The Muppets

Lately, I've been watching The Muppet Show on DVD, and it's really fun because it has this fun "pop up" trivia feature where as one is watching the episode, fun facts pop up on the screen. So really, it's an educational experience. That, of course, is why I'm watching the Muppets; it's all educational. No really, if I am in a crappy mood (which I am far too often), watching the Muppet show makes me laugh. At this point, that's worth a lot. And, really, who doesn't love the Muppets? Who, I ask. What's not to love. Oh here's a fun one: why don't we all list our favorite Muppet and why he or she is our favorite. And hey, you know how I've been on this whole weird anti- / maverick feminist thing? Well, I bet that the feminists don't much like the Muppets. I mean, let's look at female representations here. Well, there's Miss Piggy, and we all know what she's like. I mean, on the one hand, she's kinda kick-ass because she karate chops whoever gets in her way, but really she's superficial and not very pleasant to be around. There's a word for that, but I won't use it here on account of this is a G-rated post. You know who I really like? Statler and Waldorf, the old guys who sit in the balcony and make snide remarks. They're lots of fun. But really, really, Fozzie Bear is my favorite. I guess it just makes me feel better how nothing ever seems to go right for him, and he's always kinda sheepish. I really like that about Fozzie. So, who's your favorite?

My New Favorite CD

So here's my new favorite CD. It's this band called The East Village Opera Company, and they do these cool rock & roll versions of opera songs. You know, so there are violins and electric guitars and drums and keyboards, and it's all quite lovely. One of the best things about living alone is that one can listen to the same CD over and over, and no one complains. I really, really dig this CD right now. I'm especially fond of their rendition of the "Habanera" from Carmen, one of my favorite opera pieces. OK, I admit that I know very little about opera, but I'd like to learn about it. And this CD is really, really great. I wonder of real opera purists would turn up their noses at these pop remakes of opera favorites. I don't really care--I just know that I like it. I always get excited to discover a new CD that I can absolutely fall in love with. And right now, this is it for me. But not to worry, I'm still listening to a healthy dose of Johnny Cash each day. Oh and just think, if I get an iPod, I can take opera and Johnny and the Beatles with me everywhere I go. Really, that would make me happier than I can say. I tend to get really excited about the little things in life. And satisfying music makes me very happy. And right now, I am absolutely besotted with the East Village Opera Company.

Weekly Goals

So here's my commitment to myself regarding my weekly goals.

Each morning, when I get up, I will meditate for 8 minutes, then read my morning devotional.

Each evening, I will read my Bible.

I've been doing these things regularly, and I want to add one more goal to the mix. Each day, I want to do some reading that's not immediately required for work. i.e. prep for class. I also want to spend some time this week creating a reading list for myself. I want to read more that is meaningful and spend less time watching TV. Oddly, because I really only get one channel, one would think this wouldn't be too difficult. Still, I want to spend more time reading each evening, and I want to come up with a plan to implement this new goal.

Gregory Maguire's Son of a Witch

Ok, I'll just come out and say it. I thought this novel was just blah--nothing terrible, nothing great. The issue of sexuality was dealt with in a heavy-handed way, nothing especially interesting or provocative. It seemed forced, predictable. I had high hopes because I loved Wicked and liked Confessions of an Ugly Step-Sister. I hated his Lost, however; it was really bad. I started Mirror, Mirror once, but lost interest.

I guess what I'm trying to say is even if you loved Wicked like I did, you shouldn't get your hopes up for Son of a Witch.

That's my lazy, Saturday evening, pajamas analysis. Not very literary or professional. I guess that sums up my response to the book. There's nothing especially literary to say. And I suppose that's fine, but it wasn't even especially entertaining.

Just my self-imposed obligatory post!

Drennan, the Maverick Feminist

Why I Love Saturdays!

