My Tent on The Beach

I feel conflicted.  Usually I love getting together with friends.  It’s a respite for me…a chance to put down the weight of everything I carry on a regular day and just float for awhile.  But I’ve been particularly social over the past couple days and I’m feeling exhausted by it–abnormally so.  The usually light, airy times actually became halting, stuttering, difficult even.  It felt like whatever usually greases the wheels was gone and instead two mechanical wheels were scraping along together, creating sparks and a droning sound.  It’s been really bizarre.

I have to wonder how much (if not most) of this is completely me.  Despite my packed calendar…and I’m not joking…literally from sun up to sun down I’m just running, I feel distanced.  I actually want distance.  At my most haggard, I feel like I just want people to leave me alone.  But I know, in my heart of hearts, I don’t.  I just want not to work so hard at making things feel smooth and easy.  I think I need a vacation.

Yesterday was kind of the pinnacle of these feelings.  A friend I like very much and trust implicitly proceeded to have a very challenging conversation–not one that I felt was mutually challenging.  I maybe even felt attacked though I know that wasn’t the intention.  As with most conversations that I walk away from feeling a little tender, I know there was some profound truth in there…the tenderness comes from the fact that I know that he knows more about me than I’m comfortable with…and he knows it intuitively.  This is not information I’ve given; he, being the astute observer he is, sees it.  And now I have heartburn.  I really hate not being able to manage the information I radiate about myself.

But the other part of the tenderness stems directly from this suggestion, however implied or faint, that I’m ambiguous. It’s interesting being me, I’ll admit that right now.  Because at the same time one friend tacks me to the wall for apparently making no life choices and no decisions, from the other side I have people critiquing me for making statements that are too large, to aggressive, too loud.  To them, I’m intimidatingly strong–either willed or stated.  I think these are opposites.  Wishy-washy and intimidating–how does one actually achieve both?

The problem is I’m down with neither.  Neither one of these ideas fits me.  I think if you know me, you know I’m not ambiguous.  Is it hard to know me…yes…and I think that’s a problem for people.  I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve (my sleeves, honestly, aren’t big enough…I’m very sensitive…every square inch of sleeve would be occupied) and I trust very few.  I think, also, if you know me you know I’m not intimidating.  I am loud.  I’m tall.  Okay, I’m a big presence.  But it’s not my fault people automatically assume that’s some kind of power I wield because at the end of the day I’m more likely to listen to you and what you have to say and consider that at the same time that I consider who you are and why this might be important to you.  How can this possibly EVER be considered intimidating?  Because I have a utile mind, I’m intimidating…or because I don’t exude warm, fuzzy, cuddliness every time someone does something they want recognized?

I guess most bothersome about the whole discussion was the implied notion that I’m running away from something…myself, what I want, whatever, I don’t know.  I am not running.  I’m standing here examining my life more rigorously than most people I know.  I am flying in the face of my fears…it feels like I’m walking through fire here to make the changes I need to make in order to get what I want.  And I’m still compassionate when it comes to you.  So I don’t want to hear that I’m running or not working hard enough or not making the tough life decisions.

If I appear ambiguous to you it’s because you’re not working hard enough to know me.

I haven’t ranted in awhile.  I think it’s because I’ve been trying to get my Zen on…which has been working splendidly and I live in fear of jinxing it, so I try to curb the rants.  But I just cannot let this one pass by and so I must, I must, I must increase my…honesty with a certain group of people of the world.

Far be it from me to decry another’s blogging efforts.  But I think we have to be realistic. Blogs are inherently self-serving; you’re either writing it for yourself to read or others to read.  But when it becomes understood as a service to others…that’s where I’m gonna go ahead and call 2 minutes for self-righteousness.  And you know who’s totally the worst offenders of this right now?  Blogger moms.

