I don't know about you, but in my world, The Hoff (yes, one Avid-Day Assel-Hay Off-Hay) has come up at least once a day for the last week. How... odd. There's the chandelier/shaving/surgery incident. The (rumoured) Wimbledon incident. There's yet another horrific reality show which will never, ever see screen time on my television. There's the music videos and commercials, a few of which some kind soul has gathered together in one place. A few of those have made the rounds recently on some bulletin boards that I frequent.
Why have I noticed this, in particular, you might ask? What would possibly motivate me to post all of those links about, well, that guy? Memories, my friends. Memories.
My best friend in middle school was a Hoff fanatic. It was just... scary. Really terrifying. But I loved my friend. I was supportive. I bought her a Hoff button for her jacket once. It was a little freaky staying over at her house, with The Hoff staring down at me from the walls as I slept. Admittedly, I was one of the masses who watched Knight Rider with my family because, you know, the car was pretty cool. But Hoff fandom was, even then, beyond me.
One day, something in my friend snapped. She called me up, I went over to her house, and we slowly and methodically tore up all her Hoff pictures and poked each item into the open furnace. It was an exquisite moment. When we were done, I hugged her, and told her how proud I was of her. Later, her Mom made us pizza while we camped out in the basement and watched MTV all night.
It's the little things you remember.
When I spent some time in Germany in the 90s, I was horrified to see The Hoff in a number of shop windows. He had, God Help Me, albums. Plural. Apparently, The Hoff had quite the following. But I vowed never to find out why, at least, not voluntarily. A friend told me that Baywatch was quite popular, too. It mystified me, but I was already fighting enough culture shock, being away from home for the first time. I chalked it up to "One of those wierd German things," which is what all good exchange students do when they find a cultural phenomenon that they simply cannot grasp. People buy Hoff albums here. So be it. I collect albums recorded by current and former Star Trek cast members. Not because they are good music or that I listen to them regularly, mind you, but because they are occasionally hilarious. To each his own.
I put it out of my mind for a couple years after returning to North America. One night, during a bout of insomnia, I turned on the television. Baywatch was on. I grimaced, and hit the mute button while I dug around for the TV listings. Nothing was on. I got something to drink and sat back down to my stitching, forgetting to turn off the TV or change the channel. A little while later, I realized that I had been passively watching Baywatch for about 30 minutes with no sound. And here's the scary part, folks - I understood it completely. That's right, no sound was necessary in order to understand the show.
And then it occurred to me. Baywatch was the international language.
No wonder the world is so screwed up sometimes.
Someone pointed me to the reviews (all 1008!) of one of his (many) albums on Amazon. This is some funny, funny shit. Take, for example, this five-out-of-five review, or this one.
Did I say the world was screwed up? I take it back. Magic Eight Ball, what do you think?
*shakeshakeshake*
MEB says, "The song 'Hot Shot City' is particularly good."
Well, who am I to argue with Magic Eight Ball?
Friday, July 14, 2006
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
What doesn't kill you...
I am struggling.
Every day, it's a battle. A battle to continue writing. A battle to tackle just one more page. One more paragraph. One. More. Sentence. This paper is going to drive me mad. And if it doesn't, that doesn't matter. The next one will do it instead.
And then there are the deeper, more personal battles. Like facing the fact that, once this is done, IF this is ever done, I have to keep going right on. No break. Dissertation topic time. I thought I had a topic. I don't. If I don't have one within the next couple months, I will be the cause of major problems at an administrative level. And I can't shut the thought of dissertation topic out long enough to work steadily on this project. It's always there, in the back of my mind, screaming at me. While I sleep, eat, write, laugh, knit (shhh!!). Always there.
The struggle to pay enough attention to my husband so that he doesn't think I'm angry at him because I haven't spoken to him in hours, even when we're in the same room. It's just that speaking, conversing, takes energy. Energy that I don't have. The struggle to not snap at him, the cats, the people in other cars and on the television.
The battle to get out of bed. The battle to stay awake for more that a couple hours at a time when I do.
The struggle to not cry all the time, and not to stare at the walls or the screen for hours at a time, trying to blank out my mind so that I can concentrate.
Remembering to eat. I've given up on controlling my food for quality. Pop-Tarts and Pringles are my friends. The two Ps. There's probably a third in there somewhere.
"Take a little break," people say. "Get some fresh air." Oh, I've taken breaks. I'm a great fan of breaks. I think I might even be taking one right now. But there comes a point when another break is simply procrastination, a delay of the inevitable, a way to ensure that you won't make your "final-final" deadline that is still, when it comes right down to it, an arbitrary date pulled out of someone's ass. Yeah, I don't think I should be taking any more breaks.
The battle to keep going at all. I flip-flop from hour to hour between "Why am I doing this?" to "I'll never be able to finish this" to "No problem, plenty of time" to "Oh my God, there's not enough time." One moment I despair that I'll never complete a PhD (especially since I'm going into my fourth year and I DON'T EVEN HAVE A DISSERTATION TOPIC YET), and the next I think I have plenty of time, an eternity, surely I can come up with a freaking topic. Other people have topics. Other people have presented their topics. Other people have taken longer than you by a full year to present their topics. Doesn't have to be formalized or anything, lots of questions are OK, just need a solid direction. A worthwhile issue. A minute later, I'm panicking again. It's not good enough. What I have isn't good enough. It will never be good enough. Other people are so much better than I am. I'm not good enough. Not fast enough, not competitive enough, not driven enough.
My mind whirls. I surf for a few minutes. I check my email for the forty-bazillionth time. I get some iced tea. Pet a cat. Tell my husband I love him, whether he's awake to hear me or not. Right now, not, but I tell him anyhow.
And then I start again. One more page. One more paragraph. One more sentence.
I can do this.
I will do this.
Every day, it's a battle. A battle to continue writing. A battle to tackle just one more page. One more paragraph. One. More. Sentence. This paper is going to drive me mad. And if it doesn't, that doesn't matter. The next one will do it instead.
And then there are the deeper, more personal battles. Like facing the fact that, once this is done, IF this is ever done, I have to keep going right on. No break. Dissertation topic time. I thought I had a topic. I don't. If I don't have one within the next couple months, I will be the cause of major problems at an administrative level. And I can't shut the thought of dissertation topic out long enough to work steadily on this project. It's always there, in the back of my mind, screaming at me. While I sleep, eat, write, laugh, knit (shhh!!). Always there.
The struggle to pay enough attention to my husband so that he doesn't think I'm angry at him because I haven't spoken to him in hours, even when we're in the same room. It's just that speaking, conversing, takes energy. Energy that I don't have. The struggle to not snap at him, the cats, the people in other cars and on the television.
The battle to get out of bed. The battle to stay awake for more that a couple hours at a time when I do.
The struggle to not cry all the time, and not to stare at the walls or the screen for hours at a time, trying to blank out my mind so that I can concentrate.
Remembering to eat. I've given up on controlling my food for quality. Pop-Tarts and Pringles are my friends. The two Ps. There's probably a third in there somewhere.
"Take a little break," people say. "Get some fresh air." Oh, I've taken breaks. I'm a great fan of breaks. I think I might even be taking one right now. But there comes a point when another break is simply procrastination, a delay of the inevitable, a way to ensure that you won't make your "final-final" deadline that is still, when it comes right down to it, an arbitrary date pulled out of someone's ass. Yeah, I don't think I should be taking any more breaks.
The battle to keep going at all. I flip-flop from hour to hour between "Why am I doing this?" to "I'll never be able to finish this" to "No problem, plenty of time" to "Oh my God, there's not enough time." One moment I despair that I'll never complete a PhD (especially since I'm going into my fourth year and I DON'T EVEN HAVE A DISSERTATION TOPIC YET), and the next I think I have plenty of time, an eternity, surely I can come up with a freaking topic. Other people have topics. Other people have presented their topics. Other people have taken longer than you by a full year to present their topics. Doesn't have to be formalized or anything, lots of questions are OK, just need a solid direction. A worthwhile issue. A minute later, I'm panicking again. It's not good enough. What I have isn't good enough. It will never be good enough. Other people are so much better than I am. I'm not good enough. Not fast enough, not competitive enough, not driven enough.
My mind whirls. I surf for a few minutes. I check my email for the forty-bazillionth time. I get some iced tea. Pet a cat. Tell my husband I love him, whether he's awake to hear me or not. Right now, not, but I tell him anyhow.
And then I start again. One more page. One more paragraph. One more sentence.
I can do this.
I will do this.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
The Obligatory Paper and Cat Update
Blogs are funny things. In my case, for instance, it has the ability to remind me how much I've done in the last year, while simultaneously and in technicolour detail demonstrating exactly how little I've done in the past month. Neat.
The paper is not yet written. In fact, the draft is only marginally longer than it was a month ago at this time. My EPAWS (Eternally Patient and Wonderful Supervisor) is still exactly that, and I'm not certain how she continues to respond to my weekly assurances of "it's going well" and "soon, I'll have a big section to you soon" with nothing but serene calm and "just keep working at it, as long as you're working, I'm not worried." And I am indeed working - except I write three sentences, reread them, highlight two of them and turn them into footnotes. This is the first time I've written a paper in Word, and I seem to be enamored with and have a newfound respect for Word's ability to handle footnotes with ease. The paper is probably 1/3 - 1/2 footnotes right now, which would be funny if it weren't completely exasperating. But I'm working. See, working, can't you tell?
There was a horrific paper SNAFU last weekend, though, which involved me putting the Word file in the trash and emptying it (accidentally! long story! everybody's nightmare!), some hyperventilating and tears, and the purchase of a file recovery software in record time. In the end, nothing major was lost save for a little time. All is now back to staus quo, and EPAWS and my husband are gently but persistently reminding me to back up more frequently. We've also discovered that when I'm panicking, I apparently develop an overwhelming need to compulsively check my email and delete evil spam messages:
Me (with increasing hysteria): "But can't I just check my email? Just once? I probably have, like, 30 spam messages sitting in there in the last 10 minutes, with more accumulating! Please?"
Husband (very patiently): "Dear, you know that any use of your computer right now decreases the chances of your Very Important Document being recovered intact. Here. Use my computer."
Me: *sniffle*
If only I could channel that obsessive-compulsive streak into a need to do dishes or vaccuum or scrub the bathroom spotless. But I digress.
I visited my family in PA the weekend before last. All I can say is, it's not really a visit home until the PA State Police have knocked on someone's door. Just the average family chaos, you know. That story has been filed away for telling at a later date.
Ford, my knitting model of the previous entry and normally fuzzy, snuggly grey ball of hugs and occasional Holy Terror, spent a reluctant day with the vet today, returning victorious (i.e. he repaid their 6x drawing of his blood with his drawing some of theirs). He is currently recovering from battle by napping on the coffee table between the two laptop computers so that the fans blow warm air simultaneously on his belly and bum.
Ford was diagnosed diabetic in late March. For two months now we've been valiantly struggling to get his insulin dose regulated with occasional morning blood tests, to no avail. Despite the fact that the vet originally felt he was "not a good candidate for a blood-glucose curve", I insisted. Doing a BGC involves a full day at the vet, where they administer his insulin and test his blood every two hours to see how his system is metabolizing it. But an accurate result involves the cat being calm, relaxed and eating normally throughout the day, which are only three of the long list of things that Ford will not, under any circumstances, do while at the vet.
I ended up going over at mid-day at their request to see if I could get him to eat. He did, but only once he was out of the cage and allowed to roam free in a room, and after I pulled out his favourite china plate (yes, really) and a can of moist food. I also had to help them get him in and out of the cage while I was there, because he was, in their words, "Not very happy with us right now". That is vet-code speak for much hissing and growling and swiping with claws.
The vet is glad we did it, though, because we learned:
1) that the insulin is working fine (insulin resistance was a concern)
2) his urine always reads high for glucose even when his blood sugar is in the normal range or even a little low (this can sometimes happen, and means that urine tests aren't a very good indicator of how well he's regulated)
3) we might be able to decrease his dose (YAY!) if we can control his diet better (*sigh*), and
4) that his claws are, indeed, still very sharp (he got the poor vet pretty good on the arm, hazard of the job, I guess).
Now that he's home, he's reverted to his normally angelic, snuggly, hungry self. He gave me no problems for his evening insulin shot, he chased and was chased by Tiger for a bit, and he later feigned perfect innocence when he kicked a mug of water off the coffee table while "stretching". The mug was followed by a nearby magazine, which landed in the water, followed by a half-dozen CDs, which didn't. Although I'm pretty sure he was aiming for the water. Dat's my boy.
It has not escaped our attention that his name - unsurprisingly inspired by Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy - can also be used as an acronym for Force Of Random Destruction.
