Chapter 2- check.
Well, at least a draft is done. Fifty pages plus notes. Most of it makes sense, and some of it might be pretty good.
But it's DONE!
19 September 2007
17 September 2007
The Oldest Rant in the World. Tribute.
This morning, while taking a break from grading the mountain of papers sitting in front of me, I was reading a blog that belongs to a friend of mine at Nowhere U. Said friend said that she has recently realized that maybe she dresses too provocatively and despite her attempts to un-hooch-ify her wardrobe, she realized that she inadvertently fell of the modesty wagon when she noticed people looking at her in the hallways. Most of the "neckline-gawkers" were women in the department, and when she finally asked one if the shirt was too low-cut, the gawker couldn't tell her no.
Let me back it up a minute and say that among most grad students and many professors in our department the dress code seems to be just (barely) on the better side of casual. Said friend, however, always always looks professional and...well...fabulous. The girl has the wardrobe that I usually imagine myself having if I put enough effort into getting dressed in the morning to think about a wardrobe.
But the neckline-gawkers (her words, not mine) irritate me to no end. It reminds me of the first time I went back to the building when I was "showing." It was just after the New Year and I hadn't seen anyone in almost a month. Every single person I met in the hall seemed absolutely shocked at my burgeoning bump. Only one said congratulations. Most simply said hello or attempted to carry on a short conversation while ignoring it, their eyes unconsciously lolling on my protruding belly. It must be what well-endowed women go through at bars. The oogling, the judgment. I realized then that bodies do matter--they change people's perceptions of who you are and what you are capable of. There are more than a few people in the department who seem different to me now. More than a few people who only say a brief hello instead of updating me on the latest gossip about their progress or advisers.
I knew all of this coming in. We planned Little Man so that we could have kids while the old clock is still young and far before I had to sit in an interview in front of judging eyes. I've heard stories about a brilliant up-and-coming young scholar with two books out who still couldn't get a job for almost 4 years. Why? Because she was gorgeous and knew it. She wore short skirts with funky boots and vibrant lipstick. Even dressed in a black suit, she couldn't hide that she was pretty. No one, for a long time, took her seriously. Even with two books out of grad school.
So my friend's experience walking down the hall in our building makes me angry. We women are our own worst enemies. We judge and pick and belittle--and usually we use the most superficial aspects we can get our claws into. We forget that feminism doesn't mean we change the list of requirements a "real" woman must meet to be a legitimate person. We forget that feminism was supposed to give us that choice.
It makes me angry because I see this tendency in my students, colleagues, and friends all the time. People will act surprised and tell me how lucky I am that J does the dishes without being asked or "helps" with the baby so much. They're his dishes. It's his baby. It's not helping. My students still tell me that they couldn't vote for a woman for president because "women are too emotional," as though we still teach biology out of 19th century textbooks. Newspapers have a field day when Hillary shows the tiniest amount of cleavage. As though that counts as news when hundreds die each day in a war we created. But there's smaller things--I want a job, so I delay a second baby past the job market. No one, I know instinctively, will hire a brand new PhD who is due in 5 months. They may not even hire the mother of a 3 year old. I worry about not being taken seriously when people discover that I'm a mother as well.
It's frustrating. In the 21st century it's still frustrating, and the neckline-gawkers are just one symptom of the whole problem.
So what if I have a child or want another? So what if I consider myself a wife rather than a partner? So what if I make dinner--he cleans the dishes. Fair is fair in my house, and I can only hope to raise a son who understands that women
bake pies from scratch or
wear lipstick and heels or
want to have babies or
want to not have babies
and she might
want to be married to the right partner--whoever that is or
want to be single forever and
she might
listen to the Indigo Girls or
listen to Metallica
and she might
not shave a hair on her body or
want laser hair removal the instant she can afford it and
she might
think that her fight is over or
think that there's no fight left or
think that it's only begun
and she might
be any number of things
including beautiful or fabulous or frumpy or ugly
and that doesn't change what she should be capable of doing.
Damn. People who work in departments where feminist theory and queer theory and body theory are all legitimate courses of study should know better than to judge a collegue by the way she chooses to show or hide her rack. Enviable as it might be.
Let me back it up a minute and say that among most grad students and many professors in our department the dress code seems to be just (barely) on the better side of casual. Said friend, however, always always looks professional and...well...fabulous. The girl has the wardrobe that I usually imagine myself having if I put enough effort into getting dressed in the morning to think about a wardrobe.