Now before your hackles get all up in my grill, just take a deep breath and listen.  I’m not talking about all blogger moms.  Frankly, I don’t read moms’ blogs in general because, well, why?  I have to deal with your annoying kids in reality…why would I want to read about them too?  I’m talking about moms who appoint themselves the mistresses of all things healthy, lively, fun, and energetic and then try to pass this off as a service to the world.  My issue begins with one blog in particular (which…no, I will not name…I do have some shame) but in glancing through her blogroll, I know there are others just like her hawking their special brand of “clean and healthy family living the right way.” My ultimate favorite part about all of these is their, “well, this is how I do it, but it may not be right for you” tone; “I choose to make organic whole wheat carrot and cucumber muffins from scratch every morning to feed my kids because I know they’re worth it.  But if you have to go with pop-tarts and Tang, I get it; we moms work hard.”  Oh my dear god. I actually started laughing at the last article I read on her blog which broke down why getting vegetable-fed beef is better for you.  The information was impressively good and very useful…and then came the discussion of how to go about obtaining such a thing for your family.  I’ll just summarize the whole thing by saying “the internet” and “your local farmer” were the strongest options.  I my childless self live in an urban center.  It goes without saying, I’m not real familiar with my “local farmer.”  This leaves me with…the internet…to buy beef.  What’s going on here.

My issues with discussions that happen in this particular manner stem from two points.  First, they REEK of privilege.  The right way becomes the way in which only families who have enough money–and moms who have enough time–can actually live.  I found in thoroughly systematic but completely NOT surprising that there were never any adaptations made (like in the composting article) for 1) apartment dwellers, 2) urban dwellers, 3) and people who aren’t highly literate (composting is not an activity for imbeciles…you gotta know about living stuff and shit like that).  Recipes offered…not easy and often involving ingredients you can’t pick up at the corner big box grocery store (which, sad to say, is where most of us HAVE to shop for one reason or another).  Let’s not even talk about the fact of needing special appliances.  One article on juicing (suggested as the better way to get all 8 servings of fruit per day) didn’t mention that…you need a juicer.  And that corn-fed beef you buy from the “local farmer”…right…they don’t sell that in 1lb increments…you need a whole freezer to store the side of beef you’ll end up buying (and a minivan to haul it).  The article on switching from white bread to wheat bread you bake yourself (from flour you mill yourself) provided a recipe that required a bread machine.  If you don’t have one of those, I hope you have about 3 hours to devote to the process.

Aside from what I’ll call these plausibility issues, there is that kind of normative decision made for us all (and by us I mean “women” because the men are out bringing home the bacon and running 10Ks) in each of these articles.  They do, in fact, give us a nice, neat, pin-tucked set of values to use in judging ourselves successful and valuable…there’s always kids involved and they are usually picky eaters who have to be contended with; the word “organic” comes up more often than not; there’s always “noshing” involved; bright colors and attitudes to match seem de rigeur; eliminating dairy are very important; networking and self promotion seem oddly written into the underside of the surface of everything; let’s not even talk about the “greening” of everything–apparently moms are the new Al Gore; there’s a lot of baking involved and “fast food” are 4 letter words to the power of 2; “health” is their god.  And they’re all “consultants” of something (I have to believe they’ve been promoted from within…their own happy company of one).

Bottom line: this is the production of “mom” and “family” that rivals that of Betty Crocker–this one today is just greener and more organic and even more impossible for most women (and dads and families) to achieve.  Sadly, the moms I want to know about don’t have time to blog or probably the money to explore Whole Foods (which my friend rightly refers to as “Whole Paycheck”).  And my guess is they don’t know their “local farmer” either.  And because of that, they’ll never be successful…because the “Consultant Moms” say so.  It’s actually a little socially gross…like your colon is metabolically gross after you’ve eaten grain-fed beef all your life (according to the excellent article noted above).

If they really wanted to provide a useful service to the world, Consultant Moms should take 30 minutes to sit in their Lulemon yoga pants in their perfected half-lotus pose and think about how they’re actually destroying “family” by writing about theirs.  Then just go and live a happy life in whatever form that takes and leave the rest of us to do what we’re doing…no services–or self righteousness–required.

But what do I know…I don’t have a husband or kids…so technically I’m not even a woman.

A Reason Not to Feel Like I Just Wasted 2 Hours

Let me tell you a little story about academic posturing.  Every Friday in our fine department, we have a colloquium series.  In theory, it’s a place for the department to come together, share ideas, and engage in good ‘ol intellectual comraderie.  In reality, it’s a weekly forum for intra-departmental politics to continue to play out.

