In which I begin my quest to watch as many adaptions of Jane Eyre as possible

imdb.com

A few afternoons ago I decided to watch Franco Zeffirelli's adaptation of Jane Eyre.  I have read the novel many times, I've done a little bit of academic scholarship on it, and I've even taught the novel a few times, so I feel like I can say that I know the novel pretty well.  I thought I would feel a communion with this adaptation because it was released in 1996, the same year I read the novel for the first time.  And Roger Ebert has high praise for this version, giving it 3.5 out of 4 stars. These were all good signs, so I pressed play and was soon knee deep in Gothic intrigue and romance.

                Jane Eyre is quite a long novel, but this film is not. It's a little less than two hours long. The film begins with her aunt Mrs. Reed locking Jane into the ominous Red Room, where, in true Gothic fashion, her Uncle Reed died.  After a short but absolutely beautiful opening score, Jane is visited by Mr. Brocklehurst and sent off to Lowood where she befriends the consumptive Helen Burns, experiences loss when Helen dies, grows up and makes her way to Thornfield, all in about 25 minutes. And the pacing issues continue throughout the entire film; the whole thing feels very rushed. It is, in my opinion, the film's biggest fault.

                However, the rushing gets us to the juicy parts with Jane and Rochester, which are always my favorite bits, so it's not all bad. And whoever did the casting for this movie really nailed it.  I can be a purist when it comes to film adaptations of novels, so I always appreciate when an adaption of Jane Eyre sticks to the spirit of the book. Charlotte Gainsbourg's Jane is styled as appropriately young and plain (in the novel Jane is only eighteen years old and she describes herself as plain and decidedly not pretty). And I can appreciate a young, handsome, and sexy Rochester as much as the next person (Michael Fassbender's Rochester: rawr!) but Rochester is supposed to be twenty years older than Jane, and William Hurt's Rochester delivers. Gainsbourg's Jane and Hurt's Rochester meet and have delightfully pithy conversations with one another. But then, Jane saves Rochester's life and the smoldering, brooding glances at one another and passionate hand holding begins, and I turn into an eighteen year old girl again and sail off into a cloud of romance.

The first of several passionate hand holding incidents

So temporarily eighteen year old Barbi ignores the fact the Rochester is actually really manipulative and revels in their passionate, torrid romance until secret mad wife Bertha's inevitable appearance ruins everything. And temporarily eighteen year old Barbi kind of wants Jane to stay with Rochester and continue their passionate love affair, but adult Barbi realizes that Jane is really awesome for leaving because she is staying true to herself, her ethics, and her desire for independence and equality even though she's desperately in love with Rochester and it kills her to leave him. And then there's Jane pining away for Rochester and the bit with the Rivers, which is never my favorite part because there's no romance.  And just like Rochester, Sinjun Rivers tries to impose his will on Jane, which is no good because clearly Jane belongs with Rochester. But my girl Jane is made of stronger stuff and after she miraculously inherits a fortune from her dead uncle, she leaves the Rivers and goes back to Rochester who has, luckily for Jane, been widowed during their time apart after Bertha burns down Thornfield and commits suicide by jumping from the roof. Rochester has also been injured, but he's still sexy looking because he's movie injured. Movie injured Rochester is blind (movie Rochesters, like the Rochester of the novel, are always blind by the end of the novel) but he only has some slight scarring on his face. Book injured Mr. Rochester has lost his sight in the fire and is pretty seriously maimed. But both movie Rochester and book Rochester are grumpy and bitter because they're waiting for Jane to come so that they can continue with all of the romance.

                But even though the casting is excellent, and there's passionate, smoldering romance, the rushed pacing of the film drove me nuts. Maybe people who haven't read Jane Eyre like this version. It is very beautifully made.  I'm sure I didn't like this film because I've read the book so many times. This adaptation pales in comparison to its source material. After I finished watching the film, I went to rate it and saw that I had already given it two stars. So at some point I must have seen this film, disliked it enough to rate it poorly, and blotted the experience out the memory.

However, I won't forget it this time because

a.  I felt the need to watch other versions of Jane Eyre to negate the effect of this one.

b. I wrote this blog.

c. I decided that I watch as many versions of Jane Eyre as possible, and upon watching other versions realized that some of them are actually straight up terrible. 

I love Jane Austen, but I Didn't Love Death at Pemberly.

Death Comes to Pemberley by P.D. James
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

And I wanted to love Death at Pemberly. It's Jane Austen! And a mystery! What's not to love? But I put off reading this novel because even though this is written by PD James, I've been absolutely horrified at the other P and P sequels I've read before. But thus far I've been pleasantly surprised. I found myself effortlessly slipping back into that world and even though I knew it was coming,  the introduction of the murder came as an abrupt surprise because I found myself so engrossed in the day to day life of the Darcys. Props to James because conveying that kind of surprise in a genre with such established conventions is not easy.

And then I read more of the book, and the more I read, the more disappointed I became. While James actually does a decent job at capturing the spirit of Austen's prose, the mystery itself, which started off with such promise, just falls flat. I won't say what happened in case you might actually want to read Death Comes to Pemberly, but I will say that the ending was a huge anti-climatic let down. In fact, it was so anti-climatic that I initially thought that it couldn't possibly be the ending, but sadly, it had an air of terribly written P and P fan fic.

