err . . .

It's impossible to forget about it.

the packet has landed . . .

in the appropriate departmental office.

Let the Tenure and Promotion Review begin.

As a graduate school mentor would say anytime I submitted anything for review, "It's in the abyss." Indeed, it is. I have to let it go.

I did the best I could.

Now I have to start to forget about it.

I need to focus on work.

i feel terrible about it, but . . .

I just had to.

I had to "Mark All as Read" the 1000+ new blog posts in my Bloglines account.

I want to read all of your posts. I truly do. I just got so behind. And y'all kept writing. And I kept getting behind. And the boldface print indicating blogs with new posts, and the number of new posts, started to give me tummy-aches.

I'm so sorry.

I'll try to catch up at all the moments I can.

more substantive post later

Not that you won't learn a bit about me from the Personality Type Test that's been going around.




I've always fancied myself to be quite like Mary the Virgin Mother of Jesus.

i'm overwhelmed

. . . so there's no better time than now to see what's up over at Go Fug Yourself.

And I have to agree with Jessica. How in the hellie is this Gwynnie?


Seriously.

How is this possible?

i sincerely hope this is right

More to disclose later.

You Are The Wheel of Fortune

You represent the cycles of life, death, and rebirth. You embrace change, the the ups and downs of life. Fate is something you accept, even when you could possibly change things. Big things tend to happen to you more than other people. Your fortune: Something huge is about to happen in your life, and you have little control over it. You must accept your destiny, but luckily it is good fortune that has come your way. Big things and big changes are about to come your way. And while things will be intense for a while, they will be followed by a period of rest.

What Tarot Card Are You?

hey, what happened to my hotness?

I know I really shouldn't care, but I do.

The chili pepper I had on ratemyprofessors.com is gone.

It was there, I swear, for nearly five years!

One out of my six raters thought I was hot.

I guess now I'm not.

Just like hotness itself, so does the chili pepper disappear with time

In the eyes of the twenty-somethings.

Oh, the eyes of the twenty-somethings.

mall vertigo

AntsyPants and I just returned from the mall. The ridiculously swank and tony mall that actually calls itself a "plaza" because "mall" is too pedestrian. But it's a mall. And it made me physically ill--woozy, nauseated, and headachey--like all malls do. More so, actually. This mall makes me super-sick. It's the kind of mall where woman actually wear diamond tennis bracelets for "casual wear."

But we had to go there because AntsyPants has become a big fan of Lush. He didn't want to order any of his products online because, as the company warns, they could melt during delivery. And now that we're home, I'm happy with my half-pound purchase of this--which I will use ironically to wash of the ick I feel from paying big money for luxury items that come from swank and tony malls.

I know, I know. Lush is a socio-environmentally responsible company that resists corporate dogma, etc., etc., etc. But seriously, no one on this planet needs Lush products.

take my shrinks. please.

Y'all remember my Topher-Grace-twin psychiatrist, Dr. Spanky, yes? And perhaps you remember that my therapist, Serenity (see bullet #4), began having "issues" with him a few months back? Well, the issues remain, as was made crystal clear to me during a meeting with (no-longer-exactly-the-best-name-perhaps) Serenity a couple of weeks ago. It went something like this:

[After 30 minutes into a rather and rare uneventful session, lucyrain is providing the details of her mother's upcoming visit. She's calm, feeling pretty good. Anticipates ending the session early, even.]

lucyrain: So, the airline ticket ended up being cheaper than I thought, which is good, cuz my mother would've been all, "I can't let you pay for my visit," even though she literally can't pay for her visit, not that she would admit that or anythi--

Serenity: lucyrain. Let me ask you something.

lucyrain: [A little startled by the interruption, but a little relieved as well. She had begun to bore even herself.] Okay.

[Serenity leans forward, elbows on knees, direct and unflinching eye contact with lucyrain. lucyrain's relief begins to turn into that "uh-oh" feeling. After a couple seconds, lucyrain tries to be little funny, if awkwardly so.]

lucyrain: I let you ask me something.

Serenity: [not having any of lucyrain's attempt at levity] What do you think about your sessions with Dr. Spanky?

lucyrain: Uh. I think they're good. I guess.

Serenity: You guess they're good?

lucyrain: Yeah. I guess.

Serenity: [Looks down, nods head.]

lucyrain: Why?

Serenity: Well, I've been going over his notes from your sessions with him and, to me, it really looks like he's doing therapy with you.

lucyrain: [pause] Huh. Really?

Serenity: Yes. And I'm really concerned about that. For you.

lucyrain: Oh. Wow. Really? Huh. . . . So, we shouldn't be doing what we do during our meetings?