Actually, it's been a bad couple of months for us at the vet. Or, good, if you're the vet, because I think we're contributing considerably to their new equipment upgrades. Tiger (age nearly 13) started limping sometime in late April. When it hadn't gotten any better by last week, I loaded him up and took him over. He was treated to much prodding and some x-rays, with the conclusion being that he has a touch of arthritis in his left rear ankle. Some anti-inflammatory meds later, and he's doing much better, though he'll probably have to continue to use it sparingly for his remaining years. They LOVE him at the vet. They can poke and prod him to their heart's content and he never complains or makes a sound. They didn't even have to sedate him to get him to hold still enough for x-rays. What a trooper. I will have to get some pictures of him up here soon.
So, this has turned into a cat post. And just like that, it's June. See? Blogs are funny things.
The paper is not yet written. In fact, the draft is only marginally longer than it was a month ago at this time. My EPAWS (Eternally Patient and Wonderful Supervisor) is still exactly that, and I'm not certain how she continues to respond to my weekly assurances of "it's going well" and "soon, I'll have a big section to you soon" with nothing but serene calm and "just keep working at it, as long as you're working, I'm not worried." And I am indeed working - except I write three sentences, reread them, highlight two of them and turn them into footnotes. This is the first time I've written a paper in Word, and I seem to be enamored with and have a newfound respect for Word's ability to handle footnotes with ease. The paper is probably 1/3 - 1/2 footnotes right now, which would be funny if it weren't completely exasperating. But I'm working. See, working, can't you tell?
There was a horrific paper SNAFU last weekend, though, which involved me putting the Word file in the trash and emptying it (accidentally! long story! everybody's nightmare!), some hyperventilating and tears, and the purchase of a file recovery software in record time. In the end, nothing major was lost save for a little time. All is now back to staus quo, and EPAWS and my husband are gently but persistently reminding me to back up more frequently. We've also discovered that when I'm panicking, I apparently develop an overwhelming need to compulsively check my email and delete evil spam messages:
Me (with increasing hysteria): "But can't I just check my email? Just once? I probably have, like, 30 spam messages sitting in there in the last 10 minutes, with more accumulating! Please?"
Husband (very patiently): "Dear, you know that any use of your computer right now decreases the chances of your Very Important Document being recovered intact. Here. Use my computer."
Me: *sniffle*
If only I could channel that obsessive-compulsive streak into a need to do dishes or vaccuum or scrub the bathroom spotless. But I digress.
I visited my family in PA the weekend before last. All I can say is, it's not really a visit home until the PA State Police have knocked on someone's door. Just the average family chaos, you know. That story has been filed away for telling at a later date.
Ford, my knitting model of the previous entry and normally fuzzy, snuggly grey ball of hugs and occasional Holy Terror, spent a reluctant day with the vet today, returning victorious (i.e. he repaid their 6x drawing of his blood with his drawing some of theirs). He is currently recovering from battle by napping on the coffee table between the two laptop computers so that the fans blow warm air simultaneously on his belly and bum.
Ford was diagnosed diabetic in late March. For two months now we've been valiantly struggling to get his insulin dose regulated with occasional morning blood tests, to no avail. Despite the fact that the vet originally felt he was "not a good candidate for a blood-glucose curve", I insisted. Doing a BGC involves a full day at the vet, where they administer his insulin and test his blood every two hours to see how his system is metabolizing it. But an accurate result involves the cat being calm, relaxed and eating normally throughout the day, which are only three of the long list of things that Ford will not, under any circumstances, do while at the vet.
I ended up going over at mid-day at their request to see if I could get him to eat. He did, but only once he was out of the cage and allowed to roam free in a room, and after I pulled out his favourite china plate (yes, really) and a can of moist food. I also had to help them get him in and out of the cage while I was there, because he was, in their words, "Not very happy with us right now". That is vet-code speak for much hissing and growling and swiping with claws.
The vet is glad we did it, though, because we learned:
1) that the insulin is working fine (insulin resistance was a concern)
2) his urine always reads high for glucose even when his blood sugar is in the normal range or even a little low (this can sometimes happen, and means that urine tests aren't a very good indicator of how well he's regulated)
3) we might be able to decrease his dose (YAY!) if we can control his diet better (*sigh*), and
4) that his claws are, indeed, still very sharp (he got the poor vet pretty good on the arm, hazard of the job, I guess).
Now that he's home, he's reverted to his normally angelic, snuggly, hungry self. He gave me no problems for his evening insulin shot, he chased and was chased by Tiger for a bit, and he later feigned perfect innocence when he kicked a mug of water off the coffee table while "stretching". The mug was followed by a nearby magazine, which landed in the water, followed by a half-dozen CDs, which didn't. Although I'm pretty sure he was aiming for the water. Dat's my boy.
It has not escaped our attention that his name - unsurprisingly inspired by Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy - can also be used as an acronym for Force Of Random Destruction.
Actually, it's been a bad couple of months for us at the vet. Or, good, if you're the vet, because I think we're contributing considerably to their new equipment upgrades. Tiger (age nearly 13) started limping sometime in late April. When it hadn't gotten any better by last week, I loaded him up and took him over. He was treated to much prodding and some x-rays, with the conclusion being that he has a touch of arthritis in his left rear ankle. Some anti-inflammatory meds later, and he's doing much better, though he'll probably have to continue to use it sparingly for his remaining years. They LOVE him at the vet. They can poke and prod him to their heart's content and he never complains or makes a sound. They didn't even have to sedate him to get him to hold still enough for x-rays. What a trooper. I will have to get some pictures of him up here soon.
So, this has turned into a cat post. And just like that, it's June. See? Blogs are funny things.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
My professional model shows his stuff, while I waste time professionally
So, what does a professional procrastinator do when she has a large-paper-upon-which-her-academic-career-hangs-in-the-balance to write? You know, that one that I'm supposed to have been diligently working on for the last three weeks but haven't written a word in nearly 10 days? In my defence, the last 10 days have been unusually productive, just in other areas. I finished my sections of a co-authored paper (which had been in my hands since December) and sent it off to one of the other authors. I slapped together a rather nice-looking poster about corpus construction for a presentation on Wednesday. I attended a rehearsal or performance 5 out of the last 6 days. I began dealing with an editing/layout job that I've been ignoring for the better part of 6 months. I paid my taxes (back taxes owing, WAAAH!!).
So what about today? Last week is now out of the way. I can get back to the paper at hand. But what do I do? Laundry. Photocopy articles that aren't relevant to the paper, but might come in handy "some day". Pay bills. Crawl around ON HANDS AND KNEES picking up bits of cat food off the livingroom carpet (this was something of a low point in the day). Inventory my somewhat-neglected knitting WIPs (N = 7) and my long-neglected cross stitch WIPs (N still = 10). Contemplate starting more. Check my email compulsively. Post to a board game bulletin board. Go out to dinner with my husband. Update my knitting pics on my website. Make a midnight snack.
Wait a minute, what was the one before that? Yes, that's right, I finally broke out the time-waster-to-beat-all-time-wasters: I updated my knitting pictures. Just think of how much more time I can waste in future evenings, because I have to post at least one finish to the Knitty board! Why, that could take... hours, surely! I suspect this sudden burst of inspiration to update the WIP pics was brought about by the purchase of two new books: Stitch 'N Bitch Crochet: The Happy Hooker and Big Girl Knits. So many new and wonderful patterns makes a girl want to finish a few things so she can start something new!
Anyhow, here's the highlights of the updates:
Here are the cable clutches that I talked about previously in this blog entry. I made the cables a little poofier on the second one (i.e., a couple stitches wider and do a couple less rows between cable cross-overs). It's also a little bigger overall. I think I'm fairly happy with the pattern, so now I have to make it a little longer and then figure out how to finish them, for which I'll probably require the sewing expertise of my MIL.
Next is the shrug, Shimmer, which I prattled on about here, here, here, here and here. Ford was kind enough to model the full shrug for us:
Here's a closeup of the replacement cuff. It's far, far easier to play horn with this than with that ruffle-from-the-depths-of-Hades (which could be seen in the old WIP picture). I'm definitely not a ruffle gal. The lace band pattern is "Fancy Leaf Edging" from Nicky Epstein's Knitting on the Edge, page 129:
Finally, Ford also insisted on modelling the Marley's Ghost WIP, which I mentioned starting here. I don't know how long I'll end up making it, but I still have a ways to go. Then it will be felted. I've tried to talk DH into wanting one in traditional chain-link-charcoal-grey, but he insists that I do the Tom Baker Dr. Who scarf first - he noted that while I said that would be finished by winter, I didn't say WHICH winter. (DH: "Personally, I just figured it would be a cold day where I am when I get it.") Sigh. :) ANYhow, here's my version of Marley's Ghost, which I might have to start calling "Nearly Headless Nick's Scarf":
I also added new WIP pictures of the Tasha bag and the Shapely Tee.
So, now that I've done all of this, if I don't get some work serious work done on the paper tomorrow, I'm going to have to start freaking out. Did I mention the upcoming meeting with my (eternally patient, encouraging, wonderful) supervisor on Friday afternoon? The one that I'm expected to have a significant portion of the paper written for, lest she become less than eternally patient and wonderful? Right then. Tomorrow will be better. I am far more productive on Tuesdays than on Mondays.
Too bad tomorrow is Wednesday.
So what about today? Last week is now out of the way. I can get back to the paper at hand. But what do I do? Laundry. Photocopy articles that aren't relevant to the paper, but might come in handy "some day". Pay bills. Crawl around ON HANDS AND KNEES picking up bits of cat food off the livingroom carpet (this was something of a low point in the day). Inventory my somewhat-neglected knitting WIPs (N = 7) and my long-neglected cross stitch WIPs (N still = 10). Contemplate starting more. Check my email compulsively. Post to a board game bulletin board. Go out to dinner with my husband. Update my knitting pics on my website. Make a midnight snack.
Wait a minute, what was the one before that? Yes, that's right, I finally broke out the time-waster-to-beat-all-time-wasters: I updated my knitting pictures. Just think of how much more time I can waste in future evenings, because I have to post at least one finish to the Knitty board! Why, that could take... hours, surely! I suspect this sudden burst of inspiration to update the WIP pics was brought about by the purchase of two new books: Stitch 'N Bitch Crochet: The Happy Hooker and Big Girl Knits. So many new and wonderful patterns makes a girl want to finish a few things so she can start something new!
Anyhow, here's the highlights of the updates:
Here are the cable clutches that I talked about previously in this blog entry. I made the cables a little poofier on the second one (i.e., a couple stitches wider and do a couple less rows between cable cross-overs). It's also a little bigger overall. I think I'm fairly happy with the pattern, so now I have to make it a little longer and then figure out how to finish them, for which I'll probably require the sewing expertise of my MIL.
Next is the shrug, Shimmer, which I prattled on about here, here, here, here and here. Ford was kind enough to model the full shrug for us:
Here's a closeup of the replacement cuff. It's far, far easier to play horn with this than with that ruffle-from-the-depths-of-Hades (which could be seen in the old WIP picture). I'm definitely not a ruffle gal. The lace band pattern is "Fancy Leaf Edging" from Nicky Epstein's Knitting on the Edge, page 129:
Finally, Ford also insisted on modelling the Marley's Ghost WIP, which I mentioned starting here. I don't know how long I'll end up making it, but I still have a ways to go. Then it will be felted. I've tried to talk DH into wanting one in traditional chain-link-charcoal-grey, but he insists that I do the Tom Baker Dr. Who scarf first - he noted that while I said that would be finished by winter, I didn't say WHICH winter. (DH: "Personally, I just figured it would be a cold day where I am when I get it.") Sigh. :) ANYhow, here's my version of Marley's Ghost, which I might have to start calling "Nearly Headless Nick's Scarf":
I also added new WIP pictures of the Tasha bag and the Shapely Tee.
So, now that I've done all of this, if I don't get some work serious work done on the paper tomorrow, I'm going to have to start freaking out. Did I mention the upcoming meeting with my (eternally patient, encouraging, wonderful) supervisor on Friday afternoon? The one that I'm expected to have a significant portion of the paper written for, lest she become less than eternally patient and wonderful? Right then. Tomorrow will be better. I am far more productive on Tuesdays than on Mondays.
Too bad tomorrow is Wednesday.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
In which I am properly introduced to The Knight of the Woeful Countenance
About two weeks ago, I got a call from a friend and fellow horn player. She does a lot of musical theatre gigs, playing in the orchestra, so she's made her way up the local amateur call-list. It seems a production of Man of La Mancha had lost their previously arranged horn player and was having trouble finding a last-minute replacement. Someone gave them her name, and since she was coming off of two shows back-to-back in the last 6 weeks and fighting exhaustion, she called to see if I could take it. Of course, I have such an enormous amount of free time (since sarcasm isn't obvious in print, let's say it now, that was a snark), so I jumped at the chance. In all honesty, I would like to do more musicals, but I haven't made the contacts to get my name out there and on "the list". I would have been crazy to turn this down.