I would tell you today was particularly special but, alas, it was not.  I find it interesting and moderately funny that the more I witness sociologists at work, the more I realize that we are all bound by whatever particular lenses we use to approach the world.  Thus, today’s display of possibly the most masculine form of feminism possible in a woman was just another entry in the journal of “All Sociologists Really Are Freaks.”  I include myself, of course.  I just think it’s funny that every single person I’ve ever seen present something embodies the contradiction of their work.  So, while they’re talking about one thing, they’re embodying its opposite. It’s fascinating, but another post.

No, today what gave me a migraine was the bizarro questions of junior faculty who feel compelled to say something…anything.  No, I take that back.  Senior faculty did the same thing.  So really, when someone opens the floor for questions at the end, much like in a political setting, the questions are not questions but mini-speeches asking the speaker of the day to relate, oh, I don’t know…gender and medicalization, say, to…social movements, inequality, culture, politics, classical theory…to those posing questions, I just wanna say…stop putting your own work in the way of the agenda of the day.  We can all play, “6 degrees of Sociology.”  It’s uninteresting.  If you can’t move your mind around to consider the topic at hand on its own merit, then shut the hell up.  Thanks.

Even as I begin to really seriously think about my own work, I find it most disheartening that academia is only about academia and very little about the ideas.  I came to grad school, foolishly, to learn how to expand my thinking.  I’d say I accomplished that and for a time I could say it was part of my daily life–and that was wonderful.  I haven’t been at that place for 2 years…I’m now wandering in the desert of professionalization…and it’s not my kinda desert. When the quality of ideas is secondary to whether or not we can quantify that idea with a line on the C.V….that’s where I need to get outta Dodge.

In reality, I’m choosing to stay in Dodge.  But that stay is temporary…and I need to figure out how to have it not completely kill me.

"Oh the majesty of a frozen lake!"

Welcome to Chicago in February.  On days that I’m waxing eloquent, I would look at this picture and proclaim something like, “Oh the beauty!”  Today I’ve had it up to here (the imaginary equator line I’m drawing across my nose) with snow, cold, and days that usually look more like this:

The beginning of the end of my tolerance of winter.

It’s now the middle of the second straight cold month without a real holiday (I’m sorry…in no way do I count MLK, Valentine’s, or President’s Day as legitimate holidays as they bring with them no merriment or lighted shrubbery.), the novelty of the whole thing has worn off, and the snow left is brown and crunchy.  My jeans have salt lines running half way up my calf and my lips are hopelessly chapped. Even though it was sunny yesterday, I feel like we haven’t actually seen the sun in years, mostly because my skin, pale by most normal standards, is now become blue and translucent. Yet, all of this is superficial compared to the real reason that February starts to wear on me.

People are edgy.  I’m edgy. You’re edgy.  We’re all edgy.  My tolerance for mostly everything is low, low, low.  I’ve been snappish (some might say mean and I’m not totally in disagreement).  I find myself rationalizing not going out because of the weather which leaves me isolated in my tiny (relative to the rest of the world) apartment in my tiny mind without thinking about what’s going on outside of that.  I work especially hard to talk to new people.  In insulating my body (which also includes the growing layer of fat increasing 10-fold with each day), I’ve insulated my whole life.  It’s warm in here, yes, but it’s also testy and low-energy.

For me, there’s a mental shift when February ends.  I like March much better.  It’s 5 letters.  It’s one syllable.  Halfway through it magically becomes spring.  And then it’s winter again but in a manageable cycle of 3 days.  Of course, I’ll start ranting about the idiot college kids who break out the flip-flops pre-April, but that’s much more fun…and less gray.

February…don’t take this personally but we’re over.  It’s me and not you.

How’s that for a catchy title?  Sorry to tell you it will mean something a little different in this context.  But it is exactly the type of thing I’m getting ready to have a say about:.

[ahem]

What is it with commercials all containing some kind of sexual undertone these days?  I was watching tv the other day and an Enterprise (rental cars) commercial came on that had a woman holding up two nighties (ugh…I HATE that word which is exactly why I used it here) and says coyly to the man in the room, “The black or the red…or both?”  Clearly the suggestion is that Enterpise can help you out…squiring you to the “weekend special at the Holiday inn” (Tom Hanks line from Sleepless in Seattle).   I just saw some commercial for something innocuous and I want to say child-like that used the “size doesn’t matter” joke (overdone).  What. the hell.