Serenity: Well, he's your doctor, your physician. He prescribes you medication. I'm your therapist. It's not his job to talk to you about the stuff we talk about in here. His job is to talk to you about your medications.

lucyrain: Oh, right. Sure! I mean, we do talk about my meds--

Serenity: Along with all kinds of other stuff.

lucyrain: Well, yeah, I guess. I mean, he asks how I'm doing and I tell him. I'm not sure how to separate out the stuff that's going on in my life from how I'm doing on my meds . . . .

Serenity: But it seems to me that you're spending a lot of time on all of the non-medication stuff. I mean, he takes very. detailed. and analytical. notes.

lucyrain: Huh. Well, we are changing my meds right now, so--

Serenity: I know. I can see that. And I guess that's another thing I don't understand.

lucyrain: Changing the meds? Well . . . we decided to try something different because I don't seem to be benefiting the way I could or should, I guess, from the current meds, so--

Serenity: What I'm trying to say is that I don't understand why he's changing your meds now when his clinical rounds are ending.

[Quick reminder to the reader: lucyrain has been assigned a new psych every year because she obtains her services from a med school.]

lucyrain: Oh, well, because he said he's keeping me on. I guess the residents can choose to do that with a couple of their patients.

Serenity: Exactly. I have a lot of clients who are patients of Dr. Spanky and you're the only one he's keeping that I know of.

[By now, lucyrain is feeling extremely uncomfortable. Serenity, clearly able to discern this, changes her disposition. She no longer comes across as an imagined police interrogator--or better, every Catholic church figure who played a part in the moral education of lucyrain. She merely offers a suggestion to end the session.]

Serenity: Before your next appointment with Dr. Spanky, think about whether you want to continue on with me or do your therapy with him. I can't do meds with you, but obviously, he can do therapy with you, so I think you should consider working with just him.

*********
I met with Dr. Spanky a couple of days ago. Because Serenity told me I should talk with Dr. Spanky about what he and I should be doing during our sessions, I did. (Don't get me started on the fact that neither of these people have ever spoken a word to each other--I've asked--despite the fact that their offices are next door to each other.) He responded the way I knew he would. And then some.

Dr. Spanky: I don't believe in focusing solely on "meds management." In order to do the best job I can, I need to know what's going on in your life. Life factors impact reactions to medications as much as meds affect life factors.

lucyrain: I agree. And I don't think that your "doing therapy" with me is somehow a bad thing, it's just that Serenity thought it might be confusing for me to--

Dr. Spanky: Do you feel confused?

lucyrain: No. I think I benefit from both of you. I don't find your talk contradictory to hers, or overwhelming, or, whatever. I'm fine with the way things are.

Dr. Spanky: Good. Because I'm not going to be your pill monkey.

. . . the kindness of not-so-strangers

Receiving accolades during this production-dry and climate-sweaty summer is more than I could've hoped for, but kind words have been given and expressed gratitude is required. Thank you, dear Mags, Medusa, and lil'rumpus, for this honor you've bestowed upon me.



Being named a "Rockin' Girl Blogger" has tickled my troubled spirits. Please do know that, if I had been better attentive to our community these past few weeks, I would've done the same for you.

Now. my nominees. I'll list them in the order I found them. (I don't think any of them have been nominated yet, and there are others deserving of the award, but of all this I can't be certain. I've been away too long and oveer a thousand posts awaiting me on Bloglines.)

1. PowerProf. I've been reading her since before I started my own blog. She's inspired me, frightened me, delighted me, and taught me. Taught me, perhaps most of all, that one can do more than merely survive; one can thrive. I pray to possesses her degree of persistence.

2. Cheeky Prof. Unlike Cheeks, I'm not Slovak by blood, but I am by rearing. So, my Slovak Sister she is! But if you're not Slovak, you'll love her for her strength and hilarity as she gives way better than she takes in this ironically shit-for-brains world we call Academe.

3. shrinkykitten. I can't sew, find bargains, or eat with the health of my innards in mind; but shrinks makes me want to. She also makes me confront the myriad and insidious ways that women get the shaft. More important, she inspires me with her survival skills. She's crafty in all the best senses of the word.

4. Chaser. A Renaissance Woman among us! Paintings, sculpture, literature, film, philosophy, socioeconomicgenderracialreligious issues, you name it! Chaser has meaty things to say about it all. Read her with the appetite she deserves. Chew on her thoughts, savor what she shares, and burp with gratitude so you can consume some more.

5. Neophyte. A young aspiring academic so reflexive, so insightful--so outsightful--you'll find yourself saying, "'Neophyte' my ass!" I often find myself reluctant to respond to her posts because I can't help but think that anything I have to say would be so, like, obvious and trite and stuff to this mighty mouse. I hope she knows somewhere inside herself how precious she is.

So, there they are. My nominations. I have not idea if any of these folks read (or are still reading) me. But if they are, I say, "Rock on you rockin' girls." And to the rest of ya, read these lovelies. They're worth it.

i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry

For not keeping up with all of you.
For not keeping track of myself.
For being behind in everything.

