Revelation Number...whatever

Best part of living alone: dancing crazy-go-nuts, clothed or not. Brushing my teeth took at least ten minutes this morning because of all the shimmying to Cake.

Well, it is on my reading list...

...and I do consider it one of the most brilliant things I've ever read. But...

You're Lolita!

by Vladimir Nabokov

Considered by most to be depraved and immoral, you are obsessed with
sex. What really tantalizes you is that which deviates from societal standards in every
way, though you admit that this probably isn't the best and you're not sure what causes
this desire. Nonetheless, you've done some pretty nefarious things in your life, and
probably gotten caught for them. The names have been changed, but the problems are real.
Please stay away from children.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

..."depraved and immoral"? "Nefarious"? I think that's taking it a little far.

Yeah...pretty sure I'm not a pedophile either...

Wish Big

While talking to my mother during our customary Sunday-at-two phone call last week, she asked me what I wanted for Christmas. So I listed a few things: pants, a black hooded jacket, tennis shoes, a tool box, a better set of small screwdrivers (for the next time I have to rewire a digital thermometer).

According to Sears, however, I should "Wish Big." (Granted, this marketing campaign is preferable to JC Penney's' last year, which featured Pete Townshend's "Let My Love Open the Door" every fifteen minutes. It's an okay song, but I really don't need to hear it every time I turn on the TV.) To them, apparently, "wishing big" means dreaming of oversized drills too large to ever be practical.

***We interrupt my usual cynicism/pessimism for a moment of uncharacteristic idealism***

Once I got past my annual disggust at the capitalist reinterpretation of Christmas, I considered the ad campaign in a more imaginative way. If there were no limits, and I was truly to "Wish Big," this is what I would ask for. (Note the complete absence of enormous power tools.)

1. World Peace. It's cliche, I know, but I'm not trying to win any pageants here. In order for this wish to materialize, I think I would have to tack on a few sub-wishes:
a. World leaders who are open-minded, intelligent, and genuinely concerned for the welfare of their constituents. (Yes,
this would require impeaching Bush.)
b. A redistribution of the world's wealth (e.g., natural and intellectual resources, technology, food supplies)
2. A job that doesn't make me feel like my soul dies a little bit each time I put in an 8-hour shift (preferably in English education, research, information science, or publishing. Possibly overseas.)
3. A Bluffton College Meeting of the Minds Alumni reunion (with all four members), to take place at either a resurrected Brumbys' or Ho Chi Minh City (I would say Long Xuyen, but I'm willing to make an allowance for Amy's fear of giant bugs).
4. An all-expense-paid trip to China and Vietnam to visit Erin and R. Eric
5. An all-expense-paid trp to go backpacking through Europe with...anyone who wants to go with me. Any takers?
6. Two weeks' paid vacation over Christmas to go to Florida with Keene AND visit my parents
7. A puppy

***We now return to my usual cynicism/pessimism.***

Time for Some Pictures

The giant boob hanging from the ceiling in my bathroom:



Yeah. Apparently the genius two floors up decided to crack his toilet bowl, not do anything about it, and leave for the night. Brilliant. So what was a drip when I went to bed was a leaky breast when I woke up this morning. And being in my apartment was like being subjected to Chinese water torture. Drip. Drip. Drip. Not to mention the lake on the floor (the source of the drip changed location during the night, rendering my carefully positioned bucket pointless) and the fact that I couldn't pee without being dripped on from above (a rather bizarre situation if you think about it...water flowing above and below you simultaneously...).

And, while I'm at it, I might as well add some pictures from Halloween. Yeah, I know it's a month late and that the focus is now on Christmas, but I painstakingly created my own Leeloo costume (including her weird suspender-like-things out of felt), and I think I deserve some props for it. So, in the name of shameless self-promotion:



Note that I'm standing next to Jess, the Lady of the Night, who had a very kickass costume. Definitely sexier than mine, and certainly less geeky as well, but, well, I'm a nerd. I freely admit it.

Here's me with Keene, or as I liked to call him that night, Korben Dallas. Actually, he was going for Random Army Guy, but hey, Korben's a military man. And Keene has about as much hair as Bruce Willis.



Note that I always have a Rolling Rock in my hand. R. Eric, you should be proud. And I pretty much had to have alcohol that night just to get past the fact that my midsection was hanging out. Not to mention that I was wearing spandex. There's a reason no one wears it anymore.

Of course, not everyone is as intimately familiar with The Fifth Element as I am. So I got a lot of "Hey, you're that one chick from that one movie." Other interpretations ranged from Construction Worker (okay, I get the orange suspenders...but wouldn't I be wearing a hard had or something?) to Stripper (no clue. That actually came from a random chick walking past on the sidewalk while talking on her cell phone. She had to interrupt her conversation to say, drunkenly, "Hey, yeah, that's awesome!" quite loudly and then explain to the person on the other end that there was this girl dressed up all sexy like a stripper. What strip club would feature dancers dressed up like sci fi characters? Wait, maybe there's a market for that...)

What color Sharpie am I?

Not sure I agree with this. I would have thought black, except that it's so normal and standard. Maybe Aqua is as good as anything.

Aqua Sharpie


Also didn't know Sharpies came in Aqua.

To Bitch Or Not To Bitch?

Lame title, I know, but it was the first thing that popped into my head. Apologies to Bill.

I don't like myself when I get all passive aggressive. I withdraw, I roll my eyes, I snap at the people I care about without giving them an explanation so they can remedy the situation or at least have some clue why the normally easygoing chica they know and love has suddenly turned into the uberbitch. Then I realize I'm doing it, get pissed at myself, and get more bitchy. It's a vicious cycle.

And also, largely, a female thing, from my observations. I don't like to generalize people, and there are naturally exceptions to every rule, but there is a reason Deborah Tannen was able to turn her geeky career as a linguist into a series of bestselling books read by the public at large (look her up on Amazon if you don't know who I'm talking about - she's well worth reading). The majority of women communicate differently from the majority of men.