I am absolutely NOT an apologist for the Viagra or Cialis commercials.  Extenze seems like commercial porn–along with Enzyte Bob and his “chubby Santa.”  I hate that all of these run, frankly, ever. I can’t believe that someone actually got paid a lot of money to come up with them.  But, the fact is, at least they’re topical (meaning the commercials and not the drugs).  If you’re gonna sell the product, suggestion has to be involved.

But rental cars?  Air fresheners? Breath mints? Toothpaste? Hair Gel?  Seriously.  It’s insulting to my intelligence. It’s insulting to your intelligence.  Is literally nothing else funny anymore.  Because they for sure have worked every smidgen of clever out of any of these lame attempts at appeal.

I’m calling for heightened clever in my commercials…not sappy, not lame totally re-worked innuendo.  I’m through with innuendo.  I just want really clever.  So that I can reconcile myself with the fact that people gets lots a cash to sell stuff.  I’d just like to know that they possess some kind of mediocre talent.  All I’m asking.

And I’m calling boycott on any product  that uses sex appeal in a totally unjustified manner.  I’m lookin’ at you Snuggie…

I’ve been held hostage in my apartment by UPS today.  The helpful little sticky left for me on my front door yesterday boldly (and helpful) proclaimed that UPS would attempt a re-deliver today sometime between the hours of 10:30am and 5pm.  They must now be conspiring with the cable company to offer very constructive information regarding their paid visits.

Anyway, because of this, I’ve wanted nothing but to go outside of my apartment and, thus, have had to keep myself busy in other ways.  All hasn’t been lost though.  Despite my bondage, I’ve had a good day here including (but not limited to):

1. Forcing Andras to bring me his “good-bye” lunch instead of going out for it.

2. Finishing a UW project exceedingly fast…when all I wanted to do was walk away from it.

3. Feasting on Trader Joe’s food almost constantly.

4. I’m going to work out here in 5 minutes or so.  Usually, this urge wouldn’t strike until at least 7:30pm.

5. Cleaning the kitchen.  I know.

6. The possibilities feel endless at this point.

I always feel some kind of relief when this person shows up and gives me the go-ahead to assume freedom.  But until then, I suppose there are worse things I have to endure.

Like getting a PhD…but I’ll worry about that later.

I bought a new car on Friday.  In my old car, the “check engine” light would go on randomly, oh I don’t know, every other week. So I chucked it and bought a new (but simple) car.  That was Friday.  Yesterday the check engine light when on.  In the new car. Holy shit.

And I lost my mind.

Blinding rage? Fury? No, just a quiet, growing anger manifesting itself as what became raging, fiery heartburn.  In a momentary out-of-body experience as I was digging through my closet for the Tums (which have Calcium, I realized, so at least I had my RDA dosage of that), I realized that this is not a healthy coping mechanism. So, over my coffee this morning as I’m piecing back together what are the twisted and broken shards of my mind, I’m trying to work my way through what might be going on here.

I don’t have an answer.  But what I know is that I’ve become prone to really flying off the handle, most especially when inanimate objects are involved.  I won’t lose my mind with people.  I almost never have gone loco on a person.  But when something crosses my path–take cover.  This has happened when the cable goes out, my computer malfunctions, my coffee maker bites the dust, MY CHECK ENGINE LIGHT COMES ON…you get the drift.  It’s a Thing thing.  And so, I wonder if this is my own craziness constantly creeping up on me or if it’s a symptom of a greater social condition.  What I’m wondering is if Facebook has done this to me…

Here’s the thing: I’ve become used to speed (not the narcotic, although there are days when I consider it) and functionality.  Usually I love it: I’m in love with being in the know NOW.  So, Facebook lets me see what my friends are doing now. Gmail tells me instantly when I get an e-mail.  I can pay my bills and have the total deducted from my account now.  I’ve grown completely intolerant of anything that 1) breaks or 2) takes more than 3.4 seconds.  Which I think is the root of my check engine rage.  (Also connected is that this is a brand new thing that has now, inexplicably BROKEN ALREADY which just exascerbates this whole thing.)

