#lovewins #loveislove

Most of my friends are pretty enlightened, tolerant people (otherwise, we wouldn't be friends) but I have seen some of the wailing/gnashing of teeth over what today's decision means to some people.  Here's the thing: as long as there are legal benefits to marriage, marriage is, in this country, a civil institution, not just a religious one.  The church I was raised in would not recognize my husband if I were married by a judge, but the law and the IRS would.  Nobody is saying your CHURCH has to recognize these marriages...just that the STATE does.
As our current system operates, marriage is a CIVIL right.  Which means every person gets to do it.  When the Supreme Court starts saying that your marriage is not legitimate if it was performed by a priest, rabbi, minister, etc...then MAYBE you should feel threatened.  As things stand, you are lucky that the government recognizes a religious marriage at all.

If your definition of marriage is a covenant between a man, a woman, and God...then I fail to see where anything the Supreme Court says comes into play.

If your definition of marriage is a covenant between a man, a woman, and the State...then you are just plain wrong.

If your definition of marriage is a covenant between people who love each other, their God, and/or their State...then I guess that's where we are now.

My definition of marriage is a covenant between two people.  Their reasons are none of anyone else's business.  They may choose to make it their Church's business...they may choose to make it the State's business.  But neither is a fundamental necessity.

“You’re too cute to be smart.”

I work weird hours.  Often, I will take some papers to my local Buffalo Wild Wings to grade on a Monday night.  Okay, it used to be Tuesday nights, because Tuesdays are wing night, and Michigan beers are $1 off, but this semester, I have three lab sections on Tuesday and…because Football.

Ladies, if you want people to talk to you in bars, take a stack of papers to grade.  People find this fascinating.  I think if men do this, nobody bats an eyelash, but a woman who sips a beer in public while grading papers is coming out of the closet. 

I often have people say, “I wish I’d had a teacher like you.”
And I answer, “You did.”

Every teacher I know (whatever level) does it.  Honestly, parents, if you think your kid’s teacher doesn’t have a glass of wine handy when she’s grading papers off the clock, you’re kidding yourselves.

Easy, parental units…we’re not getting hammered.  But if I’m spending my Monday night grading papers, I have a right (nay, obligation) to have an adult beverage and maybe eat some dinner while I do it.  This way, I can correct the same error 100 (and no, I’m not exaggerating) times without getting angry.  My comments contain 50% less extraneous punctuation if I am grading at my dining room table or a bar than in my office. 

But like I said, it gives random dudes an easy opening line, should they find me cute.  Or, perhaps more realistically, should they find themselves away from home (and usually their wives) for the night and bored.  Gentlemen, a word of advice: choose that opening line carefully.  You have no idea how well I can read you based on those first few words.

WHAT NOT TO SAY:

“Are you doing homework?
Nothing to see here, folks.  Moving on. <crickets>

“Are you grading papers?”
Dude.  I’m holding a red pen.  I am going through a stack of papers.  What the FUCK do you think I’m doing?

”Are you a teacher?”
See above.

“Where do you teach?”
This implies that, based on my appearance, you can’t tell if I am smart enough or old enough to teach at the college level, and I’m not frumpy enough to teach high school. (Or at least you hope so…you really don’t want me to be a high school teacher because high school teachers aren’t sexy, no matter how much we want them to be.)  Let’s be honest – you’re hoping I will answer “_____ Elementary.”  Because El-Ed majors are usually sweet, cute, and frankly, not smarter than you.

”Where do you teach?” askers are almost certain to follow up with…
”You look too young to be a professor.”
or, alternately:
”So…that means you have a Ph.D.?”
Which is followed by:
”You look too young to have a Ph.D.”

Look, asshole.  I work at a general-admission state school.  I could teach here with a Master’s degree, but for the sake of argument, to be a Visiting Professor or tenure-track Assistant Professor I need a Ph.D.  I got my Ph.D. at age 28.  This is not unusual.  Actually, I SHOULD have gotten my Ph.D. at age 26, had things gone according to the original plan.  That means my spinster ass has been “old enough to be a professor” FOR A FUCKING DECADE.

Okay, so I don’t look my age.  Are you saying I don’t even look 26?  I want to look young.  I don’t want to look 20.  You are vastly underestimating me as a woman and, shit, as a human being.

But what I actually say to any of the above is, “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
<crickets>

WHAT TO SAY:

”What do you teach?”
This is a safe question.  It gives you an opportunity to a) collect more information before embarrassing yourself and b) possibly establish a mutual interest.  If b), it really doesn’t matter what level I teach, does it?  See?  Good question.
Extra credit: I will usually answer this question with, “I teach Chemistry at <insert name of local college>.”  See how much useful information a well-chosen but simple question can provide?  Even if I don’t specify the school, naming a subject rather than a grade at least clues the listener in to the fact that I probably have at least one degree in that topic, and you don’t want to engage me in a conversation about it unless you are actually interested.

