The Phil Spector Trial

When I'm home during the day, I like to have Court TV on, and of course they are currently covering the Phil Spector trial. The witness, Kathy Sullivan, who was on the stand yesterday afternoon and this morning makes me ill. She really does. She's a woman who claims to be a "platonic acquaintance" of Spector. And she was out for drinks with Spector earlier on the evening that Lana Clarkson was shot. So, it's obvious to me anyway, that it easily could have been her, rather than Clarkson. Of course, I suppose that statement implies that Clarkson's death wasn't suicide. Anyhow, this Sullivan woman is testifying as to the nature of her relationship with Spector and what they'd done earlier in the evening. And she's clearly turning this into her own 15 minutes. She's on the stand, acting all cute, cracking jokes (which the attorneys laugh at, by the way), turning this all into something about her, turning it into her chance to be on TV, to talk, to have attention. And it just makes me sick. I want to scream. I want to say, "Look, a woman is dead. Can you only think about yourself?" And it's not the normal thinking about self in the sense of saying, "Oh my gosh, this is terrifying. This could have been me." She seems not at all shaken by the whole think. It's friggin' unbelievable. And I use "friggin'" sparingly, so you can judge the severity of my reaction here.

The other weird thing that strikes me is this. And here I have to credit Lisa Bloom and Vinnie Politan for exploring some of this in their commentary. Spector seems to have this pattern of going out to dinner with a female friend, then picking up other women at the restaurant or bar and saying something like, "Hey, after my driver takes this woman home, do you want to join me for drinks?" There's something supremely creepy about that, in my opinion. And all these women he hangs out with claim that their relationship is merely platonic. Politan points out that "platonic" means that Spector was interested in a sexual relationship, but the women were like, "No thanks." If that's true, platonic must mean the women are like, "no thanks," until Spector drinks too much and then pulls a gun on them.

I don't know, rather like Anna Nicole's life and death, as Spector's story unfolds, I am struck by how supremely unbelievable it all is. I mean, I do believe it, and I think that the way that the prosecution is portraying him is reality. But if this were merely a movie and not real life, I think we'd all say, "That would never happen. That's totally unbelievable."

I sorta alluded to some of this a couple of posts ago. I sometimes feel like there's all this "stuff," important, sad stuff that's happened in my life, stuff that I'm just not talking about. And it seems like I somehow need to talk about it. I think that just avoiding it, or acting like it's unspeakable makes it more damaging. And really, why not talk about it? I think I'm just somehow protecting people who don't care about me. Here's an example: just over three years ago, I didn't get married. I was engaged, and J. waited to decide that he didn't want to marry me, waited until the last possible second. Seriously. He waited until there we were, in front of our families, in this public forum to say, "Oh sorry--don't want to marry you after all." OK, that was a paraphrase, but you get the idea. I suppose it would be more accurate to put it this way: he said something like this, as he dropped the ring he was supposed to put on my finger: "I'm really sorry, but I just can't do this." What he said isn't my point however; my point is that he chose to do it in a very public and thus extra humiliating fashion. He chose not to deal with me; he broke up with me, in front of, like, 50 people. But here's the part that I'm getting to. A week or so later, when I told some colleagues of both of ours that we didn't get married after all because he changed his mind, he got all bent out of shape. He got mad and told me that I had not right to tell people, especially people with whom he had a professional relationship, as did I, that it was his decision. That, he said, was too much personal disclosure. So that made me really angry. I mean come on! One: it was his decision, and I didn't want the additional pain of having my character called into question as the one who didn't keep commitments. Two: he did it in this oddly public way anyhow. I mean, after that, I think that any reasonable expectation of privacy was gone anyway.

The more I write about this whole situation, the more I feel absolutely disgusted with J. He'd be horrified, I think, that I'm posting this publicly, and I'm proud to say that I've gotten to the point (finally!) that I really don't care. It's somehow therapeutic and helpful for me to say it all publicly. The more I think about how he dealt with the situation and what he's done since (he lives with his mom. He's 35 and lives with his mom, not because he has to for any reason, but just because he's kinda pathetic like that). . . oh, the more I think about what he's done since, the more I just feel really, really sorry for him. And so there it is: I was in love with a pathetic loser. He was the love of my life. And I'm sure that I'll never be quite the same. But still, at least I've moved on and actually have a life of my own. Oh, his mom's quite wonderful, but that's not really the point. I've found a career that's mostly fulfilling and that I'm mostly successful at. I've forged other meaningful relationships. I have friends. I have interests outside of work. I guess I don't know where I'm going with all this, just that I need to get it out.

Lonely

Ok, this afternoon, I'm really lonely. And I know that this sounds kinda dumb, seeing that I teach at a college and all, but I sometimes feel like I'm languishing intellectually. You'd think that being a professor (ha, ha) and all, my work day would be filled with all kinds of smart, intellectual interaction, but really most of my day is filled with kinda mundane activity. And what I really want is someone to talk with about women's writing and women's experience and feminist theory. And there's sorta, kinda no one I feel like I can talk with. And T., my usual go-to-guy for this sort of thing, is busy. And Carina is far away, and maybe I'm just missing her. So I'm thinking about this Women Writers course that I'm scheduled to teach this fall, and I'm all obsessing about the possibility of a true women's discourse, you know? So here I am, getting all "Laugh of the Medusa," and it seems like there's no one around who can relate, you know? And then, I miss J. at times like these, because although he wouldn't be all into feminist theory and although I've had to explain second- and third-wave over and over to him, still he'd listen and ask the right questions to get me thinking about it. But how do you corner someone new and say, "So I'm reading Irigray lately. What do you think?" Or, "I'm interested in how the question of embodiment, especially the experience of the grotesque body, affects one's sense of identity." Or on a different note, "I'm convinced that Eco and Rushdie are speaking to one another in some important ways, but I can't figure out how they might be connected." I mean, I want these ongoing (possibly slightly tipsy) conversations about literature and feminism and postmodernism and medievalism and the self, and it's just not happening in my life. And my students are great. And they are attentive and responsive, but it's just not the kind of exchange that I'm craving. I don't even know where I'm going with this whole post. Maybe it's just that I'm missing friends and the life that I had (or maybe just some idealized version of it) in Riverside/cide.

Observations Made While Grading Essays on Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest

1. When someone introduces a thought with, "Not to be sexist or anything, but. . . " the subsequent thought is sure to be offensive.

2. "I found it boring" is not particularly insightful as a critical response.

3. The use of the word "crap" creates a decidedly non-academic tone.

4. What I really need is "a frivolous and partying alter-ego."

Ronald McDonald

Ok, I just need to get this out: I'm totally freaked out by Ronald McDonald. I don't much like clowns anyway, but he's the worst of the worst. The stuff of nightmares, really.

Procrastination (Again!)

It just occurred to me that I've been procrastinating about posting again. And the reason for my procrastination is soooooo annoying. I realized that there are all these things I want to say but, I feel, for a number of reasons, like I have to censor myself. And that's so irritating that I'm just not wanting to deal with it. It's like I want to talk about my recent weight gain and how that makes me feel. I want to talk about C., my ex-husband, and how that makes me feel. Sometimes, I just want to talk about what a struggle work is some days. But it's like I'm suddenly all paranoid. Is it paranoia if it's justified? Seriously, I want to tell the world about all the crappy, mean, evil, destructive things that C. did to me. But will that come back to bite me in the backside some day? What happens if I ever apply for a job and a potential employer Googles me, only to read all this crap about my personal life? I mean, this isn't just paranoia on my part. If I had used the half-brain that I do have, I would have started this whole project with some clever, interesting pseudonym. But now it feels too late. And so, I just have to say the nice things. I can't say that my breasts are bigger than they used to be and that it really bugs me or that I still dream about C. several times a week. And I hate that I feel like I can't talk about these things, so I guess it's sometimes easier not to talk at all.

An Update

This is for those of you who are concerned about my well-being, given the icky, stubborn New England weather.

I am tired of this weather. Tired of snow, tired of cold. All I want is a sunny 55 degrees. I'm feeling so worn down by it all. However, I have heat and power and hot water. And at this point, I feel so, so grateful for that. Hot water seems like this wonderful luxury that, apparently, most of the rest of the city does not have. I'm also thankful to have sustained no damage, at least so far. No trees have come down in my yard; more importantly, no trees have crashed into my house. So all is well, as far as I'm concerned.