But the neckline-gawkers (her words, not mine) irritate me to no end. It reminds me of the first time I went back to the building when I was "showing." It was just after the New Year and I hadn't seen anyone in almost a month. Every single person I met in the hall seemed absolutely shocked at my burgeoning bump. Only one said congratulations. Most simply said hello or attempted to carry on a short conversation while ignoring it, their eyes unconsciously lolling on my protruding belly. It must be what well-endowed women go through at bars. The oogling, the judgment. I realized then that bodies do matter--they change people's perceptions of who you are and what you are capable of. There are more than a few people in the department who seem different to me now. More than a few people who only say a brief hello instead of updating me on the latest gossip about their progress or advisers.
I knew all of this coming in. We planned Little Man so that we could have kids while the old clock is still young and far before I had to sit in an interview in front of judging eyes. I've heard stories about a brilliant up-and-coming young scholar with two books out who still couldn't get a job for almost 4 years. Why? Because she was gorgeous and knew it. She wore short skirts with funky boots and vibrant lipstick. Even dressed in a black suit, she couldn't hide that she was pretty. No one, for a long time, took her seriously. Even with two books out of grad school.
So my friend's experience walking down the hall in our building makes me angry. We women are our own worst enemies. We judge and pick and belittle--and usually we use the most superficial aspects we can get our claws into. We forget that feminism doesn't mean we change the list of requirements a "real" woman must meet to be a legitimate person. We forget that feminism was supposed to give us that choice.
It makes me angry because I see this tendency in my students, colleagues, and friends all the time. People will act surprised and tell me how lucky I am that J does the dishes without being asked or "helps" with the baby so much. They're his dishes. It's his baby. It's not helping. My students still tell me that they couldn't vote for a woman for president because "women are too emotional," as though we still teach biology out of 19th century textbooks. Newspapers have a field day when Hillary shows the tiniest amount of cleavage. As though that counts as news when hundreds die each day in a war we created. But there's smaller things--I want a job, so I delay a second baby past the job market. No one, I know instinctively, will hire a brand new PhD who is due in 5 months. They may not even hire the mother of a 3 year old. I worry about not being taken seriously when people discover that I'm a mother as well.
It's frustrating. In the 21st century it's still frustrating, and the neckline-gawkers are just one symptom of the whole problem.
So what if I have a child or want another? So what if I consider myself a wife rather than a partner? So what if I make dinner--he cleans the dishes. Fair is fair in my house, and I can only hope to raise a son who understands that women
bake pies from scratch or
wear lipstick and heels or
want to have babies or
want to not have babies
and she might
want to be married to the right partner--whoever that is or
want to be single forever and
she might
listen to the Indigo Girls or
listen to Metallica
and she might
not shave a hair on her body or
want laser hair removal the instant she can afford it and
she might
think that her fight is over or
think that there's no fight left or
think that it's only begun
and she might
be any number of things
including beautiful or fabulous or frumpy or ugly
and that doesn't change what she should be capable of doing.
Damn. People who work in departments where feminist theory and queer theory and body theory are all legitimate courses of study should know better than to judge a collegue by the way she chooses to show or hide her rack. Enviable as it might be.
14 September 2007
Random Good Things
MGM over at Diss Dat and Diapers recently wrote a list of random bullets about the early semester. Since I have a bunch of random stuff on my mind, I thought I'd shamelessly copy.
- Today J and I interviewed potential babysitters for Little Man. Yay! He goes to daycare on the weekdays, but we haven't had a real date night in the 17 months that he's been on the outside. We talked to three very nice undergrads, and although it was ridiculously difficult to decide between them, I think we have a winner. This means that in the next week or two we might actually get a grown-ups night out.
- Which is good. Because I've wanted to go to the local Beer and Chili Festival for the last two years, but first I was pregnant and then I had a baby. Maybe this year....
- Finally finished the wreath I was planning on making. The pictures don't really do it justice:
- I love fall. Love it. Love it. LOVE IT. I love the crispness of the evenings and the way the leaves are starting to crunch. I love going to the local orchard and getting an apple cider donut on the weekends. I love that Little Man is going to get to pick out his own pumpkin this year and he's going to get to help carve it. I love that it's starting to be pumpkin pie season, and I just so happen to have an extra homemade pie crust in my freezer right now. I absolutely love fall.
