LouLou Triviata

I need to go to the grocery store (spray starch, jelly, water, laundry detergent, pantyliners) AND pick up A early so that we can have some dinner and go to the Skating Rink, where her preschool is having Halloween activities. So. Here are my thoughts in no particular order: Why do I feel so guilty for buying shoes and a velvet jacket when the last thing I bought were a pair of shoes that hurt my toes, a bunch of clearance crap? I went away with A for the weekend and he didn't even load his dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Why did I even waste my time cleaning the kitchen before I left? My fellow-professor girlfriend called me, lamenting about how she spent 60 hours at work last week and hasn't gotten her article done that's two weeks late. I counseled her while I was at the department store. It's Monday. Why can't I respect myself enough to spend the day working instead of running around getting tires for the car, getting sidetracked by shoes, and worrying about what will happen if relatives come over and the bathroom is funky? I loved spending time with A at the retreat this weekend. That's "her" face above. From her pen to our pumpkin! I realized today that I love nutmeg and the smell of barbecue smoke. The only people I have talked to today are A, my S.O., Chuck (our mechanic), my girlfriend, and the salespeople at the coffeeshop and the shoe checkout...and myself. What would it take to make this day happy? I went walking this morning out of sheer willpower--1.8 miles! It felt good, but it was unplanned, and I feel like it made the rest of the day go to shit. I made myself a really good salad for lunch--spinach, romaine, radicchio, feta, apple, and almond with raspberry vinagrette. I had steamed shrimp on the side and a small square of chocolate for dessert. I want my life to be like that meal.

Two days till my birthday. I am going to make this day happy! It's a choice. I will go into my 35th year on this planet in a positive way, and it's not about having it ALL together. It's not, because that's not real, for anyone. I have to keep telling myself that! It's about having an ambitious AND realistic plan. It's about being okay with falling short WHILE redoubling one's efforts. It's about taking time at the beginning AND the end of the day to be with myself and get centered. It's about speaking what is good about a day and imagining the next day in a positive light.

Uncertain Terrain

I'm not disappearing. Just in a weird space. It's possibly just that time in the semester when things speed up. Or maybe the reality that I have not spent much time working on who I am in this new job. Whatever the case may be, I haven't felt much like writing. I am working on conceptual things, though. Like the concept of time as a gift rather than time as an enemy (marching on and all that).

I think it is precisely at moments like these that I will try my damned-est to push on through whatever is making me feel lethargic, whether a cold (as currently) or pms or general disappointment about the state of how much I have not accomplished in my life up to this point....

And there it is. Damn! I knew there was a reason I was staying away from writing. I guess I haven't wanted to deal with the fact that I'm depressed about turning 35. I'm not sure where I was supposed to have gotten to by now, but I sure feel like I didn't get there.

The thing I will focus on most in these coming days is making peace with who I am and knowing that time IS a gift. As long as I have another day, another minute on the planet, I have more time to do better, be better and contribute more.

Desparately In Search of Conversational Partner...

There are those of us who are the epitome of social grace and wit—and then there are the rest of us. You, know, the ones who can count the number of times (on one hand) when we actually said the insightful, droll thing in the moment. More often, this repartee comes to me days later upon completion of a long hot shower or as I’m driving to work re-replaying the scenario in my head.

I felt like that yesterday, while at lunch with my soon-to-be-leaving boss. The conversation started out well enough. I restrained myself from saying the goofy shit that was playing in my head and kept with the basic, which is always a good thing. And then, something snapped. Maybe it was when he laughed at a little joke I made, or gave me a compliment on the eloquent way I had commented on my assessment of living in the South as a Yankee.

I couldn’t stop myself. Really, like a 200 lb gorilla on a tricycle barreling down the tallest hill in town. The goofy me took over while Ms. Sophisticate watched from the corner of the room, eyes closed, shaking her head in disbelief.