Too Much Stuff

I've been thinking that maybe I'd try to go for a month, then six months, without purchasing anything that isn't a necessity. You see, I know that I really have too much "stuff." And some of it, like my iPod brings me regular pleasure and, thus, seems justifiable. But really, I just own a lot of stuff that I don't really need. I mean, do you have any idea how many sets if dishes I own? And really, how many sets of dishes does a single woman need? And while I'd have to say that dishes do, in fact, bring me real pleasure, there is a limit. And I think I'm approaching that limit. I could say the same of clothes. And so, as I've been thinking about this all and thinking about my finances and thinking about just simplifying my life, it seems like a good sort of practice to cut back and try to figure out what I really need. I have such an accumulation of "stuff" that I could certainly live for quite a while on what I have. But I worry too. I know that I'll inevitably give in and buy something that isn't really necessary, even just, say, a latte. (Oh, I just ordered a Madame Alexander Olivia doll. Talk about unnecessary. But I'm so excited. Thanks to Zee for that!) And I'm worried that I'll be all down on myself, like, "You didn't need that latte. You said you were only going to spend money on necessities. And then you bought a four-dollar latte that you didn't even need. Why can't you do anything right? You are a failure." I'm afraid that it will simply be an opportunity for my old companion Perfectionism to set in. Perfectionism, you know, plagues me, stalks me, really. You know the routine: I hold myself to an unreasonable, unrealistic standard, then fall apart emotionally when I don't meet it. And yet, I have to say that cutting down on the stuff and figuring out what I really need, then what may be a luxury but one that brings true pleasure, this seems somehow liberating to me. I think that, in the end, rather than feeding perfectionism, it will liberate me from the tyranny of unnecessary "stuff." Because all the "stuff" is causing its own kind of anxiety.

Of course, this all brings up inevitable questions about the necessity of own books: Are books necessary? Need I own them, or is checking them out good enough? How many books are necessary, and when have I crossed the line into "stuff"? Am I spending too much money on books?

Anna Quindlen: How Reading Changed My Life

Yesterday, I went to work for just a couple hours in the morning but came home early in order to make it home before the weather turned too, too horrible. Ice storms, you know.

Anyway, since I left work early, I had some free time on my hands. And after a good, long nap, I spent the afternoon reading Quindlen's How Reading Changed My Life, which, although published individually, is really a long essay. First, I should say that, thanks to my mother, I'm on this Quindlen kick. How have I missed her all these years? My mom sent me her Being Perfect a couple of months ago; and it so much resonated with me. But How Reading Changed My Life was wonderful and made me feel less weird, less nerdy for simply being someone who likes books. I especially appreciated Quindlen's sense that books, novels particularly, are this path to female understanding and female relationships. Books give us, women in particular, a way to understand the internal lives of others and especially of ourselves. But books also give us a way to connect with other people. Books give us something to talk about. Books provide both intellectual engagement but also an opportunity for social interaction.

And as I read Quindlen saying all these things, I thought about all the times I looked to Virginia Woolf for comfort, for the sense that someone understands how I feel. But maybe more importantly, reading Woolf (or McCullers or Charlotte Perkins Gilman), has given me the forum for talking with DC or my mother or whoever else about how it feels and what it means simply to be. And I think that personal connection, that opportunity for reflection and conversation is maybe more important than the books themselves. Eek! It's hard to believe that I'm saying that there's something more important than the experience of reading and writing. But the older I get, the more I come to believe that the interpersonal connections I avoided and even scorned are the really important thing in life.

Anyway, I do recommend Quindlen, especially How Reading Changed My Life.

Snow

So it's nearly mid-April. And it's snowing. And it's cold. And sometimes I feel like I just can't take much more of this weather. I guess I know that it's Vermont and that this is the way it's "supposed" to be. But I'm tired of it. I don't so much miss the sun. I'd settle for 50 and rain showers. But please, no more snow. Guinnie doesn't much like it either, by the way. She makes a big fuss every time I make her go "out." Honestly, the way she acts, you'd think that I'm positively abusing her, making her pee in the snow. She's such the drama queen.

I just want the weather to go away.

Not Me

So lately, I just don't feel like myself. When I pass a mirror, it's like the woman passing on the other side can't possibly be me. She's someone I don't recognize. I don't like this feeling, and I'm not sure how I got to this place in my life. It's like: "Where's the Drennan I know? She was interesting. She wore interesting clothes (not sweat pants every day) and arrived at work early. She read and wrote and cooked interesting things. She had places to be and people to see. This woman, the one with the ponytail in her hair, isn't the woman I knew at all, not at all." I find this troubling, and I'm not quite sure how to begin to deal with it. I don't know how to relax. I don't know how to be the person that I used to be or used to want to be. I'm boring. I'm bland. I'm giving in to being unattractive. I've lost something, and I don't know how to describe it. If I did, I'm sure that I could "fix" it. It's not that something is missing from my life; it's more that something is missing from me.

Burroughs: Running With Scissors

Yesterday, I finished Running With Scissors by Augusten Burroughs. That's not so very Easter-like, is it? But then, it snowed all day, which isn't so Easter-like either. It's something I'd been intending to read for the last year or so. And it was wonderfully written and funny and horribly sad all at the same time. It's so much written from the point-of-view of the young Burroughs that we see the world that way. Consequently, when Burroughs is, say, 14 and begins having a sexual affair with a man in his 30s, we don't immediately see the horror, see that this man is violating a teen-ager. Although we know that this is wrong, that this can't be "love," we very much see that Burroughs himself, at age 14, believes this is love, believes that it's OK. He doesn't see himself as victimized, for the most part. In fact, he values this relationship. Horrible things happen to poor Augusten. Yet he keeps going. And he sees the humor in it all. And he's a terrific writer. I totally recommend this book. The subject matter is, at times, troubling, as I think Burroughs intends it to be. And yet, it's all so well written that it's not as difficult to cope with as I, as a reader, had anticipated. And there's just something endearing about it all. By the end of the book, I like and even admire Burroughs. At the same time, it was depressing. I guess that I don't have anything all that profound to say about this book, only that I enjoyed it.

Conference Paper

So although it's Spring Break, I'm at work. And I'm writing this conference paper on Gregory Maguire's Wicked and about how it's Gothic and grotesque and carnival, etc, etc. And I think it's kinda interesting, really. But it's hard to focus and get actual work done. You know, it's so much easier to sit and blog and read and journal. And writing, the kind of writing I need to get done, is really hard work somehow. And so I'm sitting here, listening to my relaxing music, sipping tea, thinking about this novel, clearly trying to coax some sort of muse, and all I can think about is the "Book Report" song from You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown. You must know the one. All the characters are to write book reports on Peter Rabbit. And Lucy opens with, "Peter Rabbit is this stupid book about this stupid rabbit who steals vegetables from other people's gardens." And Charlie Brown spends the majority of the song justifying his procrastination. And while I think Lucy Van Pelt is this great character, I'm especially fond of Schroder's analysis of Peter Rabbit. Schroeder explores the ways in which Peter Rabbit is like Robin Hood. And of course, what Schroeder comes up with is really this summary of the Robin Hood story: ". . .the part where Little John jumps from the rock to the Sheriff of Nottingham's back, and the Robin and everyone swung from the trees in a sudden surprise attack, and they captured the Sheriff and all of his goods, and they carried him back to their camp in the woods, and the Sheriff was guest at their dinner and all, but he wriggled away and sounded the call. The men rushed in, and the arrows flew. Peter Rabbit did sort of that kind of thing too." (OK, is it a bad sign that I know all of this "by heart"?) Anyway, my Wicked paper is feeling like that sort of analysis. Am I writing about Wicked but really writing about something else, probably about myself? I suspect that may be the case. And in the end, are all literary analyses about ourselves? I suspect that most of us are basically self-absorbed; I certainly am anyway. So here I am, when I should be writing about Elphaba, writing about myself.

I think I'll see if I can download the soundtrack from You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown.

Donnie Darko

Ok, so yesterday afternoon, I watched Donnie Darko. How is it that I've never seen this, before? I LOVED it, loved it. And I keep thinking of Jimmy Stuart and Harvey; only it's like this sadder, creepier, truer Harvey, right? And the whole "cellar door" thing is really from Tolkien, right? And I keep thinking about Donnie and the line between genius and insanity, how we as a culture treat creative, insightful artists as though they ought to be medicated. (And those of you who know the last six months of my own history know that it's been six months of fighting with medications, antidepressants.) And I don't know. Is Donnie crazy or is he Super Man? Is he delusional or does he simply understand quantum physics better than the rest of us do? I'd love to see the director's cut. And I want to BE Donnie Darko. Maybe I'm Drennan Darko, which doesn't have quite the same ring to it but is still fun.

So does the movie maybe explore the ways in which we think we are doing good, are helping are simply leading to pain for others. Does the attempt to love simply entangle others in our emotional pain? I don't know the answers to these kinds of questions, but I do think that asking these kinds of questions is important. I guess that I'm still thinking about the movie, about what it means, about why I feel drawn to it somehow.

And it brings up the whole Jake Gyllenhaal dilemma. On the one hand, he looks kinda dopey, and he was kinda dopey in that whole astronomy / rocket-boy movie--I don't remember the title of it. He's got that overly cute, doe-eyed quality. And I want to be annoyed by Gyllenhaal. But I'm not; I actually like him. He was super as Donnie.