Women often try to hide their feelings. They're used to the role of nurturer, tending to the happiness and well-being of those they love. Thus, when something is bothering them, they don't want to burden others (i.e., their significant others, and since I'm dealing with the gender gap here, I'll limit myself to heterosexual relationships - I wouldn't know how communication generally works in lesbian relationships anyway) with their troubles. They want their men to be happy. And they know that if their men know they aren't happy, their men won't be happy. It's pathetic but true. This is what society has instilled in us.

Unfortunately, unexpressed emotions work in much the same way as an experiment to prove Boyle's Law (I hope this makes sense to someone other than me...I'm still a science geek at heart). If you don't regulate and/or let off a little steam once in a while, something's probably going to explode. In practice, the gender role is flawed. You can't be completely subservient to the happiness of others forever. The bitchiness will come out in one way or another, and you can bet it will be far worse than it would have been if you'd just said something about it when it first started bothering you.

Which is what a lot of men tend to do. They don't care so much about saving face or how others will react or think of them if they say what's on their minds. They get it out in the open and deal with it, and then it's over. Unfortunately, that often means violence, but I've seen guys throw a few punches and then play a round of pool as if nothing ever happened.

I've made these observations, and I know the modes of operation of the genders. I recognize my own stereotypically female cattiness when it happens, and yet sometimes I can't just transcend it. I intellectually know that I'd probably be better off if I would just tell a bitch to back the hell off, but I have this annoying habit of finding something likeable in people that makes it harder to be mean. And the small part of me that really doesn't want to be perceived as a drama queen is at odds with the part of me that doesn't give a shit what people think. I know what I should do, but I can't make myself do it. I could blame the social construct of gender, but that just seems too damn easy. One of these days I'll learn to wear my ovaries on the outside.

Sexual Harassment in the Workplace

I will now attempt to recreate my mysteriously deleted post. If I were more paranoid...

So there's this guy at work who's an asshole. I was warned about him when I started, but at first the only contact I had with him was when I needed to tell someone I was going on break. "Okay" was all he said to me the first half dozen times I spoke to him.

And then there was the night of the floor strip (which is basically taking everything off the floor that isn't bolted down so the floor can be waxed).

I was done in floral way ahead of time and quite bored. This was before I got smart and started taking my thesis with me to work on behind the floral counter. So I asked the people in produce if they needed help with anything. The asshole started to say I could stack some salad, then took it back. "Don't tease me," I said good-naturedly. (There was a time in my life when I would have never said anything that could so easily be taken out of context and posted in the hallway of my dorm. I have since let my guard down.) The asshole gave me a lecherous look and said, "That's what the last one said."

That kind of remark among friends is fine. I certainly had such moments of perversion in college. But in the workplace, between people of opposite gender who've exchanged a vocabluary of perhaps ten words, it's sexual harassment, pure and simple.

My immediate reaction was to roll my eyes and walk away. The incident pissed me off, but I didn't let it get to me at first. Then a girl I work with came back from the break room to tell me he was back there bragging about how he lost his virginity at 11.

Right. This from the kid who claims to be able to "please" a woman for eight hours at a time. Which I'm pretty sure is a biological impossibility, unless perhaps he's taking Viagra. Not to mention that I have serious doubts that this woman he speaks of is actually experiencing pleasure for all eight hours.

Then I went on break and noted the asshole talking to my coworker again from across the store. When I returned from break, she informed me that he'd been asking her if she'd told anyone about his prepubescent deflowering. At first she said no, but when pressed, she admitted to mentioning it to me. At which point he threatened to cut her tongue out if she told anyone else. Because his mom, who works in the deli, thinks he's a good kid.

Did I mention that this asshole is seventeen years old?

Who the fuck does he think he is?

So, either he's a pathological liar or his mom is completely delusional.

He's also threatened to beat up several of the guys who work there. Including a bagger who is about half my size. Apparently no one is safe.

The HR manager has assured me that I don't have to put up with harassment from customers. She assured me of this after my first encounter with an androgynous pervert who frequents the store. He hasn't said anything out of line to me yet, but his antics are legendary. Upon being told that his just-purchased frozen meat couldn't be warmed up for him, he told the woman behind the meat counter that she would warm it up for him even if she had to hold it between her legs. Her assurance, though, made me wonder if I have to put up with harassment from coworkers. She's been apprised of the situation and heard accounts from others who have had run-ins with him. She's supposedly compiled all the evidence and passed it on to the general manager. The male general manager. The asshole is still employed. He seems quiet, for now. Maybe he's learned his lesson. But if he's like this at seventeen, I shudder to think what he might be like as an adult.

Successful Nations

Two nights ago, I heard Mikhail Gorbachev speak at Millet Hall. I had to go because, as I said more than once, "it's fucking Gorbachev." Which led to some rather disturbing reactions from others, mostly along the lines of "Who's that?" Granted, I was only 11 when he resigned and the USSR was dissolved, but I still remember where I was and what I was doing when I heard it announced on television. Still, I knew who he was, as well as his role in pop culture (as I remember, a number of jokes circulated in the late '80s and early '90s regarding "that thing on Gorbachev's head").

Although the circumstances of his speech were less than ideal (there was no closed captioning, as in previous speakers at Millet, and his microphone was turned up as high as that of his translator's so that it was difficult to discern the English from the Russian at times), I did pick up on a couple of key points that I found insightful. One was that, despite the fact that the USSR was a superpower in its day and one of the most powerful (if not the most powerful) nations in terms of natural and intellectual resources, it was not a successful nation because it could not care for its people. Poverty was rampant, and that is inexcuseable for a superpower. I thought perhaps at the time he was making a very underhanded reference to the current situation for many American citizens, but I was pretty sure it was all in my head. Then, toward the end of his speech, he made the point that it is wrong to question the importance and overall integrity of the UN. Yes, reforms are in order, but the UN is not designed to serve only one country. It is designed to serve all countries, and the efforts by certain parties (Bush and Blair, presumably) to undermine its authority through criticism is unacceptable and irresponsible. Go Gorby!

Perhaps the biggest impression Gorbachev's visit to Oxford will leave on me, however, is the fact that my boyfriend and I saw a white limo pulled off in front of Bruno's Pizza on High Street after the speech. Two men, one of whom I am almost certain was the translator, rushed out of Bruno's and into the limo carrying a stack of pizza boxes. I've not had Bruno's but have been assured that I am not missing anything. Mark was sad that Bruno's mediocre pizza is the impression of Oxford cuisine that Gorbachev will take away from our humble little town, but he later surmised that the former world leader was drawn to Bruno's because of its Russian-sounding name. I looked it up; it's German.