I'll write a substantive post soon. I promise. In the meantime, here's a peek at my psyche. Draw conclusions at will.

Your Score: Pollyanna- INFP

33% Extraversion, 53% Intuition, 26% Thinking, 20% Judging

So, you want to make the world a better place? Too bad it's never gonna happen.

Of all the types, you have to be one of the hardest to find fault in. You have a selfless and caring nature. You're a good listener and someone who wants to avoid conflict. You genuinely desire to do good.

Of course, these all add up to an incredibly overpowered conscience which makes you feel guilty and responsible when anything goes wrong. Of course, it MUST be your fault EVERYTIME.

Though you're constantly on a mission to find the truth, you have no use for hard facts and logic, which is a source of great confusion for those of us with brains. Despite this, in a losing argument, you're not above spouting off inaccurate fact after fact in an effort to protect your precious values.

You're most probably a perfectionist, which in this case, is a bad thing. Any group work is destined to fail because of your incredibly high standards.

Disregard what I said before. You're just easy to find fault in as everyone else!

Luckily, you're generally very hard on yourself, meaning I don't need to waste my precious time insulting you. Instead, just find all your own faults and insult yourself.

*****************

If you want to learn more about your personality type in a slightly less negative way, check out this.

*****************

The other personality types are as follows...

Loner - Introverted Sensing Feeling Perceiving

Pushover - Introverted Sensing Feeling Judging

Criminal - Introverted Sensing Thinking Perceiving

Borefest - Introverted Sensing Thinking Judging


Freak - Introverted iNtuitive Feeling Judging

Loser - Introverted iNtuitive Thinking Perceiving

Crackpot - Introverted iNtuitive Thinking Judging


Clown - Extraverted Sensing Feeling Perceiving

Sap - Extraverted Sensing Feeling Judging

Commander - Extraverted Sensing Thinking Perceiving

Do Gooder - Extraverted Sensing Thinking Judging

Scumbag - Extraverted iNtuitive Feeling Perceiving

Busybody - Extraverted iNtuitive Feeling Judging

Prick - Extraverted iNtuitive Thinking Perceiving

Dictator - Extraverted iNtuitive Thinking Judging

Link: The Brutally Honest Personality Test written by UltimateMaster on OkCupid, home of the The Dating Persona Test

the fourth of july . . .

. . . sounds like Baghdad.

People who set off fireworks--that means, you, nearly everyone in my city--make me fucking sick. Neighbor to the north? You and your twenty guests can rot in the devil's cock with your illegal ignitions and maniacal laughter.

Neighbors to the south, west, and east? I hope you someday suffer all the terrors you've induced in our soldiers who've returned home and feel a sense of impending death with every bang of your $3.50 bomb.

Close your eyes. Listen to the explosions. Be grateful to whom- or whatever that that noise isn't the soundtrack of your life. Imagine hitting the deck with every bang or signaling whistle. Try to feel the shit in your pants when the joyous boom bangs a little too close to home.

the fourth of july . . .

. . . sounds like Baghdad.

People who set off fireworks--that means, you, nearly everyone in my city--make me fucking sick. Neighbor to the north? You and your twenty guests can rot in the devil's cock with your illegal ignitions and maniacal laughter.

Neighbors to the south, west, and east? I hope you someday suffer all the terrors you've induced in our soldiers who've returned home and feel a sense of impending death with every bang of your $3.50 bomb.

Close your eyes. Listen to the explosions. Be grateful to whom- or whatever that that noise isn't the soundtrack of your life. Imagine hitting the deck with every bang or signaling whistle. Try to feel the shit in your pants when the joyous boom bangs a little too close to home.

nature strikes me--but nurture hurts more

The first time that my parents left me alone in the house, a violent storm took up temporary residence over our house. It was a weekend night. My brother was off with his friends who were old enough to drive but not enough to drink, but they did the latter anyway. Not that that particular detail has anything to do with this particular reflection.

The house I grew up in sits on a West Virginia hill. These kinds of hills are only called such because they fall short of the Mountains for which my home state is immortalized via the folksy stylings of John Denver. Unlike your average hills, West Virginia hills can make you think twice about "goin' down the hill to pick up some milk" after five minutes of snow flurries. It's icy, steep, and curvy up in 'em hills of West Virginia.

In 1984, it also happened to be pretty durn desolate on that hill upon which our house sat. Mind you, when I was 13, I had already become a favorably recognized babysitter in our meager neighborhood, despite the fact that I had never spent a significant portion of the evening alone in my parents' house. It was fine for me to have the life of someone's itty-bitty in my hands; but the occasion to watch myself simply had not yet arisen. My folks weren't very social. At least, not in the "Let's go to Marge and Frank's house for cocktails" kind of sociable people. They spent very few evenings "out with friends."

