(Birthday) Weekend Update

Friends, we made it.

We've finally landed in our first big city (a top-ten market!) where we will spend the next five years while I attempt to procure yet another tiny piece of paper. The move itself was insane, involving a 6:00 am departure, a nervous cat, and the worst customer service experience ever with a certain cable company that I shall not name on the internet because I don't want to be sued. However, you cannot truly appreciate the entire moving experience without an understanding of the Birthday Week and its role in these past few days.

Ok, in my family a considerable amount of hoopla goes into anyone's birthday. A few years ago, I described the NFL game road trip that we surprised The Boss with on his birthday. In the spirit of The Boss, who likes to assert that he has more of a Birthday Month or Birthday Quarter than merely one day, Husband has slowly broadened the scope of his birthday over the past few years. You may recall his Birthday Weekend a few years ago. Well, this year, he decided that he really was entitled to a Birthday Week. The catch, however, was that his Birthday Week happened to fall on the week in which we moved. Out of state. As in, from one state into another state.

As you can imagine, much ado was made about the injustice of this move and how it was ruining the Birthday Week. Poor Husband had to pack boxes DURING HIS BIRTHDAY WEEK and go through his clothes to set some aside for Goodwill ON HIS BIRTHDAY. In fact, Husband declined his traditional birthday breakfast in bed because he had to go to work early so he could come home early to pack the Uhaul.... DURING HIS BIRTHDAY WEEK.

Once we got here, to the state where they make you put tags on the back and front of your car (seriously?!), Husband decided he'd had enough: "I'm not going to unpack a single thing. Its my Birthday Week. I'm going to sit on the..... on the floor...... and eat cake." Because, you see, Husband decided he wanted to sell all of our furniture before we moved, and I had not yet procured a couch for him to sit upon DURING HIS BIRTHDAY WEEK.

We'd heard the lore about Ikea (and we now live in a city that has one), so off we trudged to find some furniture. We had previously visited about 7 furniture stores in the area and found them all to be way out of our price range, so you can imagine how excited I was about the prospect of more shopping. But Husband wanted a couch FOR HIS BIRTHDAY, so off we went.

People, Ikea is a land of unicorns and butterflies and I would live there if they would let me bring my books.

After much debate, which included Motha! and I dragging various pieces of furniture across the store to see things together (I thought Husband might go wait in the car at one point), we finally decided on a couch and coffee table, and I found a bookshelf, which The Boss and Motha! were buying for me as a congratulatory "you survived your MA!" present.

Et voila!

Husband was quite content to sit on his couch and eat the cookies that Cass, M.D. (Brother Robby's sweet wife) baked him for his birthday. Later that night when everyone was gone, we were sitting there together, and Husband turns to me and says, "welcome home."

so... we did it

I feel like I owe it to Husband to give him props for all the support he's given me in the past few months, a dark period known as LOOMING COMPREHENSIVE EXAMS/PhD APPLICATION MADNESS. In our house, we recently lived through a perfect storm of crazy, nearly four months of tears, screaming at laptops, and pacing in front of the mailbox that finally came to an end yesterday afternoon. For any graduate student, two most horrific times in your life are applying for your next program (a process I compare to standing naked in a room full of admissions officers who are poking you with sticks and telling you that you are not good enough) and taking your comprehensive exams to finish your current program (for me, this involved writing 37 pages in three days and then defending those 37 rambling pages to my unhumanly brilliant profesors). Unfortunately for me (and really, who am I kidding, for Husband), these two events happened simultaneously. Thus, the crazy.

I know its hard to believe that I would need emotional support during something like this because I am such an even-tempered, rational person, but I can honestly say that for me this has been one of the defining moments of our marriage because I don't know that I really knew what it meant to be someone's partner until Husband taught me what it means over these past few weeks. His support has been unflinching. Sometimes I imagined him standing outside our house with a shotgun to keep Those Mean People away from his wife because SHE HAS HAD ENOUGH and just needs a break already. He brought me Taco Bueno and took me to get ice cream and massaged my head when it ached, and if you know me, those things are the equivalent of a million dollars plus a really good hair day.

