This is not my dissertation proposal.

Maybe one of the reasons I get so much done at Penn is because I sit and read and don't have my computer. Or, if I do have my computer, I can't incessantly check the New York Times every two minutes to see if the Somali pirates situation is resolved. We know how important the pirates are to me... And it doesn't look like I'm actually getting to the pirates exhibit I really want to see anytime in my lifetime, unless someone's got a plan I don't know about.

But I've dutifully been sitting at my desk for hours now, with a forty-five minute break for frozen pizza, a beer, and then a run to Wawa for coffee to counteract said beer, and I really just don't want to anymore. In the words of one of the few pieces of American literature I (a) remember and (b) liked, I give revisions a resounding (but soft and politely spoken) "I prefer not to."

And that gets me thinking: Setting aside the fact that this proposal process has taken ridiculously long by everyone's admission, do I really have the mental fortitude (one of the gifts of the Holy Spirit my lapsed Catholic self remembers from confirmation) to actually do this? I've always thought I did because I know how much I (a) love the literature I want to work with, (b) love talking about the literature, (c) love the profession I would really like to enter "for real" one day.

But.

Lately, there have been a lot of things that have been swimming around in my lil' noggin'...things that I'd really also like to do. A lot. Dare I say, love to do, too. Some of them (I'll list them below. Much like the horrid draft Marie is reading tonight to help my sorry arse hand this over to my committee on Friday, this post will be disorganized, and perhaps even incomprehensible unless you've walked around my brain lately. Go ahead. I dare you.) are completely surprising even to me, and I'm not entirely sure where these "completely surprising" ones entirely come from. So, if I didn't have the albatross (horrid, horrid poem, but then again, the Romantics were never "my people" to borrow from my friend) of my dissertation proposal 'round my neck, what the heck do I want and want to do? Well, here are some answers:

1. I really want to live in Philadelphia. Okay, now I know this is a ridiculous way to begin, perhaps, but geography makes people happy. Sometimes. Hell, there was even a book written about it. And I could be having The Worst Day Ever, but if I'm there, things don't seem to suck as bad. This desire doesn't just stem from a related desire, which is to be able to go to Wawa one morning for coffee and buy a copy of the Philadelphia Inquirer that isn't the "regional edition," but rather it truly feels like something that's been welded into me. I have no idea why this is so, as I've never been particularly fond of sprawling urban places, but I can't shake Philly. And that's not just because of the people I've met there, or, frankly, one person in particular. Those that know me know I've searched the Craigslist apartment ads well before she came along. But, those of you that know me also know me well enough to know that she, well, helps. Sucker? Yes, yes I am.

2. Related to the above: I think if I ever had to go to school again (let's face it: if this professor thing actually works out, I'll be going to school for the rest of my working life), I'd go for urban studies. I think part of my distaste for cities is because what I had known growing up was the I behemoth of New York. And, nothing against the Big Apple, but for me, it's just too, well, big. I like people, yes, but I don't like seeing people everywhere, all the time. While I do like being able to buy wine and beer in a convenience store, I don't like having to sell a kidney to pay for them. And I actually like to drive in a city and not feel hopelessly lost, grid street system or not. I also am a big fan of public transportation that doesn't require me to think about "uptown" or "downtown" or have multiple trains with different colors/letters/numbers that all go to (just about) the same place. One readily knowable color-coded system is just fine by me.
But, more to the point, the stuff (which is not garlic, Officemate) of cities genuinely interests me. I like people, and I like people who maybe don't come from much, but work to get what they have and want to make their lives better for themselves and their kids. I like the underdog because I've been one, and perhaps to some extent still am. So when after-school programs and daycares might not get milk because it costs too much, I get upset because, frankly, that's not fair. I get upset when a kid from an urban school who shows talent, promise, and desire can't go to college because they can't afford it; or, can't go to a good college because they're undesirable, or only desirable because of diversity quotas. I get upset and angry when people can't go to hospital because they can't afford health insurance or because elderly people have to choose between paying for their medicine, their groceries, or their utility bills. And I get upset when bullets are more common on playgrounds than garbage cans and pick up games, spaces where kids and adults alike should be able to play without worrying whether or not they'll make it out alive.
Those of you that know me, and perhaps this might be those of you who have known me longer than others, know that when things really get under my skin, I spend as much free time as I can thinking about ways to solve the problem because I genuinely believe I can save the world. Or, at least I'm naive (or stubborn, depending on how you look at it) enough to think "Well, why can't I?" when someone says I can't. Much like Tina Fey, I too was raised by parents who instilled in me confidence "disproportionate to my looks and abilities." And I'm quite serious about it and what I think I can do with it.

