Why Do Things Have to Be So Complicated?

Why do things have to be so complicated? Why can't iPods work the way I want them to? Why do other people have to be difficult and then hurt my feelings on top of it? Why can't Hugh Laurie really be Dr. House? Why can't I get to sleep at a reasonable hour? Why do I have to feel guilty about setting traps and plotting to kill the rodents that seem to be living in my garage? Why can't I have normal dogs? Why does it sometimes have to be 95 with humidity? Why dosen't anyone understand? Why can't I just be "average" instead of neurotic?

I know these are all kinda silly questions, and I know that what's really going on is that I'm feeling sorry for myself. And I know that so often life doesn't work the way that we think it's supposed to. I don't know. So often, all I want to do is cry, and believe me, I do cry plenty often. I guess the worst part is that I sometimes feel so completely alone.

I'm nearly at the end of my rope, to use an overused metaphor. Or was that a simile? Just kidding, I do know the difference. Really. My boiler needs to be replaced, which means 1) for the time being, I have a very limited hot water supply 2) the boiler has leaked and I may have some water damage in my flooring and 3) I'm going to have to spend lots of money. And I've been dealing with that all day, which is bad enough. But then earlier, I went into the garage, to check the leak from said boiler and, lo and behold, there's this mouse on the other side of the garage peeking his head over a shelf and looking at me. I suspected I had mousy visitors in my garage, but I didn't really want to have to see any of them. I guess I was in denial, which, apparently, isn't just a river in South America. There are about 10-thousand other things that could push me over that line, but I suppose that here isn't the place to go into them. The worst part of it is that all of this makes me wish I were still in California, where boilers aren't an issue. Last night, on Rachael Ray's Tasty Travels, Rachael visited the CA central coast, and when she's in Morro Bay, I'm like, "Hey, I've eaten there." And when she's in San Luis, I'm like, "Hey, I love that place!" And today's my brother's birthday, and I'm sitting here knowing that I'm in Vermont, while the rest of them are going out to dinner. And all I really want is to go home.

And once again, I want to say, "Sucks to your ass-mar."

A New Identity

Hey, so maybe what I need is this new cool, Kung-Fu, on-the-down-low, secret identity, an identity where I'm much cooler than I am in real life. Like wouldn't it be cool if, instead of being a potentially stodgy old-maid English teacher, I were a private eye? That would be kick-ass! And I could follow people around, I don't know, Santa Barbara or wherever, posing as a crocheting whatever, because that's what I do too. And I pick Santa Barbara because that's where Sue Grafton's Kenzie what's-her-name lives.

Or maybe I could be, I don't know, a performance artist of some sort. Becuase I have all these ideas for what I think would make for interesting performance art, and most of them involve inactments of the Grimm's fairy tales, with the intention of removing the pink-Disney-sugar coating of what we call fairy tales. That would be like a cool, underground, alternate life to have.

I found out recently that T., a friend and co-worker of mine, happened to interview at the same small, liberal arts college in Virginia that I interviewed at a couple of years ago. I believe that there's this weird, alternate universe where T. and I are friends but both work at the college in Virginia. Only we're much less happy than we are now at C.

And then, there's this really weird alternate reality, Bizarro World, really, where I used to be married to Huell Howser. But that would be weird enough to warrant its own post.

Writer's Block, Blogging, and Going Sane

Ok, so I've been working through Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way, not for the first time. And I know that lots of you out there are probably familiar with Cameron's work, but I totally recommend this book, more of a program really, to those of us who write or who are feeling the urge to pursue creative kinds of things.

Last night, I read this, and it seems worth repeating. Cameron explains that "A related thing creatives do to avoid being creative is to involve themselves with crazymakers" (44) Crazymakers, she argues, are those people who suck up all our time, emotions, energy and resources so that we remain blocked. I'm convinced that, whether we call them "crazymakers" or not, we've all been involved with these kinds of people somewhere along the way. If we are lucky, we weren't foolish enough to marry them. But Cameron asks why we tend to involve ourselves with these kinds of people: "If crazymakers are that destructive, what are we doing involved with them? The answer, to be brief but brutal, is that we're that crazy ourselves and we are that self-destructive. . . As frightening and abusive as life with a crazymaker is, we find if far less threatening than the challenge of a creative life of our own" (49). And it seems to me that Cameron is so right, and her ideas certainly apply to many of us, not just would-be-creatives.