The real low point came a few weeks ago at my parents house. If you know me well enough to read this blog, then you probably know this story already. Even so, I feel the need to put this out there because I think sometimes we have to admit our vulnerabilities. That day at my parents' house, I had what I believe was my first clinically-diagnosable panic attack. I still had no idea if I would get into any PhD program and I was swamped with work for my exams, and then I found out that I needed to have yet another procedure on my toe which would involve NEEDLES IN MY TOE. For some reason, this new development exceeded the amount of Things I Can Handle and I absolutely lost it. I was crying hysterically and having trouble breathing and leaning over the toilet because I thought I was going to vomit, and then Husband was there. He pulled me onto the floor in his lap and held me against his chest and took long, slow breaths. Once I was breathing evenly, he just held me like a child and let me cry. I had never felt so completely torn apart, but I had also never felt so completely loved.

Thankfully, it got better in the following weeks. I was offered a spot in a PhD program with great funding and a department full of people I really like. Last week, I wrote that crazy exam over three horrific days, and yesterday I officially passed my examination defense. I called Husband on my way home and he told me to get home quick because he was on the driveway and ready to celebrate. When I got home, I actually found him streched out on the bed, and while he claimed to just be tired from his day at work, I understood that on some level he was exhausted from weeks and weeks of holding me together. I climbed into bed and burrowed into his chest and asked, "babe, are you excited its over?". His face buried deep in the pillow, I heard him offer a relieved little "Yay!".

And then, we celebrated.

cheeky little bugger

I may have mentioned here before that one of Husband's favorite pasttimes is Provoking My Wife. Apparently, its always good for a laugh. In the early days of our marriage, I could never understand why Husband would bring up subjects that I considered sensitive, and continue to beat that horse until I collapsed, breathless from all my screaming.


In his defense, when I say he brings up "sensitive subjects," I'm not referencing Western apathy toward genocide in Africa; I mean those really important social imperatives, like "cooking is women's work" and "careers in the liberal arts are meaningless." The really impressive thing, though, is that even though I should know that he does not hold any of these views, he convinces me so thoroughly with his delivery in that moment that I seriously feel the need to argue with him. Loudly.


Eventually, I learned to notice, mid-rant, that he was smirking; after hitting him a few times, I could go on with day. At least this way, I only spent about half the energy I would have exhausted in CONVINCING him that teaching is a profession that is completely devalued.


Even better, I have finally reached a zen place where I can recognize his scandal-mongering for what it is and refuse to respond. Like Ghandi. Or Yoda. I had been doing really well at rejecting his games until this past week when we were visiting his parents. I don't remember exactly how it came up, but Husband, his mother, his aunt, and I were all sitting around talking about laundry. [I know, right? You WISH you partied with us.] And Husband said, AND I QUOTE, "Yeah, I never have clean laundry. If I want clean clothes, I have to wash them myself."

[!!!!!!!!!!#&!&$*!%*!&&@**@!*#!!!!!!!!!!!!!]

Again, I knew he wasn't being serious. I knew he was just playing Provoke My Wife. But he said this IN FRONT OF MY MOTHER IN LAW. Could I possibly let MY MOTHER IN LAW think that I wasn't taking care of her son? That was a low blow, even for Husband. He KNEW making this kind of statement in front of his mom was the one thing that could set me off. The inner battle raged on as I fought to keep my expression neutral. You know, breezy.

"Wow, she is going to kill you."

"Look at her face. Its turning purple."

"I can't believe she's not yelling. Seriously."

[Breezy. I'm breezy. BE ONE WITH THE BREEZY.]

"I usually have to vacuum and clean the bathroom, too."

And that was the day the breezy died.

she gets me

I've been a little stressed the past few days. I suddenly have a ton of stuff on my plate. I'm excited about everything that I'm dealing with, but its becoming a bit..... burdensome.

My friend, Liz, stopped by my office today for the usual small talk before she had to teach. I think she could tell I was on my way to losing it.

"Are you ok?"