Employment

A fortuitous development in the last week: I have a job. Not a fantastic job by any means - I work in the floral department at Kroger - but it's employment, and therefore I won't be kicked out of my apartment for not being able to pay rent. And I'll probably be able to buy food, too. So, good stuff. Not sure why I bothered going to college though...

The best part of my job by far is helping the helpless young men who come in to buy flowers for their girlfriends. The first customer I assisted on my first day was a young man buying a single long-stem rose to put on his significant other's car. He was concerned that the cold would harm the flower if it was left there for more than an hour or so. My manager assured him that it would be fine, and I wanted to pat him on the head and tell him he was a good boyfriend. The next day he called ahead, told me he was running late, and could I pick out the prettiest rose I could find in the cooler and have it wrapped and ready for him when he got there?

Then there was the young man who came in to buy two dozen roses for his girlfriend. He wanted them in a vase, so I set about arranging them. He asked if it would be all right if he ran home and showered while I finished up. He did so, and while he was gone I took a peek at the card he asked me to set aside for him. It was one of those sweet-to-the-point-of-almost-making-me-gag cards that tend to make some girls cry (probably me too, if I received it under the right circumstances). He also picked out one of those mini balloons to stick in the vase - one that proclaimed, in large red letters, "I love you." As if there were any doubt.

He was falling all over himself with gratitude when he came back and saw my handiwork (never have a worked a job that earned me so much gratitude from men before!) and, as he was signing the card with a borrowed pen, he asked if he could also get the very cute (and very expensive) teddy bear set up in the gift section as well. I had to restrain myself, after I retrieved it for him, from saying, "Dude, you are so getting laid tonight."

Dookie

Today my dear friends Linsey and Dara and I made the trek all the way up to Dayton's Nutter Center to take in the last show in Green Day's American Idiot tour. It was definitely the best punk rawk show I've been to in a long time, possibly ever. And it solidified my suspicion that Billie Joe Armstrong is, indeed, a rock god.

Ever since teenage America stood up and took note of the genius that is Dooke back in 1993, Green Day has taken a lot of flack for "selling out" - that is, going from an independent band playing shows in basements and other small venues to playing nearly sold-out venues such as the Nutter Center. I can understand why their original fans were pissed - Billie Joe and company basically signed a contract, changed their sound, to a certain extent, so that wider audiences would appreciate it, and left them behind. I saw a similar thing happen with a little band called Relient K (which, by the way, used to be a lot less evangelistic and a lot more punk - not musical genius by any means, but they were a band that the Canton, Ohio area could call its own, and I faithfully went to every show I caught wind of). But I actually think the band has returned to its original "fuck you" attitude with American Idiot. Instead of churning out more of the familiar pothead slacker counterculture anthems, the boys take a political stance with this album. It's a 21-track flip of the birdie to George W. Bush and all his supporters. And while I still can't comprehend the concept of a politically conservative punk, I do know they exist (I even taught a few in College English last year) and that making such a bold statement against GWB (and timing it around election time last fall) cost them some fans.

But anyway, back to the show itself: it kicked ass. The boys played American Idiot from top to bottom. And it was beautiful. Their encore (at least half the show in length) was at least as good; they covered all the hits off of Dookie and then some, and they even played completely random stuff like "Gay for a Day" (complete with some very nice hats). And oh, how Billie Joe can turn a girl on when he's just a speck on the stage fifty rows down. Sigh.

Expectations

I expect too much of people. I really do.

For example: The pathetic little student newspaper at my alma mater. I visited last week to participate in a panel discussion of grad school that was put on by the Career Development Center. I was impressed by the fact that it was even taking place; I remember no such service being offered by the CDC (ha, ha) while I was a student. And then I was disappointed when a mere seven students showed up. I think (I can't be sure, since I wasn't the same person then) that, had something like that been held when I had thoughts of grad school dancing in my head, I would have leaped at the opportunity to be enlightened by past Blufftonites. The current upperclassmen should appreciate their good fortune.

However, if such a thing did take place, and I missed it, I'm sure the reason was because I was busy trying to drag the student newspaper further out of the pathetic abyss it had resided in for decades prior to my class setting foot on campus (not an exaggeration; I cleaned all the back issues out of the Wit office's closet). Two of my classmates started that trend the year before I got there. I wanted to leave some kind of journalistic legacy. And yes, I use the term legacy with a bit of poetic license.

Things looked promising until the second semester after my grand exit from the premises: the communication department, in a grave lapse of judgment, decided to rip the reins of the newspaper from the hands of my hand-picked and much-lobbied-for English major predecessor and drop it in the lap of a dim-witted, cheerleader-for-Jesus communication major. And it became the print version of the 700 Club, religious spin all around.

I had hope when I flipped through a current issue and saw that one of the freshman staff writers during the Sommers administration had taken over as editor. She'd shown promise as a journalist and seemed to have some idea of what she was doing by the time the year was out.

Then I read her editorial. And was disappointed.

I'm not trying to say my editorials were brilliant, New York Times-worthy works of staggering genius. But they did get a few people to read the newspaper, if only to see how I would offend people's political, religious, and/or moral values. Or how I would mock the college and/or myself. The editorial I read was none of the above. It was a brief meditation on young love (young meaning first-year students). It was trite. Simplistic. Completely forgettable. As my college English students would say, it had no flow.

This revelation has been simmering on the backburner of my mind for a week now. It's merely one of a hundred instances in the past week where I have been disappointed by someone. A person's relationship to me, or whether I can even see his or her face, has no bearing on whether or not I will be disappointed. The breaking point today was, sadly enough, the driver of a car who failed to signal that he/she was making a turn as I waited to cross the street. The lack of a turn signal cost me at least ten seconds, and that was enough to piss me off during the entire walk between CVS and my apartment.

I need to be more realistic. I'm sure I disappoint people every day without even realizing it.