And now that I get to the end of this post, I realize that I don't have anything especially insightful or original or productive to say about this film. Only that I really liked it.

A Few Random Observations

1) Yes, I've changed the format of the blog a bit. I like it.

2) I'm so thankful for good friends. And I miss having them around.

3) Work is rewarding; weekends are perfect.

4) Contentment is feeling immense gratitude for whatever is right before us.

Visually Satisfying Blog

OK, here's a link to a really pretty blog:

HELLOmynameisHeather

This comes courtesy of Zee. But the woman who runs this blog must be amazing. And it's so perfect visually. It gives me something to which to aspire. I can't even get my little book-cover-graphic-thingys to be in proportion to everything else. But this blog is just pretty.

Another Friday Night

I heart Friday nights.

A. left a couple of hours ago. He'll be gone until Tuesday, or so. I miss him already. But I LOVE Friday nights.

I love putting on my jammies and getting into bed and reading while I watch Biography's City Confidential. Tonight's was on Brownsville, Texas, and I'm so ready to visit there. I never thought I'd be saying that. And I suspect that it's probably a passing whim. But that's not the point. The point is that, finally, I'm relaxed, am doing what I want, am enjoying time to myself. And I don't feel like I "should" be doing something else. I'm just being. That, for me, is absolute contentment.

So finally, this week, it's starting, slowly, to feel like spring. And I so have the urge to spend tomorrow digging and planting. But, of course, it's too early for that, because it still gets too cold at night. I'd worry that plants would freeze. But I want to plant and garden and celebrate general spring-y-ness. What could be finer?

Elizabeth George: Payment in Blood

Ok, so I just started George's Payment in Blood. I've read about 75 pages so far. And there are a couple of questions I'm just dying to have answered!

WARNING: PLOT SPOILERS TO FOLLOW.

Ok, so I'm only a little ways in, but what's with Lynley and Lady Helen? Is he suddenly in love with her now that she's hookin' up with someone else? And what's up with Havers? Last novel, I thought SHE was in love with St. James and had these other weird hang-ups about Lynley. Oh, I think Havers is an intriguing character, by the way. But why's she now all sympathetic and empathetic towards Lady Helen. Seriously, is Havers "into" Helen? Is this just a way for her to turn the knife a little in Lynley? So what's the deal. When my friend Zee mentioned George's novels to me, she said that what she liked was the relationships between the characters and this important past that they clearly share, yet what exactly that past is, is not totally clear. And Zee's right; I want to read and read, partly because I want to find out the solution to the murder, but mostly because I want to know about these characters.

A final note: I think that like P.D. James, my other new favorite mystery writer, I feel like George has this interesting understanding of human nature. I so much want to work on the British murder mystery (and yes, I know George is really American) as a genre. This sounds like this great way to bring together so many of my interests: medievalism, women's studies, popular culture.

Today I'm teaching Charlotte's Web. Every time I read it, I'm struck by what a truly brilliant novel it is in so many ways. I find it nurturing on a deep, deep level; this seems to me what literature should be. And it strikes me that this is a novel NOT about Fern or Wilbur, but about Charlotte, the spider. And what's remarkable about Charlotte is that she understands the value of relationships. My favorite moment is towards the end as Charlotte faces her death. She tells Wilbur, "After all, what's a life, anyway? We're born, we live a little while, we die. . . By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone's life can stand a little of that." And this, to me, seems so central to understanding the book. Wilbur is, after all, not a particularly remarkable pig. And to save his life somehow goes against the natural order of things as it is emphasized in the book--even Charlotte lives because others die. And yet her remarkable love and devotion saves the life of unremarkable Wilbur. Maybe it's only through this sort of love that any of us can hope to "life up" our "lives a trifle." I don't know--just thoughts.

Year of the Life Makeover

So, as many of you know, Saturday was my 32nd birthday! And, because it's what I really believe in, I have every intention of celebrating for at least a week. Actually, seriously, I believe that on our birthdays, instead of expecting cards and presents and such from others, we all ought to call our mothers and thank them for giving birth to us.

But I have decided that, for so many reasons, this year of my life, my thirty-third year, will be the year of the "Live Makeover." I acknowledge that I have a lot of work to do on myself. I know that it's unhealthy, probably even sinful, but I tend to be very discontent. And that's something I want to change. And so with the help of Cheryl Richardson (see www.cherylrichardson.com) and her books, I'm prepared to do the work and commit to making this next year a year in which I can become a better version of me, a more productive version of me, a contented version of me. Think of it as "Drennan 2.0." Maybe it would really be more accurate to say "Drennan 3.0." You see, I think the original (dare I say "beta"?) version of me was probably birth to age 20 or so. And then Cory happened, and all the negative but untrue things I suspected about myself were suddenly, seemingly irrevocably reinforced. Hence, Drennan 2.0. And while I've grown and healed and all that, I know that there's still all kinds of residual doubt and anxiety and pain. And I think that I deserve to move beyond that. I deserve to devote my time and my life to the things I truly, truly believe in. And I think that, as much as any of us deserves happiness, I do. I certainly want contentment anyway.

And through a series of events that some would call synchronicity, I've stumbled upon the whole "life coach" approach to things. Richardson explains that therapy explores the trauma and hurt in our past. And while this approach is valid, she says, most people want and need to focus on the present and the future. We want skills for building the lives and selves we deserve. And so here I go: I'm allowing Richardson, through her books, to be my new life coach. And this is the year of the Life Makeover.

I was inspired, in part, by the book Julie and Julia, in which Julie someone-or-another decides that to commerate her 30th birthday, she'll spend the year cooking through Julia Child's The Art of French Cooking. I don't feel quite that ambitious, but I do want to do what I know will work for myself. And I want to commit to making this a year in which I'll take really good care of myself. Richardson calls it "extreme self care." The more I meditate on it, the more it seems to make sense that I need to care for myself in order to have energy to give to others.

Anyhow, I've decided that, at least for now, I'm going to really work through Richardson's Life Makeovers, in which she gives a weekly suggestion for recreating one's self and one's life. The task for this week is to simply start keeping a journal--no great feat for me! I do have to admit, however, that I'd like to start journalling more regularly. But it really does feel like a healthy way to start. I've also decided that I'm going to give myself the gift of spending Thursday afternoons at the Back Home Again (see www.backhomeagaincafe.com). I think I can spend a little time grading, time journalling, and time reading and thinking about this whole Life Makeover project. The Back Home Again is really my favorite establishment in town, and it's super relaxing to hang out there. I feel like I need this for my own sanity. So to sum it up, here are my goals, for now anyway, to contribute to this larger project.

Because I deserve it and because I want to, I commit to
1. Richardson's program of the Life Makeover
2. Spending Thursday afternoons at the Back Home Again for work, reflection, planning, and relaxation
3. Getting up 30 minutes early in order to have a half-hour of journalling in the morning.

So I know that to some it seems odd that I choose to post all this publicly. I actually find it empowering to be so open with these things. But I also figure that I'm more likely to actually follow through if I've made this open, public commitment. It's like having accountability of some sort. If you really care about me, ask me periodically how the whole Life Makeover is going. There's more to say--more goals I have for the year, more reflection--and I'll keep posting.

I want to close with this poem from Gerard Manly Hopkins who, along with John Donne, is probably my favorite poet:

Pied Beauty

GLORY be to God for dappled things— For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings; Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough; 5 And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim. All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: 10 Praise him.

Elizabeth George: A Great Deliverance

So, I'm always thinking I "should" read serious literature (have I mentioned what's-his-name's Seven Types of Ambiguity?) and stuff that contributes somehow to my professional development and growth. But what I so long for is a really good, British-feeling murder mystery. And my friend Zee introduced me to Elizabeth George. She's fun, she's a good read, and her detective character, Inspector Lynley, is fascinating and charismatic and just what I want in a good mystery. And how have I missed George all this time. Goodness knows how many times I've been flipping through PBS's Mystery and seen bits and pieces of the Inspector Lynley adaptations. So why didn't I pay more attention? Why didn't I pick up any of the novels? It always puzzles me when there's this great literary "find" that I've been missing out on. It's just like, "How did this happen?" But it's also kinda wonderful, right? Because it's like, "Ooooo, I have a whole series to look forward to!" It's great.

Here's the other thing about George that's happened recently. So this was maybe three weeks ago. I'd finished A Great Deliverance, and was all excited about George. And Dolce Carina (my soulmate and inspiration, you know ;) called and asked if I was interested in going to a conference with her in the fall. And I said yes for so many reasons. And when I looked at the website for the conference, George was scheduled as the keynote speaker. Kismet, I say. I say "Kismet" rather tongue in cheek, although I really do believe in "synchronicity"--maybe that's another post of it's own. But here, again, the universe, God really, is giving me what I need, the nudge, that direction, the encouragement. And so this fall, it's off to Calgary for Elizabeth George and DC and "The Yellow Wallpaper" and feminist theory, and disability and illness studies. And I so feel like I'm doing what I need to be doing with myself and my reading and my work and my career. And, at least for now, the work (not the money, not the recognition, not the step to tenure, although all those things seem nice) but the work is its own reward. My new mantra is this: let the work be its own reward. It sums up so much about what I'm trying to live. And maybe that, also, deserves its own post.