But - since we're on full-disclosure here - I really don't have a lot of time right now. So she and I agreed to split the work. We would both attend the 4 remaining rehearsals, and then each do 4 of the 8 total show dates. And that is how I ended up in the pit for one of my favourite shows ever. Pure luck. I was so excited after she called (and terrified - I have three papers to write in less than a month!), that I dialed up the ITunes music store and bought the most recent Broadway soundtrack, which I've been meaning to buy for ages anyhow. Then I called Mom, who is a long-time musical theatre accompanist, while it was downloading. It's one of her favourite shows, too.
But no matter how much you listen to a show, or how many times you see it live, it can't prepare you for playing the score. I lucked out, the horn parts for this show are wonderful. That's not always the case, as I found out the last time I did this (for Annie Get Your Gun, which is most definitely not one of my favourite shows). I feel a little bad for the trumpet players, though... they were playing their trumpets upside-down at one point this evening just to make it more interesting (and no, they didn't miss a note :) ) I wanted to snap a picture of them with my fancy-schmancy camera phone, but that would have been bad, especially since the orchestra isn't in a pit below the stage, but on-stage, against the upstage wall, behind a thin curtain dividing us from the action. Visible for all to see, at least, for those with good night-vision.
The score calls for two horns, but we're only using one. Not certain if this is due to budgetary constraints or some other reason, but it's the only bummer in the whole experience. In the rehearsals with two of us there, we occasionally played both parts for fun, and it sounds so much better... this show is lushly and beautifully scored for two horns, with wonderful harmonies. But given the utter lack of space in our playing area, we don't dare try to play a performance together. We briefly considered it, but one of us would have to sit on someone's lap, and that would not be pretty. Alas, it's their loss.
So here is where I put in my plea to musical theatre directors everywhere: if you've decided to use a live orchestra for your show and the score calls for more than one horn - DON'T SKIMP ON THE HORNS!! For goodness sake. No one ever skimps on trumpets, even when half of their part is flourishes and the other half is 'tacet'. Ah, but we can get by with one horn, right? Sure you can. If you like stereo sound with the right channel missing. I understand that horn players might not be plentiful where you are, but surely there are options. In a pinch, you can have a trombone or baritone cover the other horn part - it's better than nothing.
My plea is made. I am off to bed, to dream of knights, dragons and windmills.
But - since we're on full-disclosure here - I really don't have a lot of time right now. So she and I agreed to split the work. We would both attend the 4 remaining rehearsals, and then each do 4 of the 8 total show dates. And that is how I ended up in the pit for one of my favourite shows ever. Pure luck. I was so excited after she called (and terrified - I have three papers to write in less than a month!), that I dialed up the ITunes music store and bought the most recent Broadway soundtrack, which I've been meaning to buy for ages anyhow. Then I called Mom, who is a long-time musical theatre accompanist, while it was downloading. It's one of her favourite shows, too.
But no matter how much you listen to a show, or how many times you see it live, it can't prepare you for playing the score. I lucked out, the horn parts for this show are wonderful. That's not always the case, as I found out the last time I did this (for Annie Get Your Gun, which is most definitely not one of my favourite shows). I feel a little bad for the trumpet players, though... they were playing their trumpets upside-down at one point this evening just to make it more interesting (and no, they didn't miss a note :) ) I wanted to snap a picture of them with my fancy-schmancy camera phone, but that would have been bad, especially since the orchestra isn't in a pit below the stage, but on-stage, against the upstage wall, behind a thin curtain dividing us from the action. Visible for all to see, at least, for those with good night-vision.
The score calls for two horns, but we're only using one. Not certain if this is due to budgetary constraints or some other reason, but it's the only bummer in the whole experience. In the rehearsals with two of us there, we occasionally played both parts for fun, and it sounds so much better... this show is lushly and beautifully scored for two horns, with wonderful harmonies. But given the utter lack of space in our playing area, we don't dare try to play a performance together. We briefly considered it, but one of us would have to sit on someone's lap, and that would not be pretty. Alas, it's their loss.
So here is where I put in my plea to musical theatre directors everywhere: if you've decided to use a live orchestra for your show and the score calls for more than one horn - DON'T SKIMP ON THE HORNS!! For goodness sake. No one ever skimps on trumpets, even when half of their part is flourishes and the other half is 'tacet'. Ah, but we can get by with one horn, right? Sure you can. If you like stereo sound with the right channel missing. I understand that horn players might not be plentiful where you are, but surely there are options. In a pinch, you can have a trombone or baritone cover the other horn part - it's better than nothing.
My plea is made. I am off to bed, to dream of knights, dragons and windmills.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Today's blog sponsored by ITunes, and the letter "W"
My husband and I were sharing an enjoyable task the other day - I was ripping a small stack of CDs into ITunes, then copying everything over to the external hard drive so that he could re-synch the IPod. When we bought the IPod last summer, we spent many evenings in front of the television, ripping the our entire (embarassingly large) combined CD collection for posterity. Every few months since, after we acquire a small stack of new CDs, we rip those and re-synch. I mentioned once before that we buy a lot of DVDs. We buy a lot of CDs as well. Starbucks CDs are my current weakness.
Yes, we are multimedia junkies. Moving on.
As we synched the IPod, he started to giggle. The computer was displaying each song title as it synched, 8430 songs in total, in reverse alphabetical order. It was in the middle of the letter W. He started reading aloud, and pretty soon we were both laughing.
So, for your enjoyment, I present a small sample of songs from the letter W. Read it aloud, and fast, and hopefully you'll find it as silly and funny as we did. If you're really bored, try and guess the artist and album for each song.
Who Wears These Shoes?
Who Wants to Live Forever?
Who Shot Mr. Burns?
Who Said I Would?
Who Needs You?
Who Is That Standing At My Window?
Who Is It?
Who Dunnit?
Who Do You Think You Are?
Who Are You?
Who Am I?
Who's The Boss?
Who's That Lady?
Who's That Girl?
Who's Next?
Who's Knocking on the Wall?
Who's Gene Autry?
Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
Who'll Stop the Rain?
Yes, we are multimedia junkies. Moving on.
As we synched the IPod, he started to giggle. The computer was displaying each song title as it synched, 8430 songs in total, in reverse alphabetical order. It was in the middle of the letter W. He started reading aloud, and pretty soon we were both laughing.
So, for your enjoyment, I present a small sample of songs from the letter W. Read it aloud, and fast, and hopefully you'll find it as silly and funny as we did. If you're really bored, try and guess the artist and album for each song.
Who Wears These Shoes?
Who Wants to Live Forever?
Who Shot Mr. Burns?
Who Said I Would?
Who Needs You?
Who Is That Standing At My Window?
Who Is It?
Who Dunnit?
Who Do You Think You Are?
Who Are You?
Who Am I?
Who's The Boss?
Who's That Lady?
Who's That Girl?
Who's Next?
Who's Knocking on the Wall?
Who's Gene Autry?
Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
Who'll Stop the Rain?
Monday, March 20, 2006
My first meme. I feel so cool.
I got this from Stitching Readers board that I frequent. Hey, why not?
Look at the list of books below. Bold the ones you’ve read, italicize the ones you might read, * the ones you won’t, underline the ones on your book shelf, and place parentheses around the ones you’ve never even heard of.
The Da Vinci Code – Dan Brown
The Catcher in the Rye – J.D. Salinger
The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy – Douglas Adams
The Great Gatsby – F.Scott Fitzgerald
To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee
The Time Traveler’s Wife – Audrey Niffenegger
His Dark Materials – Philip Pullman
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince – J. K. Rowling
Life of Pi – Yann Martel
Animal Farm – George Orwell
Catch-22 – Joseph Heller
The Hobbit – J. R. R. Tolkien
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time – Mark Haddon
Lord of the Flies – William Golding
*Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen
1984 – George Orwell
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J. K. Rowling
(One Hundred Years of Solitude – Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
*Memoirs of a Geisha – Arthur Golden
*The Kite Runner – Khaled Hosseini
(The Lovely Bones – Alice Sebold)
Slaughterhouse 5 – Kurt Vonnegut
Angels and Demons – Dan Brown
Fight Club – Chuck Palahniuk
Neuromancer – William Gibson
Cryptonomicon – Neal Stephenson
(The Secret History – Donna Tartt)
A Clockwork Orange – Anthony Burgess
*Wuthering Heights – Emily Bronte
*Brave New World – Aldous Huxley
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe – C. S. Lewis
(Middlesex – Jeffrey Eugenides)
(Cloud Atlas – David Mitchell)
The Lord of the Rings – J. R. R. Tolkien
*Jane Eyre – Charlotte Bronte
Good Omens – Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman
(Atonement – Ian McEwan)
(The Shadow Of The Wind – Carlos Ruiz Zafon)
*The Old Man and the Sea – Ernest Hemingway
The Handmaid’s Tale – Margaret Atwood
*The Bell Jar – Sylvia Plath
Dune – Frank Herbert
-------
Some discussion: I've noticed that not many people in the BB thread that I got this from have books listed as "on my shelf" (underlined) as well as "might read" (italicized). I have seven! What does this say about me? Hmmm... I've been buying books with good intentions since high school. Catch-22 was recently purchased and I'm reading it right now. Catcher in the Rye and Animal Farm were from high school reading lists where I had to choose from a short list to do a book report. I bought several books and decided later. Both have been started. Slaughterhouse 5 has also been started - it's in a Vonnegut hardcover anthology, from which I read Cat's Cradle. Cryptonomicon caught my eye several years ago at the local SciFi bookstore in Toronto, Bakka. Their store tradition of employees writing little reviews on index cards and thumbtacking them to the shelf under the book is one of the many reasons why I love the store, and has helped me find at least two new "favourite authors" in recent years. The book sat on our shelf for months, until one day my husband asked me why I bought it. I told him it had a good review at Bakka, and I figured he'd read it and tell me what he thought about it. So he did. :) The copy of Dune on our bookshelf came with my husband.
Most of the starred books are ones I have tried and couldn't get into, particularly the Jane Austen, both Brontes and Hemingway. I've tried a few times with Hemingway and even own a couple others (For Whom the Bell Tolls and The Sun Also Rises), but just couldn't get into any of them. The Bell Jar, Brave New World, Kite Runner and Geisha are undoubtably excellent books, but there is only so much "heavy stuff" that I can take, so I'm drawing the line somewhere!
Look at the list of books below. Bold the ones you’ve read, italicize the ones you might read, * the ones you won’t, underline the ones on your book shelf, and place parentheses around the ones you’ve never even heard of.
The Da Vinci Code – Dan Brown
The Catcher in the Rye – J.D. Salinger
The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy – Douglas Adams
The Great Gatsby – F.Scott Fitzgerald
To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee
The Time Traveler’s Wife – Audrey Niffenegger
His Dark Materials – Philip Pullman
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince – J. K. Rowling
Life of Pi – Yann Martel
Animal Farm – George Orwell
Catch-22 – Joseph Heller
The Hobbit – J. R. R. Tolkien
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time – Mark Haddon
Lord of the Flies – William Golding
*Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen
1984 – George Orwell
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban – J. K. Rowling
(One Hundred Years of Solitude – Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
*Memoirs of a Geisha – Arthur Golden
*The Kite Runner – Khaled Hosseini
(The Lovely Bones – Alice Sebold)
Slaughterhouse 5 – Kurt Vonnegut
Angels and Demons – Dan Brown
Fight Club – Chuck Palahniuk
Neuromancer – William Gibson
Cryptonomicon – Neal Stephenson
(The Secret History – Donna Tartt)
A Clockwork Orange – Anthony Burgess
*Wuthering Heights – Emily Bronte
*Brave New World – Aldous Huxley
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe – C. S. Lewis
(Middlesex – Jeffrey Eugenides)
(Cloud Atlas – David Mitchell)
The Lord of the Rings – J. R. R. Tolkien
*Jane Eyre – Charlotte Bronte
Good Omens – Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman
(Atonement – Ian McEwan)
(The Shadow Of The Wind – Carlos Ruiz Zafon)
*The Old Man and the Sea – Ernest Hemingway
The Handmaid’s Tale – Margaret Atwood
*The Bell Jar – Sylvia Plath
Dune – Frank Herbert
-------
Some discussion: I've noticed that not many people in the BB thread that I got this from have books listed as "on my shelf" (underlined) as well as "might read" (italicized). I have seven! What does this say about me? Hmmm... I've been buying books with good intentions since high school. Catch-22 was recently purchased and I'm reading it right now. Catcher in the Rye and Animal Farm were from high school reading lists where I had to choose from a short list to do a book report. I bought several books and decided later. Both have been started. Slaughterhouse 5 has also been started - it's in a Vonnegut hardcover anthology, from which I read Cat's Cradle. Cryptonomicon caught my eye several years ago at the local SciFi bookstore in Toronto, Bakka. Their store tradition of employees writing little reviews on index cards and thumbtacking them to the shelf under the book is one of the many reasons why I love the store, and has helped me find at least two new "favourite authors" in recent years. The book sat on our shelf for months, until one day my husband asked me why I bought it. I told him it had a good review at Bakka, and I figured he'd read it and tell me what he thought about it. So he did. :) The copy of Dune on our bookshelf came with my husband.