Happy New Development

From a writing standpoint, it blows goats when your narrator stops talking to you. Mine stopped talking to me sometime last spring-ish. But she came back with a vengeance this week: multiple epiphanies in the shower. It's a good thing. So thanks, Theda. Don't shut up now.

Abby Says Hello from 250 Miles Away

I found a hair on my bath towel this morning. It came from my puppy.



I miss her following me around and staring at me.

I Know Some People Who Would Agree With This

You're a Cheetah!

You are fast. Really fast. So fast, in fact, that many people may
never see you as you pass them by. You definitely have your soft spots, or maybe
just a lot of spots in general. You'd like to think of them as freckles. When
others say your name very quickly, you think they're accusing you of
something.


Take the Animal Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Retroactive Regret

(Emo Warning!)

I drove up to my beloved alma mater today to share my vast knowlege of graduate school (which still makes me laugh, considering I'm a bit of a fuckup in that department) with some like-minded undergraduates. And as I was travelling that familiar stretch of road, I couldn't help but think back on the period in my life when I made that trip in reverse, and driving north was the direction of home.

I'm not the kind of person who regrets much of what she's done in the past (aside from a few choice moments of utter stupidity I could have done without), because past actions are what make us who we are today. It's the things I didn't do that I regret. I didn't fully appreciate how good I had it during those four years - how completely surrounded I was by my kind of people. Sure, there were the obligatory shitheads, but they were far outnumbered by people I actually liked. And I had hot meals waiting for me in the cafeteria. I bitched and moaned about the food to no end, yes, but at the moment I'd much rather eat Marbeck than scour my cupboards for something decent to eat. And, most importantly, I didn't take all the risks I should have. I played it safe far too often. I stayed quiet when I should have said something. I settled for the status quo when I could have attempted something more progressive - and in all likelihood failed nonetheless, but at least I would know I tried. Cliche, I know, but I think a certain amount of living in the moment is healthy. At least it makes for a more interesting life.

Then again, I can't know for sure that I would be happier or more content with my life now if I'd done and said the things I wish I had. Milan Kundera comes to mind again (I swear, he's taken over my mind):

We can never know what to want, because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives nor perfect it in our lives to come.

Maybe the almost certain humiliation that would have resulted from doing and saying those things would make me less happy now. Those moments have long since passed anyway, and contemplating them at length only makes me less progressive in my life now.

None of this is to say I'm unhappy with my life. Quite the opposite, actually; for the first time in a good while, I can say that I'm content - as long as I live for the moment. Anything beyond that is rather unsettling.

On a completely unrelated note, I make a whole lot of stuff:

You're Taiwan!

Despite enormous setbacks, including the fact that most people refuse to
recognize who you are or even that you exist at all, you've built yourself into quite a
productive person.  You've got a little trouble maintaining a sense of personal order,
but through the mess, you're still very industrious and have a small but pivotal impact on
almost everyone you know, and even people you don't.  You make a whole lot of stuff.



Take the Country Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid

Dave Barry Disproved

So I'm reading Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being as part of my reading list. It's pretty deep stuff; every page seems to have some major philosophical revelation about something that I have to pause and consider. It's really interesting, but it makes for slow going. This guy ponders everything. Which, naturally, makes me think of a certain Dave Barry column...

Anyone who reads this who started at Bluffton College as a freshman within a few years of me knows the reading called "The Difference Between Men and Women" in the First Year Seminar textbook. You may not know Dave Barry wrote it, as I'm not sure proper credit was given in the book (at least not in the 1999-2000 edition), but you should know the story, if you started college with the discipline to actually read all the reading assignments you were given. For anyone who doesn't know what the hell I'm talking about (out of the total of five people who will actually read this), here is an excerpt:

Let's say a guy named Roger is attracted to a woman named Elaine. He asks her out to dinner; she accepts; they have a pretty good time. A few nights later he asks her out again; and again they enjoy themselves. They continue to see each other regularly, and after a while neither one of them is seeing anybody else.

And then, one evening when they're driving home, a thought occurs to Elaine, and, without really thinking, she says it aloud: "Do you realize that, as of tonight, we've been seeing each other for exactly six months?"

And then there is silence in the car.

To Elaine, it seems like a very loud silence. She thinks to herself: I wonder if it bothers him that I said that. Maybe he's been feeling confined by our relationship; maybe he thinks I'm trying to push him into some kind of obligation that he doesn't want, or isn't sure of.

And Roger is thinking: Wow! Six months.

And Elaine is thinking: But, hey, I'm not so sure I want this kind of relationship, either. Sometimes I wish I had a little more space, so I'd have time to think about whether I really want us to keep going the way we are, moving steadily toward... I mean, where are we going? Are we just going to keep seeing each other at this level of intimacy? Are we heading toward marriage? Toward children? Toward a lifetime together? Am I ready for that level of commitment? Do I really even know this person?

And Roger is thinking: So, that means it was... let's see... February when we started going out, which was right after I had the car at the dealer's, which means...let me check the odometer... Whoa! I am way overdue for an oil change here.

That was a long excerpt, I know, but who can resist just posting a line or two of the genius that is Dave Barry?

Now, I just called Dave Barry a genius, but I'm about to provide textual evidence that at least one exception to his model of male thinking exists: Milan Kundera. He seems to have done a pretty big load of thinking about everything (relationships included) in his day. For instance, the narrator explains that the character Tomas, in trying to determine whether he loved his future wife Tereza, eventually concluded that

Making love with a woman and sleeping with a woman are two separate passions, not merely different but opposite. Love does not make itself felt in the desire for copulation (a desire that extends to an infinite number of women) but in the desire for shared sleep (a desire limited to one woman).

This guy is more analytical toward his relationships than I am. And, naturally, he comes to much more meaningful conclusions than I do; the book (or at least Part One of it) is full of these thoughts blended seamlessly with the narration of a love story about two characters named Tomas and Tereza. No thoughts of oil changes here...

So there you have it: the works of Dave Barry and Milan Kundera in dialogue with each other. Go figure.