Friday Nights

So here's the new Friday night routine: A. works late (until 10:30 or so) on Fridays. So I'm on my own. And while I'd rather be spending Friday nights with A, I'm kinda enjoying just having time to myself, time to get caught up, time to work on crafts and projects, time to watch DIY and HGTV. But here's the best part about Friday nights with myself. I can get in bed early, and read and write and watch TV (at the moment Nancy Grace is catching me up with the latest on Anna Nicole). I can blog, journal, and read Elizabeth George. Have I mentioned Elizabeth George? As Dolce Carina knows, George is my current favorite mystery writer. To be honest, she's rather a new find for me. And I just started the second of her Inspector Lynley mysteries. She's a good writer, and Lynley is this fascinating character, which is what I look for in a good murder mystery. But the point is that Friday nights are all mine. And I can get in bed early and relax and have the remote to myself and simply do what relaxes and nourishes me. At the moment, I have a cup of adagio.com's Valentines tea. And I'm using my mint green Royal Albert Old Country Roses cup and saucer. And it all feels perfect, like what Friday nights and weekends and time at home should feel like: cozy, secure, warm, nurturing. It's like I simply feel so blessed to have a favorite tea and a favorite cup and a good novel and the internet to be connected to the world. (Have I mentioned that I'm blogging from my bed??? This is so perfect!) I know that I tend to go on and on; it's just that I feel so content with this moment. And tomorrow may be wonderful or may be crappy (either way it'll be my birthday!) but it's almost like tomorrow doesn't matter (or doesn't bear worrying about) because for right now, I'm happy.

Oh, and look forward to posts about the following: Elizabeth George, the Real Housewives of Orange County, Maguire's Wicked (have a conference paper to work up!), Lewis's Narnia, and the apricot tea from Adagio (it'll be new to me--should arrive on Tuesday--I have DC to thank for this, as for so much else!)

"Wardrobe Malfunction"

I nearly had one of those infamous wardrobe malfunctions today. I wore this cute black wrap-around dress and black tights and boots to work. But once I arrived, I realized that the elastic waistband in my tights was really worn out. Seriously. But once you're already there, what can you do? So I tried to ignore it and go about work as ususal. But in the middle of my Intro to Lit class, I realized that my tights were slowly, slowly (but surely) creeping down. Soon, I knew, the crotch of my tights would be to my knees. And how embarrassing would that be? I tried to stand very, very still, to not get overly excited about Gerard Manly Hopkins and hope that my tights wouldn't fall any lower. I was successful. I'm not sure how graceful I was about the whole thing, but at least my tights didn't fall off completely. I mean, how would a person even begin to explain that?

I've finally "arrived"

So I feel as thought my life has reached some sort of pinnacle of my existence. Because I'm finally, actually blogging from bed. Which may not sound like that big of a deal to most of you. But it's what I've dreamed of for so long. Many of you know I'm a "pajamas person," AKA Pajama Dren. But also, I love doing everything in bed: reading, writing, watching movies, even eating popcorn. And now here I am, all bloggy-blog in bed on a Sunday afternoon, and I can't think of anything that would possibly be more relaxing. I've even got this cool in bed, breakfast-tray, lap desk thingy that A. gave me as an early birthday present. And it's all just perfect, like being on vacation or something. And he's at work, writing away. And here I am, all happy and safe. And while blogging in bed may sound ridiculous to the rest of you, something about it feels wonderfully luxurious; maybe it's the sheer ridiculousness of it that makes it luxurious. I'm not sure. But it's great.

It's been a cold, snowy, wintery weekend in VT. We had unseasonably warm temps mid week (close to 60!--that's Ferinheit. Oh, I can't spell that, and of course, I should look it up, but I'm not going to). And then Friday was cold and snowy again. And I'd guess that we've gotten about a foot of snow, all told. And I'm starting to wonder if spring will ever, ever come. Meanwhile back at the ranch, some of you are up into the 80s, I know. Don't rub it in.

I'm coming to my thirty-second birthday at the end of the week. I want to spend time this week reflecting on what I want this next year, the thirty-third of my life to be. Thirty three years seems somehow like a magical number. 33. I keep thinking of Schoolhouse Rock and "Three is a magic number. . . " Completing my thirty second year and moving towards the thirty third seems magical, so full of promise. And so, I want to blog about all of that, I think, over the coming days.

A final quick note: last night A. and I watched the first half or so of the movie Flushed Away. Very funny.

Enter Jeeves

So Ive been reading Wodehouse lately. And it's so great. On Thursday, I was reading while my class was taking a midterm, and it was so funny that I actually had to get up and leave the room, because I was so giggly. I mean, it's gotta take some real talent to write such great comedy. And it's that British comedy, you know? And I remember why Hugh Laurie is my favourite, favourite actor. And Wodehouse is a comic genius. Seriously. And Wodehouse writes in the first person in Bertie's voice. And it's great. And I hear Hugh Laurie. Normally, I don't like it when my reading experience is informed and even controlled by film and TV, but here, it all seems so perfect. So get a load of this:

"I'm not absolutely certain of my facts, but I rather fancy it's Shakespeare--or, if not, some equally brainy lad--who says that it's always just when a chappie is feeling particularly top-hole and more than usually braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind him with the bit of lead piping"

OK, so that's so Bertie. And it's too funny. I mean, there's something so wonderful about putting it all that way. And it's the opening to a story. And I have to say that Fate's "bit of lead piping" isn't anything so horrifying in this case. I mean, it's Bertie Wooster, not Oedipus, for Pete's sake. And that's part of the brilliance of Wodehouse's work, you know? I just think we should all be reading things that make us laugh, because we need more of that. I need more Wodehouse and Laurie. And oh, have I mentioned that my new thing is Charlie and Lola. But that's another post.

Anyhow, just now, Jeeves is working is magic, not just on Bertie, but on me.

I've Gone Wireless

OK, so after over an hour on the phone with Verizon's tech support, I'm now all wireless and shit. (Sorry mom, for the use of "shit," only that's how it feels just now. It was all very draining somehow. And, although it may be soap-opera-predictable, I did have to call Stampy-Stamp for help getting all set up. And, you know, for him it's all like this interesting logic problem to try to figure out how to make this whole wi-fi thingy work for me, configuring modems and what-have-you. It's like the rest of us feel about Sudoku. But the point is that here I am. And right now, I'm blogging while watching a repeat of the Real Housewives of the OC. Which I really hope, hope, hope will be back for a third season, because it's my favorite guilty pleasure. Well, the Housewives (I want to be "wife-a-licious" one day!) and Elizabeth George are my favorite guilty pleasures just now. And I wish I were all smart like Dolce Carina blogging about smart, intellectual things. Oh, so today I realized that I say all these entertaining, witty things but mostly only to myself. It's like I think all the really smart things when there's no one around, or maybe just the dogs around, to say them to. So of course, I just say them to myself. But sometimes, I feel like I'm depriving all the rest of you of my wisdom/wit/insight. So here's a good rule of thumb for us literary-researcher types:

For every two pages of literary theory I read and really understand, I reward myself with something really fun, like a murder mystery; only one and a half pages if it's Kristeva.

Ok, so I have this whole thing for Kristeva lately. It's like I want to understand Kristeva, but I'm afraid of Kristeva, but I also want to be Kristeva, and I'm convinced that Kristeva is the only one who *really* understands me, except for maybe my old buddy Virginia W. I know this all sounds really neurotic. But just admitting it is better somehow, right?

OK, so the Housewives are over, and Grease, You're The One That I Want is on. And I'm not all into it, although I do watch bits and pieces here and there. And I'm all for Max.

OK, and I've been reading Wodehouse's Jeeves stories. And they are super great; more about that later. Because Jeeves and Hugh Laurie deserve their own posts, not connected to Kristeva and the Housewives. And really, what does Kristeva have to say about the Housewives?

It's past my bedtime, so I'm going to stop now. But now that I'm all wireless and portable and shit, I promise, promise, at least to myself, that I'm going to post more often, because it's somehow important and somehow helps me get through the day.

Wandering Uterus

This is more a follow-up to "The Yellow Wallpaper."

In class yesterday, we discussed "The Yellow Wallpaper," and the narrator there is accused of being hysterical. So I thought it necessary to explain to the class that years ago, hysteria (which comes from the same root as "hysterectomy," right?) was thought to occur because a woman's womb floated around in the body and somehow caused these emotional outbursts. It's the whole wandering uterus theory. And my students actually laughed. They didn't seem to believe that anyone actually believed such a thing. And of course, the implication is that only women become hysterical. I keep having this weird / funny mental image of my uterus getting somehow lodged in the wrong place, like behind my sternum, and that, of course, explains my anxiety.