Because I got to sleep in until 7:30

Because when I got up, I went straight to the couch with my cup of tea and read all morning

Because I didn't get dressed at all, wore my jammies all day

Because I didn't have to do anything other than exactly what I wanted

Because I made a really delightful luncheon, just for me

Because I got so much done, none of it related to work

Because I had the time to catch up on correspondance and phone calls

Because I took a long, hot bath and listened to really great music

Because there's something wonderful about watching DVDs and reading novels all afternoon

Because I feel more relaxed than I have all week

What I'm Reading Now

Just a quick update:

Last night, I finished rereading C.S. Lewis's Till We Have Faces. It is absolutely my favorite novel ever, and it has changed my life. I think everyone should read it. I really do. But it's so hard to talk about, probably because I find it so moving and important on a very personal, intimate level.

I've read about 2/3 of Gregory Maguire's Son of a Witch. I just want to say that it's OK, although I don't like it nearly as well as its predecessor Wicked. That's just for the record.

I think I've given up on We Were the Mulvaneys. Maybe it just didn't do it for me--I know many others think it quite brilliant. I'm just not that into it.

My new resolve is to NOT be reading like five books at once. I think that whatever I'm reading for work is fine, plus one fun book, plus one non-fiction something that's supposed to enlighten me somehow. That seems like a good mix. I tend to have lots and lots of books going at once so that I can have something that fits with my mood. But then things seem to somehow get lost in the process. I suppose, however, that if something isn't complling, why should I waste my time? C.S. Lewis said that if he just wasn't into a book by page 50, he didn't bother. And I guess if it's OK for Lewis, it can be OK for me.

Moment of panic: I realize that I'm turing into one of those crazy academics who brings up her research interests in nearly every conversation. I don't mean to be this way. It's just that Lewis so often speaks to whatever it is that's going on! This is not a good sign.

More on Feminism

So here's what I don't get. Aren't there some out there who would argue that feminism is really about having control over our own bodies? And maybe this is a good point. Maybe, arguably, freedom means doing what we desire with our bodies. But really, this idea that we CAN have control of our bodies seems to me a big lie of feminism.

Let's face it, our bodies fail us, or at least disappoint us, all the time. My body, at this point, would not allow me to run a marathon, no matter how much I wanted to right this second. And I'm in reasonably good health. My body rebels if I eat more than about two bites of beef, quite honestly. People get cancer all the time. Our bodies betray us in a thousand ways.

Is the notion of having control over our bodies really even realistic? Or did I just miss something? Along the path of indoctrination, did I just miss something really important?

This simple, activist kind of feminism that argues that we should do whatever we want specifically with our bodies just doesn't work for me, for a number of reasons.

Words Are Not My Friends

Right now, it feels like words have failed me, again. DVL knows this, because I just sent him an e-mail in which all I really said over and over is that there are no words adequate to convey the sense that I mean. How can there be words for how opera sounds, for example? And there are even fewer words to show how the sound of opera makes one feel. And there are no words to describe how on a cold, wintry day, waiting for snow storms, I finished rereading my favorite, favorite book, how I felt when I finished because I knew that simply the rereading had somehow in a way imperceptible to others altered who I am. How can I describe that? How can I show someone else that my soul is different for having reread something? It's maybe not even logical. Maybe it's not logical at all, hence the inability of language. And so what I wanted to say to DVL was that I am a different person, a more beautiful, less-like-Ungit person now. But where are the words for that?

I trust words. I depend on them in a thousand little ways and a hundred thousand big ways. But sometimes they betray me.

What I Did This Afternoon

Ok, normally, I tend to front load my work week. That is, Monday through Wednesday, I work quite a lot, but I tend to work less on Thursdays and Fridays. This is partly by intention and partly just how it seems to work out. Anyhow, I left work early this afternoon, around 2:30, and I came home and made hazlenut-almond biscotti. I love making biscotti lately. And while it was baking, I watched my soap opera. I'm embarrassed (sort of) to admit that I watch Guiding Light, and it's only in the past 9 months or so that I've started watching it. Really, once a week is about all that I want to see of it. But I hadn't seen it in quite some time, and I have to say that there's something really relaxing about sitting on the couch, smelling biscotti baking, watching mindless TV and flipping through a magazine. It was like I just really needed to do nothing for a while, I guess.

I feel so thankful that I have the opportunity to bake and watch TV and sip tea (I'm drinking white peach tea just now). There are so many little things that I am tempted to take for granted, but when I don't, when I stop and enjoy them and feel thankful, I'm a much happier person. I feel blessed just to be alive.

