18; 30

18 more days until I get to see E and Montoya again; 30 more days left in the semester. It feels like a hundred years. If I were to try to type out just how much I miss them, I would have to lie down on my unvacuumed floor and slip into a permanent drooling, catatonic state. I try to keep the number of, "This is not worth it" thoughts down to only about several dozen a day but it isn't easy. The cardinal rule of profdom is: never evaluate your feelings about your job with a month left to go in the semester. I remind myself of this rule several dozen times a day. I took the Smiths off of my iPod thinking that it was the wrong kind of musical therapy for the month-left-to-go-in-the-semester phase; then I found an even more haunting-compelling-depressing soundtrack and I have to say, I totally *love* it: Austra's latest album Feel it Break. YouTube:


Yeah, they're Toronto hipster douchebags. This may not shock you: they're very popular in Germany and Iceland.

Visit with my mother was good! Every year she gets me a gift (or series of gifts) designed to Really Improve My Life. She always pretends that the gifts are something that everyone needs to be whole and she's doing me a huge favour. They are civilizing missions or at least unsubtle messages that my appearance is not measuring up. The gifts always backfire (not because I sabotage them! They just do) and that's what makes them and the whole ritual endearing. One year it was *a lot* of anti-wrinkle cream (I think that was more about my mother's insecurities about self and less about me), another it was "accent colour" (read: orange) sweater vests, every 4 years (like the Olympics) it's some kind of makeup, there was the earrings year, and ubiquitous yoga and "skin clarifying solution" years. This year: The Flat Iron. WTF do I need a flat-iron for? I have no idea. When I didn't express enough happiness with my new gift, she was quite miffed and said something like, "I just wanted to get you something that could really help you!" Help me do what? I asked her if she really thought that I was going to use the flat iron everyday even if it did make my hair AMAZING. She thought about it for a few seconds and said, "No." Did we just have a breakthrough? She told me to keep the flat-iron for E. But that was the only bad moment. The rest of the time we ate and ate and had a good time. And she did help me in the end, she took my car to get the winter tires put on while I was in class and that was a HUGE help.

We're planning an elaborate roadtrip in the Spring from here to Baltimore (stopping at umpteen Amish quilt-y places along the way).

Convo with Mom

Convo 14 with mom
by: montyfraser

FYI: Barb is fine, book club was excellent, there were no bedbugs. The Terminator said so.

Parsnips. Again.

I want to blog about my job SO MUCH. It's the only thing I do or think about anymore and everyday something happens that could be a blog entry. Or six. I know that I can't talk about *any* of it, I know this, but some days the temptation is so strong that I just can't blog about anything for fear that suddenly all the job-related cray-cray will come barreling out. It really is a recipe for disaster even if everything I type is exactly 100% true to my knowledge. The truth isn't the point. And really, it probably isn't even that interesting - I refer you back to the statement where I said my job is the only thing I do and think about so, by default, it is the best and worst part of my day.

Suffice it to say: it isn't a fall semester if I don't have some exhausting autistic kid with a crush on me. In movies, it's always the smarmy playa lit Prof with the turtleneck and fancy car (?!) that gets all the "Love Yous" written on the eyelids. Or the outrageously attractive blonde-woman-genius prof who is fatally romanced by some hunky undergrad who turns out to be a serial killer and the whole plot is really just a made-for-TV tale of how women are in danger if they leave the private sphere. Or the TAs get all the action (with impunity). Or the students sleep with all the TAs and profs with complete impunity because everyone is cool with it and that's just how it is in Cool Workplace - except for the obligatory prenancy scare/harassment lawsuit during sweeps months. But I think the usual story is this: lonely, freakish 20-something bugs the shit out of fav prof because s/he mistakes friendly customer service for some kind of epic connection. The title of this episode is called, "Please just get the fuck out of my office so I can write the lecture for tomorrow."

Sycophants are at least easy to manage, but autistic kid thinks its fun (? or whatever fun is in his world) to challenge fav prof on EVERYTHING. Finally, in latest sitting duck office hour marathon session I mentioned that there might be a gender-and-authority angle to this need to test the prof and he responded: "Oh no, I've done this with lots of profs. I had one professor who said to me: if you're not challenging me, why are you sitting beside me at the front of the room wearing a blazer with elbow pads and pretending to smoke a pipe? So don't worry, it's not about gender. I mean, there might be some gender stuff because I do notice that you are female but I have this problem with lots of classroom situations." So for sure I'm not worried now. Autistic kid is in all my classes this semester.

