10 Days

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Here’s a list of things I’ve done in the last 10 days:

1. Bury my dad-in-law (Although, to be fair, I didn’t do the actual burying. I lack the necessary backhoe skills. But it still counts, right? *Also, “backhoe” is not a sex joke.) See how I use humor to cover up grief? Super healthy! Go and do thou likewise.

2. Apply for a job: A real, live, full-time academic job at a state university. Which means the application process was a bit like taking the Ring to Mordor. I mean, wait! Not to imply that the university is Mordor! Well that analogy broke down pretty quickly.

3. Submit the manuscript for my first book (notice how I slid “first” in there, all easy-like? Let’s hope it’s not the announcer’s curse of publishing…). This one was a long time coming, because (brace yourselves): I am a procrastinator. Somewhere, the Understatement Fairy just earned its wings. This usually works to my advantage, as my anxiety and procrastination – at the last minute, naturally – mop the floor with deadlines. However, anxiety was doing its own thing this time. I spent hours trying to get started. I would take a run at the computer – open it, pull up Twitter, shut down Twitter, open my manuscript, read the first few sentences, feel my brain thud into something unmovable, and sit puzzling over why my anxiety was crippling me rather than merely stalling. This went on for about a year. I worked, and worked, and worked, and it never got easier.

The book is based on my dissertation, and so, much of the work I did was rewriting and editing. Somehow, those tasks were more daunting than putting new thoughts on paper. Granted, I am notoriously fond of new thoughts (like right now I’m thinking about…Dang it! THERE’S NOTHING NEW IN MY BRAIN. Please wait while I reload… Oh yeah! I’ve been listening to loads of Zoe Keating. She’s brilliant! Her cello playing is like a massage for the everything.) The manuscript was due today. I finished at 2:00 this morning, and sent it off. I think I’m more nervous about this than I was about the dissertation. But, to be honest, good ol’ “WHAT IF IT SUCKS?” is so much better company than, “WHY CAN’T I WRITE?” Plus, I have the added bonus of getting to spend an entire Friday with my boys without feeling like I should be at the bookstore typing. Win-win!

4. Get an email from STELLAAAAAAA!!!!!! saying that she’s coming for a visit. Nothing in the world could have made yesterday better.

This Weekend: Grief, Goats, and Gluttony

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Grief

My father-in-law passed away last Sunday. It was peaceful. It was difficult. And I’m sure there’s more to be written about it; but not now, while it’s so new. Instead, let’s talk about coping, which leads us to:

Goats

In the days before Dad’s death, my best friend (STELLAAAAA!!!!) sent me a video, saying it made her laugh so hard she cried. I was already doing plenty of crying, and wasn’t sure I was prepared for this video. So I saved it up. Sunday night, while driving 2 1/2 hours (one way) with my brother-in-law to pick up his fiancée at the most affordable airport in the area (read: excuse to visit Trader Joe’s), I decided to watch. After about 2 seconds, we were in hysterics. Repeated watching in no way diminished the effect.

Gluttony

This segment brought to you by the aforementioned visit to Trader Joe’s. Which we don’t have locally. Which I fell in love with in my former Southern California life. Which is the font of all delicious CHEESE. (Let us have a moment of silence to think about cheese…)

Jeff and I lived on the edge of Europe just long enough to deeply internalize the need for meals consisting of epic portions of cheese and preserved meats and crusty white bread and olives and stuffed peppers. (I feel like a Dwarf. Tolkien obviously had my eating habits in mind, but I’m not nearly so careful with the plates.) Oh, and Nutella. Nutellaaaaaaaa… *Wipes drool*

I dragged my brothers-in-law to Trader Joe’s, where I spent the better part of a (very) small fortune on six slabs of cheese – brie, gouda, wine-soaked, herb-covered, stinky, and super-stinky. (Back off. Those are my personal and highly official categories.) I further piled into the cart: prosciutto, chorizo, three types of salami, and seranno ham. (I love the Oxford comma.) Also, a couple of tins of coffee, to be consumed at a later date. My cheese lust piqued, we drove 2 1/2 hours back to our house. WHERE I HAD TO WAIT ANOTHER 24 HOURS BEFORE I COULD EAT THE CHEESE.