Interesting Link: All Songs Considered

Today, I discovered on NPR's web site this link to their online radio music program, All Songs Considered, and I thought it was worth sharing:

http://www.npr.org/programs/asc/

One can search their archives, get it as a podcast, or listen online. And it's free. It's an unusual, interesting mix from what I can tell.

Oh, and Happy Birthday Mozart tomorrow!

Dinner

I've been thinking that maybe it would be a good idea if I wrote more about things that make me happy, rather than going off on rants all the time about everything that annoys me. So I wanted to say that I had the most lovely dinner this evening. I really enjoy cooking, although it's sometimes hard to motivate myself to cook for just me in the evenings. But tonight, I made this cool shrimp scampi rice bowl thingy. And boy was it good. I even had a glass of champaign (you know, in lieu of my red wine) to celebrate whatever, to celebrate that I'd made it through the day, through the majority of the week, to celebrate that life is this amazing, beautiful thing. Many days, I feel blessed somehow to simply be alive and breathing. (SIDE NOTE: I've been practicing meditation again, and it makes me think that simply breating is just such a wonderful thing!) Anyhow, it feels good to be me and to know that life exists and that I am capable of love. I guess I'm not explaining it very well. Making dinner made me very happy.

Antigone

I am short on time, but I wanted to write down, quickly, my reaction to Antigone, which I just finished reading. About half way through, the chorus says, "This law is immutable: / For motrals greatly to live is greatly to suffer." And I wonder if maybe this is really the point of the entire Oedipus Cycle. Maybe this is the one thing that we are supposed to learn, that the human condition is such that suffering is requisite.

More Peter Rabbit

I just had my class, and I was surprised to hear many of my students say that they hated Peter Rabbit because they thought it was horrible and way too scary, all because Peter's father had been made into rabbit pie by the McGregors! And it's too scary, they said, because Peter is chased for much of the book, and he knows that if he is caught, he too will end up as pie. Then they talked about how "gross" the idea of rabbit pie is, how they'd never eat that. I pointed out that most of them eat other dead animals.

Anyway, one interesting fact: The most recent edition of Peter Rabbit published by Warne has restored some of Potter's illustrations that had been dropped out, including an illustration of Mrs. McGregor serving said pie.

I don't know. Getting all hung up on how scary it is seems to me to miss the point. I mean, do we really ever think that Peter is going to be caught, that he will end up as the McGregor's dinner?

I'm fascinated by Beatrix Potter's tales at the moment. I think it's the whole question of English cultural identity, a topic that, especially as it is represented during the first half of the twentieth century, I find absorbing.

What I'm Reading Now

Today, in preparation for class, I am reading Beatrix Potter's Peter Rabbit and some of Perry Nodelman's analysis of it. The more I read and think about Potters apparently simplistic story, the more it fascinates me. There seems to be so much tension for Peter (and for us as readers) between behaving as though he were human, as his mother requests, and his own instinct to behave as a rabbit. Why is this so appealing? And really, it is on the surface this moralistic tale: young bunnies (read: children) ought to mind their mothers or they are likely to end up bunny pie. However, isn't the lesson that really it's more fun to be like Peter, to disobey mother an have an adventure? I mean, come on, don't we identify with Peter, rather than merely watch him from an objective distance? And isn't he more interesting and appealing than the sisters who do just as mother requests? Here, in this illustration, we see Peter with his back to the group. It seems that Peter, the only male in a house full of female rabbits, does not feel like a part of the group. He doesn't seem to have a sense of belonging. I don't know--I'm babbling. Or maybe I'm just collecting my thoughts. Still, it's a fascinating story.

UPDATE: New Year's Resolutions

1. I've been using toilets as is appropriate. CHECK.

2. I brush my teeth regularly. CHECK.

3. I haven't had a glass of wine in a week or so. So no check there. I need to go to the grocery store.

No, those were just my dummie resolutions, resolutions that I could feel good / silly about. My real, real resolution (or at least something I told myself I wanted to do) was to blog or write about everything I read for a year. It's proving more difficult and time consuming than I'd anticipated. Maybe I just read more than I realize. And I wasn't even going to write about short things I read, magazine articles, say, but only longer things, novels and the like. And I've been doing it mostly. But it is a bigger task than I'd realized. And it's still January!