And I've already said too much.

The vegetables continue to get delivered. That is not code for anything - I am not referring to my students or my lectures or my colleagues as vegetables. I refer to actual vegetables. This was in the latest batch:
They are 10,000 useless, dirty, sandy carrots about the size of a pinky. Wtf. Not only do they give me the willies, they are an actual representation of The Willies. Along with these beauties came 7 parsnips, which is just mean. Vegetable gods, are we really at the parsnip stage already? Am I going to be eating a steady stream of beets and parsnips and shitty carrots now until the spring? I will have to buy a goat.

Everyone has those moments when you find yourself in a situation and suddenly the camera angle changes to wideangle god-shot and you look down on creation and realize every single thing is completely absurd. These are usually welcome parts of my day but they can also be dangerous: once, in Genetics class in the '90s, I had a moment of crazy when I realized that everyone in the 300+ lecture hall had one of those clicky 4-colour ball-point pens (remember those?) and everytime the prof would change colours on the overhead projector sheets he was writing on (remember that?) everyone else in the lecture hall would change colours with a resounding CLICK. He was the conductor to a 300-person orchestra of clicky pens. I flipped out for exactly a year and half after that. There were other circumstances surrounding the flip-out, to be sure, but that was the Archduke Ferdinand. But, bygones. That's what your early '20s are for, right?

Instead of talking more about my job, I bring you the following: things that reliably cause a Moment like what I'm talking about above.

1. Every time I flip by a French channel and its showing an American movie or TV show that is dubbed in French. Like, Californication or Field of Dreams. For fans of Californication, it was the "stinky pinky" scene that I came across and I wish to hell that I could remember how they translated all that. Also, perhaps this scene is making me hate my carrots more.

2. Every time I see a Friends rerun. A Friends rerun in French will probably cause a clicky-pen-like breakdown but I haven't come across that perfect storm just yet.

3. Invigilating exams in the big gyms where I walk down a massive row of students, turn around to walk back, and realize that I can see all of their ass cracks coming out of their pants. Rows and rows and rows of crack.

4. Every time I see groups of woo-girl students greet each other with, "Hey, Bra!" I guess it's like the ubiquitous use of the word, "Dude" but also recalls that movie North Shore where I, like Sarah Vowell, was introduced to key Hawaiian surfer-gang slang.

5. Every time I give a lecture and hear nothing but "Shit, fuck, cock, balls," as my inner monologue during said lecture. Which is to say: every time.

S.N.A.F.U.

Remember when I said that I was anxious for classes to start? Well I was a fucking idiot. The semester is now in full swing and all I can report is Situation Normal: All Fucked Up. There's no point getting into the details of the textbook orders gone missing, the amazing computer illiteracy of the so-called techno-generation, the room-switch shenanigans, the dozens of emails sent to Ms. K-sley, the umpteen awkward welcoming meet-and-greets, the offensive things said in class that have to be tactfully policed (97% said by students, 3% probably said by me), the Sudden New Rules that make no sense but have to be followed to the letter, the new material that I have no business lecturing on but do so anyway, the wonky powerpoint presentations, the suddenly-changed passcodes, the unfixable funding proposals, the marathon faculty meetings, the palpable waves of hatred sent in my direction every time I say, "Now, let's get into groups and discuss-"... All of these things are just the things that happen every year, every time any one teaches anything. They are the rats that gnaw on the edifice you build erect when you write a beautiful, pristine, optimistic syllabus and imagine yourself rocking it out each and every class, Dead Poet's Society-style. I have to get better at dealing with the rats or at least not sweating them so much. I'm trying. My borderline-autism helps.

