Not a Pre-Arrival Processing Center in the Strictest Sense

According to www.obgyncentersonline,
a Pap Smear:

"A Pap smear is a test to collect cells from the cervix, the lower, narrow end of the uterus. Laboratory analysis of the sample is used to look for abnormalities that might suggest the presence of cervical cancer or infection and inflammation. The American Cancer Society (ACS) recommends that women have their first Pap smear three years after first having sexual relations, or at age 21 if they have not been sexually active. Other experts suggest these tests should begin no later than age 18.

Dr. George PAPanicolaou developed the Pap smear more than 60 years ago, and it is now a standard gynecological screening test. As a result, the rate of death from cervical cancer has dropped dramatically over the years. Women who have regular Pap smears are very unlikely to develop invasive cervical cancer. In addition, when the disease is detected in its early stages, it is highly treatable.

Each year, 55 million Pap tests are performed in the United States, according to the National Cancer Institute (NCI). Approximately 6 percent – or 3.5 million – are found to be abnormal and require medical follow–up."

So you see, bloody cells might interfere
with the results of the test, yet is highly unlikely
due to the extent of the test's improvements
over the past 45 years. Yeah Dr. Papanicolaou!

"Pap" is also dialectical for nipple
as well--which could be what you were thinking of Euhem--
I used the word once in a poem about the Sudan . . .

But! I must say it does bother me that men
are often so, well, squeamish about the whole thing!
Of course Freud had his theories on that,
as did Irigrary have hers . . . I'd love to expond
on those theories, if anyone's interested.


Well! I should get some interesting hits today!
With the word "nipple" and all!

The Loveliest Pap Smear of All

It went well.
Much much better than expected.

So, that's good advice--
keep your expectations low . . .

Mixed Messages

Am I suppose to love my body
or not?

I just got off the phone with my doctor's office.

I have an appointment for my annual pap--
yes, one of THOSE posts, beware--
tomorrow morning at 8:45 (think of me).

Not that any woman looks forward to
gazing at the ceiling for those awkward 14 minutes,
even if they post pictures of Lisa Frank dolphins
dancing on the tiles,
but I have had especially bad experiences.

This is a new doctor, Dr. Paxil.
I chose her because she is a woman
and I thought we could relate professionally--
see my August post on how that went over.

I still "need" a pap & she's my fricken doctor--
so why not?
When I scheduled the appointment,
I suggested to the receptionist that I may start
my menses soon. "Call if you do."

I did.

Called:

"Hello. I have an appointment tomorrow
for my pap, but I started. Do I need to reschedule?"

"Yes, you can. Absolutely. I can get you in next week."

"But I need my BC to start on Sunday."

"Oh dear. Well, [younger woman] they can do it
while your on. It just makes me so uncomfortable . . ."

"Well, ok. I'll keep my appointment then."

"Let me check with the doctor . . ."

[Stupid music and advice on Cancer;
the voice drones on about "cutting-edge technology"
and I toy with the idea of calling
their marketing division and asking if that's honestly
the metaphor they want to use . . .]

"She said that it was really your choice.
But if you would like for her to call in
and refill your script for 30 days she could do that."

"I don't have a current script. I think I need
to keep the appointment. I feel comfortable,
good, about my body. I mean, do you think
she'd be ok with that?"

"Um. Yeah, sure. I'm sure she's seen a lot worse!"

I cough/gag, "ehem" into the phone.

"I mean, they're doctor's right?"

"Yes. I suppose. Good-bye."

What the h*ll!!

How can we women love our bodies
when even the f*cken female medical profession
treats us like CONTAMINATION?

The whole reproductive rights process
in this culture is so screwed up--
I can't even begin.
I just wish they'd all stay out of my cervix!

Time to Peek Out of My Shell

WTF going on with Canada?
Is it just me,
(along with the release of Episode III)
or is there a twisted triangle between:

Prime Minister Paul Martin--
George W.--
and the Supreme Chancellor Palpatine
(aka the evil Emperor)??

A triangle framed by the mysterious,
haunting phrase:
"a vote of no confidence"?

A couple years ago,
some bus driver in Canada volunteered
some information according to his perspective;
he said, "You American? It's ok, it's ok.
You know . . . we wanted to help you in this war--
yeah, yeah. We wanted to go fight with our brothers--
you are like brothers. Yeah. But the government?
All French politics in Quebec--
they don't know what we want."

His voice and mannerisms still haunt me.

***

Why can't Israel have a Red Star of David? Muslim
countries have the Red Crescent,
we have the Red Cross, why not the Star?
Instead, they have to have a "crystal"??
A fricken crystal?

***

Who needs Kyoto,
an entire assembly of negotiating nations
trying to stop the long-term effects
of greenhouses gasses,
when we have Dr. Harlan L. Watson,
senior climate negotiator for the U.S. Department of State?
A man who states that the US is down .8 %
under Bush? or is it the past two months,
because of President Katrina?