Honestly, just go read Pride and Prejudice again. Or some of PD James's other novels. Just don't read Death at Pemberly.


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Things I Have Done Tonight Instead of Grading

I have 10 million things that need grading like yesterday so of course I did everything I could to avoid grading this evening, like:

Reading this book:

Mr.Darcy. Rawr

Perusing the Sock Dreams website (so. many. plus size socks) and developing a burning desire to own these beauties:

You WILL be mine. As soon as I get paid. 

Playing Candy Crush. 

Who's on level 290? This gal!

Cuddling with this cat

Pepper loves to snuggle, and he doesn't take no for an answer

Watching Teen Titans

Cyborg is kicking butt in the year 3000 BC

Eating ice cream for dinner

Nom. 

I am a productive procrastinator. Who has SO MUCH GRADING to do tomorrow.

I'm going to have the same manic look in my eyes this time tomorrow evening.

How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Embrace My Inner Fan Girl.

So today today was geek Christmas, at least for this girl. The premiere of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic (which I totally missed because I overslept) and the 50th anniversary Doctor Who special, which was magical and special and 1000% perfect even absolutely nothing happened like I thought it would.

When I was a kid Doctor Who was that weird show with the funny special effects that PBS showed when they weren't showing the things that young Barbi wanted to watch, like Reading Rainbow, The Electric Company, and Sesame Street. And at that young age, I hadn't yet learned that I could have more than one fandom, so Star Trek was it. And for years, nothing actually could compare to Star Trek. Until March 14, 2006 (yeah, I had to look that up). That was the day Sci Fi first aired the first episode of the new Doctor Who. One hour later, I was a Whovian. I tuned in eagerly every Friday night. I didn't have dvr back then. Or many friends. But I had Doctor Who (and my Deep Space Nine dvds of course). 

I loved Nine. I loved Rose. I loved their adventures. It was serious sci fi, but it was fun. The Doctor was sad and kind and goofy and happy. Although I always thought he was a bit mean to Mickey. That was a touch problematic. But he had depth. He had Deep Space Nine like depth, and coming from me that is a high complement. (My love for DS9 is everlasting). Rose was fun and enthusiastic and never ever seemed to do what the Doctor told her to do. And Captain Jack. Captain Jack was...Captain Jack. He was super duper extra full of amazingness, and dude could rock the hell out of trench coat. And suspenders.

Image comes from here: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Captain-Jack-Harkness-225051164

My love for Doctor Who grew exponentially when David Tennant became the 10th doctor. I loved Ten. And I'll be honest. My love grew exponentially the first time I saw 10 put on his glasses in "The Girl in the Fireplace." That was the day I discovered that the Doctor was a sexy sexy Time Lord. That was the day I became a super Whovian.

                                                           Rawr.

But as much as I loved Ten (especially when he wore his glasses), I loved Ten and Rose together even more. I have watched the second series of Doctor Who umpteen million times because I love them so much. I cried hard when Rose was sucked off into the alternate universe. In fact, I've only ever been able to watch that particular episode a few times. It still hurts me to see them part ways.

And the day I got Netflix streaming was the day I discovered classic Who. Seriously, young Barbi was stupid not to watch Doctor Who back in the day because my discovery of Three was an amazing amazing day. I can't hate a man who rocks frilly shirts and opera capes and drives a jaunty yellow car with its own jaunty little theme song.

                                    Seriously, Three OWNS that cape. And the jaunty car.

And Five! He was just SO NICE. And kind hearted. And you can't hate a man who rocks celery as part of his ensemble. The more I watched, the more I realized that, though Ten is still my favorite, I love all of the Doctors. I love their adventures and the fact that even though the Doctor is a  nearly immortal Time Lord he always comes back to save Earth and take a few lucky humans (and a few aliens too) along with him on his adventures. And after I watched these earlier episodes, which take place before The Last Great Time War, I came to understand the magnitude of the loneliness that the Doctor experiences after all of his people have perished at his hands. I understood why Ten was so eager to save the Master even though he was a total asshole. And I understood why it was so hard for Ten to let Rose go. It wasn't just because he loved her, although that was definitely a huge part of it. It was because he had lost so many people throughout his 900 years of life. Five, for example, was so haunted by Adric's death that he sacrifices his own life to save Peri. Adric is the last word he says before he regenerates.

And because I myself was so lonely and so sad at that time, I began to identify with him even more because I understood what it was like to be lonely and friendless. And although I was very sad to see Ten go, I was glad that Eleven seemed to have finally found a small measure of peace because in the fifth series he seemed to take joy in life again.

But when the BBC announced that David Tennant and Billie Piper were coming back for the 50th anniversary special, there was a lot of nerd joy in my heart that day. I couldn't wait to see them together in the special. November 23rd could not get here soon enough.

                                                        Serious nerd excitement
                                                        Also: Ten. Rawr.
Image from: http://www.doctorwho.tv/

And today, the day finally came. When it started, I had the beginnings of a migraine, but I took some headache remedy and told my head to cooperate, which it did (mostly). Absolutely nothing was going to stop me from watching the 50th anniversary special, not even a migraine. I won't post any spoilers because I wouldn't want to spoil the joy of seeing the special for the first time for anyone. All I'll say is that is was absolutely nothing like I expected, but that's fine because the special was perfect. By the end I was smiling (there's an extra special bit at the end btw!). And I'm glad I have dvr now because I have recorded the special so I can watch it again tomorrow.

