I've Moved!

Dear Readers (And Anyone Else who May Stumble Across this Site):

As you may be able to tell, I'm no longer posting to this blog.

If you are interested, my thoughts have moved to two new locations.  I'd love for you to visit me there.  Please consider following either or both of these blogs:

Speaking of Books is a site devoted to book reviews and essays about reading, books, and culture.

SpitzSpeak is my personal blog.

Much Love,

Drennan

Wow!  So over the last three weeks or so, I've started so many posts that somehow never got posted.  One was about the Hardy Boys and was titled "Hardy, Har, Har."  I slay me!  But then somehow, all these brillig things I had to say, mostly about what I've been reading, have fallen by the proverbial wayside.  But today, I'm going to make myself post something, anything.  Only, I don't really have all that much to say, or maybe I'm feeling uncharacteristically guarded.  I wish I could post pics of all the groovy (or some might say old-lady) craft projects I've been working on, but my crafting life has been stalled recently, as I feel like I work all the time.  Oh, and keeping up with TV does seem to suck up a significant amount of my life.  The really icky thing about lately is I've not really been writing, not the way that I need to to be healthy.  And I know this about myself.  I need to journal to process things, feelings, whatever.  I need to write, or else. . . Maybe later I talk about the "or else."  But I haven't been writing lately, and I'm suffering.  So this post is going nowhere, fast. 

One final thought.  A couple months ago (and C. thought this would be a good idea too!) I started a list of men with whom I'm in love but who, for whatever reason, cannot love me back.  I should note that I use the term "in love" loosely, flippantly.  At the time, I thought that if I could look at their commonalities, I could discover something about my ideal mate.  The biggest commonality is that they can't love me.  Of course, many of them are fictional characters--this is an ongoing issue with me.  But I'm really trying to figure this out--what does it mean that I'm always "in love" with men who are unavailable for one reason or another?

First Day. . .

As some of you know, today, Tuesday 19 January, is the first day of classes of my new semester.  I both love and hate the first day of classes.  I love the beginning of a new term, for the same reason that I love Mondays:  it's a chance to get organized and start over.  I thrive on the process of cleaning out, scheduling, organizing, setting goals and having this period of time (a week, a month, a semester, a year) in front of me to see them through.  It's like there's such possibility for success of all kinds.  And I love, love, love that feeling.  I love putting together syllabi (mine tend to be quite detailed) and seeing the entire fourteen weeks outlined there, on paper.  It's not about control, although I struggle with wanting control in many areas of my life.  It's more about planning and setting goals and believing that one can actually achieve them.  But it's also about doing what I can now to reduce stress later.  I plan out the reading and topic for exploration for each and every class period so that it's one less decision I have to make later.  And sure, I have to make changes as I go--I can be flexible.  But I like knowing where it is that I'm going and how I'm going to get there.

I do, also, hate the first day of classes.  As much as I love having a syllabus, a plan in place for my classes and my time and my life for the next few months, I absolutely HATE spending the first day of class going over the syllabus.  Rather than exploring this fascinating, potentially rewarding plan for the class, I end up droning on and on about policies:  how many absences students are allowed, the fact that I don't take late work.  All of it's there in writing, and I read through it, all of it.  I think it's important to do so, because I think that it's important that students be aware of my expectations and the requirements for success in the class.  But it's both boring and discouraging.  I find that I'm not overviewing all the fun things we'll be doing or the ways that they can succeed.  Rather, I'm emphasizing all the things they should avoid doing.  Partly, I always hope to scare off those who aren't willing to take the class seriously.  And I figure I should come across really mean at the start--it's easy to loosen up later.  If you've read Miss Nelson is Missing, and you should if you haven't, you'll know that being too nice is just a recipe for paper airplanes and spit wads.  So I start out like Miss Viola Swamp.  And although I think it's necessary, I sort of hate having to be that way, you know?  But basically, going over syllabi is just plain boring for everyone in the room, including me.

