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.