Peeps and a Pup

In anticipation of spring (which will have to come some day, right?), I offer the following.

Oh, I could sing, "One of these things is not like the others. . . "

Or I could just ask, what does Guinnie have in common with sugar-coated, marshmallow goodness?

"The Yellow Wallpaper"

I just finished Charlotte Perkins Gillman's "The Yellow Wallpaper," and I am reminded that I can never quite decide what I think about this story. So here I am, maddly prepping for this afternoon's class, thinking obsessively about the story, scanning critical stuff. And I'm realizing, not for the first time, that maybe my problem is that, like the narrator seems to be here, I allow myself to become trapped within my own mind, my own emotional problems. I can say this because I just finished a particularly anxiety-ridden weekend. (Was that the right word? "Ridden"?) And I know that, at least in part, my anxiety comes from thinking obsessively about my own mental and emotional state. And if only I'd do something outside myself, something creative, as the narrator in Gillman's story desires initially, I'd get away from that anxiety. Only, it's so hard to do. For me, anxiety becomes so overwhelming that I really believe, in the moment, that I can't break away from it, that I can't actually focus on and do anything else. And so, like our narrator, I attempt to strip away the prison of anxiety that binds me, only to find that I'm simply emprisioning my self more tightly.

Ok, so I know that this isn't some super smart response. It's just that I needed a space to work through this story, at least a little. And you know, women and sickness and hysteria and emobdiment--all these things seem important to me lately.

Ok, for those who are interested, here's an update. This morning, I finally left the house; I'm no longer snowed in. And I'm really kinda relieved to be back to work. I seriously am just not very good at being a New Englander, although just this morning, mom told me that given my personality, I'm possibly better suited to New England than to California. I guess I can see what she means. And it's not that I dislike New England. There are many wonderful, wonderful things about living in Vermont. I actually like having real seasons, although the bitter cold is getting to me. I guess it's that New England just doesn't feel like home; Bakersfield is still home. I know that many people think Bakerspatch is really icky. And it certainly has its faults. But for me, that hot, dry, dusty central California valley is home. And it's like I feel this whole love-hate thing for So Cal. When I see L.A. on TV, I feel oddly nostalgic, not that I actually want to live there. My deep, dark secret is that I have this longing to live in Orange County. I can hardly believe that I'm admitting that. But south county is appealing to me lately. Maybe all this snow is just getting to me. There are 100,000 problems with California, but it just feels like home.

It's cold; I'm cold. And, I don't know, for like the past 10 days, the highs have been only in the teens, maybe the 20s. And I'm not sure that I can even remember what warm feels like. And late tonight through early tomorrow, we're supposed to get a foot of snow. I miss California. I'm not cut out for all this cold nonsense. I'm just tired of it. I guess it's not so bad if I can just stay at home and not have to actually get in the car and go anywhere. But it's still just cold. Everyone says I'll appreciate spring more, when it FINALLY arrives, and I'm sure that's true. But right now, I'm just miserable, cold and dry and miserable.

Hey, I Made the MLA

OK, I know this is kinda silly. But I just looked myself up in the MLA database. And there I was! Well, there my diss was, anyway. It all seemed pretty exciting. I feel like a real professional now, not like I'm just masquerading. "I'm not a real professor; I just play one on TV." Well, that's how I feel sometimes, like I'm standing in front of all these 20 year olds, playing the part of Dr. Drennan. But seeing my name, the title of my diss there on the database makes it more real somehow.

The Perfect Tea

I do want to say that I've discovered, or rather Dolce Carina discovered, what I believe could quite possibly be the perfect tea. It's Adagio's (see www.adagio.com) Valentine's Tea, and it's my new favorite smell. It's wonderful. They advertise it as chocolate strawberry. I'm not sure that I really taste the strawberry, but I just love it. It's not too sweet and is delicate and perfect. Hey, remember the TV commercial with "I'd like to buy the world a Coke?" Well, I'd like to buy the world a cup of tea.

A Note on My Title

Recently, someone suggested that "Drennan's Adventures Underground" is not an apt title for this blog. I completely disagree. And I feel that maybe an explanation / justification would be in order. So here goes:

First, in titling my blog "Drennan's Adventures Underground," I was thinking of Alice's Adventures Underground, the original title of Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. This, for me, created all kinds of interesting comparisons. In part, I so often feel like Alice, learning to navigate through a world, or maybe several worlds that seem to make no sense, that feel like nonsense. And like Alice, I so often feel isolated, lost, unsure of myself, as though I can't quite latch onto my own sense of identity.

Second, some months ago, I moved my blog. It was at this point that I chose the title "Drennan's Adventures Underground." Basically, I wanted to go "underground" with this blog in the sense that I was avoiding Crazy-Guy-From-Arizona, who had started reading my blog obsessively. He also e-mailed me obsessively; it began to feel like harrassment.

So now, here I am, having adventures "underground," if Small College, Vermont can be called "underground."

And really, isn't blogging about tea and books just as valid as anything else?

The Little Things

This is no big revelation. But today, I'm reminded that it's the little things each day that bring me satisfaction. It's not money or professional success; it's companionship and good books and a cup of tea. Today, I received from adagio.com, my favorite tea vendor, their special Valentine tea, a tea that D.C. introducted to me. And it's this great chocolate-dipped-strawberry-with-a-hit-of-rose flavor, and it's just perfect. And my mom called as she was brewing herself a pot of Adagio's cream tea, and D.C. IMd me while sipping her own cup of cream tea. And maybe I can believe that in spite of all the pain and grief and loss, maybe the world can still be OK because we're all sipping Adagio tea, even though nearly everyone I love is in California, while I'm stuck in the Great White North. Maybe because these connections, these shared experiences--tea and Lot 49 and prayer and love and loss and the BBC and bad "reality" TV--because they exist, maybe meaningful relationships are still possible. So I'm headed back upstairs for one more cup of tea and maybe some Top Chef or The Real Housewives of Orange County before bed. It is the little things: tea and movies and books and friends and family and dogs.

Procrastination

I'm really, really good at finding creative ways to procrastinate. I'm not so much a procrastinator by nature. However, when I want to, I can think up all kinds of things I "have" to do in order to avoid, say, typing up a syllabus. For example, I spend nearly an hour this morning dowloading Gwen Stephani ring tones onto my new cell phone. BTW, about a month ago, I got a new RAZR phone in metallic pink; eat your hear out Cheri! So now when you call, the phone plays "If I Were a Rich Girl," except for when A. calls and then it's "Wind It Up." This is very funny, if somewhat adolescent. Gwen Stefani kicks ass, by the way. After finding cool, hip ringtones, I spent quite a lot of time reorganizing my files. I'm still working on it. Come to think of it, I'm really big on reorganizing things that I've already organized like five times. Maybe it's an anxiety thing. I mean, sometimes I find myself unable to sleep until I reorganize my socks or my sweaters or whatever. In a minute I'll procrastinate further by picking up all the random books lying around my office. For some reason, I'm a great one for having piles and piles of books (all organized piles) lying about. And it must look like a mess to everyone else, but it all somehow makes this organic, whole sort of sense to me. I don't pretend to be able to explain it, but it all works for me. And yet, my Intro to Lit syllabus still isn't getting done. I've read in some self help book that we procrastinate out of fear. I wonder what it is about writing up a syllabus that I'm fearing. Maybe my fear is that the class is WAY overenrolled. This cannot be a good thing. Ahh. . . well, back to creative procrastination.

Hello Blogosphere

I know, I know. It's been a month since I last posted. And have you been wondering where I've been? I rather hope someone's wondering what's happened to me, because that would show that my existence somehow matters. I suppose I could say that, really, I've been up to a whole lot of nothing. I mean, I've been doing this and that, but none of it is especially interesting to tell about. I think that I'll hit some of the random highlights (or lowlights) as they occur to me. Blah, blah, blah. I don't have all that much to say; only I do want to start posting again regularly.

Ok, so I was in CA for 10 days over the holidays. I had a wonderful time with my family. My neices E. and L. and perfect and beautiful and wonderful. If I ever have children, I hope they are just like E. and L. I also spent time with my two bestest, favorite friends, Cort and Carina, in CA. And, I don't know, on reflection, being with both of them seems somehow emotionally nourishing. It seems that's how friends should be. In talking with both of them recently, I've come to realize that many of us are facing similar difficulties. I tend to think that anxiety and perfectionism and depression are this whole epidemic, package deal among intelligent, motivated women of my generation. I'm convinced that it is, in part, the fallout of feminism. And while it makes me sad to know that people I love hurt sometimes, it's also somehow reassuring to know that I'm not the only one. So here's to sisterhood and girl power and all that.