I guess I'm always glad when the first class meeting is over and I can think about the second and all the things I really love about teaching.

Dear Blog:

Oh, how I loved you once. You were my place to plot and plan, my repository of dreams and fears.  You were my medium for giving shout-outs and for venting frustrations.  I loved you:  the look of you, the feel of you.  I loved changing your background and posting photos.  I loved comments, usually in the form of encouragement, from friends.  

But alas, I've neglected you in recent months.  In September, I cancelled my internet service at home.  On the whole this has been a good decision; it's saved me both time and money.  And let's face it:  the so-called high speed service from FairPoint was just plain crappy.  And in the process, you, my beloved blog, have fallen by the wayside.  I've ignored you, and in the process, I think I've ignored part of myself.

This is something I shall change.  I am certainly going to make it a priority of this new semester (classes start on 19 January!) to post more regularly.  I'm going to maintain my relationship with you, oh blog. 

And here's my motto for the new year:  Nolite te bastardes carborundorum!

Your friend,

Drennan

The Things We Tell Ourselves

We tell ourselves that things will get better, but what if they don't?  I mean, what if this is as good as it gets?  Yesterday, I watched the most recent episode of Project Runway, and the guy who got kicked off made the comment that he just believes that being "out" just means that there has to be something even better waiting for him, in terms of his career as a designer.  But what if that's not the case?  I mean, what if he's just a sub-par creator in a industry where even the truly talented and brilliant struggle and sometimes don't make it?  What if this was his one moment of glory?  He also said that dealing with being eliminated from PR was harder than dealing with drug addiction.  I find that hard to believe.

But I think about this alot, especially since I didn't marry JS five and one-half years ago.  (Has it been that long?  It feels like such a short time ago in some ways.)  I mean, at the time, people told me things like, "God just has someone even better for you."  Or, "I just know you're going to find someone who will love you for who you are."  But I haven't.  And maybe I won't.  Maybe loving but ultimately being rejected by JS and Cory and whoever else is just my lot in life.  Maybe this is it.

I used to think alot about preparing for my future--going to school so I could get the kind of job I wanted, improving myself so I could be a good wife and mother someday.  But I feel like I've spent far too much of my life waiting for things that may never happen.  I also feel like, far too often, doing what I believed I was supposed to do has alienated me and has led to not just a broken heart but a broken spirit.

At the same time, there's this weird irony about this being "it," you know?  For so, so long, I was determined that although I might have a career, I never wanted it to be more important than the people in my life.  I wanted, always, for my (theoretical and / or actual) husband and children to come before that career.  This was always, always like this big value for me.  I was so determined that I never wanted to put my career before relationships, that I would not, for example, insist that a partner move across the country so that I could have the job I wanted.  I was insistant that I wanted, always, to prioritize things so that I'd have time and energy for the people I cared about most.  I always wanted to be a stay-at-home mother someday, maybe going back to work when my children got older.  I always told myself, told other people that I wasn't a "career woman," whatever that means.  And yet, in spite of all that, a career and no spouse, no children is exactly what I've ended up with.  I love my job--I do--and I feel blessed to have a career that I find exciting and interesting and rewarding and meaningful.  But I worked so hard to not always put my pursuit of a career first.  And here I am.

And while I try to be OK with all of it, to be OK with my life turning out so other than what I expected, I wonder what's wrong with me, you know?  What is it that, apparently, marks me as so undesirable?  Why does everyone else have a partner and not me?  And I wonder if there's just something wrong or defective about me.  I mean, everyone else seems to even have more friends than I do.  I wonder what I'm doing wrong.

I know that really this all could maybe just be tagged "self pity" and dismissed.  And maybe I'm writing it, in part, so that I can dismiss it.  I do believe that sometimes just voicing these things allows us to somehow loosen the hold that they have on us.

Happy Dove Day, to those of you in the know.

Mama's Lovey-Dove