***

Saddam Hussein may get off
on technicalities (thanks to an American
attorney--incredulous--a former General Attorney?!)--
if he doesn't die climbing 4 flights of stairs
everyday to his court room.

***

Heh-heh. "Guest-worker" Plan.
Don't guests get fresh sheets and towels?

***

Finally--here at home.
The school levy passed last year;
it has just been announced that the district
plans to hire more athletic coaches.

Thank goodness. Whew. That was a close one.

There Ought to be a Law

The barren hills
are crawling with orange ant-like
army men with high power riffles

way too close to the road.

On my commute today,
I hunkered down in my seat
waiting for the stray bullet
to pierce the door, the hood, the windshield
of my car
and end my miserable little life
in one red splat.

Ok, I'm not too miserable today really.
I found a sale on nutcrackers,
a chef, a soccer player, a fisherman, and a king,
to give to this little six-year-old boy I know--
who, of all things, wants a collection of nutcrackers
for Christmas this year.
Who is this kid's parents?

It's 69 degrees; tomorrow is set for 45.
I'd take off this sweater
if I hadn't gained that 4lbs
eating cookies and cakes all last quarter.
Ooops.

I Must Say

With all the war, death, pain,
and outrage in the world,

it is indeed a miracle that God
sent His Son to earth

as a ray of Hope, of Goodwill--
for all the years to come.

A miracle that pierces my anger
and confusion
like a fresh Mystery
I've only begun to breathe.

And the Grades Boil Down

*The Quarter Ends*
Not with a BOOM,
but with a fizzle:

97 Students/4 Classes

36 A
17 A-

13 B+
1 B
10 B-

4 C+
0 C
1 C-

2 D+
1 D
0 D-

6 F
2 N/S

This is not the bell curve you are looking for--
move along.

Even with 53 As and 24 Bs,
I'm still bent out of shape over the Fs--
no one should ever fail one of my classes.
I simply cannot comprehend it.

Oh well, guess I'll find cheer in a bottle of rum tonight.
Let the holidays begin!

More Time for Blogging

Did I mention that I was resigning
from our local chapter of
Habitat for Humanity?
Too "clubby."

Any other bright ideas out there?

Yes, Fire and Ice

If I had a daughter,
she'd like dragons.

She'd keep a fire dragon
under her mattress, a puzzle
of course, and I'd sneak it out.

Have it matted and framed.

I'd want to make curtains for her room,
curtains made from blue Persian silk
with embroidered bonsai trees.

I wouldn't understand
why she would hesitate to ask friends
from school to come and enter
the fantasy land I'd try to create
just for her.

Not Exactly Sharon Olds

She can't talk to her father.
Not only has he developed a hearing loss
over the past 20 years,
but he has never even tried to compensate.

Instead, he talks.
And talks.

The only speech he seems to understand
is the last three words or so
of his own dialogue echoed back to him:

"Did you have a good Thanksgiving?"

"Yeah, real good."

"Your mother and I went to see Grandma."

"Saw Grandma?"

"Well, she's not doing too good."

"Not doing too good?"

"No. She's half out of her mind. Doesn't
know who people are--thinks Grandpa is in the hospital."

"In the hospital?"

"Yeah. We don't have the heart to keep telling her.
No one should go through that much pain."

"Not that much pain."

"No. There's a book the kids are suppose to sign--"

"A book?"

"but you never know if someone's been in
and forgot to sign. So your mom went down
with her sister Judy."

"Judy? How's she?"

And the conversation goes on and on,
quite painfully.
She tries to keep her echos to a five word minimum.

MTV has helped with that, she supposes.

He rarely asks about her life,
and only wants to hear her troubles.
Success escapes in mutters--quick jabs
that end the conversation quicker than
an injected antibiotic.

Laments seem to be his
aging lullaby--a rythmic solace.
Twain would be proud;
Faulckner, unsympathetic.

I can believe, oh too easily,
in this dark, hollow caricature
with filmy, beady, little blue eye balls.

Good Morning Cruel, Sad World

I will eat another piece of pumpkin pie
for breakfast--just you try to stop me!

Why do writers often italicize linking verbs?
As if all emphasis should be placed on "do."

I'm still trudging through _Swan_,
but as Shields tracks down the origins
of this manuscript
we discover just how "collaborative"
writing & publication is/can be.

Because I am such a conspiracy-theorist,
I completely buy into the idea that most writing
is collaborative--almost no line is pure . . .

Can you imagine what the next generation
might do with all of these
bits and pieces we call blogs?

I Want a Puppy for Christmas

Just not for the other 364 days.

But I can feel him now--
wagging his tail and licking
that spot under my chin
beside my ear.




[sic--that's why I keep you around Blue:
I mean my jaw line, smart *ss!]