Things I've learned:
1) Turns out that the early modern period is seriously, like, it's own special thing that you have to go to grad school for for, like, a decade before any of it can make any sense. Early Modernists, I have not properly appreciated you enough and I know that I could never, ever, ever do the work that you do. One more mid-lecture question about the Pope and I'm going to scream. The modern and early modern historiographies are wayyyyy too disconnected and a class on, say, comparative empires where some dumbass 19th century British historian starts with the Spanish conquest can easily showcase the blackhole in my training in about 30 seconds into the lecture. I can't get to 1763 fast enough. I blame the division of labor within the discipline but really, I know, I should blame self. Note to self: read a fucking book.

2) (This may be a repeat of knowledge I've learned and shared before, but I've found out that it's still true): Going "off-script" is only rewarding when there is a script in the first place. Otherwise you're just being an asshole. Stream-of-consciousness might work for stand-up comedians but really doesn't for anyone else.

3) Really, really expensive pants are UNBELIEVABLY AWESOME. Over the summer, I decided to get a better, more-professorial wardrobe. I saved up, I made it happen. I was thinking of breaking the bank for a couple of blazer-jackety things and then buying reasonable shirts and pants to go with the jackets. So, in search of the jackets, I found myself at a high-end women's professional wear store in Calgary (! yes! They have them!) and of course the salespeople always inundate you with other shit to try on with the special jackets. That's when I met My Pants. I won't lie to you, they were grotesquely expensive. They represent two fairly decent trips to the grocery store or two installed winter tires or half the cost of flying to Baltimore for the weekend or two phone+internet bills. They were a pretty penny - especially for black pants made in Macedonia probably by Macedonian children. Of course, I put them on and they were ill-fitting in all kinds of ways but here's when the miracle happened: from out of nowhere appeared seamstresses who grabbed and measured and pinned and made promises that everything would be fine. It was like a scene from a gangster movie where I was the newly-initiated mobster getting measured for my shiny new suit. The salesclerk kept talking about how wonderful these pants were and how they'd go with everything, everywhere, in every way and I just let myself be taken in.

I felt guilty about it for a while but now the guilt is gone because, seriously, these pants are fucking amazing. In ways that defy explanation, somehow these pants fit me perfectly everywhere and make the parts that should be slim look slim and the parts that should be curvy look curvy. They are magic pants. They are made out of a wholly unnatural material (some kind of polyester-like polymer, so still organic, I guess) that deflects dirt, moisture, wrinkles, and bad vibes of any kind. They are neither warm nor cold, neither too heavy nor too light. The way I feel about My Pants is the way I imagine Batman feels about the Batsuit. Everyone should have a pair of pants that makes them feel this way!!! Go, go! Have pants tailored to your very self and feel the freedom!!! They fit me perfectly as is - I am under no obligation to suck in anything or lose any weight, alternatively I don't have to wear a belt and nothing sags or bags. They are a revelation.

Sure, I have no idea what other people think of My Pants - I imagine that they look like every other pair of black pants in the world. But that is exactly the point of prof-wear, to give your students absolutely nothing to talk about re: your appearance while still looking professional and pleasing-enough to the eye. So as not to distract from the web of made-up bullshit wisdom I weave in my lectures. . .

Whatever, my pants are awesome. They are giving me power this semester and I need power. Yes, I actually did just write 500 words on the subject of My Pants.

In other news, leaving for Baltimore in 6 days!!!!!!!! Can't hardly wait SO MUCH.

Announcing Tao the News

Dear all,

I am excited. D-Hug has just launched a blog certain to brighten your day:

TAO THE NEWS

I want my news Tao'd. I need it Tao'd. You will too.

D No Match For Own Mind

With 4 days to go before class starts, I awoke at 5am in a cold sweat remembering that I had only submitted textbook requests for one class and not the other!!!!! For some reason my brain had only now allowed something to bubble to the surface with crystal clarity: I perfectly recalled an email wherein I listed the textbooks I would need and it was only for one class!! OF COURSE. I had been rushed to send in the orders, probably my mother was hovering over me when I did it, probably she was saying, "Are you done yet? Are you done yet?" like a 4-year old on a playback loop of "Wha' doooing?" and I had submitted the one class thinking I would do the other one later. So like me! I almost vomited. I ran to my computer, waited the 17 years it takes for my 2003 e-Machine (yeah, I bought a $300 e-Machine back in the day, I know, sophomore error. But I will say this: even though it takes its sweet time to open up anything and approximates the noise of a table saw, it has never crapped out on me like every other computer I've owned, and I've dragged it through many states and provinces now) to boot up. The computer asked me if I wanted to update Quicktime and I almost put my fist through the monitor. Slowly Firefox came up, slowly I typed in my login info, slowly my "sent mail" folder came up, slowly it searched for keyword "textbooks." I could taste bile. And then I found the email I had remembered so well and... .... I had submitted the order for both classes all along. Fuck you, Mind!!! Fuck you and your false stupid memories. Perhaps Mind wants me to admit that, yes, I am quite nervous about this upcoming semester and, yes, I am experiencing a lot of anxiety because of it. There, are you happy, Mind? Semester needs to start already so I can get this shooting gallery over with. I feel like Arnold in the Running Man (yep, that's who I've chosen to identify with) waiting for the gongshow to start.