Liberal Crap

I saw Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. on The Daily Show two nights ago, and I'm still mulling it over in my head. He moves more slowly now than in the few television appearances I've seen him in before, but, as Jon Stewart observed sarcastically, he hasn't lost his edge.
One thing that I really have to respect him for is being willing to criticize anyone, regardless of his or her relative stance on an issue. That is, for example, the left, which is definitely the direction in which Vonnegut leans. He went on the Daily Show on Tuesday with a list he titled "Liberal Crap I Don't Want to Hear Again." There wasn't time on the show for him to read it, but Stewart assured him it would be published on the web site. Here it is:

Give us this day our daily bread. Oh sure.

Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those wh[o] trespass against us.
Nobody better trespass against me. I'll tell you that.

Blessed are the meek.

Blessed are the merciful. You mean we can't use torture?

Blessed are the peacemakers. Jane Fonda?

Love your enemies - Arabs?

Ye cannot serve God and Mammon. The hell I can't! Look at the Reverand Pat Robertson. And He is as happy as a pig in s**t.

I'm not saying I endorse everything the man is saying here, but Voneegut is giving a good example by speaking up when he sees something he doesn't agree with. If more people had thought the way he does after September 11, 2001 and been willing to openly criticize the way the Powers That Be handled, well, everything, maybe our country wouldn't be the mess it is now. And maybe President Bush wouldn't have been reelected. Maybe...maybe...maybe...

United We Stand is a nice concept in theory, but it sucks in practice. That kind of solidarity has to come from within; you can't slap it on a bunch of bumper stickers and expect it to come true. It seems to me that not everyone who still has those three words adhered to an SUV really understands what they're saying. One of the most ironic examples of stupidity I've ever seen appeared outside a dorm back in March of 2003, just as Bush was declaring war on Iraq. Some of the more liberal-minded students on campus had established a tent village on a lawn close to the dorm, complete with signs protesting the war. The sign that some of the dorm's residents posted in response to the protest read, "Our forefathers died to protect your free speech. Stop disrespecting them." The irony, of course, is that the tent villagers were actually honoring 'our forefathers' (why aren't there ever any 'foremothers'?), according to the dorm residents' line of thinking, at least, by exercising the free speech that so much was sacrificed for. The posters of the sign outside the dorm were technically disrespecting their 'forefathers' (the dorm's occupancy was completely male, by the way) by criticizing those who were exercising free speech.

My point, in this tangent-ridden post, is that free speech is good. And more people should take a cue from KVJ, 'cause he's great.

Epiphany

Sometimes you have to admit defeat before you find what you're looking for.

Cute Little Monkey

My "niece," Katelynn Sophia, at around three months. Her parents, Beth (my best friend from high school) and Robb, just got married a little over a week ago.

Weddings and Babies, Part 2

It's been a very eventful weekend. I spent it getting ready for a wedding on Saturday, a bridal shower today, and another wedding next Saturday. Being a bridesmaid in one wedding and maid of honor in another one the following week means lots of preparation, as I now know. If I was smart I'd be in bed now, making up for all the sleep I've lost in the last...well, three months, but wedding stuff can only be blamed for the last few days' insomnia. But I'm not smart, I guess.

The big upside of this weekend, however, was getting to see my new little cousin (my first cousin's son) and my "niece" for the first time. They're two of the happiest, cutest babies I've ever seen, but I'm probably pretty biased. I'll post pictures of them sometime when I'm not too tired to go get my camera and hook it up to my laptop. I must admit that it's pretty odd to see the girl I played Cabbage Patch Kids with back in the day holding a real baby - her baby. Or having the girl I traded notes with between classes in junior high carry on a conversation with me about the details of her upcoming wedding while breastfeeding a baby. However, babies are cute and fun - even more so when they're not yours. You get to enjoy them while they're pleasant and hand them back to their mommies when they get smelly or fussy.

Out of Place

I've been feeling somewhat displaced this last week. I think it has something to do with the fact that I (still) live in a college town but am no longer a college student. Or a grad student, from a techncal standpoint - that is, I'm not registered for any classes (for the first time in my life since I was 3), but I'm still doing studenty things, like writing a thesis and reading my fifty-book reading list. But try explaining all that to a newly-minted 21-year-old in a bar who asks, "So, do you go to Miami?" followed by the inevitable, "What's your major?"

Oxford is a different town in the beginning of August versus the end of August. In the beginning of August, it's quiet, contemplative, unconcerned with getting anywhere quickly. The townies wander about freely and occasionally even try to strike up a conversation with random strangers. In other words, it feels like any other small town in America: someplace where all you'd ever need for entertainment is a front porch to sit on at dusk.

And then, during the last couple weeks of August, the kids come back like locusts, leaving the evidence of their return everywhere: late-model SUVs in every available parking space, smashed beer cans on every lawn, incoherent yelling across streets and parking lots at three in the morning, and, of course, large herds of high strung 18-year-olds who take flight the moment one of their ranks sees a police car within a three-block radius and gets nervous. It's still true that all you really need for entertainment is a front porch to sit on, but you have to stay up much later, until about 2:30 or so, when everyone gets kicked out of the bars, to be truly entertained.

It's the Circle of Life, college style. This year's sophomore's laugh uproariously at the newbies who behave exactly as they did a mere twelve months ago. And twelve months from now, the skittish freshman who currently subscribes to the theory of safety in numbers will laugh uproariously at a new crop of freshmen, wondering how anyone could possibly behave so stupidly. The rest of us keep getting older and older, but the freshmen are always exactly the same age, though to the rest of us they seem to get younger every year.

Jesus Called. He Wants His Religion Back.

Today I read a very interesting essay in the latest issue of Harper's. Maybe 'interesting' isn't the right word, because it pretty much reiterated some thoughts I've had for a while regarding the Christian church as it exists today. So I'll call it vindicating, because Bill McKibben said it better than I can. It was titled "The Christian Paradox," and it outlined the disjunction between the commonly-held belief that the U.S. of A. is a Christian nation and the widespread behavior and beliefs of its so-called Christian constituents.

Before I go much further, I should clarify that I'm not aiming to condemn every American who calls himself or herself a Christian. I've known plenty of people who do their best to live their lives according to what Jesus taught. However, I've also know plenty of Christians who live their lives according to the church-as-industry style of Christianity that's become so popular in the last decade or two. You know, the sprawling megachurches with meticulously manicured landscaping, a state-of-the-art gymnasium, and a bookstore across the hall from the sanctuary. The kind that claims the Bible as the infallible word of God and yet seems to put more stock in the words of whatever theologian is most in vogue at any given time.