2 Notes:

#1 I like pretending that I am "away" on holiday--
not checking (read answering) my email,
not answering the phone,
not blogging (much).

#2 Never decide to quit/miss taking your, ehem,
selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors
before or during the holidays.

Just not a good idea. Suddenly,
your insides are spinning out of control.

Waist Not Tomorrow My Friends

I've never roasted a turkey
and I don't plan to start anytime soon.
Even if that means I must endure in-laws.

Mmmmmmmmmm. Turkey.

Can you believe my mum-in-law
wants me to fast before coming down?
So she can prick me with her
new diabetes machinery.
She pricks everyone. Pun intended.

The woman is nuts--and it isn't cashews.

My own grandmother died of diabetes--
with a fried chicken wing in one hand.

Not true.

I'm just angry that she did not control
her diet more.
She died 4 times that night.
And was painfully revived each time--
cracking several ribs.
why was she heroically revived?
I'm not sure--I was sixteen
and had just started a new job at Dairy Queen.
Where they treat you right.
Unless you have diabetes.

If you have diabetes, or a serious weight problem,
please, relax, take it easy tomorrow.

More on _Swan_

This dreadful little novel
was given to me by a dear acquaintance--
a scholar really. She is well-read,
well-traveled, even presented papers
on TS Elliot somewhere in England.
She's led a privelged life
and is only about 24-26.

This woman is also quite fashionable,
lovely and energetic. Prim, some would suggest.
Definately admirable.

So when she gave me Carol Shield's _Swan_
and I read the first 20 pages, I was enchanted.

The entire book is about a feminist scholar
who "discovers" an ambigious poet and attempts
to unravel a curious mystery (above all
which seems, to this reader, to be whether or not
the poet is actually good, or if the desire
to publish and romanticize the self creates this poet).

A fun read.

But I am bothered by the implicit ideology
of academic life as expressed in the descriptions
of the novel. Life for these academics
is too externally ordered and, well, "perfect."
Cobblestone villas, wine, fabulous silks,
unattached youth,
eccentric characters who juggle with millions . . .

One passage in particular stabs:

"Often, even here in California, homeland of long-legged American beauties, he sees extraordinary unattractive women--sallow or bent or overweight or in some way deformed--riding on buses or dragging through department stores. Their shopping bags and the children they tug along confirm without doubt that these women are married. Who would mary such women? Jimroy has asked himslf [. . .]"

This passage appears about 1/3
of the way through the book and is the first
glimps of external imperfection that the novel's voice sees.
Are the academic characters blind
to the ugliness and crisis of the "real" world
outside of their ivory towers?
Or is Carol Shields?

Or is my dear acquaintance
who offered the book & enjoyed it so much?

Can this be the novel's intent?
To raise such questions?

Hm. Or am I just plain bitter? Do I have to
put a "negative" spin
on all that I encounter?

Robert Browning, You Sexy Old Dog

Ferrara

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myselfthey turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 10
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my Lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 20
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart -- how shall I say? -- too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace -- all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech, 30
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, -- good! but thanked
Somehow -- I know not how -- as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech -- (which I have not) -- to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark" -- and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 40
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
--E'en then would be some stooping, and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence 50
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!


Thank you:
http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/rb/duchess.html

Atlanta, GA Aquarium

I want to visit
the new Aquarium in Atlanta
this week, but when I visit the site
I get:

We are currently experiencing a high volume of traffic.
If you are not forwarded to the website in 30 seconds
please try again later. Thank you.

And if the site is constantly
experiencing high traffic--
what must the exhibit be like?!

Birth control pills
should be over-the-counter
for 18 year olds.

Everything is Breaking

I came home to find
my favorite mug in a broken pile
of ceramic by the broom
in the corner of the kitchen.

This is a mug with history:
Dr. V. simply gave it to me one evening
when I complimented her on it.
She washed out the coffeee and handed it to me.
I loved her; and I hear she is ill . . .

perhaps I can use this incident to
reconnect . . .

"A Wonderfully Awful Idea"

said the Grinch.

"Go let in the dragon!"

A sneeze.
I've taken to wearing my scarf indoors.
I'm at a freeze.
So this is bird flu.

If I had a dragon,
he'd warm my feet in bed at night.

I went to a dance for MRDD adults
on Friday night. I loved it actually.
I loved the unabashed enthusiasm--
the free hugs and laughter.

One person, Tim, could really move.
I was watching his feet on the dance floor
with great pleasure.
"Oh, here goes Tim." I heard.
People rolled their eyes.
I watched closer.
"Does Tim take lessons?"
His feet were moving in fascinating rythmic patterns.
People shrugged and rolled their eyes again.

When Tim came over to our table,
I asked him.
I could barely understand him because of a stutter,
but I believe he said his mother and father
own a dance studio.
"You look fantastic! You've really got the moves."