And here comes the part where I reflect on how much I've changed since I discovered the glory that is Doctor Who:

So over the years, my interest in Doctor Who shifted from a really cool sci fi show to something that's become a part of me. And because life is always in a state of flux, I changed along with the Doctor. I'm no longer that lonely girl sitting at home on Friday (and Saturday) nights watching Doctor Who with her cat(s). I still watch Doctor Who alone on Saturday nights with my cats, but now that's because it's my choice and not my only option. I met people who helped me realize that I don't need to be ashamed or embarrassed by my love all things sci fi. Because of these people, I learned to be a proud nerdy fan girl because that's who I am, and I don't need to be ashamed of who I am.

And when I realized that, I came to love Doctor Who even more because I was able to be open and enthusiastic about my love and talk about it with other people who love it too. And that began to extend to other parts of my life. Among my friends, I've become known as the person who will insist that Deep Space Nine is not only the best Star Trek show, it's one of the best shows period. I do this frequently. I own my love of Ten and his glasses. I have absolutely no problem wearing my giant Rarity necklace when I teach. I am the proud human caretaker of three cats (yes. three!). I went to a Roxette concert alone last September in San Francisco, and it was a dream come true. I felt no shame or embarrassment in going by myself. I was thrilled to see a group I have loved since I was ten years old live in concert. I didn't need anyone's approval or support. I sport my Pride and Prejudice phone cover with pride, and I will be happy to tell you all about the glory that is Victorian sensation fiction of the mid-nineteenth century. And this Halloween, for the very first time, I cosplayed, dressing up as Fionna from Adventure Time. And living my life this way is freeing.

I'm not perfect by any means and neither is my life. It took time to learn these things and to own them. I still struggle with depression and anxiety a lot. I'm STILL in grad school. I'm not overly fond of the way I look. And even though I have no desire to be in a relationship, I'm way too concerned with being single and unmarried. But I'm learning (albeit very slowly) that these things aren't important because I've learned that it's okay to be a nerdy, geeky fan girl.

Thank you for reading. Now go watch some Doctor Who!

My 15 Year Old Self Was Petulant and Grumpy

So it's the first International Day of the Girl, and I just read this article about fifteen year old selves.  I was fifteen twenty years ago. As my title indicates, my fifteen year old self was petulant, grumpy. It was a momentous year: that was the year I discovered trashy romance novels and Cosmopolitan magazine, so I learned lots and lots about sex. Star Trek: The Next Generation was in its fifth season, and I was home to watch it every single Saturday night because I really didn't have many friends. I developed an insatiable desire to watch Little House on the Prairie reruns on TBS. I read every Victoria Holt book the public library had multiple times and I listened to Mariah Carey. A lot.

Yeah, I hated being fifteen. I hated it at the time, and every year on my birthday (still!) I am glad I am not fifteen any more. If I could go back in time and talk to fifteen year old Barbi, I would tell her that in twenty years being a geek is going to be really cool. I would encourage her to own her Trekkie love and to read something besides Victoria Holt novels. I would give myself a pat on the back for not wearing terrible early nineties hairstyles. I would ardently BEG fifteen year old Barbi to not drink that hot Dr Pepper folk remedy my parents gave me when I got really really really sick and my parents were too broke for to take me to the doctor. (Seriously, to this day I can't even smell Dr Pepper without getting sick to my stomach). I would give my parents the thumbs up for letting me adopt my very first cat. I would confirm that geometry still sucks balls and that in twenty years she will still think it was pretty cool of her English teacher to let her read Jurassic Park and Roots for class.

 Most importantly, I would tell her that she's not fat and ugly; she's so so beautiful. I would emphasize that fifteen year old boys are supremely stupid shits. I would tell fifteen year old Barbi to be proud of the person she is because she is is pretty damn spectacular.

Fifteen year old Barbi wouldn't have any of this though. Fifteen year old Barbi was petulant, grumpy , stubborn, and angry at her parents for making her move halfway across the country the year before. Fifteen year old Barbi only wanted to read things about sex and Victorian England, watch Star Trek, and ride her bike down to the Dairy Queen for Reese's Pieces blizzards. She didn't want to listen to anyone, although I know she would have made an exception for Captain Jean-Luc Picard. TNG was straight up awesome when I was fifteen.

She wanted desperately to fit in with the other kids, and she didn't understand why she didn't. What I didn't realize is that I just hadn't found my people yet. I didn't understand that I spent pretty much all of my teens and twenties depressed. Because of this I am continually grateful that I'm not a teenager any more. Hell, I'm continually grateful to not be in twenties any more.

The thing is, life does get better. My life has turned out to be absolutely nothing like I thought it was going to be. I'm not married. I don't have kids. (Can fifty-five year old Barbi travel back in time to tell me not to have a complex about this? Because that would be super helpful). My life is far from perfect, but I'm happier and more accepting of myself than I've ever been. I am a big ol' geeky fan girl, and I love that about myself. I gained a sense of acceptance when I finally found my geeky people. I have three cats and I own my cat lady-ness. I teach college English and it's the best job in the world. Today, there's so much about myself that I love, and sadly, I couldn't have said that about myself at fifteen.