The latter is the brand of Christianity that McKibben is talking about. This is the brand of Christianity that frequently overlooks that second-greatest commandment part of the New Testament ("love your neight as yourself") in favor of a quote by Ben Franklin - "God helps those who help themselves." (McKibben points out that three out of four Americans believe that these words can actually be found in the Bible.) Last time I was in a Christian bookstore, which admittedly was a few years ago, the majority of the books it was peddling seemed to be more of the self-help variety - how to have a closer relationship with God, how to have a closer relationship with your spouse, how to organize your family into a hierarchy God would approve of, how to divine the date of the rapture from Leviticus, et cetera. I'm not saying that any of this is inherently bad. But if the purpose of these books is to help the reader live a more Christlike life, maybe a few other subjects could be covered. How to organize a soup kitchen, for instance. Sure, it sounds like a no-brainer, but I bet there are people out there who would be more inspired to actually do such a think if they had some helpful recipes, suggestions to make things run more smoothly, and some idea of what kinds of red tape is involved. Somewhere on the way to finding a ladle, a whole lot of Christians got caught up in finding a pagan pet-sitter for Fido on the day they meet Jesus in the air.

Perhaps what I admire most about McKibben's essay is that he is still willing to call himself a Christian. He clearly hasn't lost his faith in the religion, in spite of the tax cuts for the wealthy being pushed by the Christian right in his name and the names of the 85 percent of Americans who also consider themselves Christians. As for me, I'm starting to want some distance from the term. I've been doing some research on Buddhism for my thesis, and it's starting to look pretty good.

Read McKibben's article here

Scent Memory

Today I put on some traditional Vietnamese music. You know, the kind with minor tones that sounds like the "Chinese music" you played on all the black keys on the piano as a kid. Or at least I did. Hearing the simple melodies of the strings inspired me to dig out the incense I bought in a town somewhere around An Giang Province three years ago. I'd never opened the package, let alone burned any; it's spent the last three years triple-bagged in a box with all my other Vietnam loot that I get out when I'm feeling sentimental. Today, however, I decided to burn some.

Now, anyone who's been to a Buddhist temple, or even near an altar in the home of someone who worships his or her ancestors, knows how potent joss sticks are. Their purpose is to carry the prayers of those who use them up to heaven, so some wimpy Glade scent isn't going to cut it. This is why they've spent three years triple-bagged in a box. Sentimental as I am, I didn't want everything I own to smell like a temple. But today the smell seemed pleasant. I'm sure this is due in part to the fact that they've been around for a few years and their potency has waned. But as soon as I opened the first bag, it didn't smell like the stinky perfume I remembered. It smelled spiritual, like something that belonged in a holy place. And I was transported back to that Sunday morning three years ago when a few of my new Vietnamese friends picked up a group of us Americans to drive around Long Xuyen on motorbikes and see what religion was like in Vietnam.

We started at some Buddhist temples, which is where the scent of incense comes in. It's everywhere in the temple, because it's commonly used for worship; as I mentioned before, the smoke carries one's prayers up to heaven. At the second temple, the student I knew best, Tam, cast her fortune. She started with a joss stick, which she held between the palms of her hands as she prayed. I think she rubbed her hands together rapidly as she did it to make the incense spin back and forth; either that or she shook her hands up and down together. (I've seen both done; maybe it has something to do with making the smoke travel farther?) Then she walked up to the altar and stuck the joss stick in a pot full of sand along with a bunch of other burned down or half-burned joss sticks. Then she took a pair of kidney-shaped objects that were mirror images of each other, each with a flat side and a round side. She held them between her palms with the flat sides together, then raised them over her head and dropped them. The object was to get one flat side and one round side facing up; this seemed to be some kind of signal of preparedness to cast one's fortune (she kept doing it until she got the desired effect). After this was achieved, it was time to actually cast the fortune. She took a can (roughly the size of a soup can, if I remember correctly) full of narrow, flat sticks, each with a number on it. She held the can at a slight angle and shook it until one - and only one - of the sticks fell out. Whatever number was on the stick, that was the number she looked up in an old spiral notebook placed by the altar. Each number was listed, along with a hand-written fortune. When she was done, we uninitiated Americans took our turns. This probably sounds a little Ouija Board-ish, but it felt genuine. It really did. And I was a strict, no-way-to-heaven-but-Christ Christian at the time.

My fortune didn't exactly pan out...in fact, it became anything but accurate over time. But it was a morning that's still fresh in my mind. I guess scent really is the strongest sense tied to memory.

Independence

The Fourth of July was quite eventful for me, as were the days leading up to it: pool, fireworks, beer pong, darts, a couple of cookouts, more fireworks. It's always fun to watch gunpowder explode in various colors and patterns, especially when it's happening in the street in front of someone's house. I don't think I've ever celebrated the Fourth of July to the extent that this one was celebrated; I'm not that patriotic. But it was still a fun several days.

Today, however, was less celebratory. I received official notification that I've been turned down for a job in voluntary service because I'm not married. The job description didn't call for a married couple when I started the application, but it was changed somewhere in the midst of the process. Still, I don't understand why my marital status is the least bit relevant. I live by myself now, and yes, it's different from living alone in Vietnam, but I know several people who have done it and one who's doing it right now. Would being attached to another person make me a better teacher? I can't see how. Are these people afraid of a single woman who is self-sufficient? Do they think I need a man to keep me under control or something?

If you're going to pass me over for a job based on my qualifications, that's fine. I can accept that. But if you're going to pass me over because of my marital status, I can't accept that. I thought we were past that; I was under the impression that a person's worth was measured by his/her individual qualities, not by his/her ability to find a mate. Apparently, though, being an independent woman isn't conducive to getting the job I want.

Letter From Where I'd Like to Be

Today I received a letter from a very good friend in Vietnam. He's teaching at the university I'd like to be teaching at next year, but, apparently, won't be. Seeing a stamp that said "Viet Nam" in my mailbox made me dance a little jig, and it made my average day fantastic. There's just something about a handwritten letter - from the other side of the world - that ranks up there with my favorite sensations: standing on the beach, watching the ocean and waking up so far away from civilization that all you can hear is crickets. Maybe I'm exaggerating a tad, but I was pretty excited.