It was so worth it. Jeff and I built a fire, set out the cheeses and meats and some olives and olive oil and balsamic vinegar and crusty bread and crackers on a tray in the floor, and had a totally romantic moment. Well, it might have been, had we not been exhausted and more in the mood to watch The Avengers. (No, not the film. The cartoon.) At the end of the night, cheese lust sated, brain bloated with animated explosions, we two gluttons betook ourselves to bed and slept – a lovely, sinful respite.

A Tweet from Death (Or, “Tweet Macabre”)

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Yesterday was one of the worst days of my adult life. So bad, in fact, that the highlight was getting a tweet from DEATH. I’ve mentioned my twitter obsession before. And I’ve talked about my Dad-in-law’s leukemia before. Yesterday, they collided – with disturbingly hilarious results.

Where do I even start with this?… 

Those of you familiar with Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series know a few things:

A. The books are intelligent (brilliant) on many levels;

B. The books are hilarious; and

C. The best character is Death.

For those of you unfamiliar with Discworld, it’s set on a fictional planet that manages to make fun of some of our most sacred institutions. There are dangerous/bumbling wizards, sassy/powerful grannies and witches, academic nonsense, flawed true love, questionable religions (aren’t they all?), Santas that are not Santa, idiots who save the day, and all manner of other critters and people who do things almost like we’d do them except funnier and/or better and/or worse. There’s also a town whose putrescent odor is legendary. And Death – always Death. Death who rides a beautiful horse, has pinpoints of light in his eye-sockets, carries a scythe, wears black – and is fascinated with the behavioral oddities of the Discworld’s inhabitants. He also has a killer (ahem) sense of humor, in spite of himself. One of my favorite features of Death is his voice: ALL OF HIS DIALOGUE IS WRITTEN IN CAPS. And the descriptions of his voice are so vivid that you can hear it booming and thudding in your head as you read. So, naturally, I followed @discworld_death on twitter. Which almost brings us to yesterday.

About three weeks ago, I was assiduously grading final papers for the Sociology 101 intensive I’d just finished teaching. (Ever notice how “assiduously” has the word “ass” in it? I think we’re on to something.) I was so assiduous in my grading that I managed to check twitter only about 5 times a minute instead of my usual 60. Lo and behold! Death spoke!

To which I replied:

Quick trip in the TARDIS and it’s 3 weeks later…

Yesterday, our family was at the hospital (aren’t we always?), in my dad-in-law’s room. His body is shrunken. He lays in the bed and beckons to us minutely when he wakes from his morphine naps. There’s a tube in his nose – wait, 2 tubes in his nose. His eyes are bloodshot. And he is weak. So, so weak. One of the many doctors of the day stops in to tell us, gently, that even with another blood infusion, Dad’s life will last a few weeks at most. No blood infusion means a matter of days. Dad has already told us “No more blood.” We know…

A couple of hours go by. Dad opens his eyes. My husband is there, holding his hand. Dad says, “I’m going.” I run into the hallway to get Jeff’s mom, who is on the phone with yet another concerned family member or friend – another someone else with their own powerlessness against cancer. I see Jeff’s youngest brother coming back to the room, and say “Now. Now!” The room is so full of stress and suffering and anticipation that we each believe (separately, hopefully, futilely) that the end is now. Right now.