Most of the starred books are ones I have tried and couldn't get into, particularly the Jane Austen, both Brontes and Hemingway. I've tried a few times with Hemingway and even own a couple others (For Whom the Bell Tolls and The Sun Also Rises), but just couldn't get into any of them. The Bell Jar, Brave New World, Kite Runner and Geisha are undoubtably excellent books, but there is only so much "heavy stuff" that I can take, so I'm drawing the line somewhere!
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Beware the little red crosswalk man
My husband found this article this evening. It's like deja vu all over again!
A little background: For a little over 5 months (late February to early August) of 1993, I was an exchange student at Philipps-Universität Marburg, Germany. It was a wonderful time. Marburg (another page of links here) is a lovely little German university town. It's full of students during the term, so there's plenty of things to do - movies, theatre, nightclubs, shopping... but it's also not a huge city, so it's not overwhelming. It's surrounded by hills, so there's fresh air and trees (dare I even say.. woods?) to hike around in. The Lahn River runs through the town, and there's a bike path that follows the river. You can even rent boats and paddle around. It also has a good amount of traditional German charm. There's a 13th century gothic church, a fully functioning and delightful Altstadt, complete with a picturesque Schloß, Rathaus (city hall) and more than a couple Kneipen (taverns). I heartily recommend Der Hinkelstein, in the Altstadt.
But I digress. Back to the article. I swear to you, this is the God's Honest Truth. Whatever you do, don't cross the street against the light, especially if there's a small child nearby. To quote the fourth paragraph of the above-linked article:
First, never ever cross against red in front of an impressionable child. At best, you'll get a nasty look from most of the adults present -- visually incriminating you for tempting little Heidi or little Franz into certain violent death next time he or she attempts to cross the street alone. An apparently uninvolved bystander may take it upon him or herself to launch into an indignant tirade at your expense. At worst, you could even get a stern talking to from a morally superior five-year-old.
People, I have witnessed this. Standing at a street corner in Marburg on a Saturday afternoon: myself, a youngish woman (mother?) with a small child, a middle-age woman (who did not appear to be with the young woman & child), and a male in his late teens or early 20s. Not a car in sight. The young man looks both ways and quickly sprints across the street against the decree of the little red crosswalk man -- and damned if the middle-age woman didn't immediately start loudly yelling out at him, "Oh, aren't you a good example to the child! You should know better!" (a rough translation). She continued her tirade until he was surely out of earshot.
Luckily for me, I was never the recepient of this kind of public embarassment. I was warned by a new friend (the American student who lived across the hall from me) shortly after my arrival in Marburg to not tempt the Germans to disobey the little red crosswalk man.
Ah, fond memories. Like Monty Python films and Star Trek: TNG dubbed into German. And celebrating 4th of July with 3 Brits. And introducing non-Americans to our dizzying variety of Girl Scout cookies. And the effect of hitting an umlaut key on a German keyboard when you're using a Telnet application. But those are other stories.
A little background: For a little over 5 months (late February to early August) of 1993, I was an exchange student at Philipps-Universität Marburg, Germany. It was a wonderful time. Marburg (another page of links here) is a lovely little German university town. It's full of students during the term, so there's plenty of things to do - movies, theatre, nightclubs, shopping... but it's also not a huge city, so it's not overwhelming. It's surrounded by hills, so there's fresh air and trees (dare I even say.. woods?) to hike around in. The Lahn River runs through the town, and there's a bike path that follows the river. You can even rent boats and paddle around. It also has a good amount of traditional German charm. There's a 13th century gothic church, a fully functioning and delightful Altstadt, complete with a picturesque Schloß, Rathaus (city hall) and more than a couple Kneipen (taverns). I heartily recommend Der Hinkelstein, in the Altstadt.
But I digress. Back to the article. I swear to you, this is the God's Honest Truth. Whatever you do, don't cross the street against the light, especially if there's a small child nearby. To quote the fourth paragraph of the above-linked article:
First, never ever cross against red in front of an impressionable child. At best, you'll get a nasty look from most of the adults present -- visually incriminating you for tempting little Heidi or little Franz into certain violent death next time he or she attempts to cross the street alone. An apparently uninvolved bystander may take it upon him or herself to launch into an indignant tirade at your expense. At worst, you could even get a stern talking to from a morally superior five-year-old.
People, I have witnessed this. Standing at a street corner in Marburg on a Saturday afternoon: myself, a youngish woman (mother?) with a small child, a middle-age woman (who did not appear to be with the young woman & child), and a male in his late teens or early 20s. Not a car in sight. The young man looks both ways and quickly sprints across the street against the decree of the little red crosswalk man -- and damned if the middle-age woman didn't immediately start loudly yelling out at him, "Oh, aren't you a good example to the child! You should know better!" (a rough translation). She continued her tirade until he was surely out of earshot.
Luckily for me, I was never the recepient of this kind of public embarassment. I was warned by a new friend (the American student who lived across the hall from me) shortly after my arrival in Marburg to not tempt the Germans to disobey the little red crosswalk man.
Ah, fond memories. Like Monty Python films and Star Trek: TNG dubbed into German. And celebrating 4th of July with 3 Brits. And introducing non-Americans to our dizzying variety of Girl Scout cookies. And the effect of hitting an umlaut key on a German keyboard when you're using a Telnet application. But those are other stories.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Musings on the cable clutch
Although I haven't posted much about it, I have been knitting recently. I didn't get much time to work on anything last semester (Sept - Dec) except here and there. Over Christmas, one of my husband's cousins was raving about these lovely little hand-knit clutches that are apparently quite the rage in some fashion circles. Well, raving might be too strong a word... cousin is in her late teens and generally doesn't "rave" about anything at family gatherings lest she appear less-than-dignified. But she really likes them, nonetheless. After admiring the website for a bit, I decided to have a go at a knock-off an approximation.
I also went back through the archives of a couple knitting and craft boards to see what others had come up with. I think mine is turning out better than some of the other knock-offs, but we'll see. I noticed occasional indignation from some knitters: "US $150 for THAT? But it's just a simple cable pattern, sew up the sides and add a bow!" When cousin's mother asked me if I thought the designer clutches on the website were worth the price they were asking for them, I did some quick math and said, "Yes, if they're really hand-made and you account for the inflation of selling in New York City." I spent CND $25 on two balls of mid-range-price superwash wool and about 5 hours of knitting. At $20 an hour for my time (which is reasonable for quality handmade work) that's minimum CDN $125 right there. And I haven't bought lining fabric, ribbon, a magnetic fastener, the handles or sewn up the sides and finished it yet. I'm sure the designer can have them made faster and gets wholesale pricing on materials, but still. I don't begrudge them one bit for making money on what appears to have become a lovely niche product for the fashionable.
Our cousin, of course, is not going to spend US $150 on a designer clutch, so I will make one for her and probably one for myself. Beyond that, though, I won't be taking orders. If you've been knitting for any length of time and done even simple cables, you can figure out the pattern for yourself. Here endeth the math lesson, and why I don't attempt to put a price on my handknitting.
I repeat my mantra: pictures eventually. Really.
I also went back through the archives of a couple knitting and craft boards to see what others had come up with. I think mine is turning out better than some of the other knock-offs, but we'll see. I noticed occasional indignation from some knitters: "US $150 for THAT? But it's just a simple cable pattern, sew up the sides and add a bow!" When cousin's mother asked me if I thought the designer clutches on the website were worth the price they were asking for them, I did some quick math and said, "Yes, if they're really hand-made and you account for the inflation of selling in New York City." I spent CND $25 on two balls of mid-range-price superwash wool and about 5 hours of knitting. At $20 an hour for my time (which is reasonable for quality handmade work) that's minimum CDN $125 right there. And I haven't bought lining fabric, ribbon, a magnetic fastener, the handles or sewn up the sides and finished it yet. I'm sure the designer can have them made faster and gets wholesale pricing on materials, but still. I don't begrudge them one bit for making money on what appears to have become a lovely niche product for the fashionable.
Our cousin, of course, is not going to spend US $150 on a designer clutch, so I will make one for her and probably one for myself. Beyond that, though, I won't be taking orders. If you've been knitting for any length of time and done even simple cables, you can figure out the pattern for yourself. Here endeth the math lesson, and why I don't attempt to put a price on my handknitting.
I repeat my mantra: pictures eventually. Really.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
When DVDs Attack: A reality check for We-Of-Little-Willpower
For goodness' sake, we bought more DVDs. Why, in the name of sweet justice, WHY?!?!? We haven't watched the ones we have, and we're bringing home more? But then really, how could I walk away from "Alien Nation: The Complete Series"? Or "The Flash"? Or Jon Pertwee as Dr. Who in "The Claws of Axos"? I ask you, how could anyone walk away from "The Claws of Axos"?
There are priorities, and then there are priorities.
So here we are, bursting at the seams with DVDs, mostly seasons or complete series sets of old TV shows. We are, in a word, addicted. Admittedly, we are dual-income-no-kids 30-somethings who don't spend money on things like drinks at bars, cigarettes, cover charges, or movie and theatre tickets. Our nieces and nephews are either past the indulging age or too far away to indulge. Our only vacation in 4 years was a three-day trip to New York City a few weeks ago between Christmas and New Years (The Cloisters and MoMA, by the way, are highly recommended). So, DVDs are our entertainment. We rarely watch broadcast TV, the exceptions being the original CSI, the new Battlestar Galactica and my own recently-developed fascination with Lost, which I give a 50/50 chance of lasting through this season.
So, there's justification, yes. But now, the reality check. We have too many frickin' DVDs. I mean, I know which cash registers at 5 separate Best Buys and Future Shops won't read my debit card without a swipe-fight, which is a level of familiarity with those stores that a non-employee shouldn't have. I absolutely, positively MUST declare a moratorium on DVD buying for a good long while now. It would be fine if I had two weeks to sit on my butt and watch DVDs all day while I knit, then I might get through the backlog we've been building up. But the new term has started, and I have work to do which I've been ignoring since mid-December.
So this time I mean it. No more. Really.
Except the 5th season of the original "Twilight Zone", of course.
But not until I watch the previous 4.
Honest.
There are priorities, and then there are priorities.
So here we are, bursting at the seams with DVDs, mostly seasons or complete series sets of old TV shows. We are, in a word, addicted. Admittedly, we are dual-income-no-kids 30-somethings who don't spend money on things like drinks at bars, cigarettes, cover charges, or movie and theatre tickets. Our nieces and nephews are either past the indulging age or too far away to indulge. Our only vacation in 4 years was a three-day trip to New York City a few weeks ago between Christmas and New Years (The Cloisters and MoMA, by the way, are highly recommended). So, DVDs are our entertainment. We rarely watch broadcast TV, the exceptions being the original CSI, the new Battlestar Galactica and my own recently-developed fascination with Lost, which I give a 50/50 chance of lasting through this season.
So, there's justification, yes. But now, the reality check. We have too many frickin' DVDs. I mean, I know which cash registers at 5 separate Best Buys and Future Shops won't read my debit card without a swipe-fight, which is a level of familiarity with those stores that a non-employee shouldn't have. I absolutely, positively MUST declare a moratorium on DVD buying for a good long while now. It would be fine if I had two weeks to sit on my butt and watch DVDs all day while I knit, then I might get through the backlog we've been building up. But the new term has started, and I have work to do which I've been ignoring since mid-December.
So this time I mean it. No more. Really.
Except the 5th season of the original "Twilight Zone", of course.
But not until I watch the previous 4.
Honest.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Once more unto the breach...
How typical. The exam was Tuesday afternoon, I only have to grade 6 pages (1/4 as much as the last exam), I should have been able to have it all done by yesterday, it really MUST be done for tomorrow, it's 10pm and I haven't even begun. This is the last major task I have to do before the holidays and our short get-away next week, and I just can't bring myself to pick up the red pen. This really is pathethic, and there's no excuse for it. And yet here I sit.
In my desperate attempt to avoid this, I've pulled out my semester-long neglected knitting, the Shapely Tank Top from White Lies Designs. I'm doing it in a lovely yellow cotton and will be adding the optional sleeve caps to make into a T-shirt. The yarn is Butterfly cotton from Greece, shown here, in colour 3525 "cornsilk". It's lovely to work with. The front is done, with short-row shaping added at the bust, and I've just started the back. Pictures will come eventually.
