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.