An hour later, Tim asked my partner
if he could dance with me.
"That's up to her."
"Will you ask her?"
"No--you have to ask yourself."

He never asked & I was both relieved and sad.
I'm sure he could have out-danced me.

Yes, honestly,
some of the MRDD clients were painful to look at.
But I think their differences
are simply more pronounced because
MRDD adults are not more visible in our communities.
[And if they are, we are taught as
children not to look, not to "stare."]

So I loved the dance--I loved escaping the blase
literary performance that tries to frame my life.

Holiday Ornaments

I hang my bits and pieces
of writing
up here on this blog in the same way
I see and select Christmas ornaments
for our prickly tree.

Some bits I find at discount stores,
marked down,
broken bits of glass
that no one else wants to look at.

Occasionally, I'll splurge on a crystal
star or prism snowflake I hope
hits the light just right.

But my favorites are stacked away
in boxes slowly filling with mildew,
wrapped in last year's tissue paper.
These pieces of color and craft
create a kaliedescope of memories--
making new meaning each year
I rearrange their hangings on the tree.

Nothing will ever become of my ornaments.
Discarded one by one they shall be--
perhaps one or two may survive
a couple of decades. Hanging on a distant
nephew's tree out of secret obligation
until their origins become obscured.

But I will never know. For this year?
My ornaments simply feel so full, so bright,
so unageable.

The Mystery--She is Solved . . .

who else would have so much love?

My partner fessed up--
he had me flipped out pretty well--
stoking my ego and all . . .

he's just sore I won't let him
have access to this uber secret site.


I thought it was a pretty cute trick--
any ideas on how to get him back???

Talk About Delusions of Grandeur

I just came across this entry:
Is this for real?

Who's playing a trick on me?

Disoriented

Down
in the basement is a pole,
an iron pole that holds
this half of the house up.

I hooked my elbow
around this pole and began to spin.

The music from "Break Away"
drifted down the stairs
and I closed my eyes--

I don't know how old I was.
But I remember the poles on the playground.
Each spring they'd be painted silver
and flake
in my blistered palms.

When I opened my eyes,
the basement walls were unfamiliar
and quite a stand-still sort of shock.

Motorcycle Diaries

Great film--
full of compassion.

Good music.

Nibbling.

Watched part of the _MotorCylce Diaries_
last night.

Am reading Carol Shield's _Swan_.

Bits of snow are falling.

I could hang pictures . . .

I could go for a hike . . .

I could meet a friend for coffee . . .

or just snooze.

I should be boxing. Packing up.
Searching for more blogs to invade.
Writing that project. Jogging. Stretching.
Laundry even.

Bottom Shelf:
Norton Anthologies galore.
Taylor's _Deconstruction in Context_
Robert Jordon
An _Orgami Handbnook_
_From Dawn to Decadence_
_A Guide to Composition Pedagogies_
Anthology of African American Lit
a wooden tucan
_The Children's Bible_

Third Shelf:
_Pablo Picasso_
_The Golden Hind_
some book on Egypt
_The Western Heritage_
complete collection of Shakespeare
Richter's _The Critical Tradition_
_The Riverside Chaucer_
a vacation picture
a King Jame's Study Bible

Second Shelf:
Monet
Kahlo
Escher
Taschen's _Pop Art_
_World Art Treasures_
_Journey to Beloved_ w/Oprah
Susan Cooper's _The Dark Is Rising_ set
Tan's _Bonesetter's Daughter_
_100 Award Winning Science Fair Projects_
a geo
a Couple's Devotional Bible

First Shelf:
Dali
Tolkien Trilogy
_44 Irish Stories_
Bulfinch's Mythologies
_Bloodroot_
Morrison's _Paradise_
Proulx's _Shipping News_
an Aztecian clay figure

Top Shelf:
African women candle holders
A rose encased in gold
A model airplane
A marble-eyed leopard from Cancun

Blue Balls

Just tell me
what the heck THIS is.

Curious Sequence of Clues

One secret is out:

I am reading Lemony Snicket's unauthorized autobiography.

He and I share a great deal of autoauthorized-type unbiography,
if you will.

We seemed to have originated from the same species.

Not that I've ever claimed witness to the Mothman.

Yet, I also don't have the expertise to type
this in Ariel or Lythograph.

But once I did swim in scummy water
up to my neck
under a crumbling stone archway.
Just to water greenbeans.

For no reason at all.

If I mastered the art of calligraphy,
I'd rubber it to the core.

My SSN# is 222-24-5577, shh,
just not in that order.

My Cell Phone Number

A friend of a friend of a friend
called tonight
to tell me
just how happy she is--

you see,
she grew up rather poor
and struggled most of her years.

but tonight,
when her children were cold,
she brought them home from school,
gave them hot chocolate,
put them in her new car,
and drove to their favorite department store.

