Socks
a few minutes of "The Devil Wears Prada"
panties (the kid)
drawhs (the husband)
underwear
A few more minutes of TDWP
pants (hers)
shorts (his)
leaning tower of towels and washclothes
then downstairs for double strong coffee

percolating
9:39pm
CSI: NY (Bruckheimer's throw-away scripts)
watch the last few minutes anyway

with double strong coffee
microwaved soymilk
three shakes nutmeg

Watch the first few minutes of "Domino"

Immediately: why are strong women invariably
portrayed as such dysfunctional bitches?

Maybe because we are. I'm sitting here mad at the world because I'm choosing between reading Bakhtin and sorting socks and underwear. My S.O., having just returned from a male bonding experience constructed from two parts deposition-taking with good-ole boy millionaire lawyers and one part binge drinking and playing poker with high school buddies at a blues-playing juke joint, spent a total of 80 minutes reflecting on how glad he was to be home before grabbing a fifth of Grey Goose and heading out to a party that he "got invited to a couple of days ago" and "just wanted to stop by."

Here's an interesting thought: imagine Bakhtin sitting at home at 10:32pm contemplating whether, for example, it would be a better idea to fold clothes that risked being permanently wrinkled or to put the finishing touches on the draft of ideas about heteroglossia, while his wife went out carousing with a bottle of vodka to keep her company.

Of course, this reeks of friedan-esque "old school" feminist bitching. And of course in theory "it" is not really about double standards. In real life though, that's what it seems to come down to for me.

I had a revelation the other day. Clearly, being married to an "I love my fraternity till the day I die" African American man raised in the Deep South who is now a lawyer at one of the only big (black) law firms in a town that, by the way, aspires to become a big city but just doesn't quite "get" the fact that you can't become a big city with out a TARGET...being married to such a man maybe is not the choice that (in hindsight of course) makes sense for a striving, career-minded Buddhist woman like myself.

There's just one complication: I can't seem to dislodge cupid's arrow from my left buttock.

And when it comes to Bakhtin's intellectual life vs. my pitiful excuse for one...Although he did write "several influential books" in five years' time, he also ended up using at least one of his manuscripts for cigarette paper after having been jailed for his ideas. So, I suppose it's not so bad to continually forget 98% of my potentially brilliant ideas as I wash dishes and fold clothes and sit here enjoying my two coffee caffeine high...

If the world ever acknowledges the skill it takes to keep up with housework, stay gainfully employed in several tenure-track positions, stay married without becoming a substance abuser (caffeine doesn't count) and raise a daughter who could possibly be the next Picasso...

then I will be the next fucking Einstein.