My Latest Dilemma

So here's my latest dilemma. And I've been polling everyone (my dad rolled his eyes, I'm sure, when I asked him), so please leave comments. This could just be more of the need to feel "cool," but I think it transcends that.

My dilemma is this: so I finished my Ph.D. last month, and for the past year or so, I'd been saying that for a graduation present to myself, I'd get a tattoo. And this seemed like a good idea, and I had a tattoo all picked out. And I'd been excited about it. Only now I really want an iPod. So my dad said, "Well, I don't think there's much dilemma there." (He's not big on tattoos; I think he's pretending that I don't already have one. He also, very graciously, ignores my nose stud.) And I agreed that an iPod does seem to have greater potential to improve my quality of life. But my mom pointed out that "a tattoo lasts forever," so I guess that's one vote in favor of a tattoo. Should I get a tattoo, I want a Celtic trinity knot, as pictured at the right. But I'd want it in three colors.

Shay, whom I don't really know, suggested that I get a tattoo of an iPod. While that's a witty suggestion, it's not really what I had in mind.

Is it sad that this is the biggest dilemma I face? Should I post a picture of the tattoo I already have? Is this just more need to feel cool? I think it transcends the whole cool thing. I mean, a tattoo really means something, right? It means something to pick a symbol to commit to living with for the rest of one's life. But then, an iPod would be fun.

The Need to Feel "Cool" and Why I Drink Tea

Just a couple of days ago, I had a conversation with one of you about how sad I think it is that here we are in our 30s and we think of ourselves as professionals and want to be taken seriously. But then, some of us, one third-party in particular, we'll call her Franny. So Franny feels the need to feel "cool." And she creates this online persona, and she talks about how she's an intellectual but she also knows how to ROC and how she just loves people with brilliant minds who also know how to party. And my comment, my response, was, "Well, I think that's a little sad. That here she is an intellectual who wants to be taken seriously as a professional, but then Franny gets on MySpace, which is just for 17-year-olds to hook up anyway, and wants to project this uber-hip, super cool persona. I think it's sad that at 31 she's so insecure that she has to do that." And, of course, her name really isn't Franny, but I just over the weekend had this conversation with one of you. Only then I realized. . .

. . . I realized that I'm doing the same thing, needing to feel cool, only in my much dorkier, nerdier, kind of way (Side note: I recently took a quiz on the net that determined I was a "modern, cool nerd."). Only I don't go around talking about how much I like to party, because I really don't party, not at all. And I never have. But instead of feeling cool because I party, I in my interior monologue, walk around feeling cool because I drink tea instead of coffee. And I like coffee, used to be an addict. (Hi, I'm Drennan, and I'm a recovering coffeeholic.) But now I've switched to tea, and I have become this weird tea snob. And I drink cup after cup, all day long, in class, in my office, at home. But I feel oddly superior because I'm drinking tea, not coffee like everyone else.

So aren't I just the same as Franny? Only I get my coolness fix from feeling somehow different (maybe it's my need to always feel as though I'm "interesting") simply because I'm all into tea? Isn't this weird / dumb? And the more I think about it, the more I think it was silly of me to be all catty about Franny because I'm just the same, only with me it's more internal. And I really do like tea.

So Much To Say, But Where To Begin? This is For Dolce Carina

An Open Letter to My Readers (which probably mostly means Cara and me):