And it wasn't a dollar tree,
walmart,
or even kmart.

they walked right in,
dazzled by the holiday glitter,
picked out the best winter gear in the store,
walked right up to the registar
and paid cash.

The children were warm,
cozy even. And the spree
never dent the budget
once. On the way home

it began to spit snow
and breath? it hung on the air.

Blue Balls

Just tell me
what the heck THIS is.

Simplify

I refuse to take a nap.

Interesting Link: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Randompage

First Day Back to Freedom

Has it really been 10 weeks?

My own cycles are starting to feel
ever more pronounced. Piecing
out my life in quarters.

What to do today?

Anything . . . but sleep.
Oh, sweet temptation--not this time.

Last Minute Pleas

My state U has lowered
admission standards
utill they accept ACT scores >17.

I have very mixed feelings about this.

Not that people are stupid/smart/ect.,
but I do think these score correlate to WORK ETHIC.
Hurray for finally opening the gate,
boo for taking these student's $$$ and not preparing
them for university work.

Here are some notes today from my email:

Sorry I did not have my paper up by 10. I thought you were having meetings
for two hours today but I guess I was wrong. I turned in both things to
your office. I hope this will not hurt my grade at all because my grade is
already not that great. Sorry again.

I am sorry that i am just now writing you an e-mail. Last Monday I severely
injured my back, pulling several muscles across my lower back and many along
my spine. i have been in bed for the past week, i have been to the hospital
and the best they could do was drug me up so i could at least sleep. I have
not been able to sit up to write to you. i am aware of what is due, and what i
owe you. I will have everything typed and crisp in a folder and marked. I was
hoping that I could turn that into youi on thursday along it the #2 formal
paper and the research paper. I need some time to type, i can't sit at a
computer for long periods of time. Thank you, and if you need proof of my
injury i can try and also give you copies of my hopital visit.

[From a young woman who had a poor attendence record all quarter and below standard work.]

So, I started thinking--have I gotten emails like this in the past? Have students slacked off as much in previous quarters?

No ... and I became depressed
at the beginning of the search.

To be sure, I began this quarter by asking
what's up with this new group of freshmen
BEFORE I found out about the scores.

I have, maybe, 10 people failing this quarter.
Outrageous.
And failing a student is against my grain--utterly.
But, if they absolutely do not turn in any work--what can I do?
I cannot ethically pass them.

I've Been Meaning to Ask:

Have you ever had a blog-crush?


Just wondering.

Il's Really Do Suck

My SIL's husband from Canada
has finally been approved for an interview.

It's been over 18 months--9 (I think) since
they were flagged by HomeLand Security,
trying to cross the border
(as a married couple "Like, we're married--
giggle giggle--and he's coming to live with me!)
without the proper visas.

My other SIL asked if she could move in with us.
Seriously.
I told her no, that I was too insane.
She punished me by making me watch slides
of her trip to Kentucky [some caves, ect.].
Her newest boyfriend? A "wican"?! WTF?

And just think: the holidays approach.

More Griping--Move Along

I think I could be a tougher grader
if I had more confidence
in the ciriculum that I've developed.

Firstly, I've, shhhhh, never even taken
a WS course in all of my living life.
So, it's not that I've had any training
or guide-lines in what to teach these students
and what to evaluate them on.

Secondly, my own background is Lit Theory.
Heavy emphasis on _theory_. Pretty sure
these 18-year-olds are getting too much theory
in a 100 level course, so I curve the grades.

Or should I say ricochet?

Try spelling that without a dictionary. Whew.

I don't think anyone deserves to fail Women Studies
unless they absolutely do _nothing_.
So, that leaves about 5 people failing.
And I feel like the shittiest teacher in the world.

Wonder what my new job will be?
BTW: Habitat printed the news letter without me.

No "Joy Luck Club" Here

Why do I let grading
get me down in the dumps?

I bent over backward
to let these chumps get good grades
on this second exam--you really have no idea &
I have no heart to explain it--trust me.

And most are writing pure crap.
"Yeah. I can really relate to,
like this essay, b/c I like go to frat parties
every weekend . . ."

Is that why you can not apply CRITICAL ANALYSIS
to this essay? Hmmm?

The past ten weeks feel so pointless
when these priveleged snots
write like this-- I seriously need to FAIL these twits . . .

I just don't have the vulva to do it.

Sex Cycles: October and November

Do you have particular months
when you notice that your labido peeks?

Mine would definately be October and November.

After making absolutely incredible love
with my partner last night,
I dreamed about love-making for the rest of the morning.
Only to wake up wanting more.
Although I think of myself as a sensual person,
this insatiable desire can often catch me off guard.

Perhaps I should read more on the biology of sexual desire?
Or just enjoy the warm, yummy-ness of desire on my skin?

Whip-o-wirl

Visiting a Science Institute today.
I like the Space sequence the best.
And the submarine.