I also became intrigued by this little novelty from the latest Knitty: Marley's Ghost, and so whipped up the first 6 links of what will probably be a fun scarf using Lamb's Pride worsted in Aubergine and Sunburst Gold (a.k.a. Gryffindor colours). I had a bunch of it left over from making a felted bag, so I'm alternating 2 maroon with 1 gold link for variety. Again, pictures eventually. Honest.
In other news, we replaced our on-again-off-again television (the sound would die occasionally and return the next day) with a beautiful Panasonic 32" flat-panel wide-screen LCD TV. I couldn't tell you the model if my life depended on it. To my embarassment and despite being a techno-geek myself, I tend to leave the electronic appliance choosing and setting up to my husband. It makes him feel so useful. The purchase necessitated a 90-degree change of orientation to our living room, which is another thing I leave to him. We now have so much space I don't know what to do with it all. I suspect more bookshelves are in our future. I also keep forgetting that we have the TV. Every time I come home and see it there, it's a surprise.
My brass quintet played our annual (4th year in a row, I guess that qualifies for "annual") Christmas Sing-A-Long at the Ben Wicks pub in Cabbagetown last Sunday. Much carol-singing and hilarity ensued, such as the drunken Scotsman who by the end of the afternoon was loudly proclaiming to anyone who would listen (and to some who wouldn't) how Christianity had saved civilization. With a few children in attendance, the raunchy jokes were kept to a minimum, so hopefully we'll be asked back again next year. I gurgled my way through Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring after once again neglecting to empty out my 3rd B-flat valve, an oversight that was almost as embarassing as it was when I did the same thing before a solo at my 5th grade Christmas band concert. But some friends from school came for a bit, which was sweet of them (thanks Magda and Chiara!), and we only had to play Silver Bells three times and Hallelujah Chorus twice. No one requested Rudolph or Joy to the World, which was a nice change. My bi-annual beer of choice was Killkenny, since they had (HORROR!) run out of Guiness. I'm coping.
Since this is probably my last post before the holidays, I leave you with this final thought: The Overalls of Shame. The woman who knitted these as a gag gift is my new hero. It makes me proud to be a knitter.
In my desperate attempt to avoid this, I've pulled out my semester-long neglected knitting, the Shapely Tank Top from White Lies Designs. I'm doing it in a lovely yellow cotton and will be adding the optional sleeve caps to make into a T-shirt. The yarn is Butterfly cotton from Greece, shown here, in colour 3525 "cornsilk". It's lovely to work with. The front is done, with short-row shaping added at the bust, and I've just started the back. Pictures will come eventually.
I also became intrigued by this little novelty from the latest Knitty: Marley's Ghost, and so whipped up the first 6 links of what will probably be a fun scarf using Lamb's Pride worsted in Aubergine and Sunburst Gold (a.k.a. Gryffindor colours). I had a bunch of it left over from making a felted bag, so I'm alternating 2 maroon with 1 gold link for variety. Again, pictures eventually. Honest.
In other news, we replaced our on-again-off-again television (the sound would die occasionally and return the next day) with a beautiful Panasonic 32" flat-panel wide-screen LCD TV. I couldn't tell you the model if my life depended on it. To my embarassment and despite being a techno-geek myself, I tend to leave the electronic appliance choosing and setting up to my husband. It makes him feel so useful. The purchase necessitated a 90-degree change of orientation to our living room, which is another thing I leave to him. We now have so much space I don't know what to do with it all. I suspect more bookshelves are in our future. I also keep forgetting that we have the TV. Every time I come home and see it there, it's a surprise.
My brass quintet played our annual (4th year in a row, I guess that qualifies for "annual") Christmas Sing-A-Long at the Ben Wicks pub in Cabbagetown last Sunday. Much carol-singing and hilarity ensued, such as the drunken Scotsman who by the end of the afternoon was loudly proclaiming to anyone who would listen (and to some who wouldn't) how Christianity had saved civilization. With a few children in attendance, the raunchy jokes were kept to a minimum, so hopefully we'll be asked back again next year. I gurgled my way through Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring after once again neglecting to empty out my 3rd B-flat valve, an oversight that was almost as embarassing as it was when I did the same thing before a solo at my 5th grade Christmas band concert. But some friends from school came for a bit, which was sweet of them (thanks Magda and Chiara!), and we only had to play Silver Bells three times and Hallelujah Chorus twice. No one requested Rudolph or Joy to the World, which was a nice change. My bi-annual beer of choice was Killkenny, since they had (HORROR!) run out of Guiness. I'm coping.
Since this is probably my last post before the holidays, I leave you with this final thought: The Overalls of Shame. The woman who knitted these as a gag gift is my new hero. It makes me proud to be a knitter.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Dem rattlin' bones
Some people are driven crazy by the sound of nails on a chalkboard, or squeaky styrofoam. These sounds don't bother me much. For me, it's the sound of a jackhammer, or the thing the dental hygenist uses to polish your teeth. Not the high-pitched whining dentist's drill, that's not a big deal. But rather the rumbling sounds that are so deep that they feel like your insides will never stop rattling. Those sounds drive me crazy. I suspect I would have this reaction to earthquakes, which I guess takes California right off the list of places to retire. Oh, and metal nail files. I hate those too.
So here comes the dilemma. The husband, he snores. It's a frequency somewhere between the jackhammer and tooth-polisher, and it lasts longer - on the order of hours. The volume is at a level that no television or earplugs can compete with. What's a girl to do? I love the man. I simply can't be in close proximity to him while he sleeps.
So, I send him to bed, or to the couch, or to his favourite chair in the library, and I shut the door. This cuts the volume to an almost tolerable level. Half an apartment away, the noise is barely audible, and so I peacefully go about my TV watching, or knitting, or reading, or - heaven forbid - work... until eventually I notice that I'm becoming agitated. Why is that? And then I notice it, the overpoweringly loud, wake-the-dead, shake-me-to-my-bones sound. The Snore is back. My teeth are rattling in sympathy with my ribs. It's been going on for some time, but I was so absorbed in my work that I didn't consciously notice it. Only subconsciously, where it STILL irritated me. Now that I'm consciously aware of it, I'm likely to go out of my mind.
And, oh look! The door that I closed an hour ago is open. At some point he woke up and wandered into another room, to another crash spot, and he's fallen asleep again. So I get up and go in, roll him over a bit (the avalanche of sound stops temporarily), kiss him on the head and close the door to that room, being careful not to turn out the lights, because he gets very disoriented if he wakes up in complete darkness.
Wait one hour. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Did I mention he also sleepwalks a bit?
And thus proceeds my evening ritual.
Gram C. (my mother's mother) was fond of the comic strip "Family Circus". After once hearing The Snore, Gram sent me a clipped Family Circus strip in which the mother first laments her husband's snoring, and then after a conversation with her own mother where she talks about how much she misses her deceased spouse, the mother goes to bed the next night, now happily hearing her husband's snores as virtual music to her ears.
Bullshit. Heart-tugging, male-conceived propagada intended to convince a nagging wife that she is in the wrong when she complains about the noise.
Do I snore myself? Of course I do. But let me tell you. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, compares to the sheer volume this man puts out. It's impressive, in a way. I've even caught the cats staring at him on occasion with something resembling awe in their golden-green eyes. To them, it must sound like the most contented purr in the world. And so it is. Aside from the occasional bout of sleep apnea (hence the sleepwalking), he generally sleeps like a baby. The sleep apnea is a problem, of course, but it's a problem for another day. Today, there is finally peace in our home.
I fought for years to try and sleep in the same bed at the same time. And what a fight it was: I poked, I prodded, I cried, I screamed, I tossed, we both turned, we sometimes fought, and in the end all that happened is that we've both lost a lot of sleep. So I've given up. I'm not really certain where this concept of "married couples have to sleep in the same bed in the same room" came from in my world. My parents always did, my grandparents always did, so I guess I figured that's what married couples do. But why? I mean, the fun bits are when you're both awake, right? No need to mess up perfectly good sleep just to keep a tradition.
Really, a good door solves so many problems. I can't believe it took this many years to figure that out.
So here comes the dilemma. The husband, he snores. It's a frequency somewhere between the jackhammer and tooth-polisher, and it lasts longer - on the order of hours. The volume is at a level that no television or earplugs can compete with. What's a girl to do? I love the man. I simply can't be in close proximity to him while he sleeps.
So, I send him to bed, or to the couch, or to his favourite chair in the library, and I shut the door. This cuts the volume to an almost tolerable level. Half an apartment away, the noise is barely audible, and so I peacefully go about my TV watching, or knitting, or reading, or - heaven forbid - work... until eventually I notice that I'm becoming agitated. Why is that? And then I notice it, the overpoweringly loud, wake-the-dead, shake-me-to-my-bones sound. The Snore is back. My teeth are rattling in sympathy with my ribs. It's been going on for some time, but I was so absorbed in my work that I didn't consciously notice it. Only subconsciously, where it STILL irritated me. Now that I'm consciously aware of it, I'm likely to go out of my mind.
And, oh look! The door that I closed an hour ago is open. At some point he woke up and wandered into another room, to another crash spot, and he's fallen asleep again. So I get up and go in, roll him over a bit (the avalanche of sound stops temporarily), kiss him on the head and close the door to that room, being careful not to turn out the lights, because he gets very disoriented if he wakes up in complete darkness.
Wait one hour. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Did I mention he also sleepwalks a bit?
And thus proceeds my evening ritual.
Gram C. (my mother's mother) was fond of the comic strip "Family Circus". After once hearing The Snore, Gram sent me a clipped Family Circus strip in which the mother first laments her husband's snoring, and then after a conversation with her own mother where she talks about how much she misses her deceased spouse, the mother goes to bed the next night, now happily hearing her husband's snores as virtual music to her ears.
Bullshit. Heart-tugging, male-conceived propagada intended to convince a nagging wife that she is in the wrong when she complains about the noise.
Do I snore myself? Of course I do. But let me tell you. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, compares to the sheer volume this man puts out. It's impressive, in a way. I've even caught the cats staring at him on occasion with something resembling awe in their golden-green eyes. To them, it must sound like the most contented purr in the world. And so it is. Aside from the occasional bout of sleep apnea (hence the sleepwalking), he generally sleeps like a baby. The sleep apnea is a problem, of course, but it's a problem for another day. Today, there is finally peace in our home.
I fought for years to try and sleep in the same bed at the same time. And what a fight it was: I poked, I prodded, I cried, I screamed, I tossed, we both turned, we sometimes fought, and in the end all that happened is that we've both lost a lot of sleep. So I've given up. I'm not really certain where this concept of "married couples have to sleep in the same bed in the same room" came from in my world. My parents always did, my grandparents always did, so I guess I figured that's what married couples do. But why? I mean, the fun bits are when you're both awake, right? No need to mess up perfectly good sleep just to keep a tradition.
Really, a good door solves so many problems. I can't believe it took this many years to figure that out.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
A night to remember...
I remember a time when I was very sure of myself. I knew who I was, what I was doing and who I wanted to be when I grew up.
I remember confidence, and trusting myself.
I remember believing myself when I said, "I can do this."
I remember still liking myself even once I realized that I couldn't.
I remember that crying gives me an excruciating headache. Although, I remembered that one a little too late this time.
I remember why I love him.
I remember that kitties don't care why you're upset, as long as you pet them. And their fur is very absorbent.
I don't quite remember why I'm doing this, but I remember that there was a very good reason which, once I remember it, will hopefully help more than make things worse.
I remember that a lot of people have it worse than I do, and in the grand scheme, my problems are incredibly small. That doesn't help at all, naturally.
I remember that I'm not stupid. Most of the time.
I remember the words to "Jabberwocky", and somehow that seems like a good thing to think about.
I remember that I'm not alone, and people do care about me.
I remember where I stashed that chocolate bar - and I remember just in time that I'm out of Malox, so I'll save that one for now.
I remember that the best accomplishments are the ones we fight hard for, and although that seems like a pretty tired cliché, I think it's going to have to suffice for now.
I remember confidence, and trusting myself.
I remember believing myself when I said, "I can do this."
I remember still liking myself even once I realized that I couldn't.
I remember that crying gives me an excruciating headache. Although, I remembered that one a little too late this time.
I remember why I love him.
I remember that kitties don't care why you're upset, as long as you pet them. And their fur is very absorbent.
I don't quite remember why I'm doing this, but I remember that there was a very good reason which, once I remember it, will hopefully help more than make things worse.
I remember that a lot of people have it worse than I do, and in the grand scheme, my problems are incredibly small. That doesn't help at all, naturally.
I remember that I'm not stupid. Most of the time.
I remember the words to "Jabberwocky", and somehow that seems like a good thing to think about.
I remember that I'm not alone, and people do care about me.
I remember where I stashed that chocolate bar - and I remember just in time that I'm out of Malox, so I'll save that one for now.