But it’s not. And he makes it through another hour. And another. And another. He begins to ask “Why can’t I go?” And then it’s time for me to leave, to pick up our boy and do the mundane routine of bathing, reading, snuggling. (How could it be routine after what I’ve seen these last few days?!) I kiss Dad goodnight, tell him I’ll be back, and come home. Where I find what might just have been the salvation of my sanity: Death, who has eluded my dad-in-law all day; Death, who has played at the edges of our hearts and souls and minds and strength for weeks; Death, whose presence we would welcome in that hospital room; Death, who is so enamored with the idiosyncratic activities of the Discworld’s mortal population…IS TWEETING.

Typical.

What to do but respond?

And as our family waits for Death to arrive, there is some grim comfort in knowing that he has retained at least a perfunctory interest  in the goings on of our little disc.

*I wanted to add a brief note here to mention that Discworld author Terry Pratchett suffers from Alzheimer’s and is also an advocate for assisted suicide. You can read some of his thoughts here.

For the Weekend

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1. OH, THE  SOCIAL PRESSURE! “Bordeau, the ‘Hipster,’ and the Authenticity of Taste” Just remember that I told you about this before anyone else. And please overlook the fact that the post is more than two years old. My hipster cred is decimated.

2. The good, the bad, and the AWESOME: Star Wars spin-offs???!!! I only hope they can find someone with the appropriately-scarred chin to carry it off…

3. West Virginia girls: what we’re really like.

4. If you don’t already follow Girl Genius, get your booty over there and start reading – from the beginning.

girlgenius.08

5. The bathrobe God meant for me to have (seen as worn by Wil Wheaton)

Bathrobe

6. Just a little something to keep in mind next time you feel like you are made of some insubstantial, waffly* substance:

“She’s pure, you know. Demure.

As they say, so content, so gentle,

so quiet, so passive, so submissive.

Yet, I must say, ‘No!’ I say she is instead: ‘Fire!’

Fire of love

Fire of hope

Fire of compassion

And we are her bloodline.“

-Clarissa Pinkola Estes: Untie the Strong Woman

*Yes, waffly IS A WORD. Looky here.

Earlybird

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It’s 4:30 on Thursday and I am eating dinner. I didn’t mean to eat dinner so early, but I also didn’t feel right being the only person in the coffee shop and not eating dinner while I imbibed free interwebs. I’m sure the world is grateful that my morality helps me make such responsible choices.

We’ve had an interesting few weeks at our house. My husband’s dad has been fighting leukemia for a couple of years now, and it looks like leukemia is finally getting the upper hand. For the most part, I’ve been just going along, ignoring leukemia and hoping it would decide to ignore our family, too. So much for that approach. This afternoon I had a lecture to give for my Marriage and Family class. It was theory (as is tonight’s Gender Roles class – ugh); not anything emotional or deeply personal. It takes me an hour to get to work, giving me plenty of time to indulge in my StarTalk Radio addiction: you know, the one with Dr. Neil deGrasse Tyson, who has the best laugh of all the world’s astrophysicists. I got to the university and had to park in Sophomore parking, which, if nothing else, at least lets me pretend like I’m 19. I was fine. I was thinking practically. I was mildly concerned for my dad-in-law and his unexpected-ish trip to the ER today. I was not freaking out.

And then, I woke up in the McDonald’s drive-through, ordering a chocolate shake and thinking that I needed something to help me get through this class. Through Dad’s ER visit. Through my own tiredness. The lecture loomed. Class time approached. I sucked down that milkshake like there was no tomorrow (except for the whipped cream, which had survived the trip to the bottom of the cup, but had been converted to something even nastier than it was at the top). Self-discipline? BAH! I scoff at thee!

It worked. The buzz carried me through a class in which my students laughed, asked questions, wrote personal reflections in response to a prompt, and even stayed after class to chat. Surely it was the chocolate shake. Very effective.

In the short term.

Because now it’s 5:12 and I’m done with my late afternoon panini and there’s a 3-hour lecture ahead of me and my dad-in-law is still dying of leukemia and I still have an hour drive home in the snow and my husband is still sad and my kid is still full of energy and I’m stil tired and

I WANT MORE SUGAR.

