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?