I remember that the best accomplishments are the ones we fight hard for, and although that seems like a pretty tired cliché, I think it's going to have to suffice for now.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
The temporal anomaly known as November
The weeks since returning home from NYC have been strangely unproductive, considering the amount of busy I recall experiencing. How does that work, exactly? My little burgundy University of Toronto datebook, which neatly distills my days into hour-long chunks, doesn't provide too many answers. Honestly, where have the weeks gone?
The band concert two weeks ago was, as usual, a rousing good time, unless you include the speeding ticket I received on my way there, just up the road from my house. We had a guest band from Rochester which is, without a doubt, far better than we are. They were fun to listen to, which I did from the quiet confines of the dressing room while everyone else went out and sat in the house to watch... I was close to an asthma attack and needed some down time after nearly being late (see speeding ticket) and running (me, running = a scary thought) from car to stage. I chatted a bit with the other horn section during the morning rehearsal, but had to bail on the after-concert dinner with our guests because of things due the following day. My immediate band obligations fulfilled, I've skipped rehearsal for the last two weeks. Whether or not I go this week, I can't say. I feel that I need a break from band, but the guilt is tremendous. I love playing the horn, but I resent the 3 hours every week that it takes from my life to go to rehearsal. I've been a member of the group since 1995, taking 18 months off from September 2002 - May 2004 and two more from June - August 2005 (school obligatons), but yet I keep coming back. I realize, at some level, that I have long since lost any image of reliability in the eyes of my section and the rest of the band, and yet they welcome me when I'm there, ask me for no excuses, hand me second and first horn parts and treat me as they always have, like a friend and colleague. And I enjoy myself when I'm there. So I'm still torn. Truthfully, I'll probably go this week, even though I've said I don't want to. The Christmas music was probably brought out last week, and I love that arrangement of Westminister Carol. Familiarity, tradition and guilt trumps, I guess.
A second round of grading, much worse than the first, hit a couple weeks ago, and caused me to lose no small amount of sleep until this past Thursday, when I handed the tests back. This probably accounts for the feeling that I've been very busy, yet the appearance that I've gotten very little done. This Wednesday brings round three, when they hand in projects. The sense of dread is already building. My own work has languished beneath the piles of grading and teaching preparation, and I'm starting to panic a little bit about that.
This weekend I managed to attend the retirement dinner for a professor in the department - a dear man who I admire a great deal. True to departmental tradition, since he has now officially retired he will most assuredly be in his office on Monday, working diligently. You see, the university has, until next year, a policy of mandatory retirement at age 65, and many people don't want to. As an emeratus professor, they are entitled to teach X number of classes for a few more years and maintain an office. So they do - the last three "retired" professors are still permanent fixtures in the department, one will be serving as interim chair for a few months next year. I'm glad this one won't be any different, because I would really miss him. It was a lovely dinner (preceded by a two-day workshop that I didn't get to attend much), with the requisite sappy speeches and multiple toasts. And the wheels keep turning.
So now I'll spend a couple hours paying bills followed by staring at the work I didn't do this weekend, and try to think of a way to explain my lack of productivity tomorrow, other than by temporal anomaly. I don't think that one will fly.
The band concert two weeks ago was, as usual, a rousing good time, unless you include the speeding ticket I received on my way there, just up the road from my house. We had a guest band from Rochester which is, without a doubt, far better than we are. They were fun to listen to, which I did from the quiet confines of the dressing room while everyone else went out and sat in the house to watch... I was close to an asthma attack and needed some down time after nearly being late (see speeding ticket) and running (me, running = a scary thought) from car to stage. I chatted a bit with the other horn section during the morning rehearsal, but had to bail on the after-concert dinner with our guests because of things due the following day. My immediate band obligations fulfilled, I've skipped rehearsal for the last two weeks. Whether or not I go this week, I can't say. I feel that I need a break from band, but the guilt is tremendous. I love playing the horn, but I resent the 3 hours every week that it takes from my life to go to rehearsal. I've been a member of the group since 1995, taking 18 months off from September 2002 - May 2004 and two more from June - August 2005 (school obligatons), but yet I keep coming back. I realize, at some level, that I have long since lost any image of reliability in the eyes of my section and the rest of the band, and yet they welcome me when I'm there, ask me for no excuses, hand me second and first horn parts and treat me as they always have, like a friend and colleague. And I enjoy myself when I'm there. So I'm still torn. Truthfully, I'll probably go this week, even though I've said I don't want to. The Christmas music was probably brought out last week, and I love that arrangement of Westminister Carol. Familiarity, tradition and guilt trumps, I guess.
A second round of grading, much worse than the first, hit a couple weeks ago, and caused me to lose no small amount of sleep until this past Thursday, when I handed the tests back. This probably accounts for the feeling that I've been very busy, yet the appearance that I've gotten very little done. This Wednesday brings round three, when they hand in projects. The sense of dread is already building. My own work has languished beneath the piles of grading and teaching preparation, and I'm starting to panic a little bit about that.
This weekend I managed to attend the retirement dinner for a professor in the department - a dear man who I admire a great deal. True to departmental tradition, since he has now officially retired he will most assuredly be in his office on Monday, working diligently. You see, the university has, until next year, a policy of mandatory retirement at age 65, and many people don't want to. As an emeratus professor, they are entitled to teach X number of classes for a few more years and maintain an office. So they do - the last three "retired" professors are still permanent fixtures in the department, one will be serving as interim chair for a few months next year. I'm glad this one won't be any different, because I would really miss him. It was a lovely dinner (preceded by a two-day workshop that I didn't get to attend much), with the requisite sappy speeches and multiple toasts. And the wheels keep turning.
So now I'll spend a couple hours paying bills followed by staring at the work I didn't do this weekend, and try to think of a way to explain my lack of productivity tomorrow, other than by temporal anomaly. I don't think that one will fly.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
If it's raining, it must be Syracuse...
I made it home late Monday evening, much to my intense relief. Not without incident, of course.
After finishing my hot chocolate and saying goodbye to my squatter's claim in the NW Union Square Starbuck's Sunday night, I made my way back to my hotel, in the hopes of getting some work done for a couple hours, sleeping until 8am, going to a nearby yarn shop at 9am, getting a bite at Grand Central, catching an 11:00 train to Poughkeepise, and being home 8 1/2 hours later, with enough time to finish my work, due Tuesday morning.
Er, at least, that was the plan. Until I passed out unceremoniously the minute my head hit pillow. I woke up 9am. So, no work done. Hrm. If I want to hit the yarn shop before I catch the 10:50 train, I better get moving. But still so tired. Do I really need to go to that yarn shop? Naaah. What time do I have to check out? Noon? Well, screw it then, I'm going back to sleep.
At 10am I woke up again and decided to do an hour's worth of work, which barely helped. I hurried at 11 to pack and get a cab to Grand Central, where I had just enough time to get Starbucks, oogle the ceiling in the great hall for a moment more, and get on my train. It was a disappointing end to the trip, but I took solace in the fact that I was going home and would have time to get my work done that evening. Did a little more work on the train. It still didn't make much of a dent.
I arrived in Poughkeepsie ready to roll. Except my car wasn't. No juice, no power, nada, squat. My panic reared up - what if it's not just a battery problem? I had to have a sensor replaced last year that caused the same effect. I calmed down when I realized that wasn't so bad... that would mean I wouldn't have to finish my work for Tuesday, since I might have to stay overnight in Poughkeepsie until my car was fixed! Yay, work extension! I called AAA and sat down for a bowl of soup at a touristy Irish pub next to the station. The nice man arrived 30 minutes later, and lo and behold, it was the battery. Drat. I guess I have to get my work done tonight when I get home after all. And now I have an hour less work time. Sigh.
So, I was off. The IPod was determined to play nothing written after 1979 between Poughkeepsie and Syracuse. And then the rain hit.
Now, keep in mind, this was only the third time (6, if you count round trips) that I've been back through Syracuse since graduating from University in 1994. And wouldn't you know 3 of those 6 drive-throughs have involved torrential downpours? I'm not impressed. Better still, the heavy rain continued the rest of the way home, through Buffalo, across the border and around the lake. By the time I got home, I was so stiff I could barely stand.
It's Wednesday now, and the work is only just finished. Good thing my supervisor is patient. I feel like I've been through a war. And now my next battle: band rehearsal tonight, after two weeks away. Concert in two weeks, substitute and new players coming in for said concert, music in who-knows-what-folder, parts being randomly reassigned, and here's me, beyond caring. Why did I say I'd do this? Oh right, I like band. Now I remember.
I need more hot chocolate.
After finishing my hot chocolate and saying goodbye to my squatter's claim in the NW Union Square Starbuck's Sunday night, I made my way back to my hotel, in the hopes of getting some work done for a couple hours, sleeping until 8am, going to a nearby yarn shop at 9am, getting a bite at Grand Central, catching an 11:00 train to Poughkeepise, and being home 8 1/2 hours later, with enough time to finish my work, due Tuesday morning.
Er, at least, that was the plan. Until I passed out unceremoniously the minute my head hit pillow. I woke up 9am. So, no work done. Hrm. If I want to hit the yarn shop before I catch the 10:50 train, I better get moving. But still so tired. Do I really need to go to that yarn shop? Naaah. What time do I have to check out? Noon? Well, screw it then, I'm going back to sleep.
At 10am I woke up again and decided to do an hour's worth of work, which barely helped. I hurried at 11 to pack and get a cab to Grand Central, where I had just enough time to get Starbucks, oogle the ceiling in the great hall for a moment more, and get on my train. It was a disappointing end to the trip, but I took solace in the fact that I was going home and would have time to get my work done that evening. Did a little more work on the train. It still didn't make much of a dent.
I arrived in Poughkeepsie ready to roll. Except my car wasn't. No juice, no power, nada, squat. My panic reared up - what if it's not just a battery problem? I had to have a sensor replaced last year that caused the same effect. I calmed down when I realized that wasn't so bad... that would mean I wouldn't have to finish my work for Tuesday, since I might have to stay overnight in Poughkeepsie until my car was fixed! Yay, work extension! I called AAA and sat down for a bowl of soup at a touristy Irish pub next to the station. The nice man arrived 30 minutes later, and lo and behold, it was the battery. Drat. I guess I have to get my work done tonight when I get home after all. And now I have an hour less work time. Sigh.
So, I was off. The IPod was determined to play nothing written after 1979 between Poughkeepsie and Syracuse. And then the rain hit.
Now, keep in mind, this was only the third time (6, if you count round trips) that I've been back through Syracuse since graduating from University in 1994. And wouldn't you know 3 of those 6 drive-throughs have involved torrential downpours? I'm not impressed. Better still, the heavy rain continued the rest of the way home, through Buffalo, across the border and around the lake. By the time I got home, I was so stiff I could barely stand.
It's Wednesday now, and the work is only just finished. Good thing my supervisor is patient. I feel like I've been through a war. And now my next battle: band rehearsal tonight, after two weeks away. Concert in two weeks, substitute and new players coming in for said concert, music in who-knows-what-folder, parts being randomly reassigned, and here's me, beyond caring. Why did I say I'd do this? Oh right, I like band. Now I remember.
I need more hot chocolate.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
On NYC, and the joys of wireless internet
I'm sitting in a Starbucks on the northwest corner of Union Square in NYC, having recently dropped $2.95 for 2 hours of internet access (The network is apparently in the McDonald's next door... wonder if that's strictly kosher?) Anyhow, Starbuck's T-Mobile 2-hour rate was $6, so McD's "Wayport" access won out. Leave it to McDonald's to underprice everyone else in the neighbourhood.
The good news is that I actually found a place down by NYU that offers free Wi-Fi (a very pleasant little Tea Shop on MacDougall just south of Washington Square - highly recommended!), so that's where I've been checking my email while I've been here since Thursday.
However, it's Sunday, the conference ended this afternoon, I've been lugging a heavy backpack around for 4 days, I took a long walk through lower Manhattan this afternoon and Washington Square was not on my way back here. So I've ponied up the $$ for a couple hours to check my mail one last time before I call it a night. My feet hurt and I needed hot chocolate with whipped cream. Not having to wander too far from my hotel at this point in the weekend was worth it. Yes, I stopped by the WTC site while hoofing it around lower Manhattan. I felt it was something I needed to do, and frankly, it's kind of hard to MISS it. Not much to say about that except, you know, damn.
The conference was... educational, I suppose. I think what it boils down to is that I'm just not a very social person. I am also incapable of attending every session of every conference I go to. I know people who can't imagine missing even one minute of a conference, and I was that way at my first conference. But I quickly discovered that 3-4 straight days, 12 talks plus plenaries, panels and obligatory socializing is just too much for me. I bailed on the first session of Saturday morning to sleep in a bit and preserve my sanity, and skipped a couple time slots here and there to extend lunch hours for more "me time". At a certain point it all becomes Far Too Much Information.