WHAT NOT TO SAY:

”Oh, man, chemistry.  I was AWFUL at chemistry, but I had a really bad teacher.”
-or-
“Chemistry, huh?  Wow, you’re smart.”
My response to either of the above will be, “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
<crickets>

But…
WHAT TO SAY:

”Oh, wow, chemistry.  I was awful at that, but luckily I found I was really good at <insert favorite hobby or skill here>”

”Yeah?  So what do you do?”

See, if you start off on the offensive about what I do, you’re going to have to pique my interest to get me to reciprocate what is, in reality, a simple small-talk question.  Had you just started with “What do you do?” we could have avoided all of this nonsense, but the world is never so simple.

(The reader will notice that I have left out the possible response of, “Really?  I always LOVED chemistry” because this happens so infrequently as to be statistically insignificant.  As my favorite professor once said, “Nobody goes into chemistry to go over well at cocktail parties.”)

I HATE small-talk.  But I will play by the rules if you are polite, interesting, and I enjoy talking to you even a little bit.  I am polite, and friendly.  Downright gregarious in most social situations.  But I am old and wise enough to be beyond tolerating inanity for the sake of a free beer and an hour’s company.

So I guess what I’m saying is…gents, if you want to talk to me or buy me a beer, perhaps start by noticing my despair over the fact that the Redskins are pissing the game away, and then ask me why I care.  This is a much more interesting topic of conversation, and, perhaps more importantly, infinitely less likely to piss me off.

Because the ‘Skins suck.  If you tell me how we need to fire Shanahan and start Cousins and holy CRAP how old is Moss at this point?!?, now we have something to talk about. 

 

 

But so help me, if you follow this up with, “So what brought you here?  School?” I will CUT you.

Shuffle, shuffle. Shuffle. <twitch>

When we tire of well-worn ways, we seek for new. This restless craving in the souls of men spurs them to climb, and to seek the mountain view.
-Ella Wheeler Wilcox

After a summer where I may have been away more than I’ve been home, and with a whole lot of unresolved emotional ties from those travels, and with my first day back “at work” looming tomorrow…

I am restless.  And keep getting urges to act out.

I have acted out in every (socially and morally acceptable) manner.  I have e-mailed, IMed, or texted everyone I e-mail, IM, or text…I have Facebooked my ass off.

I still have a need to do something irrational and ill-advised. 

This is one of my great character flaws. 

Really, what I want to do is shout to the world, “HEY!  I’M HERE!

I AM AWESOME!  I MATTER! 

I AM RIDICULOUS! 

I am NOT JUST A CHEMISTRY PROFESSOR!”

before I get swallowed up once again in the daily nonsense.

I love my job.  It’s a great job.  But when one doesn’t have a husband, or kids, or a local network of awesome friends….when your job is all you realistically have on a day-to-day basis…it kind of sucks if it’s anything short of amazing.  I love my job, but

a job doesn’t love you back.

 

So I am grasping at straws to be loved back.  Grasping, in the hope that I can keep some of the ties that have been formed and strengthened this summer going. 

So that I can take

semi-plans

and make them

plans

and then

reality,

rather than crapping out on them like I always do.  This is what my summer vacation allows me to do – I get an impulse and follow through before I can crap out.  I see the people who truly love me.  I get quality time with those people.

I need to figure out how to get that quality time the rest of the year.

My sanity depends on it. 

 

Otherwise, I just keep wandering.

Restless.

Heart of Steel.

One of the things that makes my heart soar is finding a band that just…rocks me to my core.  I’ve found a couple this summer, albeit in unexpected places.   I first heard this song underscoring a segue in Buckwild (don’t judge me!) but promptly forgot about it until a trip to Lexington earlier this summer.  In one of those fortuitous turns of events that only seem to happen when traveling alone, I was there for the start of a bluegrass festival, and Gangstagrass was headlining the first free show of said fest.  The bar was full and the show underway by the time I found it, but the street was closed off, the sound pumped out on speakers, and there was a taco truck.

In other words, I was home.

If you know me even a little bit, you surely understand how very…ME…this is, like it or not. I proceeded to go back to my rented airbnb room, download two albums, and listen to them on repeat as I drove around Kentucky bourbon country and across West Virginia and Virginia for the next several days.

 

I’ve been home for a few days now from my last big trip of the summer, and I tend to get a bit conflicted and melancholy this time of year.  There always seems to be something gnawing at me.  But then a promo for Top Chef: New Orleans makes me investigate the band singing the song sampled, and I find songs like this that make everything feel grounded, and remind me who I really am, in all of my blessedly imperfect, cynical glory.  With the added benefit of a drumbeat I can bellydance to.

Thanks, Galactic.  You shall soon be in heavy rotation, as soon as I can decide which albums to buy.

Imaginary Friend.

Autism is a jackass disorder.