That Jane Austen, she could write

"I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than women, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant."

Sigh.......This is from The Annotated Persuasion (page 452), edited by David M. Shapard

Since I'm currently lacking in real life romance I read this passage from Persuasion when I feel the need for a little romance. I pull this book off the shelf, turn to page 452 and read Frederick Wentworth's letter to Anne Elliot and I float away in a cloud of romance. 

(Also, I can't recommend David M. Shapard's annotated editions of Jane Austen enough. I've read Austen over and over again since I was in college, but these annotated editions enriched my reading experience of Austen a hundred fold. Seriously people--go buy them! Buy them all! They are more than worth the money.)

Treading Water

You know what? Depression sucks balls. There are days (a lot of days lately) that I feel like depression is what’s running my life, not me.

When I visualize depression, I picture myself treading water. If I stop, I’ll sink below the water and drown. So I keep on treading, trying to keep my head above water. Depression is like that to me, a daily struggle to keep my head above water. There are moments, hours, even whole days or weeks, where it’s easy. But then there are the days when it just seems easier to stop treading and let myself sink below the water.

Those are the days when I can’t even be motivated to feed myself, even if I’m hungry. I’ve been having a lot of those days lately. I look at other people, and they seem to take care of the basics so effortlessly. They can keep their homes clean, get their work done, eat regular meals. Why is it so hard for me? Sometimes it almost feels like there’s something physical holding me down, preventing me from taking care of myself adequately.

Today has been one of those days. I desperately need to clean, and there’s a ginormous stack of grading on my desk that absolutely must be finished by Tuesday. I have a headache because I went too long without eating.

These kinds of days suck, and I’ve been having far too many of them lately. But I’ll keep on treading water. It’s the only thing I can do. Because there are always going to be bad days, that’s life. But there are always going to be good days too, and I keep on treading, hoping that soon there will be more good days than bad. And who knows, maybe today will turn out to be a good day after all. The day’s not over yet. 

UPDATE: It's amazing how little things can turn one's day around. I cleaned my bathroom counter (which really really needed it). A friend called and reminded me that I've had a big week (I finished the first chapter of my dissertation and presented it at a conference on Friday) and perhaps I needed a little time to decompress. And that it's not the end of the world if my students don't get their papers back on Tuesday. Today, depression didn't win. 

Normally I don't publish my book review here because I think they're crappy. But I think I did a pretty darn good job articulating why I REALLY LOVED The Hunger Games:

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Some books have the ability to completely captivate me. I get so engrossed in the world of the book that I really don't notice anything else going on around me. I love books like these.


I read The Hunger Games in one day. I couldn't stop. Katniss was absolutely fascinating. She has such a pragmatic personality. She's cold, and has little room in her life for love and compassion; she's too focused on keeping herself and her family alive. But her determination to live and survive serves to illustrate her passion for life. It's that reverence for life that makes her volunteer as Tribute. Prim is young and not so pragmatic--she hasn't been hardened by life. She would not do well in the Hunger Games. I also think that reverence for life underscores her developing feelings for Peeta. She's so used to fighting for survival that her burgeoning feelings--in probably the worst circumstances possible--come as a surprise to her. Her feelings for Peeta ultimately enable her to stay true to herself and her values and, as Collins deftly demonstrates throughout the novel, this is no easy feat.


Ultimately it was Katniss herself which kept me reading. Her struggle to survive--and to live in the fullest sense of the word--gave The Hunger Games an incredible readability. I didn't want to stop reading, and I couldn't wait to finish it, but at the same time I'm sad I'm done reading it. I can only hope that the other other two books in this trilogy are equally good because I can't wait to return to Panem.


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Ode to Howl's Moving Castle

19 December 2011

Seriously, the last two weeks have been hella stressful. Every semester I tell myself that I’ll be better about my grading, but I totally failed at that this semester. As a result, I haven’t done much the last week but sleep, eat, and grade. Thankfully, now all of my grading is done and my grades are posted. Now comes my yearly pre-Christmas frantic cleaning and errand running. Fun! (not really)

But all of that is for tomorrow. Right now I’m watching my go-to relaxation movie, Howl’s Moving Castle. I bought a copy of this ages ago solely because I’m huge Studio Ghibli fan (and apparently I paid a whopping $24.95 for it). I watched it, and enjoyed it, but it wasn’t until I spent a semester in England that I really became attached to it.

Without a doubt, that semester in England was one of the most stressful periods of my life, and I did not handle it well at all. I realize now that I was going through a pretty serious bout of depression (which began before I even left for England), but hindsight is 20/20. I spent four months cold, broke, sick, lonely, and hungry. I was there January through May of 2007.  English winters were a shock to me. Now, I’ve lived in the South for my entire life, ya’ll. I was not used to months of cold, rainy, cloudy days. I did not have suitable attire for English winters, so I was cold pretty much all the time. My stomach was constantly hurting from the stress of the work load. And every two weeks, like clockwork, I got sick.  

For some reason, the only thing that would give me any modicum of relief was watching Howl’s Moving Castle. I’m not sure why. I would watch it over and over again in one sitting. That movie was my escape, my comfort.  It still is. Even now, I rarely travel without it. Even though Diana Wynne Jones was English and movie is Japanese, something about it felt like home. In watching it, I was able to get lost in the narrative. It enabled me to forget about looming paper deadlines (there was this paper about Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Women that was particularly torturous) and the need to put together a dissertation committee from overseas. When watching Howl’s Moving Castle, all of that disappeared for a bit.