Index

I now have just over a month before I have to be out of my apartment and have my thesis and reading list finished if I want to graduate in August. It's hard to believe it's almost been two years already, and so much has happened in those two years. Two apartments, two relationships ending, two admirers. Five classes of freshman I've taught - over a hundred students. One eulogy. A couple dozen new friends; several dozen new acquaintances. At least half a dozen weddings. One new 'niece,' a new second cousin, a new third cousin with a sibling on the way. A new cousin by marriage. Two bridesmaid dresses. Five fish. A new laptop. Somewhere in the vicinity of a hundred books. About a dozen workshop submissions. Another dozen papers. Two presentations at academic conferences. Several thousand dollars of debt. Two surgeries. Three fibrocystic lumps removed. One cancerous thyroid removed; one round of radiation pending. Thirty-odd get well cards. Five bouquets of flowers. Eight plants, seven of which are still alive. One dead blender. One uncertain future; an infinite number of possibilities.

An Open Mind Is An Asset

"For it is not inertia alone that is responsible for human relationships repeating themselves from case to case, indescribably monotonous and unrenewed: it is shyness before any sort of new, unforeseeable experience with which one does not think oneself able to cope. But only someone who is ready for everything, who excludes nothing, not even the most enigmatical, will live the relation to another as something alive…."

Rainer Maria Rilke knew what he was talking about. I wish I could say I was well-read enough to know this quote without the help of a movie, but that's just not the case. As chick flicks go, though, _Kissing Jessica Stein_ is pretty good. It's kind of an anti-chick flick, really. Unfortunately it has a typically formulaic happy ending. I'm sorry, but the guy doesn't always come back.

I'm not sure what got me on this tangent. Actually, yes I do. A hot night and day spent pondering my life thus far and where it's going. And my usual obsession with the past.

Something to think about

Pearl of wisdom from a good friend's mother: "Men want STDs; women want commitment."

At least it's something to think about.

One More Cup Of Coffee

A couple of friends from college came down to visit this weekend, and it was nice to hang out and goof off like we used to. It's funny how we all thought college was so much work while we were there, but now that we're all graduate students, it seems like we had all the time in the world to screw around.

We went to May Day at our alma mater, which is basically a celebration for new graduates and alumni the day before graduation. We saw a few friends who are graduating this year, as well as our favorite professors, who seemed genuinely glad to see us. There were hugs all around, and pictures, and many conversations about what we've all been up to. It felt strange that Bluffton College (now Bluffton University) goes right on without us; it's easy to assume sometimes that something you used to be a part of just kind of stops as soon as you're gone.

Weddings and Babies

I found out last weekend (or at least it was confirmed last weekend; I've had suspicions for a while) that my cousin is pregnant. She lived next door to me all through childhood, and we're only nine months apart, so we were basically like sisters growing up. It's strange to think of her as a mother; in my mind, she's still the way she was in her first year or two of college, which was the last time I saw her on anything like a regular basis. She got married a few years ago and moved to Virginia, and I haven't seen her a whole lot since, even though she's now living in Columbus.

She's due at almost exactly the same time as my best friend from high school (whose baby I've known about since October). It's so odd that two of the most important people from my formative years are about to become parents. I have trouble imagining myself married, let alone completely responsible for another human being.

Speaking of marriage, my best friend from elementary school is getting married in two weeks. It's also hard to imagine her as a wife (I've seen her maybe half a dozen times in the past six years, and at least half of those were chance encounters in passing). And another cousin is getting married in May, about the time the two babies are due. I'm a bridesmaid in that wedding (though I think I was only added because they had an extra groomsman or something, because I was asked later than everyone else), and my pregnant cousin was supposed to be too, but as it turns out, she'll be giving birth at about that time....

So that's two weddings and two babies in the space of two months. How is it that all my friends and cousins are doing so many "adult" things and I'm still figuring out what the hell I want to do with my life? I'm starting to feel like a spinster at the age of 24. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure I don't want to be married, let alone a mother, at this point.

A Brand New Woman

I had lunch with my mom and my aunt who took care of my grandfather for at least the last 26 years (ever since my grandmother died). My aunt never married, and she's in her late 50s, I think. She's thinking about getting new bedroom furniture and moving into my grandfather's room. She's debating what kind of bed to get, and someone suggested that she just get a twin bed so she'll have more room in the bedroom for other things. But she rejected that and told the person, "Hey, maybe I'll get married." And now she's talking about traveling, and she goes out to lunch with friends several times a week - things she never did before because she hadn't been able to leave Grandpa alone too much for the past seven or eight years, at least. Suddenly she's a fifty-something bachelorette, and I'm not sure whether to be happy for her, sad that she never got to do these things before, or admire her because she gave up so much to take care of her father for all those years.

Life Goes On

This was a very long week. Sunday through Tuesday alone seemed like an eternity. I got home Sunday afternoon and left almost immediately for my aunt's house (the aunt who took care of my Grandpa) to put together some pictures for the calling hours and memorial service. Monday was the calling hours, preceded by a dinner. That was a long three hours. Especially in heels (stupid! stupid! stupid!). And especially because of all the offering of sympathy. I appreciate the sentiment, but each time I heard "You have my sympathy," it was like being emotionally drained all over again. And then there was the writing of the eulogy. And the delivery of the eulogy. And sobbing through the eulogy. It was kind of nice to see my dad's side of the family, especially since they were all getting along. But I'm unbelievably glad it's all over.

I did learn some interesting things about my dad, though. For instance, he and his brother Merle once had trouble getting one of the cows to cross the road. So they got the pickup, and one of them drove while the other stood in the back with a lasso. My cousin Beth theorized that they may have watched a little too much Lone Ranger. Interestingly enough, they don't seem to be clear about who did the driving and who did the lassoing.