I've been consuming Iris Murdoch novels with great zest. How is it that I've never read Murdoch until now. Her writing is wonderful--modern and thought provoking and engrossing all at the same time. So here I am, facing British modernism yet again. It's like this refrain that I almost accidentally keep returning to. On that note, I continue to believe that V Woolf will somehow see me through.

I'll spare all of you the details, but my other bit of big "news" is that I'm dating A. and am suddenly happier than I've been in a long while. It's been like this big epiphany, like I suddenly what's been wrong with every other (failed) relationship I've had. It's like this whole gestalt kind of thing. There are 10,000 things that I appreciate about him. I could gush and gush about the whole thing, but I know that no one really wants to hear all that.

I'll keep posting. Look forward to more on Iris Murdoch. But for now, I really, really need to get my office organized before it gets too out of hand!

A New Therapist

Ok, I'm posting today as part of my renewed committment to post more regularly. I think that I really do have something to say most days, although it may not be anything especially profound. But I think there's value in writing regularly, and I do keep a journal, but this seems like it's helpful too. I tend to think of blogging and journaling as a way to sort of communicate my hopes and dreams and frustrations and joys to the universe. And so to that end, here's the story of my visit to a new therapist:

Yesterday, I saw a new therapist for the first time. It didn't go especially well, and I feel not very optimistic about the whole thing. D.C. says that I should have asked her if she knew Virginia Woolf. And maybe that's a good way to go. Maybe the therapist that understands Woolf will understand me. Now that I've typed that, the full ramifications of that statement are starting to hit me. I mean, we all know what kind of end VW met. And still, I have to admit that reading VW is somehow satisfying on this intimate level; it's the sense that here's someone who really understands how it feels to be me. (Hey, do we all remember the Tom Petty song about "You don't know how it feels to be me"?) But in all seriousness, this new therapist didn't seem to get me. And at the end of the session, she told me that she wasn't sure she really understood what was going on with me and, thus, wasn't sure she could help me. This is pretty discouraging.

But the best (or at least the funniest) part of this whole thing was when she suggested the possibility that Attention Deficit Disorder is at the root of all my emotional problems. Seriously, I think I have whatever is the opposite of ADD. And as I replay this scene, which becomes increasinly like a bad SNL skit with each successive replay, I see her saying "Maybe you have ADD." And then I say something like, "Yeah, right. That's why I finished my dissertation. That's why I have a PhD. That's why I'm the resident expert on young adult fantasy. It's because I have ADD and can't concentrate. Right. People with ADD finish PhDs" I should add that I don't take the whole I'm-a-PhD thing very seriously. As is evidenced by the neon pink name plate on my desk that reads "Drennan, PhD," but it's bright pink, which says a lot about me. And my mom sent it to me, which says that she "gets" me, even if new therapist doesn't. Carina says I should trade in the new therapist for a new model. I think I should just take enough pills that I feel better. OK, that was tongue-in-cheek, but only kinda.

Hey, I'm listening to Johnny Cash. And it strikes me that he's rather like VW. I mean, I love the song "Sunday Morning Coming Down." There's something so true about it, so authentic. And I totally think that VW would understand about Johnny Cash. And hey, wouldn't they both be brilliant at dinner parties? When Cort and I were in college, we used to play the Desert Island game, but can't the Dinner Party game be a grown up version of the same thing? I mean, instead of "Would you rather be stuck on a desert island with Mike Piazza or Eric Karros?" it's now about "Who would you invite to the perfect dinner party?" And clearly, I want Cash and Woolf. Which probably just means that I'm looking for people I can sit around and be all melancholy with. Oh, and I'd throw Salman Rushdie in for good measure. Now I've completely diverged from the stated focus of this post. But really, planning fantasy dinner parties is much more interested than incompetent therapists.

Journals

I'm suddenly, oddly obsessed with decorating journals. I suppose that part of the neurosis is that I'm oddly obsessed with having about 5 different journals going at once. And I feel like I need to carry them all with me at all times. They're all categorized, and I know that Carina is thinking that I sound like what's-her-name in The Golden Notebook, and I know that she's right. Not that I've actually read The Golden Notebook. But I wanted to show you the cute, fun journals that I've been decorating.

Since I'm posting pics anyway, here's one of my backyard, as seen from the dining area:

Guinnie and the Stove

It's been pretty darn cold since Wednesday or so. And poor Guinnie can't seem to get warm enough. She spends most of the day parked in front of the stove. There's a little ledge where, as you can see, she rests her front paws in order to be as close to the flame as possible. Sometimes she growls when Polly gets too close!

Foucault's Pendulum

I'm all in this big Eco frenzy lately. And I finished his Island of the Day Before about ten days ago. And on Monday, I started Foucault's Pendulum. So here's my assessment so far: it's like the intelligent reader's DaVinci Code. Not that I've actually read The DaVinci Code, but I've seen the movie. And I have actually purchased Brown's book; I've just not gotten around to reading it yet. But Eco, at least so far, is dealing with the same kind of topic--the Knights Templar, the grail, the crazies who think that they can reconstruct some occult history of it all--but Eco seems to have this great sense of humor about the whole thing. I mean, it's like he's laughing at all the people out there who've read The DaVinci Code and are all saying things like, "Wow! It really kinda makes you think that all that could be possible." And they read this piece of fiction, of fantasy really, as though it were an indictment of the Catholic church and such. And as I'm reading Eco, I feel like Eco and I are somehow snidely feeling smarter and funnier and more savy than everyone on the DaVinci bandwagon. And yes, I realize that I'm being all snobbish and uppity and smarter-than-thou here, and yes, I realize it's not such an attractive quality. But this is so how reading Eco is making me feel. It's like I'm secretly playing this really smart game, and I'm winning. And although it's far less interesting to blog about, this whole Eco kick is even making me read more theory and more about semiotics and even more feminist theory (Not that Eco is particularly interested in or informed by feminist theory. It's just that suddenly Kristeva is appealing. I suppose it's the whole semiotics connection, right?) I don't quite know how to put it. I'm sitting here, in my lovely periwinkle-coloured office, sipping oolong tea, and I somehow feel so pleased with myself all because of Eco. He's just so smart. And he knows so much. It's almost like this elaborate in-joke for literary and medievalist types. And, to be honest, literary, medieval types are my favorite types, I think.

Ok, I realize that I've not been posting lately, and I'm really not even sure why. But I should make a point of posting more often, because I really do think it's somehow good for my emotional health. Wow! "Emotional health" seems such a sterile term for something that feels so non-sterile. Isn't there a better, more accurate term I could be using? I mean, "emotional health" seems so void of any connotative meaning, and it seems like there should be some sort of connotative sense associated with such a term. But there isn't, at least not for me.

I logged on intending to post something about Rider Haggard's She, which I finished reading yesterday. First, how is it that I've not read this novel before? I don't know what to make of it. And most of all, why is it that so many writers and thinkers that I am interested in (Tolkien and Lewis, for example) find it so important? I mean, there has to be something about this novel, a popular adventure novel, that moves readers on some deep level, but I can't get at what it is. And I keep thinking about it. I suppose that there's something uncanny and even threatening about She-who-must-be-obeyed. But why? Is it simply that a beautiful, powerful women is scary? Or is it more than that? Maybe it's Ayesha's near-immortality that makes us uncomfortable. I really don't know. This discussion isn't going anywhere, I realize. I suppose that I'm working through it all but just don't quite know where to go.

I should be working, so I'll keep this brief. In case anyone's interested: I'm markedly less depressed. Things suddenly feel normal. This is a big improvement!

Things I Like. . .

1. Over-the-knee socks

2. Bubble baths

3. Boston Terriers

4. Brothers

5. Nieces

6. Pie

7. "Friday I'm in Love"

8. Autumn

9. Inspector Morse

10. Stripes

11. Make-up

12. The sky

13. The Beatles

14. NPR

15. Harry Potter

16. Pigeon Pose

Ok, so I'm increasingly depressed. And I can't seem to get anything done, and I feel really stupid about it all. Just getting out of bed in the morning feels like a Hurculean struggle, and I'm normally pretty morningish. But my first thought on waking is something like, "I wish I could go back to sleep and pretend that today isn't happening." Only today is always happening. And I'm not anxious so much all the time, just really depressed. I'm like a slug, although I practiced Yoga for an hour yesterday. Still, it's like nothing's getting done, and I can't even make myself WANT to get things done. And, to be honest, I'm starting to worry about myself. I don't know. Maybe this post is really just my cry for help. Or maybe I'm being over indulgent, somehow.