There’s something captivating about the story. I love everything about it, the narrative, Sophie, Miyazaki’s signature animation style, his use of color and imager, I even love the English dub. And I have this movie to thank for introducing me to one of my all-time favorite authors, Diana Wynne Jones. (fyi: Howl’s Moving Castle is a delightful book, quite a bit different than the film, but fantastic all the same) Watching it today reminds me of that time in my life. I don’t regret going to England. I met some interesting people (oddly enough, they were mostly Americans). I got the chance to live with an English family for five weeks. I was able to go to London multiple times. I got the chance to see Patrick Stewart perform in two different Shakespeare plays (Yes, I was in the same room as Captain Picard!!!) I read some absolutely fantastic Victorian literature, and I loved, loved, loved talking about that literature in my classes.

But underneath it all, was that insidious depression (mental illness is a bitch like that). I wish that back then I had been brave enough to get help. What I didn’t realize at the time was that no amount of interesting and cool stuff and fun people could make that go away. I really felt like a freak because I couldn’t have fun like the others. But for a couple of hours at least, Howl’s Moving Castle, helped me not think about it all. And for that, I’m still profoundly grateful. 

A Word Cloud of the First Chapter of My Dissertation

Why I Decided to Go to College

7 November 2011

This week I’m teaching a cluster of essays that asks students to ponder whether or not college is worth the effort. Today I asked them to spend a few minutes writing about why they decided to go to college. Many of them said that they decided to go to college so that they can obtain jobs that pay well once they graduate. Very few said that their decision was based on the desire to learn and experience new things.

Their answers made me ponder what was behind my decision to go to college. And the honest answer is that this was a decision I never made—it was made for me by my mother. I remember my mother dropping me off at my very first day of school. Before I got out of the car, she told me that I was at the beginning of a long journey that would eventually take me to college. “And you will go to college,” she said. This is something that she reiterated many times throughout my education. So when the time came for me to think about what I was going to do after high school, there was only one option on my mind—college.

Her desire for me to go to college was not monetarily based. She wanted me to go to college so that I could find something that I loved doing. Even when we struggled financially, and there was a lot of that in my teen years, her desire for me to get a college education was so that I could spend my life in a career that I loved. And this was good, because I seriously considered becoming an archaeologist when I was in high-school. (I love me some Pre-Columbian cultures!).

College was a good fit for me. I loved (most) of my classes. I read so many interesting works of literature, I learned to speak Spanish, I spent a summer studying in Mexico, I declared a second major in history—just because I enjoyed it so much. And when I realized that studying and teaching literature was something that I loved doing, no one was more excited for me than my mother. Both of my parents supported me, even though my decision wasn’t one that was going to pay off financially. They still support me in any way they can, and when I FINALLY finish my dissertation and get my PhD no one will be cheering more loudly than my parents. .

Though I’ve questioned my decision to pursue my doctorate in English, I’ve never regretted it. Studying literature and teaching brings me more joy and fulfillment than any other career could. This is more than a career for me, it’s a vocation. And it all started with a five year old girl sitting in a car with her mother on the first day of school. 

I am a Crotchety Old Woman?

6 November 2011

I like to think of myself as young and young at heart. I have examples and everything! Last night, I walked over to my neighbor’s apartment and together we watched a couple of episodes of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic and Jem and the Holograms. Sure, these are cartoons aimed at 5-7 year olds and we are both 34, but that’s youthful! And then, at midnight, we decided to go over to another friend’s house. And then I had 2 glasses of wine! (Note: my friend did not—she was driving. We are youthful, but responsible.) Drinking (which is totally fine because I am over 21)! 12am shenanigans! And by shenanigans I mean we talked very loudly and watched a bunch of episodes of Parks and Recreation--but it was very late at night, That’s very college student-esque!

I’m providing you with these examples of my youthfulness because I am convinced that a crochetedy old woman lives inside of my head.

Example 1: I see some of the clothes teenagers and young college students wear and I think they look inappropriate. For example, a few weeks, I was teaching class, and one of my students walked in, wearing a skin tight mini-skirt with a loose fitting top that fell over her shoulder to reveal her bra strap. Now, she did look cute, but it’s class, not Friday night. Every time she got up, every straight boy in my classroom was ogling her.  In another class, a male student came to class wearing pajama pants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Last year, I had a student who wore a skirt so short to class that she had to put a coat over her lap to cover everything up. 10 years ago, I did not have these issues. I don’t really remember noticing what my students wore to class. I thought tight, midriff baring tops were totally cute. I was all about low-rise jeans (well, I still am actually).

Example 2: I live near two sports stadiums. I am not a sports person, so I could really care less about all of this sports hoopla. Most of the time living near these two stadiums not bad, but when there’s a game, the helicopters drive me insane. They’re constantly flying overhead. This morning the non-dulcet tones of an incredibly drone-y helicopter woke me up at 8am. It’s 8am helicopter people! The game doesn’t start until 7pm! Of course, the helicopters will be equally annoying at 7pm.