The electricity just went out. Just now. As I'm writing this. I felt the thunder in my belly. Two fo the dogs are barking and the other is in th . . . . Okay the lights are back on and the dogs suddenly stopped.

I'm going to finish this post faster than I thought I would. Not in the mood for focused reflection right now. Like that night in 1984, I'm home alone during a storm. Two more dogs accompany me now than did then. I feel safe. I'm fine really.

But I keep thinking about that first night. That first night I spent alone in that house on the hill. That house with a sophisticated alarm system. That alarm system that never failed to go off when the wind blew at a perfectly reasonable velocity. That alarm system security protocol that required the home dweller to recite a super-secret code to stave off the sheriff and fire department. That super-secret code that I couldn't remember when the storm hit, the wind blew, the alarm went off, the dog barked crazily, the phone rang, and the security employee asked me, "What's your code, dear?" The humiliation I felt when I tried to explain to the firefighters who drove all the way up the hill to save me that I was fine, really, I just couldn't remember the code. The hot tears that droppy-dripped from my cheeks when my parents and my brother looked at me with disgust. "We trust you to do one simple thing: stay home alone. It's unbelievable that people actually pay you to do this with their kids."

I'm thinking about the total bladder-weakening fear I felt when my parents left my brother and me home alone on a stormy night not long after that first. A night when the lights went out again. A night when my brother thought it would be hilarious--but good training (for me? for him?)--if he hunted me throughout my parents' 6500+ square-foot house in the pitch black with a butcher knife. I'm thinking about his warning not to ever. fucking. tell.

what would it take?

For those of you on the tenure track: What would compel you to leave your job before a tenure decision is made? That is, besides an impending dismissal, what do/would you find intolerable in your workplace?

How many of you believe that other folks in other departments/schools have it worse than you do (for whatever reasons)?

How many of you suffer dissatisfaction (or worse) but think, "Every place has its problems. Might as well stay where I am"?

How many of you believe that some departments/schools are toxic and require evacuation for self-preservation?

Perhaps I'll feel comfortable giving more context for my inquiries as folks respond (if y'all do, an I hope you do); but right now, I'm afraid to disclose too much. Y'all know I want to share with y'all, right? Just know for certain that I ask not for the purposes of some research project or op ed piece for any one of our fabulous and informative higher ed rags. I've just been thinking about these things a lot lately.

nature strikes me--but nurture hurts more

The first time that my parents left me alone in the house, a violent storm took up temporary residence over our house. It was a weekend night. My brother was off with his friends who were old enough to drive but not enough to drink, but they did the latter anyway. Not that that particular detail has anything to do with this particular reflection.

The house I grew up in sits on a West Virginia hill. These kinds of hills are only called such because they fall short of the Mountains for which my home state is immortalized via the folksy stylings of John Denver. Unlike your average hills, West Virginia hills can make you think twice about "goin' down the hill to pick up some milk" after five minutes of snow flurries. It's icy, steep, and curvy up in 'em hills of West Virginia.

In 1984, it also happened to be pretty durn desolate on that hill upon which our house sat. Mind you, when I was 13, I had already become a favorably recognized babysitter in our meager neighborhood, despite the fact that I had never spent a significant portion of the evening alone in my parents' house. It was fine for me to have the life of someone's itty-bitty in my hands; but the occasion to watch myself simply had not yet arisen. My folks weren't very social. At least, not in the "Let's go to Marge and Frank's house for cocktails" kind of sociable people. They spent very few evenings "out with friends."

The electricity just went out. Just now. As I'm writing this. I felt the thunder in my belly. Two fo the dogs are barking and the other is in th . . . . Okay the lights are back on and the dogs suddenly stopped.
I'm going to finish this post faster than I thought I would. Not in the mood for focused reflection right now. Like that night in 1984, I'm home alone during a storm. Two more dogs accompany me now than did then. I feel safe. I'm fine really.

But I keep thinking about that first night. That first night I spent alone in that house on the hill. That house with a sophisticated alarm system. That alarm system that never failed to go off when the wind blew at a perfectly reasonable velocity. That alarm system security protocol that required the home dweller to recite a super-secret code to stave off the sheriff and fire department. That super-secret code that I couldn't remember when the storm hit, the wind blew, the alarm went off, the dog barked crazily, the phone rang, and the security employee asked me, "What's your code, dear?" The humiliation I felt when I tried to explain to the firefighters who drove all the way up the hill to save me that I was fine, really, I just couldn't remember the code. The hot tears that droppy-dripped from my cheeks when my parents and my brother looked at me with disgust. "We trust you to do one simple thing: stay home alone. It's unbelievable that people actually pay you to do this with their kids."