My nephew Roo got a diagnosis a few months ago.  It’s a confusing diagnosis, so let’s just say he is on the autism spectrum.  There are developmental delays, so he’s not just Aspberger’s.  But he’s also not fully autistic.

 

And that’s really all I have to say about that. 

 

I am sick to death of people trying to put him in a box, or converse about him when they don’t even know him.  Because my brother is not terribly communicative to people he doesn’t see in person regularly, it has fallen on me to explain Roo to all of our extended family.  And because I only see Roo two or three times a year…and even then, only for a day or two…I don’t have much to say. 

But Goddammit, I have some things I NEED to say.

Does he have some odd behaviors?  Sure.

Does he have a hard time with socialization?  Absolutely.

Does he have some sensory issues?  Yes, but precious few.

Is it in any way unusual that it takes him a day or two to warm up to me? ABSOFUCKINLUTELY NOT.

He and I had an epic wrestling match.  It was so much fun.  He pushed me into a wall, he pulled me back off of it.  I tumbled over him, and he started tugging on my ankles, trying to flip me over the way we always flip him around.  I flipped myself over, asked him what he was going to do now that he had me upside down…and he sat on me while I lost my breath laughing.  Little moments like this are amazing in this long-distance aunt’s life.

But more importantly…THIS IS HOW CHILDREN PLAY.

A little over a year ago, it took me nearly a week to crack the kid, and that only really happened once we had a whole day together, when food and naps were totally my responsibility.  As far as I’m concerned, bonds aren’t formed just through play – bonds are formed when you provide CARE for a child.  Changing messy diapers, trying to feed them with refrigerator leftovers as they doze off in the high chair when it’s well past naptime…putting them down for a nap as they scream because they are still hungry…putting them back in the high chair and feeding them more until they pass the fuck out and you finally get that shower.

When that kid woke up two hours later, we had a bond.  We had been to hell and back together, and all we had was each other for a brief moment.

Shortly after that visit, he said my name for the first time.

A couple of months later…I stopped him from eating rocks with no protestations.

But I understand that every time I see him, it’s a little bit of Groundhog Day.  He is still very little, and a few months is a significant portion of his lifetime.

So at Christmas, when he paid me very little mind, I was not offended.  I mean, GRANDMA was there.  And she gives him any and everything he wants.  And she gives more fun presents than I do.  And they have a special thing going.  I had my moment when we opened his present…I brought his puppet to life, and had him captivated for a precious few minutes.  He also loved his little brother’s present…which I made.  Double nephlet win.

The diagnosis came about a month later.  And ever since then, these little vignettes take on a different meaning…for everyone but me.

A simple wrestling match, that most people would think is perfectly normal for a less-than-3-year-old…becomes “SO AMAZING.”

The fact that I managed to distract him as he was running around, hold out my arms, and have him run into them for a hug?

Not noteworthy without a diagnosis.

With a diagnosis?  “Oh my God, that must have been so amazing!”

As a matter of fact, yes, it was amazing.  Because this kid only sees me 2-3 times each year, and it only took him 24 hours or so to respond to and trust that obvious visual cue.  It actually has very little to do with his disability….IT HAS TO DO WITH THE FACT THAT HE IS NOT EVEN THREE YEARS OLD!

Practical upshot: people who are focused on this fucking diagnosis (hey, I’m a poet and don’t know it!) are depriving me of the normal joys of aunthood.

STOP IT.

Let me have my normal developmental moments.  Give me an “Aww!” instead of a “That’s amazing!  That’s so hard to get from kids like that!”

It’s actually not.  You just have to stop treating these beautiful individuals like they have a disease. Just because someone does something differently than you…that doesn’t mean that they are damaged.

You don’t know what this kid will do someday, and you for damn sure know less than I do about what he will do.

Stop it.

Stop mourning future expectations that none of us ever had any right to place on him.  Not everyone has to go to college to be successful.  Not everyone has to play sports to be cool.  And not every kid with autism is condemned to a life without those things.

Be happy for me.

Be happy for him.

Be happy for the glorious family my brother and sister-in-law have created.

STOP WITH THE FUCKING PITY ALREADY.

You are killing my aunt-buzz, and that’s not cool.

Iron Chef: Salad

Once upon a time, I was home visiting Mom and Dad during the hot (and extremely muggy) summer months.  And the idea of a salad supper was tossed out, which I absolutely leapt on.

I always like salads in warm weather (or when I am longing for warm weather), and my dad is always on board as long as there is enough variety and enough protein involved.  Salade nicoise?  Yes, please.  A bed of romaine with a sad grilled chicken breast sliced and sprinkled on it? Not so much.

We decided that all three of us would contribute a salad.  Mom wanted to make salad rolls…I had an abstract-but-decidedly-Asian idea in my head…and Dad decided to make a Chinese salad out of their tried-and-true Time Life Foods of the World cookbooks.  So somehow…Salad Supper became Iron Chef: Salad. 