Example 3: Apparently, it is my destiny to have neighbors who enjoy playing their music loudly at all hours of the night. I teach at 8am, so I have to go to bed pretty early. But I feel bad about asking someone to turn their music down at 9:30. It’s not like it’s midnight, it’s 9:30—that’s not particularly late. And also, I’m going to bed at 9:30pm. 9:30!?! The 10 years ago me would have scoffed at going to bed so early.

Now I don’t particularly want to be 10 years ago me ever again. It was a wretched time in my life. But I was in my early 20s then—I was really young then. I’m still young now, but slightly less so. And I feel more alive and confident and vibrant and youthful and happy at 34 than I did at 24. So, if this is the case, why has a crotchedy old lady come to live in my head? I am not old!

(And I didn't blog yesterday. Boo to me. But I was out being youthful and stuff! And doing laundry.)

Zoozey, Molly Bloom, and the Vet: Definitely Not a Fun Combination

4 November 2011

The highlight of my Friday was wearing my brand new hot pink sequined converse tennis shoes. I bought them yesterday because I knew I’d need something morale boosting to get me through my Friday. Because today, I had to take two of my cats to the vet.

As any cat owner knows, taking a cat to the vet is never fun. We all seriously deserve medals for getting our cats proper veterinary care. Because it is not easy. They hate going with a passion they reserve for only a few things, and they make you hate taking them even more. I speak from extensive personal experience.

I am the former owner of a “caution kitty.” Caution kitties REALLY REALLY REALLY HATE the vet. More than other cats. Caution kitties sometimes have to be muzzled or sedated just to get exams. Caution kitties, who are otherwise nice well-behaved cats, will rip you, your clothes, the vet, and the vet techs to ribbons. The owners of caution kitties get phone calls from their vets when they board them, begging you to come pick your caution kitty early.  It gets even more fun when your caution kitty goes into renal failure and has to go to the vet every two weeks for bloodwork. And I now know, that caution kitties don’t mellow with age.

Rocky is in kitty heaven now, and, because I’m insane, I now have three cats, none of whom (thank God) are caution kitties. But they still don’t make it easy. This morning I had Molly Bloom all ready to go in her harness and leash. About 2 minutes after I got her in the leash and harness, she had managed to pull herself out of the harness. I saw her running around with her collar around her head. As soon as I had caught her, Zoozey, the other cat I was taking to the vet, escaped from his cage. Clearly, they did not want to go to the vet. And Zoozey is really really hard to catch. Running away from stuff is his very favorite thing to do, so he’s gotten pretty fast. My third cat, who was not going to the vet today, wisely decided to hide under a desk. I could swear he was smirking at me as I was running around and chasing Molly Bloom and Zoozey.

Fortunately, that was the worst part of today’s veterinary experience. Zoozey glared at me from the back corner of his cage and meowed like he was being tortured.  And Molly Bloom, who is ever the energetic cat, tried to get into everything she possibly could within seconds of being released from her cat carrier. But Zoozey is all show and he was semi-cooperative with his exam and vaccinations. Molly Bloom, who had to spend the day at the vet for a test, won herself a legion of fans with her enthusiasm for absolutely everything—apparently, for Molly, even the cage at the vet is a toy for her to play with.

Molly and Zoozey are home now, worn out from their day. I’m worn out too. 

Morbidly Awesome

3 November 2011

It’s day 3 of NaBloPoMo! And it’s Thursday, which I’m wildly excited about it, but only because I’m one day closer to sleeping in on Saturday.

I feel like it’s pretty obvious to most people that I’m a weird geeky nerd. I wear my weird geeky nerd flag proudly. What’s perhaps not so obvious is that I have a fascination with the morbid. You’re reading the blog of the person who, as a teenager, insisted that her father take her to the Museum of Funeral History. It was super cool and interesting, btw. I totally want to go back. (Right now I have a mental image of my mother shaking her head and saying “I just don’t know where she gets it from.”)

And so I ran across a video today that totally appeals to my interest in the morbid. It’s called Ask a Mortician and Caitlin the mortician will answer any questions about that viewers have about death, dying, funeral rites, and death-y stuff like that. Here's a link to the video.Caitlin makes being a mortician seem super cool, which, if you think about it, is probably no easy feat. She answers questions about rigor mortis and cremation in a fun and interesting way that makes me want to think of a question to ask her. Her website, Order of the Good Death, is pretty interesting.

This is a straight up random blog entry. Really random.

2 November 2011

Buenos dias readers! It’s the second day of NaBloPoMo (which is really fun to say out loud)

Today, I did not work on my dissertation. I’ve done no grading. And right now I’m watching tv. But I did spend pretty much all day teaching. It’s the productiveness that I get paid for, so that’s certainly an important part of my day.  And darn it, six hours of teaching freshman composition is pretty tiring. I also think I might be crashing from the large amount of Halloween candy I’ve eaten today. What I’m saying here is that I think I’ve earned some tv time.

So I’m watching The Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew Mysteries, which so far seems like a live action version of Scooby Doo. I’m not hating it. I watched a whole lot of Scooby Doo when I was a kid. Frank and Joe Hardy, along with their band of intrepid crime solving friends are the meddling kids of this world. And they are certainly as equally wholesome as the Scooby gang. Their 1970s clothing isn’t as fabulous as that of  Hawaii Five-O, but it’s my personal opinion that it’s hard to reach the level of fabulousity that is Hawaii-Five-O. Plus THB/ND doesn’t have the mesmerizing power of Jack Lord’s hair. Although Shaun Cassidy’s hair could perhaps be a distant second to Jack Lord’s.