There are times when being an academic is really cool, but this is not one of them. The solitary hours we spend writing, thinking, and reading have dire consequences for our social lives. The bottom line is that I desparately need immersion in a social setting so that my conversational ability does not continue to atrophy. But who? Where? I’m a used to be Lutheran turned pseudo-Bhuddist, so the Black Baptist church won’t exactly work. Other preschool moms won’t cut it either. Racial politics at A’s preschool are obvious—although other moms are friendly, we probably won’t be invited to any birthday parties (an issue for another post, another day).

The one thing I wished for before we moved is to find a kindred spirit with whom I could establish a friendship. Time has shown me that I should give it a year—or two—and put myself in places where this could happen. Until then? I won’t cut myself off from other opportunities to practice not making a ditz out of myself in conversation.

Looks like I’ll be shopping for a church dress. But I’m not straightening my hair. And definitely no hat. At least not till Easter.

What Is It All About?

Blogs can be dangerous. Quality is often determined by the blog's ability to speak to a certain subject in a creative, elegant and concise way (insert sentence of self-deprecation here) while speaking to other things through that subject, For example--A blog about walking across the United States can be entertaining and a commentary on fitness, will power, American Life, etc. But besides all you obsessive compulsives out there, who wants to spend time just writing about ONE thing? Don't answer that. Obviously a lot of people do and I am in the minority. Again. Damn!

The other kind of blog--the diary--is just too revealing for many people although the good ones tend to act like a buillion cube--a lot of flavor in a itsy-bitsy cube.

So here's the issue: How does one find a middle point (if that's what one wants, which this one does) between the two above? Can you fit your blog's purpose into one pithy sentence? I've tried, to no avail.

Viva...

Las Vegas. S.O. is leaving today to go on his biennial trip with friends and frat brothers. I told him he could go--if he took A or me. Limp posturing on my part, really. He did pass the bar.

Sooo....A and I are on our own till Monday (she says with an evil cackle). More posturing. I mean, what trouble could we possible get into that would be as much fun as betting a hard six while sipping on your fourth martini? Well, let's check my array of equally pitiful, wholesome family fun activities:

1. Chuckie Cheese with the cousins
2. Plant flowers with A (an excuse to go to Lowe's and buy flowers, potting soil, pots and a doormat)
3. Leave A with Grandma, stash a diet coke and trail mix in my purse and go to a movie, followed by a compensatory dinner with said Grandma
4. Internet window shopping. Oh wait--I do that all the time anyway.
5. Get pissy off margheritas after A goes to bed, wake up with a hangover and sleep the morning away while Oobi, Dora and Little Bear keep A from noticing my horrid breath

A slow spiral downward into self-pity quickly goes into a nose dive. No. 2 has possibilities though. Real shopping trumps fake shopping anyday, and what's not to love about spending time with my daughter? Throw in an all out carb n'sugar fest and we've got one hell of a party, belly pooch be damned.

Worst Case of Static Cling--Ever

Forgot to tell you. Every Friday the parents at A's preschool are to take their kid's blanket and pillow home, wash them, and bring them back on Monday after the weekend. Before I tell you about this, I have to ask--Have you ever been so proud of yourself that intuitively, you should know something awful is about to happen?

I was so proud of myself. I actually ran back to grab the Downy fresh pillow and blankie from the dryer right before leaving the house. A and I even got there right when the kids were sitting down to breakfast! I gave A a quick kiss and, head held high, made for the door. As I put my hand on the door, an older woman walking down the hall called to me, saying "Excuse me, ma'am, did you drop something?"

Slowly I turned. There, on the floor by the breakfast table, was something satin and emerald green. Oh. My. God. I'm thinking, I know those aren't my panties. Then, okay, those are definitely my panties. F&^*! Without making eye contact with any of the teachers (you know the rule--if you don't see them, they can't see you), I walked quickly down the hall, said a quick thank you to the woman and scooped up the undies.

Mental note: shake blanket after removing from dryer.