At least I don’t drink caffeine.

Asimov and Self-Doubt

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Today, I question the safety of my self-image.

What a crap way to start a new blog post. Pomposity! Maybe I’ve been thinking too much about symbolic interactionism (yes, that is a link to Wikipedia – berate my professionalism at will), but I’m thinking that writing when I feel most vulnerable to self-criticism is a dangerous (To whom? Oh the grandiosity!) subversion of what the beehive in my mind wants me to do, which is HIDE UNDER THE TABLE IN THE BOOKSTORE. NOW. So I’m writing as a way of replying to myself about what I think other people will think of me. In essence, I am telling my brain to “Shut up and talk.” (FYI, My Aunt Lisa just materialized in the store and repeated advice from an email she sent me eons ago: “If you feel like you’re starting to lose your common sense, get back here to the sticks where you belong.” I have apparently reached the threshold.)

This post was originally supposed to be a witty little mouthful of sociological reactions to Isaac Asimov’s Foundation Trilogy (see the “Books I’m Reading” link at the left). And then I lost my nerve and decided that I should write about my lack of confidence instead. How strange – and typical of me – that it’s easier to write about what’s “wrong” in my brain than to post my (somewhat) educated opinions about a series of stories that I enjoyed… In fact, I’m pretty sure that immense self-doubt precedes every move I make. Fantastic! Now I just have to wait for self-doubt to strike and I can plan on something happening! Behold! I sit at the table, with fingers twitching above the keyboard! ENLIGHTEN ME, oh self-doubt!

Engaging Enlightenment

So – Asimov’s Foundation Trilogy. Started slow. Got more brilliant with each chapter. Finished with a bang. George Lucas blatantly pilfered most of Star Wars from him. (Can I stop there? Is that sufficiently analytical? No? DANG IT!)

For all that Asimov’s writing is a product of his time (read: sexist/classist), his ability to weave plot-lines into unexpected dialogues with each other produced the equivalent of being able to see into the minds of both players in a world-class chess match. Thinking and double-thinking and the examination of structure vs. agency – wow. His was an intellect to be envied. Looking back to the beginning of the trilogy, I can see how he led me to question the efficacy of individual action without letting me realize how deep that questioning went. Asimov repeatedly affirmed that Seldon’s Plan was based on calculations regarding masses of people – that individual actions were too random to be incorporated or predicted, and therefore they couldn’t be sufficiently stable to base the salvation of the galaxy upon. Fine. But what I didn’t realize until the end is that he had made me as expectant of the salvific (ooohhhh big word) actions of the Second Foundation as every member of the simultaneously over- and under-confident First Foundation. He draws the reader along a timeline that is both predetermined and precarious, and lets us believe that the self-perpetuating structures of the two Foundations may or may not be susceptible to individual agency. Enter “The Mule”, who screws up the whole thing – at least, very nearly. Just when you think that one mutant will undo the entire Plan, Asimov introduces a series of brain-bending flips that end with (SPOILER ALERT) women and rural people saving the day. (Which we usually do – I mean, let’s be honest.) What he leaves the reader with is the question of how deeply social structures can influence our individual choices, and whether individual choices can ever hope to overcome structures. (Go Arkady! Or, wait, did she do that on her own? BRAIN. SPASM!) Deeper still, Asimov asks us to question the role of social structures because they are created and perpetuated by human beings. Not bad for a guy writing from the 1950′s bastion of white male privilege.

Enlightenment Hyperdrive Activated

Self-doubt is at the core of Asimov’s trilogy. Every motive. Every thought. Every move. Funny how I figured that out at the END of the post. Huh.

Better Than The Superbowl

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It’s the Superbowl tonight – yay. I’m not a football fan, but I do watch with the hubs from time to time just to keep things interesting. We have an annual chili cook-off during the Superbowl, and he prepares what he calls “man chili” (although since there are no actual men in it, I find that title misleading to say the least). (Also, have you watched “The Walking Dead”? I couldn’t make it past the first episode because I am a SISSY.) Anyway! Here are a few things to distract you from your anger during tonight’s more sexist ads.