Mom made her salad rolls loosely based on a Thai street food cookbook I had given Dad ages ago.  They were lovely.  But in this story, Mom is the Chairman – picture her taking a big bite out of a bell pepper, because she just loves to eat good food.  She doesn’t get competitive. 

Dad and I do.

Dad’s salad was delicious.  But it involved some tiny bay scallops, soy sauce, and some snow peas.  And it wound up very…small.  And…brown.

Meanwhile, I presented a giant bowl, filled with shredded cabbage, mint, thai basil, cilantro, crispy fried shallot, shrimp, squid, shredded pork skin, and dressed with nuoc cham (fish sauce, lime juice, thai chiles, a little sugar).  Some toasted peanuts sprinkled on top.

I swear I actually saw my dad’s ego shrink before me.

I was clearly craving something.  This had required not one, but TWO trips to the only Asian market in town (20 minutes away).  The second trip was because I had asked Dad before the first trip if there was fish sauce in the house, and he said yes, but was wrong.  Was this an honest mistake, or the work of a saboteur?  Hard to say, but the fish sauce was so integral to the dish that I went out again for it.  I was OUT.  OF CONTROL.

This basic formula has served me excruciatingly well ever since.  Living in Toronto changed me for life, and one of those changes was heavy exposure to Vietnamese food.  The hot/sour/salty/sweet balance that is integral to both Viet and Thai food, mixed with the heavy herb use in Viet cooking is like catnip to me.  Any crisp, green vegetable matter (cabbage, cucumbers, lettuce, etc) dressed in nuoc cham and a generous handful of herbs makes me inexplicably happy.  And crispy fried shallot is better than any damn crouton.  And…let’s face it…that much fresh veggie studded with bright green bits of herb and red chile…it just looks really damn pretty.

So all I ask of you, dear reader, is that you do yourself the favor of trying this sometime.  There is so much flavor going on that you won’t even notice that your meal is almost fat-free.  Put anything on or next to it – shellfish, seared tuna, rare steak.  I just ask that you don’t overseason or overcook whatever it is.  Tonight it was seared tuna over cucumber salad…and it was ridiculously amazing.  Spring Break on a plate, even though it never broke 40 degrees today.

Oh, and by the way, according to the Chairman, I won.

Mmmm….Beer. Cheese. Beer…Cheese. BEER CHEESE!

The Super Bowl loometh.

Let’s get this out of the way: I hate murder and ugly stadiums, so I am clearly not rooting for the Ravens.  And nobody has given me a good reason NOT to root for the 49’ers (“they’ve won a few” does not, in my experience, qualify them for my evil eye) and I happen to adore San Francisco, so that’s the way I’m going.  And, let’s be honest, I have a lingering childhood Joe Montana crush, and that’s as good a reason for a Super Bowl pick as most I‘ve heard.

Anyway, the Super Bowl is, when it comes down to it, the #1 reason in this country for a) drinking beer, b) watching commercials, and c) dipping things in other things.

Tomorrow, I will be dipping lots of things in other things.  It’s going to be an all-dip dinner.

And tonight, I made my first dip: Beer Cheese.

Beer Cheese is a beautiful thing, that I did not properly appreciate until I moved back to the States.  It seems to be specific to the Midwest and South.  And it is brilliant.

But…I must caution you: DO NOT.  GET FANCY.  WITH THE BEER CHEESE.

Believe me, I have tried.  I am a big fan of fancying up simple foods – I have tried many different variations on mac and cheese, and all have been brilliant.  I DO believe a great hamburger is better with cheese and bacon, and I think a grilled cheese sandwich made with fancy cheeses is infinitely superior.  But I have made beer cheese with smoked stout, and used fancy pickled chiles, and the one I made tonight was, quite possibly, beer cheese perfection.

We won’t truly know until tomorrow, since beer cheese is best made ahead and chilled while the flavors mellow.  But here’s the idea (I made a half-batch, since it’s just me around here):

20 oz sharp cheddar cheese, grated
2 cloves of garlic, grated
7 oz of flat beer (Bell’s Christmas Ale in this case)
Tabasco, optional (this is the one place I got Fancy – I used Walkerswood Scotch Bonnet hot sauce, and this is the reason I felt compelled to write this post – holy CRAP do I not use that stuff enough.)
Mustard powder, optional (I do not consider this optional.  It adds a nice tang, and I personally believe the emusification power of mustard is important to the final consistency of the spread.)

Put it all in a food processor, and process the hell out of it.  You are, after all, making a processed cheese spread.  It’s just GOOD processed cheese.
When it’s thick and creamy, put it in the fridge and let it mellow.
Dip veggies…chips…pretzels…your significant other… in it, and enjoy.  I seriously think the simplicity and one great ingredient has made this the best batch of beer cheese I have made.