At least they were clean.

Eureka!

I bought my cousin a card yesterday that said "If I worked in a lab I'd yell Eureka every once in a while, just to boost morale."

I may not be thinking brilliant thoughts, i.e., our friend here. BUT--I AM writing! I worked on one section of my chapter that is due sometime before I present it in April. And thus begins the ritual of the painfully slow academic writing process of me. I don't care if it's too early to celebrate, I actually wrote something! Now if I can just do it tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that...and so on for the rest of my life. And I washed three loads of clothes and the dishes from yesterday and cleaned out my closet so that I can actually enter it without stepping on dirty, soggy things.

So there. Cue the wind to raise my cape and ruffle through my hair. Now if only I could find my utility belt. Must have loaded it into the dishwasher by accident.

Justified Flake Out...?

Women who work outside their homes must have a love/hate relationship with academia. One one hand, you're always guilting about not doing more. Case in point? As I type this, my bedside reading is staring at me (Bakhtin's Speech Genres and Other Late Essays) and I'm trying to figure out how it is going to be possible to clean the house, do laundry, go grocery shopping, exercise, write out bills, go to the bank, buy a trash can with a raccoon-proof lid, eat something AND get my reading done for class on Wednesday AND fit in writing time. (Please don't mention the fact I'm blogging. I can't afford therapy). Oh yeah, and get coffee too. That's a must.

On the other hand, academics often have relatively flexible schedules, even if we fill those schedules with all kinds of professional activities . So, at least I have the option to stay home on a Monday and pretend I can do all of the things listed above, even if it means I have to stay up till two, or get up at 3am to get the work done that I didn't do during the day.

The down side of this thought process is that I'm really fooling myself. While I'm going through these convoluted rationalizations, there are the "traditional" academic folks (i.e., men with wives who do the traditional gender role thing, OR women with husbands who do the nontraditional gender role thing, OR gay and lesbian couples who ventriloquate the traditional gender role thing, and/or men/women with no spouses--but also no families and thus a life unencumbered by excuses that can be put on other people. Tends to make one more productive...). So these people--and I know they are out there, they are some of my best friends--are thinking not about laundry or how they can make up work time after the kids go to bed. They were at their offices at 8 this morning thinking deep thoughts and drinking their coffee. They'll be there till this evening, putting the finishing touches on their brilliant manuscripts. Interesting thought just crossed my mind--I more or less chose my life. Hmmmm...

So how does one have an organized home, well-adjusted children and a brilliant manuscript? If you will send me the do-it-yourself kit, I will gladly pay you 19.95--as long as you throw in the "365 Days of Healthy, Tasty, Quick Dinner Recipes" for free. I know I am a broken record. Pick up the needle and put it down a little later and I'm sure to be on to a different tune, one called "gratitude for the good things in my life." Hopefully sometime soon I can put out a record with more than four songs! Here is the current play list:

1. Woe to the commuting, academic working woman with a small child living in a small Southern town (Traditional Blues Song)
2. I've found my life is wonderful now that I've stopped bitching and opened my eyes (Upbeat Club Tune)
3. My social life is quite gimpy and my love life is none to great either (Alanis co-wrote this one)
4. When, oh when, will my fantasy writing life appear and my stomach pooch disappear?
(One of Joni Mitchell's lesser known songs)

Relatively Speaking

What kind of relationship am I supposed to have with my in-laws? Don't answer that. Keep in mind that EVERYONE and their mama is an in-law somehow or another in the South ("she's my auntie's third cousin on her mother's side").

I had hoped to fly under the radar, or maybe not even fly at all when it came to the politics of being "the up-and-coming Black laywer's professor-wife" here. It's bullshit to me. But, it's funny how things sneak up on you. One of S.O.'s mother's second cousins called and invited us to dinner tonight. Me, being the socially-starved person I am, jumped at the chance. I mean, last night I came this close to asking S.O.'s mom if she wanted me to get a DVD and watch it at her house. Not that there's anything wrong with that, necessarily, but...it strikes me as a little desperate.

