me.
Bénédictions et la joie de vous aujourd’hui et toujours.
Links
I wanted to post today, but once I got here it seemed like every idea dried up. Here are a couple of posts I’ve read lately that have stuck with me.
Here’s a post by Hugo Schwyzer everyone should read.
- Someday I’ll have a response, but I haven’t untangled it all yet.
Bitch Flicks is doing their top 10 of 2011, so there are lots of great posts up, but here is one I think is particularly important.
- The world in which my niece will grow up is so hard.
Agendaphilia
It all started with my mother, doesn’t everything?
According to Wikipedia, when I was 10 Post-It notes began to be sold throughout the US. From that point forward I could count on two thing in my Christmas sock: an orange, and a pack of post-its. Although I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her actually use one, my mother is addicted to Post-It notes. Actually, her addiction extends to nearly any kind of office supply; it also extends to my little sister and myself.
Seriously, if you want to cheer one of us up just take us to Staples or Office Depot, stick a cup of coffee in our hands, and let us wander the aisle, stare at the pens, and stroke the notebooks until closing. If you want us to squeal like little girls, give us money to spend. My mother may have ensured that each of her daughters fell prey to her office supply addiction, but of course I have to be special. As my mother likes to put it, I have “champagne tastes on a beer budget.” Yep. Stick me in a room with 3 of anything, tell me to choose, and 9 times out of 10 I’ll pick the most expensive of the bunch. I could probably even do it blindfolded.
So, while the DH might find pleasure in the more traditional internet porn sites, I click on over to Levengers. I might not need, or ever be able to afford, a $100 pen, but sometimes a girl needs to dream. The only thing more useless than an expensive pen is probably an expensive notebook. Of course the Levengers product I most covet is the Circa Notebook. Even I can’t justify those prices for just a notebook, but long ago I convinced myself that I could justify the expense if I got a planner that I could use again, and again. Once I paid the outrageous price for the initial set up, I could just by refills. I know. I know.
The good part of this story is that several years ago Staples tried to get into the customizable notebook racket with a system they called Rolla. Same idea, the ability to move your pages around, and all that. At the time I bought a couple of notebooks, and really did find them useful when I was studying for comps. The Cajun Princess even received one from me as a study aid. For some reason, Staples decided Rolla wasn’t doing it, so they re-branded the whole system Arc. You can probably tell where this is going.
In an effort to get myself out of the funk I’ve been in for the last few days, I went to Staples earlier this afternoon to look for a 2012 planner. One of the effects of accepting the administrative nature of my position, and taking the additional work this summer, is accepting the fact that I am no longer on an academic calendar. Instead of planning from August – June, I need to be able to chart my year from Jan – Dec like everyone else in the world. Hence, the need for a new planner 1/2 way through the year.
Of course the Levenger weekly/monthly planner was on my Christmas list, and of course no one else in the world was foolish enough to pay that much money for it. I’m glad no one got it for me because Staples finally came to their senses and created a weekly/monthly planner refill packet for the Arc system. Yes, it does still fit the Rolla notebooks I have. Look:
Here is the cover. The 1″ discs that came with the notebook were just slightly too small, so I had to get 1 1/2″ discs that are now a little big. I’ll just have to fill the space with notebook pages. 🙂
Here is the monthly view. The only problem with the refill pack was that it didn’t include tabs to separate the months. I bought a couple of divider packs, and now my planner is all multi-colored. 🙂
Here is the weekly view. You might not be able to see it, but the week is divided over two pages horizontally. (Mon- Wed on the left, Thurs – Sunday on right) Personally, I really prefer a vertical organization to my week, but I liked everything else enough to give this a try. Since I’m trying to organize my work more by smaller tasks than big projects, I like the shaded column that divide up the days. One column can be for appointments, the other for tasks.
The best part of this all is that the Arc refill was only $9.99. Even after buying new rings, and two packages of dividers, this was still cheaper than any other planner there.
After Staples I hit the nail place next door to get my eyebrows waxed, so all I have to do is trim my bangs, and I will be ready to go back to work on Monday. The funk is not completely lifted, but going back to work will at least distract me enough to keep me going for a while.
Forbidden Writing, or Rizzoli & Isles Pt. 2
Having only written about 490 words yesterday, there is no way I should be writing here this morning. As someone who can follow every rule, but the one she set for herself — well, it’s probably pretty predictable that I would be writing here this morning.