Oh, and I can ride a unicycle
across a wire from 30ft up in the air.
Physics. Love it. (Weighted ball, ect.)

We adjuncts are a creative bunch, sumo.
My rhetoric & film course is considered edgy--
another friend teaches rhetoric through Harry Potter.
We use anything we can find to write about.

My "standard" ENG 151 is centered on Democratic Voice--
particularly the politics of identity (race/class/gender/ect.)
and critical/reflexive thinking about the self.

Yeah. Not as jazzy as Harry Potter.

Pst. I have *5* classes next quarter.
No fear, I don't think my 8:00am class will make . . .

A Strange and Marvelous Being

E 117 has a new addition:
a nice young man from the U of D
who is adjuncting
because his partner is enrolled in our program.

I call him young because he appears
almost elvish--
for example, I hear, he dressed as Harry Potter
for a Halloween party--a convincing HP.

I like him. He is kind and thoughtful.
Funny, at times.
He's excited about teaching a 153
centered on Lewis' _Narnia_ series
next quarter.

But I think I like him most,
selfishly enough,
because he has identified me as a writer.
He adds to illusions.

Whenever I become sparky in the office,
he's been know to (twice) say,
"You should write that. Seriously."

Odd little snippets that I never thought about writing . . .

I guess I am quite the story teller in person too.
So why don't I write?

*]What to write about? Theres really is
simply too much to choose from.

*]What if I put all of this time and energy into a project
& if fails??

I'm sure you bloggers have the answer.

The Moons of Jupiter

Are there really only 16?
What happens on the moons of Jupiter?
Can alien women leap frog
from one to another?
Like a licking lollipop tasting--
flitting from raspberry to rootbeer?

Maybe the 16 moons are 16 phases--
but of what? for whom? and WHY?

Cosmic questions
to be sure.

I must have been a marble in a past life.
Cat's eye.
Or snake eyes on a pair of red graphite dice.

Worn. So warn--with skid marks across the dust.

When you see sand dunes in the movies,
do you ever want to roll down them?
Leaving rippled groves on their perfect plains?

Sweet 16. 16 moons of Jupiter.

Got My Sticker Today--Did you?

So the old fart
got to pin a sticker on my blouce today.

I voted YES to all state issues
and voted for all women (except one
whom I know) in the local elections.

I voted to increase school levies.

I had an agenda: reek havok.

Crisis Resolved

I simply had to Republish my blog
to its new address.

A Ban on Crisis!

Thanks Susie~

when I changed my address in September,
did I lose all of my back info???

That was my one Christmas wish this year:
to have someone print off my blog, bind it,
and give it to me hard-copy.

I might die if I've lost all of this info . . .

It Takes a Nation (of Critical, Informed Thinkers)

My forefinger and thumb
are purple from squeezing
the Lipton's BlackBerry tea bag.

Throat is sore. My third class-
unmanageable.
Thank goodness it's Week 10--
I couldn't trudge on much longer.


If I had a Matthew,
he'd be starting First Grade in a new school.
He'd probably end up with the same teacher
my daughter had seven years ago.

Because he and his twin
had a mysterious speech delay,
I'd ask for a bit of help from
the speech therapist at the beginning of the year.

It would probably be a night like tonight,
when my partner and I would be called into conference.

This would be the first year
our schools would be operating under the
No Child Left Behind Act.

This would mean that Matthew
would have to qualify under some type of learning disability
in order to receive speech therapy
from the public school.

It would be all about State Funding.

I imagine we would walk into the conference
and be surprised at who was in attendance:

Mrs. M, Twin A's teacher, whom we've known forever;
Ms. G, Matthew's militant over-seerer;
Mrs. S, the school's over-worked speech therapist;
Ms. P, the school's over-dressed psychologist;
Mr. T, the school's over-zealous councilor;
and even, Mrs. N, the school's principal.

This would be the "intervention team."

At first I'd be extremely uncomfortable--
6:2 is not good odds . . .
I'd be prepared to tell them that Matthew's trouble
wasn't cognitive; instead, the fault is social.

Six years could be summed up easily--the first two,
pure survival; the next two, graduate school;
the most recent two, we've been working, but without
specialized direction.

In short, I imagine the doctors would have told us
that twin boys often have speech delays
(twin talking to each other, ect), and that we
would misunderstand the dr's good intentions
as "not to worry--
it'll fix itself."

But I believe that as two highly articulate parents,
we would win over the "intervention team."
The team would turn into just that:
8 educators concerned for the well being
of two intelligent, loveable boys.
We'd sit around and work out strategies and a time-line.

Matthew's report card of all Ss, S+s, and Os
would signal that he was a learner.
Ms. G would have to admit that he was the only child
to score 100% on the Math assessment.
Mrs. M would testify that both boys loved to read.