Anyway. Turns out the woman lives a mile away from this other woman who is S.O.'s mom's first cousin, who has been asking when we're going to come over for dinner ever since we got here two months ago. "How was I supposed to know?" I ask the court of Southern Family Hospitality and Gentility.

To this, the judge says in a booming voice "ignorance is not an excuse for breaking the law." Your sentence? Probation and community service lasting not longer than it takes to have dinner, tea, lunch, and picnic with all those who may claim to be family, excluding play cousins.

As Florida Evans would say: "Damn! Damn! Damn!"

Night Cap

Is it wrong to long for love in the way you used to experience it? You know, before you were married for nine years and had a three year old daughter? Realize that this is the stuff that desperate housewives are made of--although I've never watched the show I think I have the gist.

I suppose that having a great body that men/women still swoon over even though it's going to be thirty-five next month, a fierce n'sexy haircut, an astounding intellectual mind, artistic talent and a biting wit is just too much to ask for. Damn it! Well, just give me the hair cut and the mind...and a spouse with enough loot for me to get a personal trainer. You know the kind. Face like Denzel, juicy bunz, perfect pecs and the ability to show a woman how to...work the hell out of an exercise ball.

Thoughts about Identity

Commuting is wonderful if you're driving through the country. If I end up staying at my present University for too long, I may end up not enjoying my commute as much, as we will inevitably become increasingly suburbanized, even in the semi-rural South. Anyway, what a great opportunity to think. On today's drive, I was trying to understand what my passion is as an academic and an aspiring public intellectual. I realized that I am greatly consumed with questions of identity. I'm sure S.O. and my friends realized this long ago but it's taken me much longer. Isn't that always the way?

...I keep coming back to a few central questions. Who am I? This question, for me, is more about desired or hypothesized qualities than an essential character--when we ask ourselves this question, our answers quickly move away from the social roles that we fill/occupy/inhabit and gravitate toward adjectives. At least for me, they do. Compassionate, loving, strong, etc. Secondarily, I begin to think about roles because once I know what qualities I aspire to or think I have, I can imagine how those qualities play themselves out within the roles I inhabit. There is a temporal aspect of roles and qualities--both may change or be altered over time. The roles I inhabit may change prominence--mother to grandmother, for example. The qualities I aspire to or hypothesize myself as having may live within these roles or change but time is always there wielding influence and shaping our thoughts. There is a final question that seems to me to be important--who is it that I want to become? Do people who don't ask this question miss out on something? In moments of draining domestic activity, I lose sight of this question and feel resigned to being a captive washer-of-the-dishes. I suppose in some way, like Betty Friedan originally suggested. Individuals whose work exists within the home or exists as unvalued service to others (minimum wage earners, child care workers...) and who, to use a bit of Marxist ideology, have been alienated from their work, also may not ask this question or find it relevant. Perhaps it is like my former colleague says...identity is a luxury of the middle class.

Which raises another interesting question. Since I enjoy doing research in urban, poor and minority communities, am I implicitly forcing yet another deficit upon individuals within these communities and reinforcing the idea that "their lives would be better if only they would think more like the middle class? Hmmm....

A Little Arm Chair Philosophizing

Yesterday as I cruised up and down rolling hills and felt good to have the sun shining down on me instead of rain (gotta love the South for that!) I started to think. Who am I as a person? Who do I want to be? I came up with a list of adjectives that I made into a prayer, though I'm not particularly religious. Help me to be compassionate, loving and positive to myself and others; open-minded and welcoming to my family, friends and people I meet; help me to bring order and serenity to my life and to people who I come into contact with; cultivate my sense of humor so that I can live a more joyful life and deal with things beyond my control.

