Perhaps this is the place of life in which having kids would be helpful.  There’s little room to look like a selfish ass when little eyes are on you.  But, like Charles Barkley, there are days I say I’m not paid to be a role model.  Today is that day.  I’m tired of doing a lot and getting no recognition.  I’m tired of being the hard worker and being rewarded with more work.  I’m tired of being the one to bend and never break.  I’m due for a break.  I’m breaking.  That’s it.  I’m broke.

Of course it doesn’t mean that tomorrow I’ll be un-broke.  It’s not a forever smallness; in fact, I think at the opposite end of the scale I’ve found an incredible well of patience that I never knew existed.  And maybe these two go hand in hand…when my patience has completely run out, when I’ve thrown everything I have at a problem and the problem ceases to loosen its hold…I’m just gonna throw a big, fucking tantrum about it.  I used to apologize for that.  But I’m tired and broke and I’m going to act like I’m three.  Do you ever see an unhappy three year-old?  Not really.  They either have what they want or they’re in the process of getting it–loudly.

Is it selfish? yes. Is it immature? Yeah, I guess.  But I’ve been an adult my entire life…I don’t recall ever having the luxury of selfishness…I’ve always been called on to take the high road, to be the bigger person, to take the responsibility because I could handle it when others could not.  I’ll just say this…living in Chicago has taught me many great lessons but none greater than the lesson of Lower Wacker Drive.  This street runs under the city, directly below Wacker Drive (and incidentally is where they filmed the Batman movies).  Anyway, you can get clear across the city in nearly half the time if you take LWD.  Is it gross down there? yes.  Do I want to live down there? No.  Does it get you from point A to point B faster than any other route? Yes.

Sometimes, the low road is the right one.  It may not be pretty and frankly it stinks but it’ll get you where you’re going in half the time.  It’s not always the answer but it sometimes is just the answer you need even if you might get choked by the exhaust.

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.

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.

In my last post, I discussed the disrupted communication chain when a friend of mine chose not to answer an e-mail.  At that point I was annoyed. So, what does any self-respecting neurotic do?  Of course, I called.  And the phone call went unreturned. Panic ensued.

I suppose I shouldn’t be so anxious.  So what? So he didn’t call back? Big deal.  But, oh…it was a BIG deal to me.  An unreturned e-mail is one thing; maybe something got lost or it was forgotten.  Okay.  But an unreturned phone call?!? No, no.  This was not good from someone who meticulously returns every phone call ever received, even from people he actively dislikes.  I was sincerely worried this non-return was meaningful.

Such was the case that I was scheduled to run into said unresponsive friend later in the week but by the time that happened worry and annoyance turned into a roiling, white-hot fury.  (There were other things going on, of course.  This isn’t my usual reaction to this type of thing…but he stepped into it big time.)  The fury stemmed from my feeling completely ignored (cue the “Fatal Attraction soundbite, “I will NOT be IGNORED.”  This is why I worry about myself).  This was an active non-communication.  Thus, the following equations sums up how that scheduled meeting went:

Katie’s white hot fury + Friend’s pretending nothing was out of the usual = Katie’s Icy Cold, White Hot Fury Smile.

(I knew how it felt on the inside and I’m not lying when I tell you I scared myself.  I wouldn’t have wanted to be the one receiving it.)  If you know me personally, I’m generally pretty warm and friendly…generally.  When I’m angry, imagine that warm friendliness collapsing in on itself and turning inside out into Ice Queen meets Psycho Killer.  It’s not one of my prouder traits. Cue his panic.  I felt vindicated for 2.5 seconds and then I felt like I just kicked a dog or something.  I proceeded to be Ice Queen for roughly five minutes and then realized 1) it was stupid and 2) I couldn’t keep it up for a prolonged period of time and I was having a hard time breathing, so I decided to cave.  He knew right away what I was upset about. Of course he knew.  His reason for non-response…”I was busy.”

Oh man. White hot fury momentarily returned.

We discussed and I hated myself the whole time because I sounded like one big “woman” cliche…in the end, the point that was taken was it would’ve been better to respond quickly and say he was busy than do nothing.  He apologized…of his own volition.  Case closed.

I’ll tell ya.  I’m a sociologist by training and I’m taught that nothing is really “inherent” when it comes to behavior.  But this is such a GUY thing to do it makes me ill.  I don’t have women friends who don’t respond.  In fact, the opposite is usually true with them…when I’m pissed or they’re pissed we have to talk it out to the death.  But this whole, “I was busy so I couldn’t take 3 nanoseconds to just tell you that.”…I literally think its the presence of testicles that gives one courage to use that intensely ridiculous excuse.  This, I believe, probably forms the history of the phrase, “it takes balls to…”

The real coda to all of this is that said friend of course redeemed himself in a really shining fashion and I think in some ways that takes balls too…it’s a lesser ball achievement but a noteworthy one nonetheless.  And as I work back through the archive of all of the “friends are asses” posts, they usually end with redemption.  So, this is more a chronicle and less a complaint.

But friends really can be asses sometimes*. Whew.

*Of course, in the same breath I’d acknowledge that this particular friend could write a magnum opus called “When Katie’s are Asses.”  This may be the true firmament upon which our friendship is built.  We both have the potential to be incredible asses.

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.

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.

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.

Things that are driving me crazy today:

1. People who talk just to hear themselves talk. Generally they take on some “deep,” “moral,” accusatory conversation designed to make me or you or any “normal” person feel bad.  Stop. it. you. elitist. snobs.   You’re just trying to justify your own completely messed up way of life.  Give it a rest.

2. The idea of “couture” drycleaners.  (Who Deliver!) Seriously.  People are losing their jobs, their homes, their lives.  If you have the need for couture drycleaners (and honestly, I don’t even know what that means), the least you could do is walk your probably too-skinny ass over there and pick it up all of your dry-cleaned couture yourself.

3.  The largest drink size at 7-11.  NO ONE NEEDS THAT MUCH OF ANYTHING.  If a full grown male that otherwise resembles a grizzly bear needs two hands to haul that thing, it’s an automatic “no.” (Although, funny but still annoying is the associated face that comes along with using a straw to drink out of one of those.  Huge hefty drink and dainty little drinking-with-a-straw face.)

4. Parking meters in Chicago.  While I appreciate not having to carry 27 pounds of quarters, now the simple card swipe makes you forget that you’re basically taking out a lease on that teeny little piece of Chicago property, handsomely equipped with a pothole the size of Rhode Island (I needed a state with some propinquinty in size to the teeny parking space…).

5. Nickelback.  Who EVER let them on the radio?  And why do we have to keep listening to them?  They are a wretched band.

6. The Wedding Song.  The 70s are over, people.  Let it go.

That’s all my time will allow, for now.  But it’s amazing how much better I feel.  It’s a magical power this ranting business.