O! Then I would be reminded to tell the team
of how Matthew lost his two front teeth,
just when he was learning to speak--
a massive mouth injury, really.

I'd help the school put the pieces together.
I'd listen to their concerns.

But I would never let them "disable" my child
with a brash stigma,
so that they could receive more funding
from No Child Left Behind.

Week 10

Do you believe our memories
are encoded into our cells?

I do.
Or I hope.

I just had the most amazing dream:
chasing a little two year old boy,
named Matthew,
out of a bath with a towel.

He was giggling so hard--
really enjoying the chase.
And when I captured him,
he pulled me along.
I just wanted to fluff his hair.

He had the most amazing smile.


I still can't fully talk.
How to lecture today?
I guess I won't. Peer critiques anyway.

I've decided to look my best,
so no time for blogging.
I have a terrific nylon tank,
when I slipped it on this morning,
I got deodorant marks down the side. Crumby.
Must go fix.

Still a Bit Sad

So, yes, make up love is good.
Silence can be powerful.

We've decided to move.
It's this house.
Stiffling.

We want to start anew--
and I guess that can take
almost any shape we want.

Saturday Morning Rituals

Open eyes and gaze
at his tousled hair,
wide forehead, bushy eyebrows,
and big nose.
His lips are full
as I run the tip of my pinky over them.
He prys open his left eye to a slit.
We gaze at eachother.

Infinate.

Your Exam Shows You Have Laryngitis

Our dinner didn't turn out to be much of a date.
As soon as my partner "heard" me
try to speak, he convinced me to go to Urgent Care.

I agreed because I felt pressure in my ears.

My doctor, obviously from Ghana
because he spoke with the same accent as my 151 student,
found it extremely amusing that I had lost my voice.

My nurse asked if I had lost it--
yelling at "him." Har Har.


So, my partner is out now filling my scripts,
and for the first time, I feel a little woozy and scared . . .
He's rather cold to me
and refuses to touch me.
Irrevocable damage, no doubt.

Meanwhile, this weekend?
Doctor's orders:
"Treatment is mainly voice rest. Talk as little as possible (this includes whispering). Use written notes to communicateuntil your voice is back to normal."

So, right when we need to talk the most,
I physically can't.

Who knew?

So I attended the WS100 meeting
with a bunch of PhDs and I discovered
they didn't know "what in the h*ll" I was talking about.
In fact, the woman arranging the meeting put my ideas
in quotations instead of paraphrasing.
How embarrassing.

Derrida? Western system of binaries?
Hierarchal value in language?

I was incredulous. Stunned.
Confused.
Amused.
Light-headed.
Proud.
Eager.
Aggressive.
Inquisitive.

then . . . afterward . . .

doubtful.
insecure.
regretful.
stupid.
ashamed.
hopeless.

Just as I'm about to QUIT teaching on campus,
I find out that I am seriously right on target with my ideas.
LOUD. Oppinionated. Naive. Idealistic. Energetic.

But seriously, my collegues don't think in terms of "theory"--
and I don't know how they live without it. Unimaginable.

A couple laughed at the idea of teaching theory on a 100--
"Imagine your evaluations plummmeting."
Ha Ha. Snarf Snarf.

My evals have always been fine (excellent in some classes).
But this quarter?
They may be low because I SUCK, not b/c the students
aren't bright enough to get it . . .

Ummmmm . . . do my collegues "get it"?
I'm sure they must, but to what extent
if they do not find it life-changing/reaffirming?

You Wacky Bloggers

Thanks for the best wishes
on the quick repair to my oven,
Invisible. Love it.

And the voice lost being psychosymatic?
Intriguing.
But I have a fever this morning (pretty sure)
and my throat hurts like h*ll. [???]

I don't exactly have a PowerPoint for my
153-LoL-or the WS100 Meeting! Gasp! What to do??

Meanwhile, Blue, I have a note this morning--
asking me to dinner.

The ironies kill me:

my throat has been froggy and sore for 2 days.
Tonight, I physically lost my voice.

Day Four: Silence

Dinner was spent in silence.
I feel my resistance weakening.

A strong part of me just wants to tackle him.
Snuggle.
Feel comforted.

But I certainly don't want our relationship
to back to "normal" . . .
after ten years, I'm afraid normalcy
would be oh too easy to slip into.

No. I want real solutions this time.
And I must be patient.

If we had children,
I believe they would be oblivious.
Perhaps Twin B would bring home school portraits
about this time of year.
I would hold his 1st grade picture
up to his K picture in the hall
and marvel at how much he has changed in a simple year.

I believe my partner would join me.

We'd look at the pictures,
then I would walk off.
For the first in our relationship,
I believe he would walk through the hall,
look wistfully and dust the frames.

In silence.

For the first time in my life, I believe
I am communicating more with silence
than I ever have with words.