Memories of Grandpa

It is almost impossible to think about Grandpa Sommers without also thinking of his love for animals. The earliest memory I have of him is visiting the farmhouse on Saturday mornings. If he wasn’t outside tending to matters on the farm, we would find him upstairs in the living room, always in the same brown chair. Without fail, the first thing he would ask me was “How’s Charlie?” referring to the family dog. And I would tell him she was fine, and then we could sit down and get along with the rest of the visit. As the years went on and a procession of pets came and went, the question would change to “How are the kitties?” or “How’s Abby?” but it was always asked.

One of the more famous stories in circulation about Grandpa involves a neighbor’s dog by the name of Sport that had a habit of coming by the farmhouse to visit. Grandpa would try tirelessly to convince the stubborn dog to go home where it belonged. Then one day he reasoned that, since the dog’s owners were Amish, perhaps it would respond better to Pennsylvania Dutch. So, instead of the usual “Sport, go home,” he said, “Sport, geh heim.” And surprisingly enough, Sport did, indeed, go home.

Grandpa was also quite fond of the cats that settled in and multiplied in the barn and various other structures on the farm. When the weather was warm, he would sit out on the wooden bench on the back porch and watch the kittens frolic on the blacktop. He wasn’t always just a casual observer, though. He would pet the more friendly ones that came up to him, or, more often, he would flick a string or a piece of baler’s twine around and watch them flip through the air. He always had a smile on his face when he played with the cats, and he didn’t forget about them when he moved away from the farmhouse. Just last week, he reminded Uncle Merle to make sure the cats got fed.

Grandpa’s love for animals was not just limited to creatures that could be found in Millersberg, however. He enjoyed trips to the Columbus Zoo and Sea World with the same delight on his face as when he played with the cats. Sea World in particular left an impression on him. The last time he went, about ten years ago, my mother took some pictures of him watching the dolphins and laughing, his mouth wide open in amazement. He was so enraptured that he had no idea his picture was being taken or that my parents and I were talking about how much he was enjoying watching the dolphins.

Perhaps Grandpa was so fascinated with the dolphins because he’d always loved the water. He had a swimming pool put into the yard and took up waterskiing in the late 1950s. I can remember summer day trips to Tappan Lake to go out on the pontoon boat and watch Grandpa and other relatives water-ski. I was amazed by how fearless he was. He seemed to subscribe to the adage that “you’re only as old as you feel,” because he kept waterskiing until he was 84. Even then he continued to swim laps at the local health club, a place that he became so familiar with that he recorded the dimensions of the pool in one of his notebooks, along with the temperature at the center of the sun and the gas milage he got driving to Orrville.

Although Grandpa was quiet and thoughtful, and no one I’ve talked to can remember him ever becoming angry, he did have an ornery streak. His pranks usually centered around electronics; some of the stories in circulation involve electric fences, live wires, and ignition coils. When he owned Millersburg Storage Battery, an auto repair shop, the occupants of a neighboring business had a tendency to play their AM radio a little too loudly for his preference. When it got particularly loud, he would hook up an ignition coil so it would spark and create a significant amount of static on the radio. The owners of the radio were always quick to turn the volume down when the signal degraded into a loud buzz.

His antics may have irritated one or two people, but there are probably few people around the local area who haven’t had a battery charged, a television or radio fixed, a tv antenna put up or repaired, or otherwise been exposed to Grandpa’s kindness and generosity. He had many friends, as evidenced by the turnout at last night’s calling hours, and he will surely be missed.

Thoughtful Cliche about Death Goes Here

My grandfather died yesterday. It wasn't wholly unexpected, because he had pneumonia, but the general consensus was that he was starting to get better. My aunt thinks he just gave up. He was in the hospital for a while, and then he was supposed to be in a nursing home for a week or two, but he was so miserable that my aunt brought him home after a couple days. So at least he died in his own bed, and he wasn't sick for that long.

I didn't get home to see him this Christmas because of the flooding, and now I regret that, of course. But like my friend Jess said, hindsight is 20/20. He wasn't even sick then. But I've had this feeling that it was going to happen for a couple months, and not just because he was 97, and I should have listened to it.

There's a picture of me sitting on his lap when I was about for. We were at Sea World, and I was wearing a cute little hat with a frilly brim that had Dolly the Dolphin on it and a Papa Smurf necklace. We're both laughing. I remember that day, and I remember being really happy. I think he was pretty happy that day too.

I don't like Mondays...or Tuesdays...

But I won't be opening fire on any high schools.

This is turning into one of those weeks that makes me think I should retreat into my bed and not emerge until at least Thursday. Bad (but well-deserved) critiques, a hospitalized grandfather, and a visit to the gynegologist with more repurcussions than just an unpleasant 10 minutes are quite enough negativity in my week. And it's only Tuesday.

But I do have an application for a job that could get me out of the country next year in my hands now, so that's a plus.

Stacks

I now have two stacks of books beside my bookshelves (they won't even begin to fit on the shelves, which have books stacked in two rows and stuffed vertically in available crevices) which I will have to read before August. And they're not even the extent of what I will have to read; they're actually only about half of the total list. So I get the feeling that I'm screwed with the whole thesis thing. Fifty books, at least 180 pages of a novel, and three more months with David Schloss stand between me and graduation. Things are not looking up.

On the up side, I received a drunken dial this afternoon all the way from Vietnam (it was about 1 a.m. there, I think), where I will hopefully be situated this fall. I hope, I hope, I hope. America be damned, I want to get as far away as possible

Cabin Fever

The furthest I wandered today was upstairs in my apartment building to get my mail. That's probably why I started this today: nothing better to do. Or rather, too many better things to do, such as work on my thesis or read for class or grade papers.

I always feel guilty when I go an entire day without breathing fresh air, like I've cheated myself out of an opportunity of some kind. And so I tell myself that tomorrow I will do better; I will walk up to the coffee shop and interact with people and get some work done.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, Iraqi citizens are braving threats of violence to vote in the election that my country has more or less orchestrated, even though our current President said, just over a week ago, that "Freedom, by its nature, must be chosen, and defended by citizens, and sustained by the rule of law and the protection of minorities" and that "America will not impose our own style of government on the unwilling." Except, perhaps, when the unwilling have oil we want. Bush can say all the things he knows he's supposed to say, but all those idealistic words fly in the face of everything he's done to the contrary during the last four years.