Having vented a little of my general frustration with Rizzoli & Isles, I can actually be a little more articulate about what it is that bothers me about the show. Rizzoli & Isles is a textbook example of embedded feminism being used to mask enlightened sexism. Last year, Susan J. Douglas’s book Enlightened Sexism: The Seductive Message that Feminism’s Work is Done was published, and if it is not on your reading list already, put it there. Douglas defined embedded feminism as “the way in which women’s achievements, or their desire for achievement, are simply a part of the cultural landscape” (9). Embedded feminism is partly achieved through the representational parity numbers game. The networks can say, “Look at all the women doctors, lawyers, cops, etc. on tv, clearly women can be anything they want now.” Networks can claim that airing shows with strong women in professional careers some how makes up for the blatant misogyny in a show like Two and a Half Men, or the only slighly more subtle misogyny in Big Bang Theory. If you are, like me, a little crime show obsessed, Dr. Kimberly DeTardo-Bora’s 2009 article in Women & Criminal Justice, “Criminal Justice ‘Hollywood Style’: How Women in Criminal Justice Professions Are Depicted in Prime-Time Crime Dramas,” is a fascinating read. The short summary is that women are over-represented compared to their actual presence in the criminal justice field. It is of course more complicated than that – the article is a fascinating read.
Taking its name from the two lead women, Rizzoli & Isles clearly establishes a kind of embedded feminism; it also establishes a “look how far we’ve come” ethos by subtly calling Cagney & Lacey to mind. I’d love to do a stronger comparison between the two shows, but I don’t have many clear memeories of Cagney & Lacey, and haven’t seen an episode since I was nine. Both titular characters are strong women, and have achieved success in their careers, and really that is about it for feminism in Rizzoli & Isles.
A constant companion to embedded feminism, enlightened sexism is “[the insistence] that women have made plenty of progress because of feminism – indeed, full equality has allegedly been achieved—so now it’s okay, even amusing, to resurrect sexist stereotypes of girls and women” (9). This explains why we are supposed to laugh when Rizzoli is tricked into a dress and a date by her mother. Her inability to conform to accepted modes of femininity, while clearly embodying those forms, is constant fodder for humor in the show. Nothing is funnier than trying to get Rizzoli in a dress, but … damn, if doesn’t she fill out a dress perfectly.
But what about Dr. Isles she is amazing at her job, and manages to do it all in style with perfect hair, fashionable clothes, and always, always in killer heels. I’d have to go through episodes again, but I’m pretty sure we’ve never seen Dr. Isles (even mid-autopsy) in scrubs. I’m pretty sure I don’t have to explain the absurdity of that. Even if I’m wrong about the scrubs, the bigger issue is that despite the fact that she is clearly smart, and feminine, she can’t keep a date because she only looks feminine. She drives men away because she cannot hide her intelligence.
At their very core, these two characters, who are supposed to embody at least one feminist goal (having a career), are played for laughs for all the ways they do not conform to cultural stereotypes about women. Yet, because it is couched in humor, and we’re supposedly smarter than buying into the stereotypes, if we find the show’s treatment of its titular characters offensive, it is because we don’t know how to take a joke.
Disappointment – Rizzoli & Isles
As an incentive to keep myself from giving up on my dissertation today I promised myself that if I wrote 1000 dissertation words, I’d reward myself by writing a review of TNT’s Rizzoli & Isles. All the books say never to reward yourself by taking a day off writing, they don’t say anything about rewarding yourself by more writing. Yes, it does sound a little sick when I say it out loud.
As a fan of Tess Gerritsen’s books, when I learned TNT was giving Gerritsen’s central characters a show of their own, I was excited, and set my dvr accordingly. Then, I set about waiting to see who had been cast in the titular roles. Don’t ask, it never really occurs to me that I could, you know, use the internet to find out stuff like that in advance. It was obvious from the first commercials I saw that whatever TNT’s Rizzoli & Isles was going to be, it wasn’t going to be too much like the books. For about 7 books I’d imagined Rizzoli, as she is described, with a mop of unruly dark curls, and as good looking, but in a unconventional way; Dr. Isles was, as she is often described, the queen of the dead, a little goth, with red lipstick and straight black hair cut in a bob with straight bangs – which is, as it turns out, how Ms. Gerritsen looks (well, not exactly goth, but you get the idea). While there was never any doubt in my mind these women would be beautiful in their own ways, um … Angie Harmon and Sasha Anderson were not exactly the faces that lept into my mind as I read these books.