"Well, yeah. I just have a lot to do and I'm leaving in the morning and won't be back until Sunday night and I don't know when I'm going to get all this reading done and..." [I'll just stop there and spare you the rest of the drama]

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, its ok. I'll just sit here and obsess. You know me. I obsess."

"Well, at least you have a hobby."

first day of school

Today was the first day of school. I fell out of bed at 6:30 this morning. 6:30 am. BOO. There's not much that even coffee can do at 6:30 in the morning. Luckily, Husband made me some coffee anyway, but only after telling me that the only reason he was out of bed was because I was being loud. Loud? I'll show you loud. Don't challenge me at 6:30 am when I am not yet caffeinated.

My students at 8:30 wore blank stares and bed head. I felt like I was talking to life-size cardboard cut outs. My friend, Katie, suggested that I use a spray bottle in their faces like you would with a disobedient cat. I find the analogy rather compelling. 10:30 was a better situation; at least those students looked alive. I think one of them even smiled.

After my 10:30 class, I knew I had to trudge all the way across campus to the art museum for my art history class. And when I say trudge, I literally mean drag my sad, sweaty self in the oppressive heat to a building I have never seen to find a classroom I have never been in. And then the building was locked.

LOCKED.

Did I mention it was hot outside? And the building was locked? AS IN, I COULD NOT ENTER THE AIR- CONDITIONED BUILDING AND WAS FORCED TO CIRCLE IT IN THE HEAT!?!

Just wanted to make sure I got that across.

All in all, between the sleepy cat students and the pit stains in my new shirt, it was a good first day of school.

where the grass is always greener

Lately, I have been thinking about how ready I am to get back into school mode. Working a normal, 9 to 5 job only makes me appreciate the academic life in all its caffeinated, frantic splendor. I LOVE being in school, which is convenient considering I will be there for the next million years.

Still, graduate school has its moments. Terrifying, soul-destroying, claw-your-own-eyes-out (Oedipus-style) moments. While I'm not thinking about those moments right now, come back around October and you'll experience them first hand. So, in honor of graduate school angst, I give you the latest installment from Blog 1.0. Enjoy.

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It's That Time of Year...
November 15, 2006

...and I'm not talking about the holiday season. I'm referring to that point in the academic semester where students begin to slowly, painfully lose their minds. I'm starting to recognize the symptoms in my students. They are perpetually 3 to 5 minutes late to class. They don't have their homework. They are wearing last night's eyeliner. I'm thinking of instituting yoga as the first 10 minutes of every class.

I'm also recognizing the symptoms in myself and my fellow graduate students. The desperation is starting to stink. The graduate computer lab is full 24 hours a day as we print out articles and search for inspiration. The papers are piling up as we decide if tonight we want to stress about teaching or our own classes. I feel a pang of guilt even writing this instead of working on my paper or reading for class or responding to student's topic proposals.

My solution to all this pain? Domesticity.

Not kidding. My favorite activity of late is take off my Grad Student hat (and by "take off," I mean "snatch from my scalp in my vicious talons and fling mercilessly across the room, my only regret that it's not solid enough to make a satisfying thump when it strikes the wall") and joyfully adorn myself, ritualistically, with my Wife apron. Today, I baked cookies. I've never baked cookies before in my life. Still, I found myself armed with all my new fun baking gadgets (thank you, wedding showers!), television tuned to the Food Network, and elbow deep in butter and brown sugar. As they baked, I did laundry. I dusted my living room. I made a grocery list. I reveled in my alternative existence where Frederic Jameson can't hurt me and the rhetorical triangle doesn't matter nearly as much as my new Christmas tree.

My dear friend and fellow graduate school maven, Summer, informed me that the best medicine for grad school angst includes chick flicks and baked goods. Never has a wiser word been spoken. There must be something about reinscribing myself into the patriarchal system of Wifery that my studies force me to criticize that makes me feel better about the world. That's right, I'll say it. I love being married. I love keeping house. And I love cookies. And cupcakes with sprinkles.

I can put off my work no longer (which means I will shortly be going to bed, only to dream of discourse communities and flunking out of school). At least I have cookies.