I just realized, about an hour ago, that I hadn't posted in a while. So, here's my big news: I just dyed my roots pink. Now, those of you who have known me for any length of time probably know that I seem to have more than my fair share of hair color disasters. This I attribute mostly to my propensity to decide, without much real consideration, that my hair NEEDS to be a funky color (or just something different) right this very second ("immediately, if not sooner"). And sometimes, it just doesn't work out quite the way I had planned. For example, there was the time when I decided that my black wasn't black enough, was too ashy or brassy or something. So using blue "Fudge" seemed like a good solution to, you know, cool off the color somehow. And I used it, rinsed it off in the shower, and while my hair looked good, my skin was tinted blue for the next week. While this is maybe not strictly a hair color SNAFU, some claimed that I rather looked like a Smurf. Now that I think about it, I wonder if I looked like the black-haired, evil Smurfette, because really, I always thought that although evil, she was kinda sexy. SIDE NOTE: I don't subscribe to the blondes-have-more-fun theory; I think brunettes and red heads are often prettier. Then, there was the time, not too long before I moved to Vermont, when I tried for pink streaks. That didn't work at all. And apparently, I didn't learn from that mistake, because I used the same product tonight. However, I must say this: My method was different. Apparently, it's all in the method. And I guess, really, that I can't be so terrible at this hair color stuff, because Carina let me color hers once. Wait. She ONLY let me do it once. Oh, and then there was the time I bleached my brother J's hair. Only, I didn't apply the bleach very uniformly. It resulted in his being dubbed "Patches" at summer camp.

Ahhh. . . so many colors, so little time!

Overheard Conversation

"I just want to be able to go out into the woods and drag something back and be like, 'I killed this with my bare hands' or 'I found a rock and sharpened it'"

I Blew Chunks

Ok, on Saturday, I had a "rather unpleasant, unclean experience." And I know that most people would feel great embarrassment if this had happened to them. But I just keep thinking that it's somehow funny.

On Saturday morning, I left for a day trip to Salem, Massachusetts; yes, home of the infamous Salem Witch Trials. In between memories of The Scarlet Letter and The Crucible, I learned that John Lennon had made a point of visiting Gallows Hill, the site where 19 of the accused witches were hanged. And I had this great day, visiting The House of the Seven Gables, among other stuff.

However, just after lunch, I started to develop a headache, and it got worse and worse. I get these headaches that I call migraines because, among other things, they make me feel nauseated. Anyway, by the time we boarded the charter bus to return home, I was feeling pretty sick. And about 15 minutes into the 3 1/2 hour drive home, I threw up (yes, I blew chunks, yawned in technicolour, up-chucked, puked, barfed) on the bus. It was all over my clothes and the seat where I was sitting. And there wasn't all that much cleaning up I could do, aside from what can be done with dry paper towels. And so I had to ride home in my own vomit.

I know this is all really gross, and I realize that I'm forever branded as "The Professor who Puked on the Bus in Salem," but all I can think is that it's just really funny somehow.

I Heart Umberto Eco

I've just started Eco's The Island of the Day Before, thanks to my dad. And there's so much that I want to say about Eco and semiotics and medievalism and postmodernism and narrative theory. I wish there were someone appreciative to whom I could say these things. And although I've avoided it and repressed it all these years, maybe it's time to give in to my urge to study and read and write about contemporary literature and postmodernism and popular culture. And did I tell you that I'm planning to teach The Muppet Show in my 20th century class next semester?

Stalled

It just hit me: I'm feeling stalled. In fact, I dare say, I AM stalled. It's like I somehow can't get going, but am not so distressed about it as I would imagine. Is this merely the antidepressants? This worries me. I'm not getting as much done as I'd normally like to be getting done, but at the same time, I'm not so upset as normal about not getting things done. It's like I'm not making progress somehow, but it's just not grating on my nerves the way it normally would. And I have to ask myself: is this who I want to be? I know that maybe this doesn't make sense. I tried to explain it to J. the other night, and I realized that it's all pretty darn complicated, and it's near impossible to articulate. But it comes down to this: I'm suddenly afraid that I won't be me anymore without stress and anxiety grinding down my psyche. Really. I'm afraid that I'll be stalled forever, that I'll never amount to anything, but that I'll just never care. This is not at all how I perceive myself, at least until very recently, nor is it the way I want to live my life. I want to commit myself to my work and to crafts and to books and to people, and I want to do all these things passionately. Lately, my greatest passion seems to be physical comfort. And so, I find myself stalled. And I don't know what to do. I am wondering if living with anxiety, however debilitating it sometimes became, was preferable to this. I mean, often the anxiety got in the way of my peace and satisfaction, but at least I was getting stuff done. I was knitting and reading and scrapbooking and thinking and reading. Now, it seems that I'm content watching Law and Order, my not-so-guilty pleasure, all night. And more than ever, I'm content with being alone. Contentment is certainly good. But can't I have balance? Can't I have contentment and still work the way that I want to be working?

I consider this post a shout out. . .

. . . to Dolce Carina and the rest of the fidfam, who are on their way to Europe today. And I'm so thankful that Carina and O. are joining M. in Europe, because to me this says that maybe all is still right with the world, you know? I mean, I so appreciate that there are healthy families out there, making healthy decisions. So, this could easily turn into a paean of praise for Carina, but I'm afraid that would embarrass her. But really, I just so appreciate the strength she has to seize what's right for her and to do what works, even when other people don't necessarily understand. This, to me, is quite inspiring. And so, even though I don't take the time to tell her so nearly often enough. Carina is such an encouragement to me; she's the kind of friend who doesn't come along very often.

NOTE TO SELF

Cold sores and orange juice don't mix.

I'm Sick

I think that anyone who knows me (the real me, not the blogosphere me) knows this about me: when I get sick, I'm a really big baby about it, and I get really depressed really quickly. I woke up with a cold this morning. And in addition to looking like crap, I don't feel so hot. And all I really want to do is to drink a cup of tea and crawl back into bed. (SIDE NOTE: As what I want out of a relationship is this: someone to make me a cup of tea once in a while. Dolce Carina knows this; it's not some big epiphany that I've had. All I want is someone to make the tea. I say that, but I suppose that's not totally true; that's not all I want. Still, at times like these, it seems important.) What I don't want is to have to stand in front of a bunch of 19 year olds and try to act perky for 50 minutes, although once I get into it, class will just go, and by the end of it, I'll be thankful for work. I don't know; I'm sick. And I'm already annoyed with having to be sick. I'm already anticipating all the things I'll have to miss out on because I'm sick. Goodness: this is not how the Buddha would handle feeling sick, of that I'm sure!

Hello, my name is Drennan, but I also respond to "Festering, Moldy Rat Ass."

I love pasta, chocolate tea, feta, bleu cheese, C.S. Lewis, Inspector Morse, my friends, my family, my dogs, Law and Order, funky fashion, the Beatles, Hello Kitty, boys, bad pop music, brown ale, Zinfindel, word play, Beowulf, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Johnny Depp,body art, to fit in and pop tarts.

I hate snakes, the oppression of women, high heels, Led Zepplin, "white" Zinfindel, Two and a Half Men, boys, bad pop music, The Old Man and the Sea, backstabbers, to fit in, and belligerant 18 year olds.

I want another tattoo, a pint, to go to England, to write, a boyfriend, another dog, purple hair, a raise, to find a church, to fit in, and to stop thinking about my weight.

The Tattooed Professor

Ok, the funniest thing just happened. This is right up there with the time that I got invited to join some student's D&D group. This guy from the campus paper just came by my office and interviewed me. He's doing a story about tattoos on campus and had interviewed a bunch of students and wanted to get a faculty perspective. So apparently I'm like, I don't know, a side show freak; I'm the Tattooed Professor. So, I talked to him, of course, told him why I have the tattoo that I do. But really, is this what I want everyone to know about me? That although I masquerade as a professional, I secretly have this nerdy tattoo?

Procrastination

I know that maybe I should be working. I should be grading or reading or even preparing my sexy lecture on Little Women. Funny: Little Women isn't sexy in the normally accepted sense of the word "sexy," but I assume that all of you know that I use "sexy" to mean exciting, fun, attractive, and Drennanesque. It's like, "Hey, that pink eyeshadow is sexy!" or "Hey, your paper on the grotesque in Wicked is supersexy." But what I really want to do right now is to write. Well, I want to write and eat the new Buffalo and Ranch Doritos, which are super sexy.

I've been thinking a lot about my brothers lately. Although I know they'll never read this (Jake doesn't "believe" in the internet, so I assume that he doesn't "believe" in blogs either), I just want to say that I love both of them so very much. But more than that, I think both Jake and John are wonderful, interesting, admirable, fascinating people. And having them as brothers has so much enriched my life. This morning on the way to work, I was listening to The Specials and thinking about John and how I think he's super sexy and how I know about The Specials because of him. I don't know; I'm not articulating this very well. Jake especially is so different from me, just as a person. Jake knows about and is competent at all these wonderful, amazing things that I just don't get, but I love that he has enthusiasm for his job and his life. And I feel like I better understand the world and people and all of it because I can sometimes, for a second, see the world from his vantage point. He has such a happy disposition; he's so good with people. He's really so many things that I'm just not. And then there's John, the Goose. John and I are certainly more alike; only I wish that I had even half the talent that he does. I'm so in awe of him. He's just this smart, interesting, artistic, analytic, intelligent young man with superfly fashion sense. I like to think that he gets the fashion sense from me. I don't know; I'm getting all sentimental and sappy. I just really love them both.