And really, isn’t that what makes home cooking great?  Keep it simple, use at least one great ingredient.

Oh, and GO 9’ERS!

Baby Mama Drama

I find people’s reactions on Facebook to the birth of a baby to be fascinating.

With my friends who, let’s face it, are all of a certain age, and generally trying to be pregnant or are happy if it happens, there’s a lot of “I’m so happy for you!” or “It’s so wonderful!” and “Congratulations!” and “So beautiful!”

But apparently, with younger acquaintances who knocked up their girlfriends, it’s a lot of “We’re so proud of you!”

Proud?  Really?  Of what?  Proud that they fulfilled the bare minimum of biological imperative?  Proud that they actually acknowledged ownership of said pregnancy/child?  Proud that they took responsibility for their lack of contraception?  Proud that they have a high sperm count?  Proud that they named their child after a hockey player?

It’s nice to know that their knocking up their “on-again/off-again” girlfriend merits exactly the same praise from their friends and family as my ACTUALLY EARNING A FUCKING PH.D. DID.

Even if we accept this as status quo, those people would be a whole lot less proud if they knew what I know.
I know that “I kind of have a girlfriend” means “She lives with me and is 5 months pregnant.”

I know that he spends a lot more time checking out other girls than you ever imagined.

And I know that you seem quite cute, and sweet, and probably will only find out too late that he can’t be trusted.  It’s not your fault you’re so young.  Godspeed, sweet young thing.  May you never grow to be as jaded as I am.

Peace out.

Stubborn Love.

Didja ever find a new band?

(Not truly “new.”  I’m not that hipster.)

But new to you.

And when you listened to their songs, you wanted to hit the internet to find out what movie soundtracks they were featured on, because you are POSITIVE that any scene set to their music would make you cry?

Even a commercial for Dick’s Sporting Goods?

Yeah, they’re that good.

Bully is as Bully Does.

I’m at a point in my life where I am forced to admit that I ain’t no spring chicken.  I’m a grown-ass woman of 35 now, which means that I can’t even pretend I am anything other than a grown-ass woman. 

There are certain things I always thought would be true by now:

1.  I would have a house.

2.  I would have a husband.

3.  I would have decided what I want to be when I grow up.

4.  I would have at least one child, and probably a puppy.

Sadly, none of these are true.  Well, #3 is half true, but while I have decided what I want to be, I haven’t decided how or where I want to be it.

 

There are also certain things I thought wouldn’t be true by now:

1.  I wouldn’t have to worry about whether I’m in the right job.

2.  I wouldn’t have to worry if I’m good at my job.

3.  I wouldn’t have acne.

4.  I wouldn’t have to deal with bullies.

Sadly, one of these statements is thus far patently untrue.

I feel the need to clarify, because I feel the term "bullying" is egregiously overused, especially when describing adult interaction.

I don’t think “bullying” means “not getting along with someone.”  Not even “being mean to someone you don’t like.”  Bullying means a pattern of behavior.  It is a constant belittling of someone by someone else in a position of either real or perceived power.  If you put me down, and you mean nothing to me, I can get away from you, or disregard you, or fucking punch you.  But if you work with me…and are tenured and I am temporary faculty…I have no choice but to take every pot-shot “joke” with a smile on my face and quietly flip you off under the table while I fantasize about all of the job applications I am going to send out over the looming break.

There are two ways this kind of niggling could be interpreted:

1) Certain people are so insecure/threatened by the fact that people like me that they are determined to take offense at every joke I make and then bite back with deliberately hurtful jabs, or...

2) They THINK that they are bantering with me, and just really suck at it.

I'll admit that I have been assuming #1, but #2 just occurred to me as a possibility.  Either way... Bitch, please.

I will not apologize for being cute, funny, smart, and younger and thinner than you.  Perhaps you think I am trying to needle you because you actively try to offend people on a regular basis so that they won’t stand up to you.  That’s not who I am.  I don’t need to intimidate to get what I want.  I prefer to just be GOOD AT WHAT I DO.

Go ahead…mock the research I’m talking about.  You do know that I came here from a world-fucking-class research institution, and that work was done by someone with a Ph.D. AND an M.D. and sponsored by not one, but two tenured professors at said institution?  And that it has opened up a whole new field of research that nobody thought was even possible?

Go ahead…sip your Riunite and 7-UP while someone else goes to open the beer you brought me because you “didn’t know they still made beer that wasn’t a twist-off.”  I’m sure you’re right, that it’s strictly some sort of hipster affectation, and has nothing to do with pry-offs involving cheaper bottling equipment and providing a better seal against oxygen.

And go ahead…make implicit threats that you’ll be here longer than I will.  THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT I WANT.

You just keep thinking you’re better than me.  Meanwhile, I’ll be moving on to bigger and better things.

In short: GO FUCK YOURSELF.

Am I the only one here who knows what’s going on?