Lonesome Road

This summer, Husband and I have been carpooling to work about 40 minutes from where we live. Husband works there year-round, and I am temporarily supplementing our income during the summer. [Again, WHY?! Why am I not allowed to lay on the couch all day?] About 4 of the 5 week days, we drive one car. I like to think of it as our personal attempt to save the environment. Cameron Diaz bought a Prius, Al Gore makes documentaries, and we carpool.

Sadly, my time in the far-away workforce is about to come to an end. [Or NOT sadly! HAHAHAHA!] I have mentioned how blessed I am to have my job, but the commute? The commute nearly destroys my soul each and every day. I now have a new-found appreciation for Husband, who makes this soul-destroying drive every day regardless of the season. Soon, I will be free to stay within 2 miles of my apartment, blissfully driving to and from campus and NOTHING MORE.

This morning, as we were saving the environment, I asked Husband how he would BEAR facing that drive every morning WITHOUT ME?! Obviously, I am the factor holding it all together. "Will you be sad?" I asked. "Will you sigh loudly every few minutes, thinking, 'if only my wife was here to ease my suffering. If only the radiance of her presence could expel the darkness facing me as I fling my vehicle recklessly down I-35' ?"

His response?

"I couldn't have said it any better myself."

Obviously.

In Honor of my (Brief) Return to Corporate America

Like most graduate students, I scrambled to find gainful employment for the summer months. For some reason, Husband did not approve of my plan to watch endless reruns of America's Next Top Model and read all 6 Harry Potter novels in anticipation of Book 7. I mean, how is this a bad plan?

Luckily, I got a call from my former employer, where I worked during my undergraduate degree. In terms of summer work, that was like winning the lottery AND finding $20 on the sidewalk all in one day [because then you can buy a Mercedes AND some really good ice cream!]. I love this job. I love the people that I work with at this job.

One thing that I had obviously blocked out of my memory, to make room for more Jane Austen plotlines and celebrity gossip, I'm sure, was the tendency of higher-ups in the business world to be mean to "the help." I don't mind being "the help" that much anymore. I guess I'm used to it, and at my job, I am treated like an equal. My boss tells me to consider him my colleague rather than my boss. [See? My job is awesome. You can't have it.] So, I was a bit taken aback the first time I had dealings with a big shot at another company who felt he needed to put me in my place as "the help."

All of which brings me to one of my favorite rants from Blog 1.0. Apparently, people don't change!
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Marxism Rears Its Ugly Head
June 28, 2006

Although the last time I checked, it wasn't 1854, Americans still uphold very specific ideas about class consciousness, particularly in business. I am 22. I have a college degree and a fair modicum of intelligence. Yet, Mr. CEO of Large Corporation feels that he can behave VERY RUDELY toward me because I am merely Clerical Peon of Small Business. I go out of my way to demonstrate respect to those older than myself. However, I find it incredibly inappropriate for Mr. CEO to refuse to speak to me because I am simply Clerical Peon. Mr. CEO of Large Corporation only wants to deal with Mr. CEO of Small Business (my boss), not his CP. At which point, I asked if I was excluded from the throne room of grace because of my gender or my sinfulness.

Kidding. Sort of.

The irony of it all is that Mr. CEO's work is done by the CPs of the world. His meetings would not get scheduled, his emails would go unsent, and his coffee would certainly not materialize on his desk every morning were it not for his own CP. (And notice, I do not discriminate. CPs come in both genders.) So, why do I not merit the respect that my drudgery so clearly deserves? The very instance that occasioned Mr. CEO's rudeness was an act of service on my part that he had personally requested from Mr. CEO of Small Business, my boss (who, by the way, treats his own CPs in an appropriate manner). I was HELPING him, and it even happened to be something not entirely related to his business relationship with my boss. It was a personal matter that my boss had offered to take care of for him. And this is the thanks I get?!

Ahem. The lesson behind today's story? If you have a CP, treat him/her with respect. If you are a CP, know that you are not the only one getting crapped on. And if you feel tempted to put salt in CEO's coffee rather than sugar, I would not judge you.