And so here I sit, blogging again. And I can't remember if the blogging is merely a warm up for my "real" work or if the blogging is part of my "real" work (note the use of real in apostrophes!) or if blogging is the reward. And I like being in the place where the work and the reward get mixed up because it means that the work has become the reward itself and we don't need more. But I'm blogging, in part for the same reasons that I'm reading Cameron; I want a voice and I want to go sane. Cameron says that at first, "going sane feels just like going crazy" (41). But I'm here because I'm trying my hardest to go sane, as difficult as it feels, and I'm working at cutting out the crazymakers and all the other things I sometimes use as excuses for not doing the work that I believe I'm called to be doing. I don't want to have this weird, neurotic sense of identity. I don't want to succumb to being the brooding, lonely, sacrificial-for-her-work type. I want sanity in my life, sanity, order, trust, relaxation.

Last Night's Grey's Anatomy, the Desert Island Game, and Behaving Questionably in College

Ok, so last night, they (here, "they" means ABC, I guess) reran the episode from season one where George gets all bent outta shape because Meredith and Izzy keep walking in on him in the shower. And I really have to take George's side on this one. Seriously, I'm not an overly modest person by nature, but there are limits. But the really cool thing is that Izzy is walking around in Hello Kitty underwear. So here's my confession: I sometimes wear Hello Kitty underwear. I know, I know, this may be a case of TMI; I rather tend towards sharing more than people really want to know. But seriously, this is great, because I can almost pretend that I'm nearly as cool as the chracters on Grey's Anatomy. Now, if only I'd meet my own personal Dr. McDreamy, I'd be set.

And I know this isn't the first time I've mentioned Patrick Dempsey in a post. But I love that he demonstrates that geeky guys (think: Can't Buy Me Love) can grow up to be kinda sexy but still rather geeky guys.

But then, I'm all conflicted about liking Grey's Anatomy. I mean, like Meredith, weren't we all in love with Dr. McDreamy? (Ok, Ok, I know that I throw around the phrase "in love" rather too often. I'm in love with a character on TV; I'm in love with teaposts; I'm in love with pasta with gorgonzola cream sauce; I'm in love with the perfect cuppa.) But then, like Meredith, we find out that he's married. And I hate this, when this happens on TV or in a movie, when they set it up so that you want married character to get together with someone who isn't his or her spouse. In real life, I'd be so not OK with this, but when it's Meredith and McDreamy, I want to see her with him. You don't have to be a psychoanalyst to note that I'm identifying with Meredith here. At the same time, I'm rather shocked and bothered by how promiscuious M's become, especially in season 2. In real life, I'd be pretty not OK with that, but I keep watching the show. I dunno.

"Paging Dr. McDreamy, Paging Dr. McDreamy." If I page long enough, will he show up?

Yes, deciding I'm all gaga over TV characters is all kinda dumdum of me. I know this.

Ok, so who would I rather be stuck on a desert island with: McDreamy, Inspector Morse, or Albert Campion?

When I was in college, my roomate Cort and I used to lie in bed at night giggling as we played what we called The Desert Island game. Our favorite delimma was this: Eric Karros or Mike Piazza? That's a real toss up. So, now I'm all nostalgic for C. and staying up late at night and giggling. Hey C, if you are reading this, do you remember these: "What? Frazer owns Disneyland?" "What? he has legs like Darryl Strawberry?" There were more inside jokes, but I can't remember them any more. Oh, how about this one, "You have all the qualities I'm looking for in a wife"? My mom even still remembers that one. Remember when we were accused of cheating in either OT or NT survey? Remember when we got kicked out of registration by leg-warmer lady because our skirts were deemed to be too short? Remember skipping chapel to meet the gang at Cambridge Coffee House? Oh, here's a good one: do you remember drinking Aftershock, of all the vile things, and "Thanks for coming, guys!" Do you remember when throwing pennies at Stimerman's window seemed like a good idea? Best of all, do you remember when I "went for the triangle" and split someone's lip, which of course grew out of midnight Uno games and "rubine" and, "Hey, you, placenta head!" Remember when Joybug decided that we should call Stinky by his real name because doing so would encourage more mature behavior from him? The weird part was that everytime anyone called him anything besides "Stinky," wouldn't know who was being referred to. Oh, and what about the Big D, the "momager." Wow! life seemed so much simpler back then. Seirously, I'm all teary-eyed now.

This has been a very self-indulgent post; I realize that. But it's made me laugh and cry and realize that I love Cort and Joybug and all the rest.

I'm "Outing" Myself

This announcement is worthy of my super-special-favourite (let's use the "u" in honor of Virginia W. today) pinkish font. I've done it. Per Dr. Phil's and my mother's advice, support, and urging, I've signed up at match.com. Yes, I am officially trolling the internet for prospective whatevers. I feel slightly weird about it, which I shouldn't. So I thought it best to just let the world know that this is who I am right now, today.