Whoops! Wrong Schwartzenegger Dystopia. Here we go:

Man, Richard Dawson was good in that role. Oh, look! The sun's coming up! Perhaps I need to stop and embrace this quiet insanity before the storm and take stock of where things are now, a year into The 'Twa Period. Things are definitely better than this time last year, for sure. This is something to be thankful for. Montoya is autumning in Balto this semester - that's not necessarily a good thing because I miss him so (along with E!!! I miss E, too!!!) but it's different to not have him around. For example, it turns out Monty does work! Underappreciated, he's been making sure my kitchen floor is free from rogue cheese and vegetable slices and other edible kitchen debris that happens in the course of cooking for years now! I dropped a bunch of couscous on the floor yesterday and really, really missed him then. My messiness might be the secret to his weight gain. This time last year I was excited about my vegetable deliveries and I'm still excited about them! See this week's below:

I had this fantasy that in late summer the basket would be full of peaches and berries and giant tomatoes and large, strange, heirloom vegetables but turns out it's pretty much the usual. The carrots are a little disturbing this time.

This might be genius or absolute crazy but in order to pretend like we still kind of live together, E is going to try to buy the same vegetables as my delivery items and then we can deal with the weekly beet problem together! Hurricane Irene fucked it up the first week because it caused her power to go out for 5 days or something and she couldn't cook and had to throw away most of her fridge and freezer contents but we'll get back on track. She's already trying to wiggle out of the weekly beet and 6-corn-for-one-person! problem but I'm going to stick to my guns. Stay tuned for updates and transnational Chopped battles, etc. Update on this ethical consumption thing: This will shock only the soft-headed but it turns out that special earth-friendly, non-toxic deodorant/antiperspirant really isn't as effective as you want it to be. Given that it doesn't suppress B.O. and I still sweat like a pig (?) with it on, it is akin to putting citrus-infused vegetable oil on your underarms every morning (do not recommend). I made a bargain with self that I would wear the high-test evil stuff on days when I teach and the kind, gentle stuff on days when I'm at home alone but then the lightening bolt struck - when I'm home alone isn't it more ethical to just go au naturel anyway?! Am still using the greenie beaver or whateverthefuck shampoo and conditioner but the price for that was to suffer through a planned intervention staged by my mother and sister re: my need for hair product. Which I now use (on days when I leave my house). So, ethical consumption fail all around. You really need to be living off the grid or in a granola community of only granolas for this to work, I think.

Nothing lost in translation

Oh, Agrestic, is it that time again?



Is it wrong to hope that an opportunistic criminal (is there another kind?) will see this and plan their breaking-and-entering/theft spree accordingly? Probably.

Because passiveaggressivenotes.com and my mother have trained me to spot this bullshit a mile away, I can translate this all for you, babblefish style. Translation: "I don't know if you know this but we're kind of a big deal. I guess you can hang with us but fucking pay for it, alright? We love everyone and alls but we're tired of freeloaders. Also, clean up your shit. Prepare for the shakedown; don't make us hurt you. Be there or be the transient stranger we know you are, Management."

Maybe it's just being back in CanEHda, maybe it's just the start of the semester, but I'm beginning to really appreciate the people out there who will just stab you in the face. I respect them.

Example: When my sister was at the ashram in India, they had a party one day and a co-worker's wife approached her and said, "What happened to you that your breasts are so small and sickly?" That's what I'm talking about. Nothing but respect.