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."