- I hate our local electric company. Sure, they sent us a nice rebate check for upping our power rates, but our electric has gone out THREE times in the last month. BOOM- some transformer or something keeps blowing out in the back of our house. Two of the times, Little Man has been in the bathtub when everything went black. Once, it was still literally 90 degrees at 9:00pm. I have things to do at night. I can't sit around mooning over the day by candlelight.
- I was not looking forward to teaching Rhet this semester, but my class is actually fairly amusing. I have them all Blogging right now as one of their writing assignments, and it's going pretty well. It's amazing how well students can express themselves when they don't think there is someone to impress. Plus, I'm enjoying seeing more of who they are.
- I finally changed my myspace profile a bit. Originally, under occupation I said "perennial grad student." As part of my new effort to transform myself into someone that someone else might hire, I thought that I needed to update that a bit. At the very least, I think I've finally gotten to the point where that doesn't define me anymore. I've been working too hard lately, and enjoying the work too much, to not recognize that I'm something more than just a student now. It now reads "Scholar, Mother, Lit/ Writing Instructor." It may still change, I dunno. But I feel like that's how I want to be described right now--at least professionally. Ok, maybe not the mother part, but damn, that's definitely a full time job even when your kid goes to daycare. I just don't feel like I want to be or that I am a student anymore. The whole dissertation thing is plugging right along, and for the last month the work has been more enjoyable than painful. I think I've finally gotten to the place where I can see myself as a professional.
12 September 2007
09 September 2007
It's enough to make you believe in ghosts....
Earlier, I wrote about some of the projects I started in my attempt to make myself a more well rounded person (i.e., not simply an intellectual dork, but an intellectual dork covered in glitter and sporting a brand new hot glue burn.) I haven't made much progress yet, unless you count waking the spirits.
The decision to cut up my grandmother's dress wasn't an easy one. She died rather unexpectedly when I was only about 17 months old, so I only knew her through the things she was associated with. Because my otherwise curmudgeonly grandfather saw her as a saint, his house was a shrine of sorts. Literally, nothing was moved after she died. For thirteen years, the same plastic covered the windows that she had put up the winter she died. For thirteen years, the knickknacks sat in the exact same and went undusted. A candle burned under her picture above the fireplace, and a plate was always set at her place at the table. When my grandfather died (I was in 8th grade), all of her clothes were still in her closet and none of her make-up or perfume had been touched.
When I was younger, I used to relish the very rare times when my grandfather would allow us
to venture upstairs and I would get to look at her bridal crown and her wedding gown. I thought that maybe I would wear her dress some day- it seemed to me everything a bridal gown should be. It was a simple ball gown, ivory satin with a row of tiny buttons up the bodice. After my grandfather died, I finally got to try on the dress. I was only 12 or 13 at the time, but I got stuck in it. I realized then that I would never wear the dress. But we had it cleaned and preserved, boxed it up, and put it into storage.
I never got around to making anything for Little Man's baptism, but I wanted to do something for Mo.
I started by ripping the dress apart. It wasn't too difficult, because the threads were so old, they pretty much dissolved without much effort. The dress had a funny smell-- I thought from either the cedar chest it was originally stored in or from the dry cleaning. It wasn't silk, so I tossed the pieces of the skirt into the washing machine.
Nothing really could have prepared me for what happened when that material got wet. You see my grandfather was a cigar and pipe smoker. Big, fat, nasty old cigars. We would go visit him once a week and come home reeking. Blech. Now when I put the pieces of satin into the washing machine there was no trace of smoke in them. Once they went through a wash cycle, my entire kitchen (that's where the laundry closet is) smelled like cigar smoke. The pieces of fabric smelled like cigar smoke. My hands after touching them smelled like cigar smoke. It was as though my grandfather, pissed that someone had disturbed something that was his, came back with a vengeance. I washed them in cold. I washed the fabric in hot. In all, I must have done at least 10 wash and/or rinse cycles. And the fabric still faintly smelled of smoke.
I was kind of panicking. Here I had already destroyed the dress and if it reeked of cigar smoke, there was no way I could make it into a blanket for a baby. I finally gave up and put the pieces out on the line to air out in the sun. When they were dry I couldn't smell the smoke anymore. Strange.