3. (Here's where the surprising bit comes in.) I'd really like that committed relationship. Really. Okay, maybe this one isn't too surprising. Most people that know me for any length of time draw the very correct (I think) conclusion that unlike, say Jesus (which Margery Kempe never learned), I am the marrying type. Although, if I think about it, unless it was to Jesus (see problem in previous sentence), Margery herself isn't exactly the marrying type either. I digress. And it's not like I just want a committed relationship with anyone (please, I have standards), but rather I think I'd really like one with, well, we all know who. In talking one day about the idea of a long term relationship with, of all people, my dad, he said that when it's supposed to happen "for real, for real" the whole thing "just makes sense." Okay, so like the current state of my dissertation proposal, that didn't make a whole lot of sense to me, but the more I think about it (and believe me, I have) the more I think I understand what he's trying to say. Because, really, when I get down to the Big, Important issues, it really does just make sense. Thing is, I'm not entirely sure of the other party's feelings toward all this or if we're even on the same page. We may be, remotely...I mean, there's no denying that we plan things for months ahead, we've had conversations about "big things" (see #4, below) in like March and we agree on those big things.
But what I really just can't shake about the entire situation is that essentially, I've been able to have a conversation that's come complete with moments of doubt, anxiety, silences, awkward patches, good moments, great moments, and truly fantastic moments for ten months. Ten months, talking with one person. Usually at all hours of the night, and on occasion, til six o'clock in the morning. And even then we don't want to get off the phone. I've never, ever talked with anyone--my parents, my family, my close friends, my best friends, nevermind a single ex--for that long and not gotten bored or tired or just plain sick of it. That is the most remarkable thing about this...relationship.
There was a moment a couple weeks ago where we happened to be in the back of a room together and she reached for my hand. Now, all that that moment consisted of was, quite simply, me holding her hand. But I'm still stuck on it: I'm stuck on what it felt like, the grin I got on my face and how for that moment which in reality probably only lasted maybe three minutes I felt absolutely everything. If there ever was the possibility that simply holding someone's hand you can feel the energy which exists between two people, well, I had that and I still can't get it out of my head.

4. Kids. As in, I'd like to have them. Well, not "have" in the biblical sense because I would not put my body through the pain and suffering of Eve, no thanks. My strong dislike for blood, sickness and needles precludes my participation in such a blessed event. But, I'd not be opposed to adopting them. This conversation I've had before, which has gone not just from the practical (the "how" to have them) but the nuts and bolts: the joys, the worries, the interest in after school activities and engagement of interests, and well, just being a family. Where in God's name this quasi-maternal instinct came from, I've not a clue. While I still hold up my end of the statement I made to my mother, that I would never actually want to bear a child, I can't deny that I want a family which includes a child or two. Bizarre.
Dean JC and I discussed this matter via MySpace and while I expressed my anxiety over such a strange desire, she made a very good point: we're 27 and plenty of people we know are already married and have or about to have kids. While I'm not going to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge just because everyone else is right now, I can't say that there's not a part of me that's a bit jealous. And while maybe, if I dig a bit deeper, the jealousy isn't so much about "family" as it is about being settled with one person to come home to, I still... I don't know. Can't shake it.

And now, before I think I drive myself completely batty, I think I'll try and get a few hours sleep before I have to get up and revise some more. Tomorrow is the final big push until my self-imposed deadline for Friday's submission. Here's to a few days without stressing about proposing, but rather concentrating on solid work.

Today!

Much goings-on today. Teaching; conferencing with a student; writing, writing, writing!; making sure my bank's error was corrected so that my paycheck money really is mine and not someone else's; and the VP debate tonight.

I'm so curious to see what will actually happen tonight... To see who puts their foot in their mouth first and to determine, once and for all, if Gov. Palin really is that inept. But, I should be thankful for her making me love Tina Fey more and more each Saturday.

And! How 'bout those Phillies?!

In my second life...