What I don’t know is how to reverse it.  Yes, I can unplug and not engage with the face-paced world of technology.  But then I’m left behind. FAST. I know people who’ve done this and it’s like they’ve become irrelevant…and if there’s one thing I live for, it’s being relevant (although, now that I’m this far into this post, I’m left wondering…).  Unplugging is extreme.  My current state of plugged-in-edness seems extreme.  So where is the happy middle in determining the speed of life?  And how much control do we really have over it? How do I get Zen with very expensive things breaking in the first 5 minutes I have them when everything is a thing that I’ve paid for.  And has been promised to work?

This is not new, I know.  Since the invention of things, things have been breaking.  But it seems like now, in this shiny world of things everywhere that do amazing things very fast, failure is becoming way less of an option.  Because if I had a little C4 and duct tape, at this moment, I’d strap it to that car and show it who’s boss.

But maybe that’s an overreaction.

Oh my god…my latest look at the calendar immediately caused a minor panic.  August is very nearly over and I’m sitting here scratching my head and wondering what happened to it.  Of course, there are details that lead to it slipping so quietly into the night like, oh, the complete lack of summer here (no complaints from me) or the fact that the Cleveland Indians suck so bad this year that it’s as though baseball never even happened.  Usually I’m keenly aware of August’s presence because I’m sitting in a pool of my own sweat and talking about magic numbers.

But also, I just finished my 1-year fellowship yesterday and now I’m standing squarely in front of one year of my own making.  Yes, I have deadlines and things that I have to shoot for…but I also have nothing forcing me to do it, which is the space that little impish voice in my head needs to say things like, “I wonder what New Zealand looks like,” or “The Lost marathon is on today.”  I’ve worked hard learning how to cage that voice and I think it’ll be okay this time around…but seriously.  I hope it’ll be okay this time.

I just relish those times when I get the commentary that sounds something like, “Oh, Katie, what I wouldn’t give to have your schedule.”  Hmmm.  Yep.  For one week it’s incredible.  After that…I imagine it’s what a black hole looks like from the inside.

When I moved a month or so ago, I never knew just how much riding Metra in Chicago really is the way to fly.  Now I’m stuck with riding CTA (bus, train…it really doesn’t matter.  It’s all just as traumatic) for a little under an hour one way and while there are days I can wax quixotic about being an urban dweller riding the bus, there are days like today…during which little lessons about the nature of humans hit home hard.  Allow me to share:

1. Bluetooth technology and the senior set should never be introduced to each other. I sat next to a lady this morning who was proudly donning a bluetooth headset.  It looked incongruous.  And then she got a phone call…which anyone in either the 773- or 312- area codes could hear as clear as crystal.  Apparently mystified by the fact that there was no microphone directly in front of her mouth, she shouted to ensure the sound would travel up her cheek to her little blue, blinking earpiece.  This went on for 25 minutes.  I now am very aware with what Irene is doing today and that it involves baking. Awesome.

2. Cuddling up to those two strangers is a delicate game. I love seats on a bus.  Believe me, I’m aware that I’ve got a little junk in the trunk so to speak.  I do enough squats to ensure some measure of firmness but I also eat enough croissants to keep things moderately sized back there.  But bus seats are built for a human butt that just simply does not exist.  The teeniest of people sit down and overlap.  This overlapiture (or is it overlapitude?) means that I’m forced to be physically closer to people I want to remain perfect strangers than those I’ve known for decades.  Thus, when choosing a seat, you have to play the odds.  And we’ve all been there when people see us coming and you know they’re thinking, “Aw, hell…she’s gonna sit next to me…yup…there goes my space…now this is uncomfortable.” We’re all sorry.  Get over it.

3. Babies on the bus go ’round and ’round. Holy lord, the amount of accessories required to squire a baby around town is nothing short of astonishing.  There are car seats, foldable strollers, non-folding strollers, no less than 3 bags full of baby-related needs, and the baby-squiring assistant (a secondary adult brought into the fray with the express purpose of wrangling the accessories).  While I don’t have kids and must, on a fundamental level, not understand the need for all of this, it might be legit.  What makes me scratch my head is hauling all of that onto the bus to go 4 blocks. What the hell?  It takes longer to get the stuff on there than it does to ride.  Let’s not discuss the alighting process.