My grandfather wasn't exactly the warm and snuggly type. He was actually more of the gruff and downright scary type. I can imagine he'd be pissed that I tore up the dress. It didn't matter that he was mostly nasty to her while she was alive. I have this bad feeling that he wouldn't be happy that the dress is now in pieces in my living room.
My mom always said that she didn't believe in ghosts, but knew that if she ever moved into his house he'd find a way to come back and haunt her.
I think she just may have been right.
The decision to cut up my grandmother's dress wasn't an easy one. She died rather unexpectedly when I was only about 17 months old, so I only knew her through the things she was associated with. Because my otherwise curmudgeonly grandfather saw her as a saint, his house was a shrine of sorts. Literally, nothing was moved after she died. For thirteen years, the same plastic covered the windows that she had put up the winter she died. For thirteen years, the knickknacks sat in the exact same and went undusted. A candle burned under her picture above the fireplace, and a plate was always set at her place at the table. When my grandfather died (I was in 8th grade), all of her clothes were still in her closet and none of her make-up or perfume had been touched.
When I was younger, I used to relish the very rare times when my grandfather would allow us
to venture upstairs and I would get to look at her bridal crown and her wedding gown. I thought that maybe I would wear her dress some day- it seemed to me everything a bridal gown should be. It was a simple ball gown, ivory satin with a row of tiny buttons up the bodice. After my grandfather died, I finally got to try on the dress. I was only 12 or 13 at the time, but I got stuck in it. I realized then that I would never wear the dress. But we had it cleaned and preserved, boxed it up, and put it into storage.I never got around to making anything for Little Man's baptism, but I wanted to do something for Mo.
I started by ripping the dress apart. It wasn't too difficult, because the threads were so old, they pretty much dissolved without much effort. The dress had a funny smell-- I thought from either the cedar chest it was originally stored in or from the dry cleaning. It wasn't silk, so I tossed the pieces of the skirt into the washing machine.
Nothing really could have prepared me for what happened when that material got wet. You see my grandfather was a cigar and pipe smoker. Big, fat, nasty old cigars. We would go visit him once a week and come home reeking. Blech. Now when I put the pieces of satin into the washing machine there was no trace of smoke in them. Once they went through a wash cycle, my entire kitchen (that's where the laundry closet is) smelled like cigar smoke. The pieces of fabric smelled like cigar smoke. My hands after touching them smelled like cigar smoke. It was as though my grandfather, pissed that someone had disturbed something that was his, came back with a vengeance. I washed them in cold. I washed the fabric in hot. In all, I must have done at least 10 wash and/or rinse cycles. And the fabric still faintly smelled of smoke.
I was kind of panicking. Here I had already destroyed the dress and if it reeked of cigar smoke, there was no way I could make it into a blanket for a baby. I finally gave up and put the pieces out on the line to air out in the sun. When they were dry I couldn't smell the smoke anymore. Strange.
My grandfather wasn't exactly the warm and snuggly type. He was actually more of the gruff and downright scary type. I can imagine he'd be pissed that I tore up the dress. It didn't matter that he was mostly nasty to her while she was alive. I have this bad feeling that he wouldn't be happy that the dress is now in pieces in my living room.
My mom always said that she didn't believe in ghosts, but knew that if she ever moved into his house he'd find a way to come back and haunt her.
I think she just may have been right.
Crafty
I've always harbored this secret idea that I was crafty. Not artistic, mind you-- that takes another whole level of talent. I'm no Martha Stewart, but slapping together a wreath or heat-and-bonding some curtains, not a problem.
Lately I've been thinking that I needed to do something more creative. I realized this when I was looking at one of those silly surveys and it asked what my hobbies were. Hobbies?? What hobbies. My hobby used to be reading, but now that's what I do for a living. When I was younger, I danced, but those days are long over. I realized that I have no hobby--nothing that interests me outside of work. So, I decided to change.
I think I went a little overboard.
Project 1- Fall Wreath- I've wanted to make a new wreath for our front door for about 6 months now, but all of the silk sunflowers looked to cheesey. Enter fall decorations and voila--I bought myself some fixin's for a wreath. I'll post pics when it's all finished.