Last night things started to go downhill after two trips to the supermarket (one to get salmon to cook for dinner and another to get the stuff I would need to make salmon taste less like chipped carboard). I had a glass of wine. Probably not a good idea. One of S.O.'s relatives called and asked if we would like to come to dinner on Saturday. I said could talk to S.O., but that I also didn't mind lying to my husband. That didn't come out right. What I MEANT to say is that if I told him we were just going to visit instead of coming for dinner, it might make him a more willing participant. But she didn't need to have all that information, especially prefaced with a statement about how willing I am to be untruthful to someone I've lived with for the past nine years. DAMN! I started to feel really tired when A and I drove up to pick up S.O. at his office. His boss, teasing S.O., said that I needed to get an older man in my life, as he hugged me (I'm thinking: I hope he doesn't smell the wine on my breath...and did I have garlic for lunch?). I swear the boss is really slimy sometimes. I asked A what she thought about what S.O.'s boss said, and she said "I don't THINK so!" High five to A!!!

After we ate a late dinner and S.O. asked me if I wanted to clean the kitchen before I went to bed (is that a trick question?) I felt really blue and fell asleep. Woke up feeling low. Is it a question of getting better organized? Maybe if I got clearer about how to do all the things I want to do, I would feel better about myself and my life. I have this grant report hanging over my head. This chapter that I haven't started writing hanging over my head. The prospect of teaching two graduate classes next semester (on the heels of a superstar professor) hanging over my head. The reality of having to co-chair a search for a new faculty position since the superstar professor is leaving (in January) hanging over my head. Time to get my ass up and do something so that everything can quit hanging over me and I can start presiding over my life in a more authoritative way. Blogging is a helpful tool for making one realize that shit only gets managed when you stop thinking about how much you have going on and just get moving. The power of words on a page!

So, S.O. is on his way to get sworn in. I'm here in the kitchen baking chicken and corn pudding in a feeble attempt to impress mother-in-law who watches A on Wednesdays while I drive to campus and teach my class. A department colleague of mine who fell asleep during my interview job talk wants to have coffee with me this afternoon. She's taken a liking to me, and I'm not sure why. Maybe while I was giving my presentation she dreamt that I knew what the hell I was talking about. But, until this afternoon, and until this pudding come out of the oven, I'll get some work done. I'll let you know how the day turns out. Compassion, love, positivity toward myself and others. Compassion, love, positivity. Compassion, love...

Stress Dreams

If dreams are movies, what plays in your mind theatre when you're stressed? Selfishly, I'm asking because I just had the most awesome stress dream. Sort of a cross between... Ocean's Eleven and Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. We were in some major city with lots of water--a cross between Vienna and someplace in Japan? (Old Italian architecture plus bamboo grass. Go figure). My consciousness of being in a cool dream began as we were in a WWII transport boat turned supercharged houseboat (See the show Small Space, Big Style--a show I watched yesterday). We were dressed in tuxedos and gowns and being chased by the Vienna police. The ring leader was a Rupert Everett (the movie star not the media mogul) type guy and we were speeding through the waterways, jumping police boats, careening wildly, splashing slower moving boats and gondolas carrying American tourists...finally coming to rest in a boat garage mascarading as a chinese food restaurant. No one spoke for a moment. Then two moments passed. Then we all started laughing hysterically. We were all law students who were in one way or another on the outs with "The Man."