If I had to do college, or at least graduate school, all over again, I'd think I'd go for urban studies. Perhaps with a focus on poverty and public policy, although that bit's up in the air. Or, poverty, public policy and education since I'm convinced in my heart of hearts that I am meant to be an educator.

When I've not been writing my dissertation proposal, I've been trying to find out what I can about this program. Of course, coming to urban planning means coming first to the realization that I don't mind urban areas. Or at least one urban area. I may even take a gander and email some faculty members at other, slightly more prestigous universities about their courses and see if I can get a copy of their syllabus, or at least ask about textbooks.

You never know when this could come in handy.

I've been working steadily on chapters four and three (reverse order because I at least have clear thoughts on four which is much more than I can say for three) summaries. Four, with tweaking, can be sent tomorrow morning. Three, with a miracle, can be sent in the afternoon as long as I don't spend too much time dallying with other things. But again, looking at my schedule, tomorrow is packed and I need time. Desperately.

If I make a big push tomorrow, Thursday, and Friday before whatever time my meeting is, though, I can at least enjoy Friday evening, which is important. And hopefully, I'll be able to spend time elsewhere this weekend for restorative purposes. Because goodness knows I need those moments...

For now, though, I think I need rest. And vitamins. And more rest.

Inadequate.

Since it's pouring rain outside (still...it's like the weekend of the Flood or something. Poor Celtic Fest!), I've had ample opportunity today (since I wasn't really home yesterday all that much) to take a good, long look at the place that is my apartment.

For those that know me, they know that my apartment serves really three main functions in my life: 1. A place to store the meager worldly possessions that I have, 2. a place to eat (however, you'll also note that homemade meals are increasingly rare, especially as the semester drags on), and 3. a place to sleep (on my still duvet-coverless bed).

I have moments (when I delude myself into thinking I not only have more space but more money) when I have wonderful thoughts about what I could get this apartment, in spite of myself and it's size, to actually look like. A big step in "home improvement" for me would be simply picking up after myself. I'm notorious, just ask my Mom, for clutter. My parents could not put their house in Jersey on the market to move out of the state until I was securely tucked away at college so my Mom could begin the "decluttering" process of my room(s). Clutter and I, in spite of my (quite literal) allergy to the effects of clutter (namely, dust), are quite good friends.

A few weeks ago, I took on the main offender of my bedroom--my desk. My desk, safe harbour to not only various office supplies but also a collection of clean but-still-unironed clothes, somewhat clean and rewearable clothes, and piles and piles and piles of books, papers, paid bills, etc, was due for some Serious Time and Attention. A few weeks later, I'm pleased to say that mostly I'm doing a good job at keeping it ship-shape: today to work, I only had to remove three pieces of clothing from my desk chair in order to sit down. And the miscellaneous books that were there were put back on my bookshelves in my living room. Now, across from me, it looks like the bastion of intellectual productivity it should be.

But I had a moment today, when I was foraging for food--the true subject of this post--where I wanted to just sit in the middle of my recently-as-of-this-morning-washed kitchen floor and just sulk. Sulk, in particular, about the injustices of having a Ridiculously Small Kitchen.

The other thing I realized that perhaps--just perhaps--one reason for my relative lack of productivity in the kitchen is that I really don't have the sorts of basic things that one needs to have a kitchen, well, run. In any famous Food Network celebrity chef's cookbook, you will find a very helpful section before the recipes actually begin which deals with "kitchen essentials". Usually, this list comes in two kinds, kitchen tools and food prodcuts. You can find an example of the second one here. My best category by far is the spices, and that's thanks to a failed relationship in which an extensive spice collection was one of the more fruitful things the person brought to the relationship.

But in looking at lists like these, and the even more frightening "kitchen tools" lists that exist, make me realize that when it comes to kitchen hardware and edibles, I'm pretty much up the creek without a paddle.

And that makes me realize some Very Significant Things about my kitchen issues. They are as follows:
1. If I really want to make a concerted effort to actually make things and not have to spend money and eat out (or, another favorite of mine, eat significantly less to lessen the financial blow), perhaps I should make a significant effort to stock up. 90% lean ground beef is "on sale" at Wegmans for $2.79 a pound this week. Sure, a couple packages would set me back $20 for meat alone. But, broken up into pound Ziploc bag bits, that could be eight or ten pounds of meat I have in my freezer for the winter, two of which, unless I extend the recipe, would be put in a nice chili.