I'm thinking about the total bladder-weakening fear I felt when my parents left my brother and me home alone on a stormy night not long after that first. A night when the lights went out again. A night when my brother thought it would be hilarious--but good training (for me? for him?)--if he hunted me throughout my parents' 6500+ square-foot house in the pitch black with a butcher knife. I'm thinking about his warning not to ever. fucking. tell.

what would it take?

For those of you on the tenure track: What would compel you to leave your job before a tenure decision is made? That is, besides an impending dismissal, what do/would you find intolerable in your workplace?

How many of you believe that other folks in other departments/schools have it worse than you do (for whatever reasons)?

How many of you suffer dissatisfaction (or worse) but think, "Every place has its problems. Might as well stay where I am"?

How many of you believe that some departments/schools are toxic and require evacuation for self-preservation?

Perhaps I'll feel comfortable giving more context for my inquiries as folks respond (if y'all do, an I hope you do); but right now, I'm afraid to disclose too much. Y'all know I want to share with y'all, right? Just know for certain that I ask not for the purposes of some research project or op ed piece for any one of our fabulous and informative higher ed rags. I've just been thinking about these things a lot lately.

i'm intrigued . . .

Although I've been meaning to, I've never gotten around to watching Rescue Me. I hear it's fabulous. Just haven't gotten around to it.

But I have noticed the new season's ad campaign. The image below doesn't quite capture the likeness the way the television spot does, but . . .


. . .what's up with the allusion to Mapplethorpe's self-portrait work?


Perhaps I am the last person to notice this likening. I've been away from the blogs as of late.

out with the hardly old, in with the fairly new

Tomorrow evening, AntsyPants and I are hosting a party for a colleague who is about to leave for another university. It's a combo-party, actually. We're saying goodbye to her and her partner, as well as celebrating their two-day-old marriage. Huzzah!

Thing is, and please don't tell anyone, I dread hosting parties. No one believes me when I say that I'm shy, shy, shy. And I hate to think of all the judgment that will come down on my "lifestyle." I'm completely incapable of keeping a pristine house and I don't have the most traditional of tastes. And, rationally, I know that no one cares if I think purple is the perfect wall color for an office; nor, do I think they care that there are a few small, visible dust bunnies hopping around the place. But I can't help myself. Throwing parties might as well be throwing up--in my experience, anyway. The horrible anticipation, the panic-induced, sweaty-in-the-moment sensation, the barky noises I make against my will . . . . Preparing to host, hosting, and hurling are one in the same in my book. In all cases, I feel so much better after the fact. Here's to Saturday!

Ah, Saturday. The day after the party we host to send off a colleague who was with us for a mere two years, we'll be attending a birthday party for a newish friend. This newish friend is part of a group of folks with whom we've been hanging (i.e., drinking) for the past few months. I'm thoroughly grateful for these newish folks. Our Friday happy hours varyingly consist of three other couples, all of whom are associated with different departments in our university. After six years, we've finally found "work" people whose company we thoroughly enjoy. Errr. I suppose I should speak for myself. I do enjoy many of my departmental colleagues, but these newish people, they're so easy to be around, no matter my mood. I haven't encountered such an easy co-presence in a long time.

Wish me luck this weekend.

I'll try to keep y'all posted, or at least, give a report some time soon.

"it's in the abyss"

That's what a faculty mentor used to say to me when I'd send off applications for jobs during the last year of my doctoral studies. In other words, there's no point in thinking--let alone worrying--about your application now. It's gone. It can't be changed. It's in their hands. It's all over. There's nothing you can do now.

Sound advice. But I've never been able to heed it.

This past Friday, I met with my Chair and we sent off my "packets" to my external reviewers for tenure. During the New Faculty Orientation given when I first arrived here, the Dean of my College gave this sage advice: "When you're approaching Tenure Review, ask one of your senior colleagues if you can look at their package. He'll surely let you look at his package if you just ask him. Looking at his package can mean the difference between having a job here and not."

Of course, during this particular portion of the presentation, I snorted in futile attempts to stifle my laughter over asking my male colleagues (cuz the Dean used the gendered universal pronoun) to look at their "packages." And now I know that it wouldn't have helped anyway.

My senior male colleagues's packages look nothing like my own. My package will never look like theirs. Their packages have never been a help to me at all--and I resent the implication that they would.

you know what i wish?

I wish the prominent form of dancing was swing dancing. I wish someone would move (with) me to a fast up-beat and occasionally throw me in the air or guide my body to the ground, gently, quickly, and smoothly between his legs, only to meet me on the other side and return us to the beat. That wonderful beat, whatever form it may take. I think one could swing to a whole lotta music, not just the swing kind. I think swing dancing would change relationships in any way they need to be changed.

happy birthday.

dear AntsyPants.

He wasn't born until the afternoon, but I thought I'd get a head start. Those of you who know his blog persona, please do write him some good wishes. The last year has been rough. Let's hope this year will be a shitload better.