So you notice that I haven't been blogging as much the past couple of days. It's because I'm busy, really busy, and it almost never lets up. And I work and work and feel as though I give all I have to my students and my work and my colleagues and making phone calls to biology candidates for what is apparently one of only several positions open in the nation, only no one really WANTS the job because the pay is so bad. And I give. And I give. And when I come home from work in the evening, I cry, often cry in the car on the way home. And I cry not out of pain or hurt or frustration, although there's that too, but I cry because I am so tired in every way imaginable. And I think during my brief, 13 mile commute, that I take care of everyone else and I wish, I wish, that just for 15 minutes after I get home, wish that for 15 minutes someone would take care of me. That's all I want--just 15 minutes of complete attention from someone else. I want to come home and have 5 minutes to tell someone else how my day was, and the next 5 I want someone to make me a cup of tea, and the last 5 could even be in complete, mutual, communal silence. This is what I want out of life. Is it asking so much? I just want to be taken care of for 15 minutes. I feel like I give all that I have mentally, emotionally, even physically to everyone else in my life. And I'd like to feel like there was someone to look in on me. And I'm not even talking about a mate or a "life partner," just a friend. But, of course, that doesn't happen, not here, not now. So I simply figure that I have to take care of myself the best that I can. And I try to do nurturing, nourishing things for myself each day. And if there's no one else to make the tea, then I come home and boil the water for myself.

Ok, so maybe this was just another rant. I seem to be full of rants these days--rants about books and the lies we've all been fed by feminism, by the establishment, whatever. There's really more I want to say. I want to write about books (I'm teaching The Hobbit right now!) and volunteer work and cookies (made almond cookies over the weekend!) and tea and insomnia and the ways we like to pretend that we have control over our lives, our selves, our bodies. Only all I seem to get to is these rants. I should take the time to write about more things that make me happy.

Oedipus at Colonus

I am reading and prepping to teach Sophocles' Oedipus at Colonus, and it occurs to me that maybe one reason I blog (I can't believe I'm using "blog" as a verb!) is so that I have a space to say all the things that I can't really say in class. I mean, often, not always, in class, I feel compelled to follow some unspoken, official agenda, rather than point out what's really speaking to me in a piece of literature. I feel like I have to elicit and then validate students' analyses, rather than giving my own, if it's non-traditional. Anyway, As I'm reading this second play in the Oedipus cycle, it strikes me that in part what this play is really about is the way that whether we are kings or blind, wandering paupers--Oedipus has been both--we all die in the same state somehow. Seeing Oedipus a broken, yet still prideful old man, Theseus tells him, "I know that I am man; in the day to come / My portion will be as your, no more, no less." Isn't this an indication that we all spend our lives one way or another, yet end up equals, almost, at the moment of death? Is this specifically a pagan way of looking at human existence? Although Theseus and Sophocles are, I suppose, pagans themselves, it seems to me that this is a truth that transcends the pagan / Christian dichotomy, that it is true that at the moment of death, what we accomplished in the world's eyes is not what counts. I'm not sure. I guess this is an issue with which I am grappeling--what, in the end, is the value of our lives, our actions? At the moment of death, how will I measure myself? Will I consider my life meaningful? Will I have served a purpose? Or in light of eternity, do such questions merely fall away?

It's Not Enough; It's Never Enough

So often, I look at the clock or the calendar and realize that the minutes, hours, days are slipping by, yet I never seem to accomplish enough. I am overwhelmed. Here it is, Sunday night, and I look at my list of things to do over the weekend--laundry, grocery shopping, read this, write that. And of my list of 15 items, I have completed maybe 2. And I hate that feeling, the panic that arises when I realize that there's so much I should have done but somehow didn't manage to do. And I know, I try to remind myself, that maybe my expectations are unrealistic, that maybe it's healthier to simply sit on the couch and read on Saturday morning. (And let's face it, all I want to do on a Saturday morning is to read a book, bake muffins, take a bath, and watch a movie.) But here I am, with so much to do, not enough time in which to do it. No matter what I do--simply make dinner, or grade a set of essays, or even finish my dissertation--it never feels like enough; there's always more, always the thing that I didn't get done. I think that probably the real underlying problem here is perfectionism. And to be honest, I expect more of myself than I do of most other people. I want to move beyond that. I want to feel satisfaction in what I have accomplished instead of focusing on all that I haven't. I could probably list, just off the top of my head, 35 things I've failed at, most of them relatively unimportant, some of them important. Yet, I'd be hard pressed to list 10 that I've been successful at. And what really gets to me sometimes is that I know there are people out there--my friends from grad school who don't have jobs yet--who look at me and think how "lucky," how successful I am. And sometimes I wish I could see that, instead of seeing all that I haven't done: laundry, grocery shopping. No matter what I do, it's not enough; it's never enough.