Our presentation went OK, once we were all present and accounted for... my co-presenter had gone to the break room between sessions while I went in the presentation room to set up the laptop. Apparently, the clock in the break room was out by 10 minutes from the clock in our presentation room, because when the session chair started asking me at 11:30 if I wanted to start, and my co-presenter was still not there with the handouts (!!), I was a little wierded out. I stalled, she came in a minute later - to the unpleasant surprise that she was not 5 minutes early but 5 minutes late according to the room clock (!!!) - and we quickly got going. Of course, half of our audience was in the break room as well, and they began trickling in a couple minutes in to our talk, sigh. We were none too happy about the sutuation, but we finished in our alloted 20 minutes (people were still trickling in 10 minutes in to the thing), answered a couple questions and that was it. No sense fussing about it now, we'll have a post-mortem next week anyhow.
So that's that, another conference presentation for the CV, and it's time to head home.
Let's see if I can make it across New York State without getting another speeding ticket (like how I slipped that in there?).
My couple hours of internet time are about to run out soon, and I've been hogging a table at Starbucks for a while (but not as long as some of my fellow squatters, hiphop-boy and actor-boy. Why yes, I've given them names, why do you ask?). But I do need to get back to my teeny-tiny hotel room and try to make some headway on the little bit of work I brought with me, so that the rest of my week after I return home won't, you know, suck.
Apparently there's a decent yarn shop within a 3 minutes walk from my hotel... I've been too busy until now to look the place up, but I'll be stopping by there tomorrow morning when they open, before I head up to Grand Central to catch my train to Poughkeepsie and recover my waiting car.
What, you thought I was crazy enough to drive into Manhattan? I'm a little nuts, yes, but the sanity bug bit me in time. $30 per day to park my car was slightly less appealing than fighting the taxis for road space in a city where I don't know the roads.
It's been fun, thanks New York. I've informed the husband that he is required to come with me next time. It not as much fun exploring a fun place like NYC without anyone to share it with!
The good news is that I actually found a place down by NYU that offers free Wi-Fi (a very pleasant little Tea Shop on MacDougall just south of Washington Square - highly recommended!), so that's where I've been checking my email while I've been here since Thursday.
However, it's Sunday, the conference ended this afternoon, I've been lugging a heavy backpack around for 4 days, I took a long walk through lower Manhattan this afternoon and Washington Square was not on my way back here. So I've ponied up the $$ for a couple hours to check my mail one last time before I call it a night. My feet hurt and I needed hot chocolate with whipped cream. Not having to wander too far from my hotel at this point in the weekend was worth it. Yes, I stopped by the WTC site while hoofing it around lower Manhattan. I felt it was something I needed to do, and frankly, it's kind of hard to MISS it. Not much to say about that except, you know, damn.
The conference was... educational, I suppose. I think what it boils down to is that I'm just not a very social person. I am also incapable of attending every session of every conference I go to. I know people who can't imagine missing even one minute of a conference, and I was that way at my first conference. But I quickly discovered that 3-4 straight days, 12 talks plus plenaries, panels and obligatory socializing is just too much for me. I bailed on the first session of Saturday morning to sleep in a bit and preserve my sanity, and skipped a couple time slots here and there to extend lunch hours for more "me time". At a certain point it all becomes Far Too Much Information.
Our presentation went OK, once we were all present and accounted for... my co-presenter had gone to the break room between sessions while I went in the presentation room to set up the laptop. Apparently, the clock in the break room was out by 10 minutes from the clock in our presentation room, because when the session chair started asking me at 11:30 if I wanted to start, and my co-presenter was still not there with the handouts (!!), I was a little wierded out. I stalled, she came in a minute later - to the unpleasant surprise that she was not 5 minutes early but 5 minutes late according to the room clock (!!!) - and we quickly got going. Of course, half of our audience was in the break room as well, and they began trickling in a couple minutes in to our talk, sigh. We were none too happy about the sutuation, but we finished in our alloted 20 minutes (people were still trickling in 10 minutes in to the thing), answered a couple questions and that was it. No sense fussing about it now, we'll have a post-mortem next week anyhow.
So that's that, another conference presentation for the CV, and it's time to head home.
Let's see if I can make it across New York State without getting another speeding ticket (like how I slipped that in there?).
My couple hours of internet time are about to run out soon, and I've been hogging a table at Starbucks for a while (but not as long as some of my fellow squatters, hiphop-boy and actor-boy. Why yes, I've given them names, why do you ask?). But I do need to get back to my teeny-tiny hotel room and try to make some headway on the little bit of work I brought with me, so that the rest of my week after I return home won't, you know, suck.
Apparently there's a decent yarn shop within a 3 minutes walk from my hotel... I've been too busy until now to look the place up, but I'll be stopping by there tomorrow morning when they open, before I head up to Grand Central to catch my train to Poughkeepsie and recover my waiting car.
What, you thought I was crazy enough to drive into Manhattan? I'm a little nuts, yes, but the sanity bug bit me in time. $30 per day to park my car was slightly less appealing than fighting the taxis for road space in a city where I don't know the roads.
It's been fun, thanks New York. I've informed the husband that he is required to come with me next time. It not as much fun exploring a fun place like NYC without anyone to share it with!
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
The Rites of Fall
September is over. October is well underway. I leave for a conference in New York City in 2 days, and again, the paper is, I think, finally written. Or at least, if it isn't, I don't want to know about it at this point. One co-author sent out her final draft, the other co-author and I have read it and are relatively happy. The powerpoint and handout are done, and will have their final check tomorrow. For the first time ever, I think I'm going to a conference and I'm not worried about the paper.
That worries me.
I am TA-ing a class this term, and I still can't seem to get past the anxiety. I prepare and prepare. I read the students' readings (even though I read them as a student myself many times). I write out word for word what I want to say. And yet I am still in a nervous tizzy every Wednesday night at 11pm, when I should be preparing for bed. Tutorials go well, although I still talk too much, and sometimes they get me with a question I just can't answer, even though I should be able to. Someone, please tell me this goes away. Otherwise, I have no chance at this teaching thing.
I have discovered that I'll do almost anything to get out of doing the work I should be doing, including nurse a Venti Caramel Macchiato for two hours, brush the cat(s), order board games, play board games, read the rules to board games, wind yarn, knit the yarn, shop for graphic novels, read the graphic novels, write my first blog post in two months, help clear the backlog of TWPL paperwork that's been building for 4 months, organize the files on my hard drive, begin organizing the hard drives of two school computers, attend meetings, schedule more meetings, spend unusually long amounts of time preparing tutorial materials, going to band rehearsals, and sleeping. I don't watch much TV, but that's just because TV truly sucks, for which I suppose I should be grateful.
But I still can't deal with the work thing. I have a paper to rewrite to journal submission size and send it. I have an article to edit. I have crucial emails to send about upcoming work that I'm avoiding. I have a second general's paper to start - which should have been started two months ago and which must be finished and defended by April - and it's taken me 3 months to come to the conclusion that I'll have to revise the old term paper I already have rather than start something new. I spent months trying to think of something, anything that I could do besides rework that fucking paper, and yet here I now am, resigned to my fate and no further along than I was in the spring. I have a pile of grading staring at me, which must be done before I leave for the conference, and since that's in two days, it won't be.
I want to cry. But I'm too busy avoiding all of these obligations to cry about them. That would be admitting I'm in a hole and won't see the light of day for the next month.
Perhaps I should go and do fieldwork. See, linguists who go away on trips to do fieldwork are smart. They have a reason for not getting anything else done, for not taking on any other obligations. They simply won't be around. They have to devote their time completely to their fieldwork while they're there, in order to make the most of the short time. Good linguists do fieldwork. Better linguists do a lot of extended fieldwork. I have done no fieldwork - I use written sources for my data. What kind of linguist does that make me? One who likes her home and her non-academic life just the way it is, that's what. I refuse to sacrifice my happy home life to the gaping maw of academia. I will not move to where the jobs are. I will not spend months away from my husband in order to emmerse myself in field study. There has to be a middle ground. I have to find a way to have both.
I'm surrounded by fellow students who are either gung-ho about finishing their degree "on time" and other students who are, quite simply, angry. Angry about the demands and expectations placed on them, angry that those who came before them were given more time to discover their paths and take their time while we are now expected to "just get it done" and are being threatened with having our program terminated if we don't conform to an arbitrary timeline. And then there are those who are past anger and into resignation. That they might never finish. That they will have to go through this hell and jump through the hoops for 1, 2, 3 more years before they're done. These are smart people. Hard-working people. A lot of them are better linguists than I am.
Time to brush the cat.
That worries me.
I am TA-ing a class this term, and I still can't seem to get past the anxiety. I prepare and prepare. I read the students' readings (even though I read them as a student myself many times). I write out word for word what I want to say. And yet I am still in a nervous tizzy every Wednesday night at 11pm, when I should be preparing for bed. Tutorials go well, although I still talk too much, and sometimes they get me with a question I just can't answer, even though I should be able to. Someone, please tell me this goes away. Otherwise, I have no chance at this teaching thing.
I have discovered that I'll do almost anything to get out of doing the work I should be doing, including nurse a Venti Caramel Macchiato for two hours, brush the cat(s), order board games, play board games, read the rules to board games, wind yarn, knit the yarn, shop for graphic novels, read the graphic novels, write my first blog post in two months, help clear the backlog of TWPL paperwork that's been building for 4 months, organize the files on my hard drive, begin organizing the hard drives of two school computers, attend meetings, schedule more meetings, spend unusually long amounts of time preparing tutorial materials, going to band rehearsals, and sleeping. I don't watch much TV, but that's just because TV truly sucks, for which I suppose I should be grateful.
But I still can't deal with the work thing. I have a paper to rewrite to journal submission size and send it. I have an article to edit. I have crucial emails to send about upcoming work that I'm avoiding. I have a second general's paper to start - which should have been started two months ago and which must be finished and defended by April - and it's taken me 3 months to come to the conclusion that I'll have to revise the old term paper I already have rather than start something new. I spent months trying to think of something, anything that I could do besides rework that fucking paper, and yet here I now am, resigned to my fate and no further along than I was in the spring. I have a pile of grading staring at me, which must be done before I leave for the conference, and since that's in two days, it won't be.
I want to cry. But I'm too busy avoiding all of these obligations to cry about them. That would be admitting I'm in a hole and won't see the light of day for the next month.
Perhaps I should go and do fieldwork. See, linguists who go away on trips to do fieldwork are smart. They have a reason for not getting anything else done, for not taking on any other obligations. They simply won't be around. They have to devote their time completely to their fieldwork while they're there, in order to make the most of the short time. Good linguists do fieldwork. Better linguists do a lot of extended fieldwork. I have done no fieldwork - I use written sources for my data. What kind of linguist does that make me? One who likes her home and her non-academic life just the way it is, that's what. I refuse to sacrifice my happy home life to the gaping maw of academia. I will not move to where the jobs are. I will not spend months away from my husband in order to emmerse myself in field study. There has to be a middle ground. I have to find a way to have both.
I'm surrounded by fellow students who are either gung-ho about finishing their degree "on time" and other students who are, quite simply, angry. Angry about the demands and expectations placed on them, angry that those who came before them were given more time to discover their paths and take their time while we are now expected to "just get it done" and are being threatened with having our program terminated if we don't conform to an arbitrary timeline. And then there are those who are past anger and into resignation. That they might never finish. That they will have to go through this hell and jump through the hoops for 1, 2, 3 more years before they're done. These are smart people. Hard-working people. A lot of them are better linguists than I am.
Time to brush the cat.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Home good, home with luggage better
I like travelling. I do not like travelling alone. Despite this, I got to spend last week in Moncton, New Brunswick, at a conference. DH was originally going to come, until it sunk in that I was going to a conference, and wouldn't be spending any time with him most of the day.
*sigh* A full week is really too long for a conference.
At least my talk (based on The Paper From Hell) went well, even if I did spend most of the week hiding from the world in my (hot, icky, dorm) room putting the presentation together until the last minute, then stressing out until I found the local Staples, where I could print everything out. There really must be a better way to do this. Like, you know, get everything ready before boarding the plane to an unknown city. Or better yet, take my own printer. Point of fact, I was so paranoid the night before my talk that I bought a little travel printer while I was at Staples printing everything out. And a 500-sheet ream of paper. Both of which I carried home on the plane as a second carry-on.
Did I mention I'm just a little obsessive-compulsive?
So now I'm home. Of course, my luggage didn't arrive home with me. And wouldn't you know, my Denise needles and current project were safety packed in a checked bag so that I didn't raise the ire of airport security. Even still, they almost confiscated my bookdarts. Because, you know, a flimsy one inch piece of copper that bends almost as soon as you look at it is deadly. Two days later, knitting, clothes, books and needles are all safely home, thank you Air Canada. And I am now on vacation.