Thanks for the love.

ryan reynolds

This one's for you, Ben. Oh, yeah. This one's for you.




If you can find it.

please forgive . . .

. . . the pity-party posts as of late.

Unfortunately, they do reflect my state of mind these days.

I really could do better to forge a happier helmet to wear during these particular days of reckoning. But such fortitude isn't really my way.

Better to wallow, so I clearly say.

Or, is it?

I'm thinking that I truly am a follower of illogical perspectives on relationships. That is, if tenure is my boyfriend, I'm driven to believe he doesn't want me, so I'll do anything I can to make that perception a reality. Reject him before he rejects me. Make our communion impossible before he does.

How can I let him know how hard I've worked for him when I feel thoroughly compelled to make him believe that I never cared about him from the beginning?

"going up?" "going down."

She was an exceptional graduate student, though she published only two book reviews before graduating.

She never thought she'd get a job at a research university, but she did.

She always said she'd never leave school without finishing her dissertation, though life had other plans for her.

She thought search committees would find her "silly," but they didn't.

She knew that her work--and her colleagues'--deserved more attention than it received, though she tired of searching for such sites that would afford such recognition.

She was hired to help develop a curriculum in her area of expertise, but her devotion to such development hindered her ability to publish.

She published essays and produced "creative activity," except she doesn't believe that reviewers appreciate her/the work of the field.

She built a place for her colleagues to publish their undervalued work, though this place doesn't help her advance her own.

She's going up for tenure this year, but all she hears in her paranoid head are her senior colleagues saying, "You're going down."

like all the boys i dated . . .

I've come to avoid this blog.

Though, in this case, I don't think I'm breaking up, taking off, separating, or splitting.

I've just been away for a while.

Nothing and too much happening at once. Ever feel that way?

Unlike the boys, this blog doesn't mind my absence. Lucky me. I want to return.

But re-starting is the hardest part . . . .

i don't know how it happened

No. That's a lie. I do know, I suppose. It's just my way.

But I can't recall the specifics. Somehow, I've made myself A Person Who Advances Others' Careers rather than A Person Who Advances Her Own.

I've grumbled about it before in these digital pages. I'm an editor, a reviewer, a panelist. I vet, correct, and judge. I play a big part in whether you'll be published or not in one or more journals. More often than not, I work hard to publish you. I'm an allocator of monies, journal pages, and conference hotel spaces. I help you advance or send you back to the drawing board without passing Go.

I'm an assistant professor who is well known in her area. I hold offices. I'll hook you up. You'll make connections through me. My name is known in several countries--more than a couple continents, in fact.

I'm a blast to be around and am missed at conferences I can't attend. I advise Full Professors on how best to present their work. I introduce students to their scholarly idols and forge friendships among folks from across the states.

But I'm the worst self-promoter there is. I'm terrible at focusing on my own research and writing. In fact, I've forgotten what it's like to immerse myself in my own work. "My own work." A phrase that almost seems selfish to me now.

But such a sense is just cowardice, really.

It's easier for me to focus on others than it is to focus on myself.

Though when you think about it, my focus on others has led to my own visibility--and the visibility of my institution.

Unfortunately for me, I don't think my Institution will see things that way.

What am I trying to say here?

I guess my point is--to those of you who are about to rock in Academe--be careful of how you devote yourself. Make sure your devotions align with your Institution's.

I spent the day working on an association newsletter. I have a 9am meeting tomorrow to discuss the fate of international travel grant applicants. After, I'll finish writing an exam, then I'll prep for a guest lecture in a colleague's Thursday night class. Then I'll settle in for a weekend of reviewing manuscripts and coaching a grad student for an upcoming symposium presentation.

I bet my carrel is dusty.

my first professional heartbreak

I've said it before, a hundred times, that work leaves me heartbroken. My students' failures. My colleagues' betrayals. My friends' disappointments. And I believe that those instances were all sufficient in their ability to break my heart. But I learned, most painfully, that those tormenting instances pale in comparison to losing a student I loved.

He graduated a couple years ago. He was radiant. He died doing what he loved, but I find little comfort in that. I'm a challenge to cosmic consolation that way. "Selfish," if you prefer.

Then again, I just may be wracked by both guilt and jealousy. He died doing what he loved. Everyone says so. Everyone knows so. I can't imagine dying while doing something I love--because I can't imagine what I love doing. Except for teaching. And I couldn't stand for such a circumstantial death. How would one die teaching? Heart attack. Stroke. Etcetera. Most traumatizing for the students, I should think. I most certainly wouldn't want to die in that context.

So I hope that I don't die doing what I love. Unless, of course, I die sleeping.

After more thought, I wish I could be more consumed by my jealousy of the context of my former student's death than I am with the fact of my former student's death. But I can't. I'm heartbroken. I'm inconsolable in that lifetime kind of way.