2. While I don't have the money to hire an Ikea design person (another pipe dream of mine), I can at least see what kinds of things they can help me with in terms of organization and storage. While I love clutter, I also have a remarkable need to be insanely organized about certain things. Look at my well-loved paperback copy of the Canterbury Tales or my two dissertation notes notebooks, and the division of my project into individual file folders for chapters, frame, and bibliography. When it comes to my work, I'm a nut about organization. That needs to translate into me being able to sustain myself through food.

3. I need to take responsibility for actually setting aside time to make things. This, of course, is viewed as "just another thing to add" to an already long list of things "to do." But, rather than spending a half hour writing this blog post, I could have made a 30-minute meal, for instance. Or, while something is cooking and only needs stirred, I can also read or take notes or grade a paper or two (or 15).

4. I just need, as Nike so often says to me, just do it. Sure, I'm under the gun at work for another two weeks, but then I get something of a break. That break can be time spent on catching up on sleep, spending time with friends and family, but it also can be seen as a chance for me to get my act together here and actually stick to it, for once.

Coupled with these four things is, also, the realization that I'm 27 years old and am not exactly in the place where I thought I'd be. I don't know when the thought occured to me--perhaps during college, when I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life or what it would necessarily involve to get there beyond my undergraduate degree--that at 27 I'd be settled in terms of geography, mostly financially (HAHAHAHAHA!), and perhaps even with another person. But at 20 I thought life at 27 would be decisively more concrete than it actually is.

That bothers me for reasons that I'm not sure I can articulate... The whole gay thing precludes marriage (at least in most of the continential United States) and, I'm beginning to think, necessitates a sort of extended holding period until you find someone who actually isn't (a) crazy, (b) insanely codependent, (c) so opposite from you that you can't find any common ground from which to base a good, solid, foundation for a relationship. And, when you allow yourself to be delusional enough to think that perhaps, just perhaps, you have found someone you can spend a considerable part of your life with, the situation is simulatenously a clear reality yet, because of circumstances, a further extension of the "thing that dare not speak its name," as if calling it something, or wanting to call it something, will, perhaps not ruin everything, but cause a Rather Significant Moment of Pause. Similarly, the whole "I'm in graduate school" thing precludes any sense of geographic stability. Sure, I'm here now, but I almost certainly will not be in a year or two. Same goes for financial stability: when you make less than $20,000 a year and the nation's economy is quickly going bust, you're pretty much screwed.

In a nutshell, though, that's what 27 concretely looks like: instability in almost every area, with the only constancy being a sense of clutter that I try to combat, latest enemy: my kitchen. Yes, I can laugh at the absurdity of this post (as well as the enormous sense of self-control I had to have to not digress about the actual cost of things from the grocery) to some degree, but really, I think about these things a lot...along with the other things I have to think about. So, perhaps in conquering the kitchen, I can also conquer some other things which hopefully will bring a bit more stability and a bit more of that adequate feeling.

New Musik.

If you haven't heard of Women in Docs (find them here or here on MySpace), I highly suggest checking them out.

Not only are Roz and Chanel funny and quick witted with their on-stage banter, their voices explode in wonderful, powerful harmonizing vocals.

And they have super powers.

So do yourself a favor and check them out. Your ears will thank you.

Feelings, nothing more than...

...an f-load of fraught confusion, if you ask me.

It's an odd state to be in when someone in your life tells you that you don't express enough emotion, yet you feel so much yourself that sometimes you think you're going to explode. Of course, upon reflection, it seems only natural for someone to say that you're not expressive enough if you don't actually, well, express it. But, honestly, sometimes I think it should be pretty f-ing obvious...

Like right now. I'm frustrated. How can I tell? I've dropped the favored "f-" phrase twice. That's typically a good indicator.

The trouble lies in the undefined nature of so much... And as much as "undefined" is a great way to describe a lot of things in my life at this moment, so is "I have no idea what other people are thinking". It's like having a conversation with someone else but they're utilizing the "mute" function all too often and you have no idea what's going on. So...relationship (?), if such a thing exists, my dissertation proposal, the fate of my academic life...

Boethius and I rode the high wave for awhile. And it was good. Now, I think my main man and I are on our way down a bit.

Here's to hoping the fall isn't too rough.

My Pirate Name!

Dirty Bess Rackham. Oh yes.

The coolest pirate surname of them all!