Long-time readers are aware that I am actually pretty good at my job.  I am smart, I am capable, and I take pride in a job well-done.  I am constantly making efforts to be better at what I do.

If student evaluations are to be believed, some of my students think my expectations are too high.  What they don’t realize is that I have high expectations for EVERYONE in my life.  Myself…my students…my friends and family…my co-workers.

Which leads me to the reason for my post.

I ended my day today cranky.  This is fairly unusual these days – I have been having a FANTASTIC semester.  Good schedule, good balance, good rapport with students, awesome group of kids.

BUT…I teach two lab sections for another professor’s lecture.  Said professor is a great guy, and students historically love him.  But most of those historical students are second-year or older.  He is scattered.  He is highly disorganized.  He is…frankly, not that bright when it comes down to it.

He is definitely smart enough to teach the classes he does, and he is probably a lot better than me at organic chemistry.  But that’s not saying much – I suck in that area.

(Keep in mind that every opinion in this post comes from someone who has had multiple students evaluate me as, “not suited for freshman-level classes.  Should be teaching higher-level students.” <bullshitsneeze>)

 

I believe he has fallen into the trap that so many tenured professors do – he is complacent.  He knows that students will find their way through his class, no matter what he does.  I know this is true…my job is not so much to teach, but to help.  To put my students’ mind at ease, so they can relax and learn on their own, because this is really the only way they do learn.  I can’t force knowledge on them…I can only encourage them and make them WANT the knowledge they cultivate within themselves.

BUT…there is NO FUCKING EXCUSE for having a poorly-organized class.  NOT WHEN YOU HAVE TENURE.  NOT WHEN YOU HAVE TAUGHT THIS COURSE BEFORE.  That is PURE.  FUCKING.  LAZINESS.

And I’m not very understanding of that.

Last summer, due to my contract’s stipulation that I work a couple of extra credit hours to justify my summer benefits, my department head told me he would designate me as a “Laboratory Coordinator” for my and my colleague’s laboratory sections.  The idea was that we would both do the same labs, and since I have been teaching this class more lately, I’d send him my schedule so he knew what I was doing.

I did this.

I even included a blanket statement of, “you did these labs for me last year…let me know if you have any reservations about them so we can work out something that works for both of us.”

Two days before classes started, I received an e-mail and syllabus that had ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO with what I had sent him.

Naturally, the only person that teaches labs for both lectures is me, so I am the only one that has to teach two different lessons in one week as a result of this development.

Furthermore, aforementioned professor actually printed and distributed a syllabus that listed the same lab twice, with another lab in between.

I asked him about this before classes started.  No response.

Brought it up again a week or two ago.  Several e-mails back and forth were unproductive and more confusing.  Finally caught him in-person as he was fleeing a meeting last week, and nailed him down to a schedule for the rest of the semester, which brings me to today.

Another e-mail to all of the lab instructors, this time about how he has not yet covered this material in lecture, so we are responsible for teaching it in lab first.

Fair enough: shit sometimes happens.

BUT…I HAVE TAUGHT THIS LAB  BEFORE.  I USUALLY TEACH IT A MONTH FROM NOW.  IT IS REALLY LONG AND DIFFICULT TO FINISH IN TWO HOURS, EVEN IF THE STUDENTS HAVE SOME CONCEPT OF HOW ACIDS AND BASES REACT IN WATER.

This…is my fault.  I should have leaned on him – if he wants to do this lab now, he should cover this material in lecture now.  I should have earned my “Laboratory Coordinator” title.

But shouldn’t he have earned his “Professor” title???  Shouldn’t he have READ THE FUCKING LAB when he put it on his syllabus?  TWICE????

If you tell me this is the lab you want to do this week, THEN FUCKING BACK IT UP.

In short: DO NOT MAKE ME DO YOUR JOB.  YOU GET PAID MORE THAN I DO.

A couple of weeks ago, someone else in my department came into my class to admonish me about how I was running the lab and how much of the various chemicals students were using.  I actually heard some of them say, “her boss came in…we’re using too much…” and chuckling.

I was running the lab the way I was, in part, because the solutions she gave me were of incorrect concentration and, thus, my students were not seeing the results the way they were supposed to.  Once again, I had told her this, and she had not fixed the problem.  By doing the reactions in test tubes and using SLIGHTLY more of the chemicals, they might see what was supposed to happen.

She is not my boss.  She is the person who prepares the chemicals and watches the budget.  She should NOT have said ANYTHING to me in front of my students…but she doesn’t realize how much she undermines me when she does this.

She doesn’t have a degree in chemistry – she literally follows recipes for a living.  She doesn’t know how to actually MEASURE the concentrations of the solutions she prepares for us.  She doesn’t know how to prepare enough of a fresh solution to last for an entire week of lab sections.