And before you go thinking I have an odd obsession with tv hair….Well, hell. Maybe I do. I was going to say it’s because I tend to latch on to strange things when I’m tired and headachy, but I do find Jack Lord’s hair mesmerizing even when I’m not tired and headachy. However, I don’t think Shaun Cassidy’s hair will seem as fabulous after a good night’s rest. Or really anyone else’s.

I’m going to go watch Psych now. Because I love that show! I must say that I don’t find Shawn and Gus’s hair mesmerizing at all. Maybe my mesmirization only applies to only1970s tv hair and not 2000s tv hair. Which really isn’t any less weird. In fact, it might be more weird.

Well, now I’ve always wondered what kind of blog I’d come up with if I wrote about what I was doing at any given moment. Now I know. A weird one. 

Dissertation=Insanity

1 November 2011

My office mate says that grad school is enough to make anyone crazy. I think she’s right. Who in their right mind would do willingly undertake all of the stress and the mountain of work that is graduate school? Me.

I’ve been pondering this because I’m currently writing my dissertation. I chose some really dense theory to work with. I love Homi Bhabha and postcolonial theory, but it frustrates me so much. Why am I doing this to myself? Because I’m crazy. I mean, I did willingly undertake this whole PhD thing in the first place.

With my dissertation my normal state is one of avoidance. I am really really good at not working on my dissertation. I will do just about anything to not work on it—even things I don’t particularly enjoy doing. I’ll clean, take my cats to the vet, grade, do laundry—anything but work on my dissertation.

However, for some reason, a metaphorical fire has been lit under my ass, because I have suddenly and inexplicably become quite determined to submit my first chapter and submit it soon. I spent all weekend working on it. All I did was dissertate, sleep and eat cookies. By the end of the weekend, my apartment was a mess, I had been wearing the same clothes for two days, and I was in sore need of a shower. And after all of that work, I went from having six pages to having nine—and a paragraph. All that work—and three pages.

Where is the girl who wrote a really good 10 page paper on D.H. Lawrence’s The Plumed Serpent in 8 hours? She needs to come back and stay forever and ever. Because if she were here, this chapter would have been submitted already.

It would appear that even when I’m actually working on my dissertation, I don’t want to do it. But the thing is, I do. I could talk to you about postcolonial theory, Homi Bhabha, and 19^th century England all day long. (Not that you’d want to listen) Seriously. I love this stuff. I think my idea for this chapter is really interesting. So why am I not making more progress?

Blargh. I’m just frustrated. Not a good way to start National Blog Post Month, but right now, my dissertation is all I can think about.

Further evidence that I am enormously nerdy and geeky.

Today on Facebook, Geek Chic Daily posted an image from New York Comic Con. You can see a picture of it here: http://youbentmywookie.com/news/hasbros-unite-revealed-micronauts-mask-candyland-jem-and-the-holograms-14158 There are lots of cool things on it, but in the right hand corner is Jem. Jem! Naturally, I was super extra excited at the thought of the reissue of Jem dolls because I love me some Jem. So I sent this email to a friend who loves Jem just as much as I do:
Jem needs to have a presence in the hot pink corner of my office, and this could make that possible! I can see it now: Jem and Barbie (of Barbie and the Rockers fame) can be fabulous and hot pink together with Bubbles and the doll with the hot pink hair and fish net stockings that I found at a gas station. They can play concerts to the wall of action figures and my sci-fi Mr Potatohead collection. Wow. My half of the office is pretty darn geeky. And I love it SO MUCH. 

Insomniac Rambling About Jack Lord's Hair and my Late Night TV Viewing Habits

8 September 2011

Insomnia blows, People. Lately, when day turns to night and people begin to ponder a hours of blissful slumber, my body decides that it is pefect time to be WIDE AWAKE. Even if I got three hours of sleep the night before. I’m really kind of hating my body right now.

But there’s a silver lining to every cloud, and I have discovered the joys of late night-tv. Apparently, after 10pm my viewing tastes change. Instead of normal diet of sci-fi, anime, and the Gilmore Girls, all I want to watch are procedural crime dramas. My current favorite is the original Hawaii Five-O starring Jack Lord. If you’ve never watched anything with Jack Lord, then you have missed the glory that is Jack Lord’s hair. Nothing ever happens to it. It doesn’t matter if Steve McGarret gets shot, beaten, kidnapped, if he’s burning a sugar cane field or running six blocks to catch a criminal. It looks EXACTLY THE SAME. It’s mesmerizing. And if he happens to be wearing some crazy casual clothes his hair is even more fascinating.  (Steve seems to be rather fond of jaunty, but brightly colored, ascots—which are AWESOME) See the awesomeness? 

No one can rock an orange ascot like Steve McGarret. No one.

And while watching it I wonder how people even got out of bed and functioned in the 1970s. And I was alive in the 1970s (for two whole years—so it counts). They’re all wearing polyester, and it must be hot in Hawaii, but absolutely everyone looks fabulous, wearing their suits and ascots and cute minidresses, so that’s a reason to get out bed right there. Fantastically awesome wardrobes. But they have to go to phone booths to make calls when they’re not at headquarters. Cutting edge forensic science includes making a cast of a man’s footprint. And in the episode I watched this evening, the guy tracing the phone call had to literally trace cables across a ginormous warehouse. And my first car was a 1972 Mustang, so I know how hard it is to drive those gunboats featured on the show as police cars.