"You Just Put Your Lips Together and Blow"

I should totally be grading, but this seems ever so much more interesting. Last night, I watched To Have and Have Not, because I'm onto a whole Humphrey Bogart thingy just now. But I liked the movie a whole lot, and I've decided that when I grow up, I totally want to be Lauren Bacall. I think she's so wonderful and beautiful in this powerful way, you know? She's like, I don't know, pre-feminism, anti-Marilyn Monroe, transcends-Sex-and-the-City feminity. And that's so what I want to be. She rocks. Whatever she does, she makes cool. I saw her with Bogart in The Big Sleep not too long ago, and that was good. But To Have and Have Not was even better. So where am I going with all this? I don't know right now. Only I know that she seems to be the kind of woman that I so want to be.

Hello Blogosphere,

Not much time, as I'm off to class in just a few minutes, but I thought I'd check in since I've not really been posting much lately. There's not too much to tell about. I've been watching Humphrey Bogart films lately, and that's kinda interesting. I think Lauren Bacall kicks ass. I'm all in favor of all this October baseball madness, but I rather miss House. I bought these great red cowboy boots that I'm wearing for the first time today. That's about all there is to say about me. Oh, I saw Flags of our Fathers on Sunday and didn't like it at all; maybe I'll write more about that later. Oh and P.S. 18-month-olds in lumberjack gear, playing with pumpkins are just the sort of thing that makes life worth while, don't you think?

MySpace

Ok, I think that I'm the only one under 35 in my family who doesn't myspace. Seriously. Brother, sister-in-law, cousins, they're all doing it. But I'm not. For a lotta reasons. (OK, and writing in fragments shows just how distracted and bothered I am about this whole thing.) So really, I'm I the only one who doesn't have a myspace account? Is this why I feel so disconnected from everyone on the left coast? Are the rest of you out there, posting, reading, commenting, connecting without me all because I don't myspace? And can I even use "myspace" as a verb? (Side bar: "I don't know the difference between nouns and verbs. I don't understand. I'm not saying I was never taught it in school. It just didn't take." ha, ha--this is Jake and Weiscracker.) So really, I don't want to give in to the whole myspace craze, in part because I don't think I want to make myself public to my students in that forum, not that they really are all that interested, but still. And yet, I feel like I'm missing out.

Homage: Two Words, Five Times, Twice

Ok, I'm getting all meta and intertextual here: This post is my homage to Dolce Carina. I'm going to list five two-word phrases to explain why I've disappeared the past week:

mother visiting
movie watching
Jerry Orbach
painting wall
eating out

And here are five two-word phrases describing all the fun, wonderful thing in my life right now:

dogs cuddling
fire burning
soup simmering
friend visiting
wall painted

It's up to you to make the Jerry Orbach connection; it has nothing to do with Beauty and the Beast.

Arrrrrrrr!

I'm back to work after a week's break. And in my 19th Century Children's Lit class, we're reading Treasure Island, which has me thinking about pirates. Yesterday in class, many of the female students informed me that they really didn't like because female are largly absent. The males, however, said that they liked it because pirates are just "cool." I conceded that I like it as well because pirates are "kick ass," and Johnny Depp, of course, proves it. Is it passe to be in like with Johnny Depp? But really the point that the narrator of Treasure Island makes is that the pirating life and the lust for treasure is dangerous at best, even deadly. Yet, it seems to me that we, as readers, don't really take that away from the book. I mean, by the end of it all, we still think pirates are kick ass, and we still appreciate adventure. Ok, I want to make a plug for the Muppets Treasure Island movie, which I really love. Tim Curry plays Long John Silver, which is brilliant. Oh and another thing about Treasure Island: it represents what is best about the boys' adventure novel.

Ok, so I know I've not been posting lately. I AM alive and am just fine. My mom's been visiting for the last week or so, and I've been busy with her, hence the lack of posts. There's not much to tell. When things settle down a bit, I'll post a pic of my newly painted dining area. Mom helped me paint it, and it looks lovely.

The weather is suddenly cooler, and I guess that's nice. I mean, that's what weather is supposed to do this time of year, right? This time of year, my thoughts turn to nesting, winter time reading. Alas, I can't find Jane Eyre, which seems like exactly what one should be reading just now. Recently, I read The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield, who is apparently a first-time novelist. And it wasn't terribly literary or deep but was a good read. And it reads in some ways like a 19th century novel, which may be part of the point. Still, it made me rather long for Jane Eyre, which it references several times. In the absence of Jane Eyre, I could turn to Jasper Fforde's The Eyre Affair, which is a spectacularly fun read! Dolce Carina described it as being something like Harry Potter and good detective fiction all in one, and she's right, as she so often is. I highly recommend Fforde. He's just lots of fun. Lots of literary in-jokes.

OK, last week, T. asked me if I wanted a copy of Kerouac's On the Road. T. is teaching a class on beat poetry next term, and the publishers had sent him extra desk copies. Well, I almost never turn down a free book, and since I've never read Kerouac, it seemed like a good opportunity. And so on Sunday, I started On the Road. I read maybe the first third. And that was enough. It generally annoyed me. And it somehow seems trite, overdone, self-involved, and all kinds of other icky things. But my question is this: am I a washed-up, old fuddy duddy if I don't LOVE Kerouac? Seriously. I mean, I want to be all hip, and so I'm supposed to like his brand of drivel, right? But I just couldn't do it. I wanted to like it; I really did.

And now I'm back to P.D. James's Inspector Dalgleish. I'm rereading the first Dalgleish novel. And it's grand. And I remember why I liked James in the first place. I think that the Zoloft has made me even more enthusiastic about reading that I'd normally like. I mean, I'm always all for a good novel, but I'm really having this sense of reveling in my reading lately. This is a good thing.

So I'm not going to bother to proofread before posting; please excuse the inevitable errors!

Ok, so I don't really know what exactly I want to say, only that the Zoloft seems to be a good thing, at least for now. And really, I don't like the idea of being on meds, but I suppose that it's worth it if I feel better. It's like suddenly, I feel motivated to do all the things I'd been putting off. And I'm feeling less worried, less upset. In fact, I'm even relatively unfazed by the mouse problem I'm having. I just sorta feel like I can deal with it and like everything will be OK. This is how I should feel, right?

Ok, I think it's just best to be really honest and open about this: I am depressed. Yes, I've diagnosed it myself. I've also put myself on Zoloft. You see, I'm a doctor. Well, I'm not that kind of doctor. But I know myself well enough to realize that things aren't so OK, you know? And I'm sure that if I knew how to use the whole DSM thingy, I'd find that I'm suffering from depression, accompanied by an anxiety disorder. But for me, anxiety just seems to be part of life. It's like it's part of my make-up or something. Doctors, "real" doctors, say that there's a genetic component to this sort of thing, but my mom insists that she doesn't know of anyone on either side of the family who struggles with anxiety. And this all makes me wonder, what did we call panic attacks, say, 100 years ago? I mean, I assume that panic attacks, anxiety disorder, OCD, and all the rest are not recent developments, new conditions. Or maybe they are; maybe these are just symptoms of societal post-modernism or something. Or maybe it's all just some sort of post-feminism, I-can't-do-second-or-third-wave-anymore kind of affliction. Seriously. I feel like we Gen-X women, we 30-somethings females are under all this pressure to be all things to all people. And I know that so-called third wave feminism is supposed to be about having choices. But I feel like society (yes, that nebulous, non-personal "society") is telling me that I'm supposed to be Super Mom, to have a fulfilling, stellar career, to spend six hours a week at the gym, and to cook like Julia Childs all at the same time. And I'm convinced that most of us can't do all those things. I know that I tend to rant about this too frequently. But it bothers me.

And so, I am, at the end of the day, depressed. I keep going, keep getting out of bed, keep going to work, keep paying the bills, keep answering e-mails (well, I answer most e-mails, anyway), but I'm tired, and there are days when I don't want to keep going. I want to stay in bed and pretend that it's not happening, not like this. I feel, again, like I'm in Wonderland, stuck in a life that I couldn't have imagined, a life filled with nonsense. I'm stuck in relationships where communication breaks down, and we're all finally alone.

I really don't have a lot of time to sit here and write. But I wanted to say that I'm just tired, tired mostly of always doing what I think I "should" do. There's something in me that wants a month or a week or even a day off of all the "shoulds." I want to lie in bed all day and eat ice cream. I want to think only of myself, of what I want for a while. I want to be able to relax. I want to stop concerning myself with what everyone else thinks. I want to walk away from the stacks of essays and papers.