One good thing did come out of the week, though. OK, more than one good thing, after all - the presentation did go very well, even if I did have to stew about it until the last day of the conference. But even better, I found a great band. The cab driver who drove me back from Staples was listening to this CD he had bought at a local club show earlier in the week. He said the name of the group, which I immediately forgot - but I thought I remembered the lyric "Thumbelina", and that they were from Fredricton. A little sleuthing by DH yesterday and here they are, my new favourite band: Vetch. Thanks Mr. Cab Driver, wherever you are. It made the whole long, lonely, dismal week completely worthwhile.
*sigh* A full week is really too long for a conference.
At least my talk (based on The Paper From Hell) went well, even if I did spend most of the week hiding from the world in my (hot, icky, dorm) room putting the presentation together until the last minute, then stressing out until I found the local Staples, where I could print everything out. There really must be a better way to do this. Like, you know, get everything ready before boarding the plane to an unknown city. Or better yet, take my own printer. Point of fact, I was so paranoid the night before my talk that I bought a little travel printer while I was at Staples printing everything out. And a 500-sheet ream of paper. Both of which I carried home on the plane as a second carry-on.
Did I mention I'm just a little obsessive-compulsive?
So now I'm home. Of course, my luggage didn't arrive home with me. And wouldn't you know, my Denise needles and current project were safety packed in a checked bag so that I didn't raise the ire of airport security. Even still, they almost confiscated my bookdarts. Because, you know, a flimsy one inch piece of copper that bends almost as soon as you look at it is deadly. Two days later, knitting, clothes, books and needles are all safely home, thank you Air Canada. And I am now on vacation.
One good thing did come out of the week, though. OK, more than one good thing, after all - the presentation did go very well, even if I did have to stew about it until the last day of the conference. But even better, I found a great band. The cab driver who drove me back from Staples was listening to this CD he had bought at a local club show earlier in the week. He said the name of the group, which I immediately forgot - but I thought I remembered the lyric "Thumbelina", and that they were from Fredricton. A little sleuthing by DH yesterday and here they are, my new favourite band: Vetch. Thanks Mr. Cab Driver, wherever you are. It made the whole long, lonely, dismal week completely worthwhile.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Baby steps, indeed
Some days, you just have to give in. No matter how hard you try, it is just not going to happen.
I am on my third such day. Consecutive.
After turning in the rewrite of The Paper From Hell on Tuesday (without a final spell-check or end-to-end read-through - my mother would be horrified and at some level, I am), I proceeded to sleep for 48 hours. Well, off and on. Never mind that this very paper has to be turned into a coherent 20 minute conference presentation by next Thursday, never mind that I'm flying to New Bruswick on Sunday morning, less than 48 hours from now (the event is a full week, I present Friday morning, the last day), never mind that I cannot confirm the ability to print out and photocopy handouts at the conference venue (surely this won't be a problem, right?). I just can't get over the vomit factor any time my cursor hovers over the directory containing the paper and the last (very out-of-date) presentation of it. I have not begun to pack, I have done only minimal shopping to stock the house with supplies for husband and cats, the dishes haven't been done in two months and the laundry is stacked to the ceiling.
I broke down and changed the cat's litter yesterday (something DH has quiety been doing for the last six weeks while I am either working on The Paper or curled up in the fetal position crying about The Paper). But Tiger, ever ingenious, had pooped on the washroom floor and wrapped the floor towel carefully around it, which is his signal that the litterbox does not meet with his expectations. He has done this before, so we have an understanding. There would be no waiting for Dad to come home to deal with the litter, and it jarred me out of my post-paper doldrums. This small burst of domesticity spurred me on a bit. I then dumped two bottles of Dran-O down the washroom and kitchen sinks, which have been barely draining for weeks, in preparation for tackling the dishes before I leave on Sunday. I even washed some cutlery and a couple plates, and threw in a load of laundry that wasn't husband's work clothes.
And so it begins. Coming out of the self-imposed house arrest required for me to finish a large project, I begin to notice my surroundings and complete lack of housekeeping. Luckily for me, DH could really care less if the place is a junkyard, as long as he has clean underwear and work clothes, and a path to the television. I also notice a strange smell. Ah. That would be me. Time to shower, I think, something I've done only intermittently for the last while, i.e. when I was going to be out in public for more than 30 minutes. Time to wash the sheets that my stinky self has been sleeping fitfully on, and the blanket on the couch that I've been sweating on for weeks while I read and type. Time to determine just how many loads of laundry are in those bins. Time to decide if it's ethical to kill what is possibly a new life form growing under the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. Time to begin re-shelving the textbooks and journals that litter the livingroom floor and coffee table. Time for a trip to Wal-Mart for necessities... cat litter, Freezey Pops (hey, there's a heatwave going on).
Today, after two days ofdoing nothing recovery, I decided to come into school to work at my desk on the conference presentation, since I wasn't getting any work done at home on that. You can see how well that's working. At some internal level, I am panicking, but on another level I know that when I'm on the wire, I will get it done. Come next Friday, there will be a presentation, all 20 minutes' worth, and handouts, and probably even a Powerpoint file, once I confirm the presence of projectors. And it will be, at the very best, a good, solid talk, and at the very worst, an OK talk which is over in 30 minutes.
This morning, I give in to my inability to focus, and enjoy the slight break in the recent heat, the fact that my persistent sore throat and ear troubles (going on week 3) are getting better, that I got to share a good breakfast with husband and drive him to work. And relish in my good parking karma, since I scored one of the rare all-day non-metered (i.e. free) spots behind the library and won't have to risk getting a $30 ticket for not running down to feed the meter every two hours.
Today might not be productive, but it's a step back into the world of the living.
I am on my third such day. Consecutive.
After turning in the rewrite of The Paper From Hell on Tuesday (without a final spell-check or end-to-end read-through - my mother would be horrified and at some level, I am), I proceeded to sleep for 48 hours. Well, off and on. Never mind that this very paper has to be turned into a coherent 20 minute conference presentation by next Thursday, never mind that I'm flying to New Bruswick on Sunday morning, less than 48 hours from now (the event is a full week, I present Friday morning, the last day), never mind that I cannot confirm the ability to print out and photocopy handouts at the conference venue (surely this won't be a problem, right?). I just can't get over the vomit factor any time my cursor hovers over the directory containing the paper and the last (very out-of-date) presentation of it. I have not begun to pack, I have done only minimal shopping to stock the house with supplies for husband and cats, the dishes haven't been done in two months and the laundry is stacked to the ceiling.
I broke down and changed the cat's litter yesterday (something DH has quiety been doing for the last six weeks while I am either working on The Paper or curled up in the fetal position crying about The Paper). But Tiger, ever ingenious, had pooped on the washroom floor and wrapped the floor towel carefully around it, which is his signal that the litterbox does not meet with his expectations. He has done this before, so we have an understanding. There would be no waiting for Dad to come home to deal with the litter, and it jarred me out of my post-paper doldrums. This small burst of domesticity spurred me on a bit. I then dumped two bottles of Dran-O down the washroom and kitchen sinks, which have been barely draining for weeks, in preparation for tackling the dishes before I leave on Sunday. I even washed some cutlery and a couple plates, and threw in a load of laundry that wasn't husband's work clothes.
And so it begins. Coming out of the self-imposed house arrest required for me to finish a large project, I begin to notice my surroundings and complete lack of housekeeping. Luckily for me, DH could really care less if the place is a junkyard, as long as he has clean underwear and work clothes, and a path to the television. I also notice a strange smell. Ah. That would be me. Time to shower, I think, something I've done only intermittently for the last while, i.e. when I was going to be out in public for more than 30 minutes. Time to wash the sheets that my stinky self has been sleeping fitfully on, and the blanket on the couch that I've been sweating on for weeks while I read and type. Time to determine just how many loads of laundry are in those bins. Time to decide if it's ethical to kill what is possibly a new life form growing under the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. Time to begin re-shelving the textbooks and journals that litter the livingroom floor and coffee table. Time for a trip to Wal-Mart for necessities... cat litter, Freezey Pops (hey, there's a heatwave going on).
Today, after two days of
This morning, I give in to my inability to focus, and enjoy the slight break in the recent heat, the fact that my persistent sore throat and ear troubles (going on week 3) are getting better, that I got to share a good breakfast with husband and drive him to work. And relish in my good parking karma, since I scored one of the rare all-day non-metered (i.e. free) spots behind the library and won't have to risk getting a $30 ticket for not running down to feed the meter every two hours.
Today might not be productive, but it's a step back into the world of the living.
Friday, June 03, 2005
Well, that could have gone better
The defence of my first general's paper was May 12. It was horrifying in a way only academia can be. The gorey details of the experience are best not committed to the annals of electronic publishing, lest they be archived forever by some well-meaning web-crawler.
I am reminded by my unfortunate tendency for perfect recall of the mundane that May 12 is the birthday of a dear grade school-through-high school friend who I lost touch with after she got married in 1994. Due to a number of events - the biggest of which was that I was 6 hours away at university - I did not go to her wedding. I felt horribly guilty for not going, and sometimes I still do. We last spoke a couple days before the wedding, when I called her to let her know I couldn't come. We hung up on the best of terms, as always, and I told her I'd call her the next time I came home. That was 11 years ago. I miss her.
May 12 has historically been a strange day for me. Sometimes very bad, sometimes very good. For instance, it is also the date (in 1993) that I first talked to the man who is now my husband. Coincidence? Perhaps.
Maybe I'm reading too much into it. But I figure that at any rate, by now, I should know better than to schedule important things on May 12. So, OK, that was a miss on my part.
I'm finally past the irrational, screaming, witch-queen anger phase, and I no longer begin to cry in frustration when I open up the directory where the electronic files for the paper reside. So I think I can finally begin making the (not minor) revisions that were requested, once I figure out exactly what those requests meant. That will involve a meeting (or three) with a few different people. I continue to remind myself that this is a learning experience. It will be a better paper for my having more time with it. And if I keep telling myself that long enough, I might just begin to believe it. In the interest of letting go of my anger, I'll leave out the reasons - some rationally justified, others based entirely on hurt pride - exactly WHY I was so upset.
The whole process of academic writing is so degrading. You pour everything you have into a work for the express purpose of seeking approval from a group of people whose job it is to sit across from you and rip you down, throwing questions at you that they KNOW you will not be able to answer. And it never ends, not once you finish your dissertation and get a job, not once your name is known in the field. If you present at conferences or submit to academic journals, it's the same thing again and again. It's pathetic, really. And it's not supposed to be personal, yet it is. Masochists, all.
And what I really want to know is: If I can't handle this kind of reaction to a paper, how in hell do I intend to survive a dissertation defence? It's times like these when the overused phrase "Is it worth it?" keeps popping up. And I can't answer that question, either.
I think too much.
And I think there is a lack of ice cream in my world this evening.
I am reminded by my unfortunate tendency for perfect recall of the mundane that May 12 is the birthday of a dear grade school-through-high school friend who I lost touch with after she got married in 1994. Due to a number of events - the biggest of which was that I was 6 hours away at university - I did not go to her wedding. I felt horribly guilty for not going, and sometimes I still do. We last spoke a couple days before the wedding, when I called her to let her know I couldn't come. We hung up on the best of terms, as always, and I told her I'd call her the next time I came home. That was 11 years ago. I miss her.
May 12 has historically been a strange day for me. Sometimes very bad, sometimes very good. For instance, it is also the date (in 1993) that I first talked to the man who is now my husband. Coincidence? Perhaps.
Maybe I'm reading too much into it. But I figure that at any rate, by now, I should know better than to schedule important things on May 12. So, OK, that was a miss on my part.
I'm finally past the irrational, screaming, witch-queen anger phase, and I no longer begin to cry in frustration when I open up the directory where the electronic files for the paper reside. So I think I can finally begin making the (not minor) revisions that were requested, once I figure out exactly what those requests meant. That will involve a meeting (or three) with a few different people. I continue to remind myself that this is a learning experience. It will be a better paper for my having more time with it. And if I keep telling myself that long enough, I might just begin to believe it. In the interest of letting go of my anger, I'll leave out the reasons - some rationally justified, others based entirely on hurt pride - exactly WHY I was so upset.
The whole process of academic writing is so degrading. You pour everything you have into a work for the express purpose of seeking approval from a group of people whose job it is to sit across from you and rip you down, throwing questions at you that they KNOW you will not be able to answer. And it never ends, not once you finish your dissertation and get a job, not once your name is known in the field. If you present at conferences or submit to academic journals, it's the same thing again and again. It's pathetic, really. And it's not supposed to be personal, yet it is. Masochists, all.
And what I really want to know is: If I can't handle this kind of reaction to a paper, how in hell do I intend to survive a dissertation defence? It's times like these when the overused phrase "Is it worth it?" keeps popping up. And I can't answer that question, either.
I think too much.
And I think there is a lack of ice cream in my world this evening.
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