 

I am sick of answering to people who are not as good at this as I am.  People who have little to no expectation of themselves, but expect other people to do whatever they want.  Please, God, either put me in charge…or give me a job where I answer to people who KNOW WHAT THE FUCK THEY’RE DOING.

Are you a good ‘wich? Or a bad ‘wich?

One of the things I love about where I currently live is the fact that I have a little outdoor space in which to garden.  Unfortunately, I travel a lot in the summer, so said garden probably isn’t as productive as it could be if I were here to dote on it constantly.  But I do take a lot of joy in running out there to grab some lettuce for a salad, or snip some fresh basil for my pizza. 

And…I love having tomatoes.

There is nothing more delightful than a home-grown tomato, still warm from the sun when you slice it.  And my balcony isn’t big enough to produce enough tomatoes to ever tire of them before the season is over.  Which means, as the trees are starting to show some color and the nights are getting colder, I’m scrambling to get as many of the little buggers to ripen as possible.

Mostly for the purpose of making one of my favorite sandwiches ever.

Growing up, during tomato season, we had a LOT of bacon and tomato sandwiches.  They were fantastic.  Just very good bacon, garden tomatoes, a little Miracle Whip, done.  My brother now has an extra-sentimental attachment to them, because his first son was born in peak tomato season, and our parents came to stay with them for the first week after he was born to help out.  And my parents’ idea of “helping out” was to basically stay completely out of their way and cook for them while they locked themselves in their bedroom to fawn over their new little creation.  Mom and Dad brought a good supply of tomatoes into the house, and my brother and sister-in-law practically lived on bacon and tomato sandwiches for the first couple of weeks of their son’s life.

Now that I’m growing my own sandwich fixins, I have taken the concept a little further.  And I happen to personally believe that I have now perfected the sandwich. 

Well, perfected for my taste.  And considering that’s who I’m cooking for, that’s really all that matters.  So I’m documenting it here, just in case I can’t remember what went into it when next year’s tomatoes start to roll in.

1.  Some sort of whole-grain english muffin, toasted.

2.  Homemade mayo – mine was a basic recipe, but I used all olive oil and lime juice instead of lemon.  I like mayo with flavor, and tomatoes love olive oil.  Apply to both halves of the muffin.

3.  Truffle oil – the real stuff, made with actual truffles.  A few drops sprinkled on the top half of the muffin.

4.  Homegrown tomatoes – sliced and applied to the bottom half of the muffin.

5.  Bacon.  GOOD bacon.  Sliced thick, and fried crisp.  This goes on top of the tomato.

6.  Arugula – also homegrown.  Yep, this is actually a BAT.  The top, truffled half of the muffin is now applied on top of the arugula.

It’s nutritious…it’s flavorful…it has bacon.  It’s basically the perfect breakfast. 

And I might still get to squeeze 3 or 4 more of them out of my garden!

Take Back Your Mink

I’ve mentioned recently that I’m on the cusp of making some changes in my life.  I may have hinted that I’m not sure I’m currently where I am supposed to be.

This pains me, because I ADORE Michigan.  So, while I’m trying to keep an open mind about where to go next, I’m also trying to keep an open mind about whether that place might be right here.

 

All of my Indiana roots boil down to my community theater experiences.  My grad school friends have all scattered, as grad students are wont to do after graduation.  The people I am still close to in Indiana are the people I did shows with.  Those were my people, my community while I was there.  They kept me sane when grad school was throwing me deep into depression, and they are the people I think of when I think fondly on that part of my life.  They are the ones I ate deep-fried appetizers with over beers late at night, and the ones that celebrated birthdays and my Ph.D. defense with me.

When I interviewed here, my department head told me there was a community theater in town.  I didn’t pursue it the first year because I was too busy trying to keep my head above water at school and keep up with friends back in Toronto on the weekends.  Last year, my teaching schedule had me doing back-to-back 75-minute lectures that kept me in the classroom until 7:30.  The last thing one wants to do after talking for 3 hours straight is go somewhere else to do more talking.  Plus, there wasn’t anything on the season that was all that appealing.

But this year, I’m done by 6 every day, and the season has several shows that I am interested in.  This week, they held auditions for Guys and Dolls. 

I believe I have posted here before about how badly I want to be Adelaide in that show.

I’m still probably a few years too young to really play her, but I played 30-somethings fairly convincingly in my mid-20’s, so it’s not outside the realm of reason.  Plus, I can belt the FUCK out of her songs, and I’m a strong dancer.  So, even though I haven’t auditioned for anything in seven and a half years, I sucked it up and went for it.

And I rocked it.  I actually heard a “wow” from the audience when I sang Adelaide’s Lament.

 

Here’s the point where I should probably mention that this was billed as a “co-production” of the local high school and the local community theater.  So I walked in thinking I was at a handicap, not because I wasn’t good, but because the vast majority of people auditioning were going to be teenagers.  Any adults present were probably already going to have history with this theater, and nobody knows me yet.