To paraphrase Mr. Gump, casting is as casting does. It was silly to have any hopes that these women might be cast differently. This is a review of the show not the books, so this is the last comparison I will make between the two. One of the most compelling aspects of these characters as written are their insecurities, and Jane Rizzoli’s insecurities are tied to her place in a male profession, and what she sees as her inability to meet feminine standards of beauty; it is impossible to make those insecurities play when the woman playing Rizzoli is Angie Harmon.
Like I said, although I’d initially hoped for something a little different, this review isn’t about comparing the television show to the books. The characters, stories, and tone of each is distinct enough that a real comparison is impossible. The books are detective fiction, pure and simple. The television show walks the genre lines between serious police procedural and comedy. It is almost as if the producers really wanted an hour long comedy, and knew stretching a sit com that long would grow tedious, so they decided to incorporate a police procedural to bump up the story. I’ve never seen an episode, so I could be wrong, but Rizzoli & Isles makes me think it is like a female Nash Bridges.
It might surprise you, but the light nature of the show is not really what bothers me. A lot of police procedurals err in the opposite way, taking themselves too seriously. What bothers me about Rizzoli & Isles is that the light tone is achieved at the expense of the title characters. At every turn the show undermines the power of two strong women working together, and becoming friends by making every second conversation between the two about getting, or having, a relationship, every third conversation about the case – as if their jobs are an afterthought, and the remaining conversations about clothes and shoes. There has to be some sort of heterosexual romance for at least one of the women in nearly every episode because the writers are working overtime to ensure that it is clear Rizzoli & Isles are not lesbians. (Well, except for those episodes where they pretend to be lesbians – you know, for laughs.) As a viewer it is impossible to take either Rizzoli or Isles seriously because at every turn we are reminded that Rizzoli can’t get a man because she is not feminine enough, and that despite looking like a fashion plate Isles can’t function socially because she is just too smart.
I keep watching, hoping, for that moment when instead of going for the obvious – undermining women stereotype or joke, the writers will surprise me.
Slogging Through …
Well, it is the point of no return. I have to, absolutely, no room for error, must defend my dissertation in May.
All of that would mean that I have to you know, write my dissertation. The writing is … going, and I guess that is good enough. My momentum was really getting into swing, but then December hit. Suddenly, I couldn’t avoid having lunch with colleagues, and so my lunch time writing fell apart. On top of that, for various reasons, I have had to drive into work a little more often than normal, which means my bus writing has also been spotty.
Unbelievably there is a silver lining to all of this! The Cajun Princess, and Tech Oracle also plan to defend in May, so we are all in this boat together. The plan is to use this time to keep each other going.
To get back on the writing horse my plan has been to write lightly this weekend, which I’ve done, with the knowledge that starting tomorrow there is no looking back. I’ve two days left at work and then I am out until January 2nd. The plan is to write my fingers into bloody little stumps in that time. No goals about the number of pages, or chapters, just to write until I can’t write anymore. When I set goals that have to do with word counts/page numbers, or the like it’s too easy for me to feel derailed. As in, “Well, I’m never going to make 15 pages, so why bother at all?!” The other thing is I know that when I get back to work in January I’ll be busy for at least a month, and more like 6 weeks. I need to have enough done that getting busy at work won’t stop my progress.
There are no promises about what will happen in this space over the next few weeks. Sometimes when I write like this my posting actually increases, because I need an outlet. Other times I just need to walk away from all writing for a while.
Injuste!
At one point, early in the afternoon on Thanksgiving the DH let the dogs outside, and notice that the back gate was open. Weird. We don’t use that gate very often; however, just last week, after my re-potting frenzy, I went through that gate to put the potting soil on the back porch. Maybe I didn’t latch it. He shut it, we moved on with our lives.
Yesterday I wanted to give the front yard one last mow. Wild chives grow in our lawns here, and while the grass has stopped growing the front yard has little random tufts of chives growing out of it. You can probably see where this is going. Someone stole our lawn mower … on Thanksgiving.
Apparently, the universe will kick you when you are down.
D5 Creation