I believe that if we were silent,
our attention would be devoted more to our children
and our home would be happier.

And if this were true,
I may never want to break the silence.

Is it true that women _do_ have more power in silence?
Do people listen more when she isn't saying anything?

Weeping Willows, Batman

Tim wrote:

I smell vertigo and bullshit (you have vertigo, and are dangerously close to wanting the bullshit at the bottom). Time doesn't really heal anything. And acting like nothing ever happened is the worst strategy I know off. Honestly. And is lightness something to be sought after?

But everything is not lost.

And I feel pricked.
Weeping even,

Could It Be a Dear, True Friend? Life-Long and All of that Jazz?

So, I broke down and told someone:
Two girlfriends who live far away enough,
and who are professionally removed from me enough,
that I fell "safe."

One friend whom I have always suspected
I could share honest secrets with soon replied.

Here is her absolutely _perfect_ reply:

Dearest SQ,

And "Boo" back to you.

I have a headache. A big, bad one. I've taken
ibuprofen. I've taken Excedrin. I had some Coke for
the caffeine. I've had water in case I'm dehydrated.
And I still have it. Hmmmm.

Still working GRE this evening :). I'm waiting for my
scoring leader to call me back--I have a question
about an essay. And there's only one more hour to
go--woo-woo!

How many times do I have to tell you to quit throwing
your coffee mugs around? I mean, hello, how many
bruises did I have from flying coffee mugs? Ack. SQ.
I'm sorry that that had to happen. I mean, I'm happy
that you feel lighter, but I'm sorry about the not
talking, the broken oven, the mug. I've always
wondered if there was something "wrong" with me
because sometimes after fights with people (and as you
know, those don't happen all that often because I
bottle it up) I feel _so_ much better. Or relieved. Or
lighter. Or something.

I like that the silence allows things for you, but is
this an ongoing, forever silence? (sorry for the
hyperbole) Is it something you want to continue?
Because if the answer is yes, I'm worried. I know the
feeling of not wanting to talk to your partner, but I
also know the feeling eventually goes away for me.

And maybe you don't necessarily have to speak about
"it," but speaking can just happen? Maybe I'm giving
you really unhealthy advice (I'm not meaning to), but
maybe more talk about "it" right now will be more
damaging than helpful.

Why are relationships so difficult?

Isn't she just so d*mn perfect?
I feel like she really knows me.

Yes It Burns; Who Will Endure?

So the big move from the coffee shop
back to L Hall
so we can all sit around and decide how WS100
should be approached at the U,
now that it is a Major.


Now that we are "working for the man."


No more comfy chairs and idle, girly chit-chat.
It's down to business--conference room style.
Memos? Check.


We still haven't spoken. He's stopped leaving
me friendly, little notes. I'm too numb to care.


Potatos in the oven @350, with butter & pepper.
Crisp brown on the outside,
tender in.

I see my book . . . I just can't tell what it is about.


Finished viewing _Chocolat_ today (the non-Depp version).
I love the fact that Protee turns down Aimee's advances!
And when France asks, "Does it burn?"
I swell inside.

Lectured on the economy and "McJobdom." Exposed
the University's "profit motive." Prophet or quack--
I can't tell anymore.

I'm playing with fire.

Comfort in Awkward Silence

We still haven't really spoken about it.
I want to keep it this way. Awkward.


Meanwhile, I typed this to my department meeting:

Hello R,
I feel terrible! I thought the meeting was next Friday, the 11th. This week I am absolutely swamped. How did the time go by so quickly? I do feel rather strongly about our topic, and I wish I had the weekend to look up more texts. But in a nutshell:

From my perspective/field, I believe rhetoric, and language itself, must be approached insomuch that patriarchal ideologies are "built into" the very words we speak.

I use Audre Lorde's "Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference" (1978) as a springboard for examining ways she claims "Western European history conditions us to see human difference in simplistic opposition to each other: dominant/subordinate, good/bad, up/down, superior/inferior."
From there we try to examine all sorts of false dichotomies and how our culture gives value to one set of the binaries over the other, which of course creates hierarchies reflected in our language(s), with or without our explicit knowledge.

From this point, as you can imagine, the possibilities are endless (if not readily available in this email, ironically).

Let me know if no one else has approached the significance of language/rhetoric/writing as a foundation block. Because I have internalized much of this information, I may have to think about some accessible authors for students that center more on this idea itself. Texts that come to mind include: Dale Spender's _The Writing or the Sex_, Jane Tompkins' "Me and My Shadow," Joreen's "The BITCH Manifesto," and Amy Tan's "Mother Tongue."

Again, let me know if you need more information or if you would like the info in another format.

Best,
SQMojo

Why can't I write: Fighting with partner. Broke oven face plate. Life shattering around me (again--no worries--happens alot--big tub of Elmer's Glue on hand). Yet, need more time. Slow down.