I won't get over his death. But I'll continue to live with it. In various ways. At various intensities.

I wonder when I'll be able to tell stories about him to current students again.

I wonder when I'll be able to do the right thing and help him live on in the mind's eye of others.

I wonder why academics so rarely speak of losing the ones they love(d).

RIPJC12

aye, more than i'd like to admit

As seen at mags' place.

		lucyrain took the free ColorQuiz.com personality test! "Preoccupied with things of an intensely exciting n..." Click here to read the rest of the results.

the annual review

Now is the time my colleagues and I must write our Faculty Activity Narrative for the calendar year of 2006. I normally dread this task; however, this time around, I'm positively paralyzed by the thought of it. Last year was a very, very bad year for me. The death of my father, and all the circumstances that surrounded it, nearly wrecked me. But I don't think my colleagues know this.

What some of them--the Salary, Promotion, and Tenure committee--will learn, though, is that last year is the first year I didn't get published since being hired. They'll also learn, as they read my narrative, that I have yet to finish revisions on two essays for resubmission. As they finger their way through my file, they'll see that I have no student evaluations for one of the courses I taught last semester. I'll have to write the words: "I forgot."

And I suppose I'll have to write something about the ugly events that transpired among my co-writers and me over the authorship of a textbook we've been working on for over three years. Somehow, I'll have to indicate that the senior colleague decided that the work my peer and I did was more akin to a Research Assistant's, and--with the help of our editor (who corresponded only with senior colleague)--further decided that my peer and I were no longer worthy of having our names on the spine of the book. After working for more than three years--while untenured--on this textbook (which would have only counted toward "Teaching" rather than "Research"), my peer and I will now be relegated to an "Acknowledgments" page and a couple chapters "written with [insert name]." There's a lot more to this story, as they say, but I won't continue here. Question is, how will I narrate this in my annual review and tenure packet (which is due in August)?

And what of my inability to remember last year in any kind of linear or sustained fashion? It's trite, but I must say that the whole year is a blur spliced with sharp images of traumas endured and imagined, as well as anger-filled interactions. I was dazed. I was clumsy. I wasn't mindful of the little things, like responding to emails of returning phone calls. My student evals from spring, summer, and my fall semester's grad seminar were no less positive than usual. But I don't remember teaching. Not really. Not that the Annual Narrative demands that I do. I'm just sayin'.

I don't know what to write. I don't want to look at my date book. I don't want to flex my memory muscles to conjure some sense of what happened last year. I realize now that I spent all of last year trying to forget it. How can I write it?

just wondering

If you had to choose between living under water and living in outer space, which would you choose?

i bet . . .

. . . your student emails aren't nearly as exciting as mine. Here are two of my favorites. The first needs no contextualization--except that it came through Blackboard:
Sorry to send this mail to a class but I am desperate!

We are throwing a bachelorette party for a soon-2-b-bride and we're having trouble finding a male strip club. Does anyone have any suggestions? If they are in [nearby city] that would be better, but [this city] will do. We had some in mind, but they fell through. This is planned for 2morrow (Saturday Jan 27th) so time is short.

Thanks soooo much!
[Student-Who-Feels-No-Qualms-About-Presenting-Self-As-Girl-Wanting-To-Go-Wild]

The second comes from a student to whom I granted an alternative time to take his first test. We corresponded over email then talked in-person in class last night. I have no idea what the fuck he is saying. Though, I must agree with what I think is his gist: I am a pretty good performer.

o it was cool finally meeting prob the most liberal teacher ive ever
had-lol n i've gone to 2 hs's n this is my 3rd college-ur very good at
keeping lecture interesting, however i do have one recc miss record
spinner, i think you would be very good at brodcasting radio or tv-u def
have the personality for it not unlike myself. I aspire to be a
sportscenter anchorman so look for me at 11 in 2 years, although I mioght
wind up teaching if that doesnt work out i guess-lol. I do have one
question for you..why are ch 19 nand 20 posted on BB if its not on the
test?
I look forward to meeting you.

Clearly, I'm a teacher who has no qualms with posting dumbass student emails on my blog.

just for my personal record

It's been one year, 16 hours and 36 minutes since my mother called to tell me my father died. Life has been rough for the past 48 hours. I was weepy. I slept. I'm tired. I couldn't get ahold of my mother on the phone. It was an alternately rainy and dreary day. My God seemed to be counting and supplementing my tears.

she's much prettier . . .

. . . than Dante, don't you think?

As seen at lil'rumpus's.

*************************

Galadriel

Possessing a rare combination of wisdom and humility, while serenely dominating your environment you selflessly use your powers to care for others.

Even the smallest person can change the course of the future.

Galadriel is a character in the Middle-Earth universe. You can read more about her at the Galadriel Worshippers Army.