Project 2- Transform Little Man into Fat Elvis for Halloween- Sure, anyone can make their little one into an adorable woodland creature, but I wanted to make him something he'll look back and cringe with wonder at. Now here's the catch-- the only thing I've really ever sewed all by my lonesome were some pillow covers. And that took me two days. I'm convinced, however, that I can sew him a halloween costume completely from scratch. I have the white polyester fabric all cut. It took me the better part of three hours, but sitting in my kitchen is one disassembled white jumpsuit. I even got the sewing machine "fixed" (I say fixed with scare quotes, because there wasn't anything wrong with it. I just had to clean off the lint.) All that's left is to figure out how to thread the machine--it's a beauty- a 1950-something dusty-coral Singer. Then I need to put together the jumpsuit (which is really a Raggedy Andy pattern) and transform it into Fat Elvis. Complete with stuffing. It will be a thing of beauty.
or it will be a complete failure and J will never let me live it down.
Project 3: The Baptismal Quilt- When Little Man was born, I wanted to make some sort of heirloom something or other out of my grandmother's wedding dress, but I never got around to it, but Middle-bro and SIL asked J and I to be godparents to little Mo. What could be a better excuse.
At first, I thought I'd find someone to transform the gown for me. Then I went to Jo-Ann's and convinced myself that I was capable of quilting. Me--who has never sewn anything but a pillow cover decided that I would make, nay, quilt a baptismal blanket.
So there you have it-- I've gone absolutely delusional and have started three separate projects all at once. I'll have updates coming up soon-- complete with pictures
Lately I've been thinking that I needed to do something more creative. I realized this when I was looking at one of those silly surveys and it asked what my hobbies were. Hobbies?? What hobbies. My hobby used to be reading, but now that's what I do for a living. When I was younger, I danced, but those days are long over. I realized that I have no hobby--nothing that interests me outside of work. So, I decided to change.
I think I went a little overboard.
Project 1- Fall Wreath- I've wanted to make a new wreath for our front door for about 6 months now, but all of the silk sunflowers looked to cheesey. Enter fall decorations and voila--I bought myself some fixin's for a wreath. I'll post pics when it's all finished.
Project 2- Transform Little Man into Fat Elvis for Halloween- Sure, anyone can make their little one into an adorable woodland creature, but I wanted to make him something he'll look back and cringe with wonder at. Now here's the catch-- the only thing I've really ever sewed all by my lonesome were some pillow covers. And that took me two days. I'm convinced, however, that I can sew him a halloween costume completely from scratch. I have the white polyester fabric all cut. It took me the better part of three hours, but sitting in my kitchen is one disassembled white jumpsuit. I even got the sewing machine "fixed" (I say fixed with scare quotes, because there wasn't anything wrong with it. I just had to clean off the lint.) All that's left is to figure out how to thread the machine--it's a beauty- a 1950-something dusty-coral Singer. Then I need to put together the jumpsuit (which is really a Raggedy Andy pattern) and transform it into Fat Elvis. Complete with stuffing. It will be a thing of beauty.
or it will be a complete failure and J will never let me live it down.
Project 3: The Baptismal Quilt- When Little Man was born, I wanted to make some sort of heirloom something or other out of my grandmother's wedding dress, but I never got around to it, but Middle-bro and SIL asked J and I to be godparents to little Mo. What could be a better excuse.
At first, I thought I'd find someone to transform the gown for me. Then I went to Jo-Ann's and convinced myself that I was capable of quilting. Me--who has never sewn anything but a pillow cover decided that I would make, nay, quilt a baptismal blanket.
So there you have it-- I've gone absolutely delusional and have started three separate projects all at once. I'll have updates coming up soon-- complete with pictures
01 September 2007
Little Arms
It's 1:45 am. I usually avoid caffeine, but today I had so much that I couldn't sleep. For the last two hours I've been working on grading papers for the big lecture I TA for.
Just a few minutes ago, Little Man woke up--or almost woke up. He must have bad dreams, or stand up without meaning to, something. Anyway, he called for me. When I went into his dark room, my eyes were too used to the glow of the computer screen to see him. But I leaned over the crib and he wrapped his soft little arms around my neck and squeezed.
What a lovely ending to a lovely birthday.
Just a few minutes ago, Little Man woke up--or almost woke up. He must have bad dreams, or stand up without meaning to, something. Anyway, he called for me. When I went into his dark room, my eyes were too used to the glow of the computer screen to see him. But I leaned over the crib and he wrapped his soft little arms around my neck and squeezed.
What a lovely ending to a lovely birthday.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)