4. The panic associated with letting the driver know a stop is coming up captivates me. I ride the 147 here in town which goes straight up Michigan Avenue.  The bus stops at every corner. Always.  Without fail.  So why otherwise sloth-like slugs of people pull that cord with 274 pounds of torque I will never understand.  You’re not gonna miss your stop.  Just chill.

As always, there’s more.  But why concern myself with them now?  I’ll just re-live it in about 4 hours…through the Cubs game traffic…awesome.  Can’t wait.

I’m not sure why, but I clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Perhaps it was the dream that I was mucking through swampland in India (is there such a thing?) and I was deeply concerned that it was going to ruin my socks or the fact that I didn’t get to sleep until 2:15 am. Whatever it was, I woke up this morning feeling completely inadequate it every facet of my life. So, I need to rant to expel the annoyance and move on.

I Hate It When:

1. People set up their sprinklers so that no matter what, sidewalk travelers will get wet. Especially bad when it’s the Jesuits. I feel like they should know better. You know, care for others and all.

2. The “new guy” at Metropolis has been training for 3 weeks now and seems to be getting incrementally slower. How does that happen? Is he Benjamin Button the cash-register version?

2a. Patrons at Metropolis order like this: “Iwant…uhmmmmm…a small coffee. Room? Yes, room. And do you have donuts (next to the freakishly large display of donuts)? Ok, I’ll take one of those. Which one? Uhhhhmmmmm, is there a chocolate one? Yes? Good. And do you have scones today? And I’ll take one of those pies? What are those pies? What? Did you say broccoli? I can’t hear you?…” Oh. for. the. love. of. god. Just order something and MOVE ON.

3. I can’t find anything suitable to wear. All of my clothes feel like they don’t fit even though they do, none of them match, and they all look horrible on me and I wonder why I bought any of them. Tomorrow, of course, everything will be fine.

4. You walk with a “group” on the sidewalk that becomes like your little racing bunch because you’re all walking the same speed and can’t get away from each other. The anger derived is directly proportional to the length of time you have to deal with these 3 people that you can’t seem to pass no matter what you try and who will not pass you. Ugh. Sidewalk etiquette is not what it used to be.

5. I’ve been waiting for Amazon to deliver a book which I just realized I never ordered. Nice.

6. Everyone around me seems inordinately chipper. Here, take half of my dark cloud and let’s be edgy together.

7. I hear the word “Wait.” This, I’m realizing right at this moment, is a function of unstructured time. I need to fix this one and tout suite. It’s starting to nibble away at my soul.

8. I have to deal with Loyola Library. I’m not sure why it’s even called a library as they almost NEVER have the books I need. What are in all of those stacks?  I think it’s just recycled covers of books no longer in existence filled with packing peanuts.  It’s like the Fraggle Rock of the biblio-world without the frivolous musical rumpus.  And, inevitably, for the book I need which is sure to be obscure and checked out once every 10 years, some other fucker around here has it checked out indefinitely! Why are you reading Bordieu’s “The Rules of Art” and why will it take you the next 18 months to do it?  GIVE IT BACK,  NERD.This is exactly why, when they do have them, I keep them relatively forever. It’s like a found treasure. I just can’t let it go. (Thus, I make another nerd rant about me having the obscure book…it’s an ugly cycle, Loyola.  Let’s make it stop.)

9. The “check engine” light comes on in the car. This was the beginning of the end for my good humor for sure. Two days I’ve been stewing about this one. I have to let it go.

10. My flip-flops are getting worn. They used to be cushy and comfortable. Now they’re like two oak planks strapped to my toes with a lovely striped band.  My ankles used the “f word” the other day.  It was a scene. But it’s too late in the summer to get a good replacement pair. Oh, my troubles run deep and wide as a glacial crevasse, don’t they?

You know, I started using these detoxifying patches a couple nights ago. You stick ‘em to the soles of your feet when you sleep and, supposedly, they draw out toxins. It’s a science experiment I’ve undertaken. I’m not sure they’re working, although my skin is super clear(er) (this is a relative measure as “red” will always be a complexion descriptor for me) and, despite my anger, I have a lot more energy…noticeably more. What I’m wondering is if they’re drawing out decades of pent up vitriol. They apparently only work on internal organs.

Do you think the liver stores vitriol?