1. I’m pretty sure nothing smells better; so why not?

2. Bookslut posted a blurb about Diane di Prima on Friday. (Whose work I have not read, but now plan to – obviously.) This is a portion of the poem “She Is” from di Prima’s book Loba, and I love it:

the fiery cloak
of feathers carries you
off hills
when you run flaming
down
to the black sea

3. I just discovered Astrosociology, and wonder why I didn’t know about this BEFORE my Ph.D….

4. Brilliant news from Neil Gaiman! Signed copies of his newest novel (The Ocean at the End of the Lane) are available from a local bookshop in Cambridge, MA (well, internet local for those of us not in MA): Porter Square Books.

5. Finally, a glimpse into my twisted psyche. I’ve just about finished watching Star Trek: Enterprise (which is the best of the franchise, if you ask me, and even if you don’t, and yes I know I should have watched it years ago but I was busy and it’s nice to have it as an unexplored treat at my advanced age). In that spirit, here is a gratuitous picture of Commander Trip Tucker (thank you Pinterest) – exactly the type of guy my 16-year-old self believed she would marry. Except he didn’t exist then. So I’m really just projecting back onto my 16-year-old self, which seems fair, since she forward-projected onto me. Take that, FARM GIRL!

Trip

Paralysis

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So blogging is sort of a coping mechanism. I mean, look at this moment we’re in. You’re probably doing something not related to my life in any way. I, on the other hand, am writing an important book about rural women in leadership, which will undoubtedly revolutionize the way you view the world. Oh yes, I am. Starting this blog is in no way connected to procrastination, or to breaking my no-sugar rule, or to sleeping in the guest room several nights in a row because my husband snores sometimes, or to experiencing the mental equivalent of a hive of bees freshly whacked by a rake-handle. It might be slightly connected to the number of times I have checked Twitter in the last 3 hours (something like 2,180+). It might also be an extension of my subconscious connection to the social structures whose influence subtly squeezes me onto the toothbrush of life, where I serve as a mother and a wife and a geek-ish professor of sociology (geek-ish since I only understand 9.5 out of 10 of Wil Wheaton’s delicious Twitter posts and have yet to watch more than 1 episode of “The Big Bang Theory”. Oh, and I haven’t made it past the first season of “The Guild”. However, when I was 12, I did cry because I SO BADLY wanted to marry Captain Kirk, in spite of the fact that he had been in reruns for 20 years.) Moving on!

Let me see…book, hive of bees, Star Trek… Oh yes! Paralysis. I’m coming off a month of teaching an intensive course (SOC101) to a group of really fun students, and I’m approaching the deadline for the edited version of my dissertation to be submitted to my publisher for review. I ran a marathon in October and have subsequently fallen off the running wagon, as my husband preps for his first marathon in April. I gave up sugar last May and am now semi-involuntarily re-incorporating it into my diet against a looping stream of NONONOONOOOOOO!!!!! from my brain’s higher-functioning areas. I’m in a steady decline – a plunge, if  you will. But this is me. My pattern. The hive of bees will get their crap together eventually, all fly out in a nice, straight line, dive bomb some flowers, and make honey and we will all have crumpets and tea and OH MY GOD HOW DO I STOP THIS TRAIN WRECK?

Interlude: We are calm. We are fine. We are breathing…

Perhaps the thing I would like to say to you is that sometimes the people in your life who get Ph.D.’s and run marathons and have the charm to make everyone feel important are also the people who – in their hearts – hope they are important, too (even though they know cognitively that they are and they shouldn’t write things like that because it makes people uncomfortable and LOOK OUT THERE’S A RAKE-HANDLE HEADING FOR THE HIVE!).