Teaposts

Ok, so here's a really great idea, only it's really Dolce Carina's idea, owing to a typo, but I think it's an idea worth exploring: teaposts.

Teaposts are these little roadside (or maybe even in the food court at the mall) tea shops. Maybe they are kinda like Starbuck's sans the Seattle vibe and plus a hip, British vibe. So you go into the teapost, maybe it's like a reststop along the interstate, maybe it's just in your local shopping center. And, obviously, you order a cup of tea. And they bring you this proper cup of tea, with lemon and cream. And it's not that fannings-shit-tea in a stupid tea bag, but it's looseleaf in this great strainer. And they serve it up to you in like a pretty Royal Daulton cup, and you get like your currant scone, or your ginger scone or whatever, and it's like this cool mini-break to break up the drive down the interstate, like the one from LA to San Fran when you are stuck out there in the desert with nothing but the Harris Ranch beef farm to look forward to. Or maybe, because your significant other is in this big hurry (like he can't give up 10 minutes for you to drink your tea--maybe he just doesn't get the significance of tea), you get it to go. And your to go tea still comes with all the fun condiments and what-have-you, and it's served in some pretty to go cup, something non-styrofoam.

We totally need teaposts. And when we are tired of all the things we think we should be doing, we can all meet up at the teapost, naturally with our PTs (personal transcriptionists) in tow, because in case we say anything brilliant at the teapost, we need someone to copy it down.

Wow! Thanks DC for such a brilliant idea.

Toads

Suddenly, my back yard is over run with these tiny, tiny toads. Here's a rather blurry pic of one sitting on my thumb, just to show the scale.

But really, there are toads EVERYWHERE. They are kinda interesting and pretty cute because they are so little. At the same time, it makes me rather nervous, because I worry about stepping on them, or what will happen when the lawn-guy mows, or what it will be like when they become big toads.

My guess is that they are migrating and will only be temporary visitors to my yard, rather than permanent guests.

I'm a Happy Hooker!

I realize that it may seem silly to devote a blog entry to my recent crochet projects, but they just really make me happy right now. I recently purchased the latest in the uber hip knitster Stitch N Bitch series, titled Stitch N Bitch Crochet: The Happy Hooker. While some may find the title in questionable taste, it's a great little book that gives both the basics of crochet and some super cool patterns. I just finished this great little scarf that's a bunch of crocheted flowers crocheted together! Ladies (and this is a serious offer), I love making scarves, and I really don't have need of more, so if you'd like one, let me know. Dolce Carina can tell you that I can crochet a mean (or at least a fashionable) winter time scarf. I keep thinking that I wish I could figure out how to make and SELL scarves. I mean, there has to be some chic little botique out there where hand-made scarves would sell. Or maybe I could have a web site. A friend I work with makes and sells tote bags and other assorted items on web site.

See www.zeebagsvt.com

I mean, I could do this, right? I know I wouldn't get rich, but at least I could spend those long, winter in Vermont evenings creating something that could be of use to others.

Seriously, if anyone wants a scarf, e-mail me. I'm thrilled to make them for friends!

Yummy, Yummy Pasta!

Oh, this is worth reporting! So yesterday, I made this great pasta, and it was so totally easy, thank you Rachael Ray! While the spaghetti (or whatever you want is boiling), you melt some unsalted butter in a pan with a little pepper and some olive oil. Before draining the pasta, you reserve some of the cooking water, then toss the drained pasta in the butter and oil mixture, adding as much of the cooking water as is needed to mositen everything. Finally, you add a handful or two of grated Peccorino-Romano cheese. As Rachael Ray would say, "Yummo!"

I know that some of you out there love me in spite of the fact that I'm a big fan of Rachael Ray, but this recipie was really, really yummy. It was just like really good comfort food, like Mac N Cheese for adults, all buttery and cheesy and yummy. And there was something just really satsifying about eating it, you know?

Summer School

Ok, so maybe I'm just being a big baby here--wouldn't be the first time--but I'm so thankful that this is the last week of summer school. For some reason, I had the misguided idea that teaching summer school would somehow be less stress than teaching during the regular term. I've taught summer school many times before. In fact, last summer was the first summer since I started teaching that I didn't teach at all over the summer. And in the past, it's been a positive experience. The crop of students and the workload has just been different than during the regular academic year. But this summer, the bottom dropped out, I suppose. It's not that summer school has been an inordinate amount of work, because the actual number of hours I spend working seems quite managable, certainly no more than during the regular year. The stress, however, has been nearly overwhelming. Seriously, there were several times last week and the week before when I was concerned that I'd have a panic attack and not be able to teach. Of course, I didn't have a panic attact, not at all, but the anxiety has really been bad. My neck and shoulders have been all tight and uncomfortable for the last ten days. Anyway, all of this to say one thing: I am so thankful that this is the last week. Then, in just a couple more weeks, California, here I come!!!