The last scene in the movie was me, in another chase. I don't know if I was by myself but it certainly felt like it because I was now driving the houseboat. In order to drive it I had to lay on my stomach in the front of the boat and manuever it with what looked like an old Atari joystick, supersized. It was a lot less fun than the first chase, given that the police were now shooting to kill, having been looking for our "gang" since the first chase. Picture: machine guns, rocket launchers, etc. After narrowly evading a super explosion in which my vehicle emerged from a ball of fire, I found myself just ahead of the police, and around a bend in the river. I turned sharply and ran the boat up on a steep embackment and started running, then dropped and hid in the long grass as police moved within inches of me. When I thought it was safe, I started crawling through the grass to an alley that led to a tall building, climbed up the fire escape, in through an impossibly small window, and I began descending a back set of stairs that was at times really wide, then really narrow, then ceased to be stairs at all and became an M.C. Escher-esque splayed, crooked, downward ramp, then eventually became stairs again and ended it up in some small-time Italian officials' cramped secretary's office. I snuck by her and into a great hall, shoes clicking on the marble. There were tables of people all talking in the excited hush that happens before a big moment. A man in a kiosk was selling last minute emergency robes. I was at a law school graduation. I made a left and headed out of the building into the sunshine. As I looked out on the city, I felt as if someone was watching me. I turned slowly. A slightly pudgy, short white guy turned as if he was looking for someone but didn't see them and went back inside. I followed him, a few steps behind, as if I was looking for a restroom. He led me to the end of the hall and at ten different tables I spotted each of my friends chatting with nondescript movie-extras. One by one I caught their eye and they gave me an almost inperceptible nod, or a wink, or a half smile, and continued talking. It's funny--none of us were as glamourous as any of the Ocean's Eleven crew--an older white lady with big eightie's glasses and feathered hair, me, an older, balding man, an Asian chick with glasses and a ponytail, etc. I realized where we were at, then, and was impossibly happy that we were all going to graduate without going to jail. A policeman walked casually up and down the rows of tables, looking for us, I assume. "Rupert" was sitting casually on a table, now fully bearded and wearing horn-rimmed glasses. The policeman stopped, Rupert looked at him and smiled and then continued talking to his conversation partner, and the policeman smiled back and kept walking. We entered the great hall and took our seats as the ceremony began. We were scattered through the crowd of hundreds and even though I sat alone, I felt at peace knowing I was there, in the same room with my partners in crime. And then I woke up.

Guilt Strikes Again

Confession: I should feel guilty for that last post. After having not posted for a while, I skipped straight to ungrateful wife mode. I have heck of a lot to be thankful for. My S.O. passed the bar! Now he actually has the opportunity to be "super attorney." And I'm all for it. Yeah, somehow I forgot to mention that accomplishment. It's a great thing. After a decade of collectively working so that each of us could reach our educational goals, we finally made it. It feels good to be a two-wage earning family, and to have the prospect of good credit somewhere on the horizon. The alternate negative realities to my life are endless. I just hope to be able to walk that line between recognizing the good things that exist in my life and being mindful of the ways I want to change what could be better. That said, I will now skip off into the sunset to the smell of burning chicken and overcooked Lipton shells.

Thanks to Katrina, Lou Lou's coffee shop is now just "Shop." If anyone out there can help me figure out how to put this picture in my header, please feel free to let me know. S.O. just called me to see if I could pick up A early so that he could drop us off and come back to work. Oh, how quickly the tide changes. I remember a day not so many years ago before we had a child, when such a request would be summarily DENIED by S.O. because "it's not safe for you to be up at your office late at night." Sigh. But, because he's a man, and he's become "duh-duh-da-da SUPER ATTORNEY!" he now understands what it means to be really excited about your profession. I wonder sometimes if he's forgotten how driven I am to be successful at my own job. I know plenty of professors out there who either stay in their office till the wee hours of the morning or arrive in the wee hours. I mean, true, bad things do happen to little women. (No, I'm not a little person. Just short. Really. If I was a little person I'd be proud of it, damn it.)

Still, there are principles involved here. I mean, I'm working from home today, trying to do laundry in the middle of getting some writing done, in the middle of writing out bills, in the middle of answering emails, in the middle of...okay, so it's slightly hypocritical of me to be complaining through a blog about how little time I get to work. Maybe I should be writing instead of blogging? ...Damn it! I'm going to get a t-shirt that says "guilt is a tool of capitalist patriarchy." I'll wear it while I'm blogging. Until then, back to work.