**********************

I'll try to return with some substance soon.

but misery loves company

Seems Nim and I will be having tea as we chart our way though hell.

You scored as Dante Alighieri. According to you most of humanity will spend at least some of their afterlife in hell. You have a high likelihood of being exiled, but anyone as bloody fucking romantic as you deserves what they get. You have an exceptional moral code, overshadowed by the fact that you yourself cannot uphold it. Your existence bears a definite irony, although of fairly Christian morality, many pagans, satanists, communists, and intellectuals admire you and your works for all the wrong reasons. Also, the brighest star in your sky is never going to be your lover... It takes a lot of grief to be the cartographer of hell. Dante Alighieri 83% C.G. Jung 67% Stephen Hawking 58% Friedrich Nietzsche 58% Steven Morrissey 50% Mother Teresa 42% Miyamoto Musashi 33% Charles Manson 33% Adolf Hitler 25% Jesus Christ 25% Sigmund Freud 25% O.J. Simpson 25% Hugh Hefner 0% Elvis Presley 0% What Pseudo Historical Figure Best Suits You? created with QuizFarm.com

20 things i probably should know but i don't

• World geography
• My late grandparents' middle names
• The phone numbers of my closest (geographically and interpersonally) friends
• How to change a tire
• My weight
• The driving route to my mother's house
• The formula for calculating percentages
• The names of birds who sing or squawk or trill within hearing distance of my front porch
• The last names of my neighbors
• My medical history
• The license plate numbers of my cars
• What it's like to have viewed Citizen Kane or Casablanca
• The names or order of all the U.S. presidents
• My tolerance level when it comes to doing shots or drinking hard liquor in any form
• What I think would make me happy
• The names of all elected officials in my state
• The deans most relevant to my job
• How to file taxes
• My average blood pressure
• How to spell consistent

random bullets of "you have to be kidding me"

• Bush's address on the war in Iraq.
• Over 10 hours of doggy-insanity while I tried to prep for the new semester.
• Being granted a course release the semester before I go up for tenure--rather than a sabbatical--on the condition that I teach a class of 300 students.
• Having The Glorious but still having my spine crushed on a nightly basis.
• A friend/colleague misspelling my name--repeatedly--in his editorial statement upon his taking the reins from me in his editorship of The Top Tier journal in my field.
  
• Nearly a year passing since my father's death and feeling as if it were a day.
• Madonna's Truth or Dare. I'm watching it right now. I thought she was the awesomest person alive when this film debuted.

housecleaning

For the past few days, I've been chiseling away at the various messes surrounding, impeding, and constituting me.

• I made the annual trip to the office supply store for files, labels, sticky notes, and binder clips of three sizes. I started making piles in my home office to be further harnessed by the abovementioned supplies.
• I spent over three hours over two days cleaning off my virtual desktop. About halfway through the task, I realized that I had nearly 200 documents (mostly resting in one virtual pile in the top righthand corner of the screen) that needed to be filed or trashed. And, of course, I had to open the majority of said documents given my inability to recall the significance of titles such as "fac memo 3-06." Often, I found myself wondering why I downloaded and saved certain documents in the first place. On the other hand, I found quite a few essays that will be quite useful in my current and upcoming projects.
  
• I spent another three hours focused on my email. After deleting 10 of the 320 pages of messages in my Inbox, I did a quick calculation and learned that, with 25 messages per page, I had 8,000 messages just sitting there. If it took me three hours to delete 250 messages--and these deletions were easy (mostly old listserv crap)--how long will it take to get through the remaining 7,750? Errr. Make that 7,759. I got 9 messages today. All work-related. All yet to be addressed.
• Yesterday, I met with my therapist. (I need to give her a pseudonym. I've been seeing her for a year and a half, but haven't talked about her. Hmmm. Probably because we do lots of hard work together that I'd rather not go into here. Overall, though, she brings me such peace. Let's call her "Serenity.") We did our usual thing--focused on how I can handle better the maelstrom of my emotions and the required clean-up that follows--then our talk made a surprising turn. Serenity started asking me about Dr. Spanky. Seems Spanky is overstepping his bounds a bit, by Serenity's estimation. She thinks he's engaging in therapy with me just a leeetle bit too much. Plus, Spanky doesn't consult with her. A big no-no in co-care of a patient/client. Seems to me Spanky's going to get a talking-to. So, while I felt pretty good about our session yesterday, I may have messed up Dr. Spanky's day a leeetle bit. Oops.
• Finally, I've spent some time cleaning up my Bloglines account and my Blogroll. Check out the roll! If I missed anyone who would like to be added, just email me and I'll get you on the roll. Unless you're, like, creepy or something.
  

lady medusa is right

One should have a new title for the new year.

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Reverend Countess Lucyrain the Discombobulated of New Porton Wells Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title