Virginia Woolf's The Years

Ok, this kind of thing drives me crazy, well, crazier than usual anyway. I'm working on reorganizing my books (and I'm entering them into librarything.com, just because I'm neurotic, I think), and I cannot find my copy of Woolf's The Years. I know I purchased a copy in December or January. And I know that I read it. In fact, I distinctly remember sitting at the coffee shop downtown reading and then calling Dolce Carina and goin on and on about how wonderful it was. I know I own this book! But I can't find it anywhere. And sure, I could buy another copy or whatever. Rationally, I know this isn't that big of a deal, but it's got to be somewhere, right? This kind of thing really bothers me. I wish I could just calm down and be normal, you know?

Student: I don't know why you keep giving me Cs on my essays. You keep saying bring up pacific examples, and I do bring up pacific examples. I don't know how more pacific I can be. Every time you write "be more pacific," and I do be more pacific, but you keep giving me Cs anyway.

Instructor: Would you like to make an appointment so that we can talk about this in more detail and work on improving your work?

Student: I don't know what the point would be. It seems pointless. No matter what I do, and I do be pacific, you keep giving me Cs. It's pointless.

Instructor: So are you saying you don't want to work with me outside of class?

Student: I don't know what the point would be. You give me Cs.

Instructor: The point would be that we'd sit down together, look at all your work, and talk about strategies for improving it.

Student: I brought you my rough draft that one time, and you told me what to do, and I did it. And even the rough draft you said was passing quality, and then you gave me a C anyway.

Instructor: Yes, passing quality. That's what a C means--passing.

Student: I didn't take this class to get a C.

Instructor (to herself): Well, you certainly didn't taken this class in order to learn anything.

A Survey

Ok, I have a question for the group: Do all of you know the difference between the words "specific" and "Pacific"? Because apparently some of my students think they can be used interchangeably. Am I merely expecting too much? I could scream!

Reminder to self: The work is its own reward!

I just ate the most wonderful dinner. I had this great open faced turkey burger with sauteed onion and mushrooms and gorgonzola. It was just really, really wonderful. I get excited about things like really good food.

My other project of the moment is that I'm cataloging all my books on Library Thing, which is this really fun (or maybe it's just fun for compulsive types) web site. As soon as I get things entered, I'll post a link so that you can view my virtual library or whatever. The compulsive part inside me has always wanted to type up little tags with Library of Congress call numbers so that I can organize my books accordingly. I suppose that would be going a bit far, but I just keep thinking of the deep feeling of fulfillment I'd get from such an accomplishment.

What Do I Do?

Sometimes, I wonder and wonder what I do with my time. Today, for instance, I find myself lying on the bed drinking tea, cuddling with my dogs, thinking about Dolce Carina and A.H. who sent me the most encouraging e-mail earlier in the week, and reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Brid, hoping Lamott will inspire me to get off my backside and start writing. When what I know I'm really doing is NOT writing and NOT doing the cleaning that needs to be done and NOT organizing the mess in what I'm calling my office. Only the term "office" implies that work or creativity or something is going on in that space, but it isn't. And I wonder, "What do I do with myself each day?" and, "Why aren't I doing the things that would make me happy and healthy?" and, "Why am I drinking pink sparkling wine with nachos for lunch?" And at that moment, I am afraid I'll fall apart. I think it was the recognition that I'd eaten nothing BUT nachos and cookies for the last 36 hours and there I was eating nachos again, but this time with tepid tea and sparking wine thrown into the mix. So here I am, at least writing something, no matter how innane. But I hope that someone will understand, will understand the picture of me lying on the bed and, oh I forgot to mention that while I'm doing all this other crap the Sci-Fi Channel's Twilight Zone marathon is running rather softly in the background. SIDE NOTE: One thing I LOVE about the Fourth of July holiday is the TV marathons. Currently, I'm trying to decide: Do I do productive things on the Fourth, or do I watch USA's Monk marathon all day long? Sad, isn't it, that I watch so much TV. I didn't used to be this way. But there it is.

It seemed like this rant was in order. If nothing else, I'm being honest about the state I'm in, and that's a good thing. Sometimes this state of things seems pointless, but then I realize, that I'm more relaxed in the last six weeks, since moving really, than I have been in years, quite literally. I suspect that's worth a lot in terms of my overall health and attitude and productivity. So maybe it's OK to spend Sunday afternoon listening to the Twilight Zone and reading and promising myself that tomorrow I will organize my so-called office. Maybe learning to relax is the most valuable thing I could learn just right now.