And then I tell all of this to my mother, who, being 27 years older than me, was around for all of the 70s, and she looks at me like I’ve gone crazy. I probably have. The lack of sleep you know, and the fact that I love no piece of technology like I love my cell phone (and automatic cat food timer, but that’s another entry) And when she was visiting me a couple of weeks ago, she was as glued to the Hawaii Five-O as I was. We marathoned it, watching 20 episodes in something like 3 days. She says loves the show because she likes crime shows (and to be fair she really does), but I really think it’s because of Jack Lord’s hair. She’s just as mesmerized as I am. But she still thinks I’m crazy. 

Steve says I'm not crazy. I'm right to be mesmerized by his hair.

Adventures in Grad Studenting: Life Sucks Sometimes, But Perhaps That’s a Not Such a Bad Thing.

So I wrote this four months ago and completely forgot to post it, so here is my entry, in all of its magnificent glory

6 May 2011

 I’m feeling quite demoralized today, and I’m having a bit of a pity party. And all I really want to do right now is order a pity pizza, drink real Coke, and watch multiple episodes of Murder, She Wrote.

Today was our First Year Composition yearly end of semester meeting. And it did start off pretty well: I won a best practices award today for my teaching for the third year in a row (yay me! And another line for the CV). But the meeting quickly made its way to disappointing territory when we began to discuss next year’s curriculum. I have absolutely no complaints about the curriculum—I understand its purpose, it’s well thought out, well written, it will be incredibly beneficial to students, and it will most certainly make my life easier while I’m trying to finish my dissertation. I’ll be happy to use it in the fall. Really. I mean it. (And my words are sincere. There’s absolutely no sarcasm here).

I just feel that this curriculum is further evidence that my freedom to create assignments and assignment sequences is being taken away bit by bit every year, and this feels a little demoralizing. I’m incredibly passionate about my teaching, and I truly love where I teach. It’s the whole reason I went to grad school in the first place. And I put so much hard work and effort into creating my classes, assignments, and lessons. Learning how to do all of that has made me a better instructor.

Perhaps this evidence I just need to finish up my dissertation, graduate, and move on. But even that’s kind of sad. I love where I teach; my colleagues and bosses are wonderful, and what they’re wanting us to teach and their rationale behind it is solid stuff. Things can’t and shouldn’t stay the same forever, nor would I want them to. I guess I’m just a little sad about the change and maybe this is evidence that I’m really just scared about actually finishing and leaving the relative safe world of grad school.

So I left school this afternoon feeling a bit on the irked side and the demoralization just dug its way deeper into my psyche after I got home. A few weeks ago one of my committee members nominated me for our department’s yearly academic excellence award (yay her!) And then I learned that I didn’t win the award. Logical me says that it was an honor to be nominated for the award in the first place and that my submission for the award was really strong. But then emotional me creeps in with her disappointment and questions the quality of my submission, which was the prospectus for my dissertation—the project over which I’ll be spending the next couple of years sweating blood and tears. But logical me is jumping back in. Because you know what?  My prospectus IS good. And even though the free food at the banquet would have been cool, and the award plaque would have been cooler and the award money would have been the coolest, in the end none of that matters. These disappointments, these are right now. My dissertation is what I need to get my PhD, and I’ve been dreaming of this PhD since I was 19. That PhD is my future and teaching English is more than just my chosen career path, it’s my vocation. And I am determined to make all of this help me into being a better instructor and a better scholar. ‘Cause that’s how I roll.

This is the nice thing about writing/blogging on my feelings about all of this. I gave myself a pep talk and you all (if there are any you all out there) get to read it and (perhaps) feel pepped up yourselves. I do actually feel better now and less demoralized.

But I’m still going to drink my Coke, order my pity pizza and watch Murder, She Wrote. And one more (completely unrelated) thing: my cat is grooming the couch. I have no idea why, but it’s just kind of funny.

A Very Informative Post About Easter (Not Really, But Read It Anyway...Please?)

Easter is my very favorite holiday (it's so pretty! and there are bunnies!) and I try to spend each Easter with my parents. So after I finished teaching on Thursday, I packed up my car, loaded my cats into the back seat and headed home. After an agonizingly long 5 hour drive (filled with whiny cats who were very vocal with their displeasure about being stuffed into cat carriers for 5 hours) I arrived home, ready for Easter weekend. Little did I know that it would be filled with learning (of a sort).

So, without further ado, I present the list of things I learned (because I know you were waiting with baited breath):

·         1 twin bed + 2 large adult cats + 1 me = 4 nights of bad sleep

·         It will always rain when I wash my car, even if there is a drought.

·         I will never grade, work on my dissertation or read for school while visiting my parents, so I need to stop lugging all of that stuff. That backpack is really really heavy.

·         I spend inordinate amounts of time on my computer while visiting my parents. (And I’m still not any better at Bejewled Blitz than I was before)

So there you have it. The results of my very informative (not really) weekend. I know you the readers of my blog (if there are in fact any of you at all) are the better for having read this. (Again, not really, but thanks for reading anyway).