But again, I rocked it.  Several of my competitors complimented my dancing and reading, and did I mention the “wow”?

These kids couldn’t sing on-key.  And they certainly couldn’t be heard from further back than the 10th row in an empty theater.

So naturally, I got a callback.  And I was feeling pretty good about it, even though the director had said that the casting would come down to matching the couples age-wise – they weren’t going to put an older Adelaide with a teenage Nathan, or a teenage Sarah with a 40-something Sky.

Callbacks came, and there were four potential Adelaides.  Me, a younger girl from my night of auditions, and two age-appropriate candidates from the second night of auditions, one of whom was also called back from Sarah.  And has a doctorate in music.  It should go without saying that her voice is heaven.

But hey, she looks more like a Sarah, and she doesn’t even really want Adelaide because it will be too hard on her voice.

But they only called back one actual grown male for Sky, and he doesn’t have a strong enough voice to pull it off.

At this point, I am bracing myself for the fact that I might lose the part I want to the angel voice.  I can deal with that.

The other Age-Appropriate Adelaide is half of a married couple.  She waxes philosophical about what parts she and hubby will play.  Hubby has a gorgeous voice – would, in fact, be a perfect Sky – but she can’t sing Sarah.  He is called back for Nathan and Nicely-Nicely Johnson.

At this point, I am bracing myself for the fact that I might lose the part I want to the Age-Appropriate Adelaide who is not as good as I am, but married to the Age-Appropriate Nathan.  Because they seem reluctant to let each other kiss other people on stage.

So…I wait.

And when the cast list goes up, I see that I did not get Adelaide.

The part went to the only candidate that was, at the very least, a decade younger than me.

Most likely because the best Nathan was a high-schooler.   Never mind that there were older men that COULD have played him – let’s face it, it’s NOT a rigorous singing part.

So I look to see who is playing Sky and Sarah.  Again, they have CHILDREN in these roles.  ALL of the major singing roles have been filled with high schoolers.

High schoolers who CAN’T FUCKING SING.

Meanwhile, I have been cast as a streetwalker and a backup dancer.  The woman with the amazing voice has not been cast, nor has the man with the amazing voice.  This appears to be because they declined the smaller roles they would have been offered. 

 

Any time I have auditioned for a show, I always say I would accept any role.  I’m usually doing it for the social experience, because I need to get out of the house and meet some new people, so I don’t care what part I’m playing.  I always have fun just working on a show.  It wasn’t until after I finally got to play my first lead that I even started indicating what roles I was interested in on audition forms.  I have been considered for leads and not gotten them, and been offered chorus parts instead.  And had a fantastic experience.  And I really did go into this just hoping to become a part of the community.

But I wanted to become part of an ADULT community.  I hang out with 18- and 19-year olds all day, every day.  I don’t exactly want to go spend an extra 3-4 hours of my day with people who have never lived in a world without instant messenger.

I DIDN’T want to be a 34-year-old, fat Hot Box girl when the rest of them are literally half my age and half my size.

So I think I’m out.  I don’t think I will enjoy this experience – I actually think I will hate every. fucking. minute of it.  I can already tell that, while the choreographer and vocal director seem like they are pretty good at what they do, the director is…a small-town high school drama teacher.  Who has built herself a small-town high school musical.  I can’t take direction from someone who I can’t respect.

 

But I still feel like an asshole for going back on my word.  And I feel rejected.  And downright insulted.  And I STILL don’t know if I will ever feel like I truly belong here.  At the beginning of the week, I felt like this might be just what I needed. 

 

And now I just feel lost.

Music Therapy.

Sometimes it’s frightening how well my iPod knows me. 

Earlier this week, I was Angry.  For reasons I won’t go into now, because it no longer seems important.  But I drafted my anger.  I reworded it.  I saved it, and slept on it for more than one night.

I received a pre-emptive apology.  Which I accepted.

I deleted the draft the next day, but here’s the problem with the pre-emptive apology: at that point, you can’t be Angry without being an Asshole.  Or at least, you can’t express the Anger.

 

So where does it go?

 

It doesn’t just evaporate, no matter how much I would like it to.

In my case, I usually just kind of bury it and wait for it to go away.  Emotional compost, if you will.  Which generally works…but it takes a while.

In the meantime, I had an 11-hour drive with only NPR and a loaded iPod to keep me company.

 

Music is a powerful thing.  Often, it would take me hours to come up with the words that are expressed in a single song.  Those are usually the times that I come here and post nothing more than a YouTube video.  I’m not just promoting my favorite singers…there’s a reason I posted that particular song.  Some people get it, others don’t, but it’s out there.

And as I drove the long road home with my iPod on shuffle, a song came on that ran through my veins like ice.

AND IT FELT SO.  FUCKING. GOOD.

So I’m posting it here.  Let me be frank – I am not posting it to be passive-aggressive, or because I need sympathy.  I am posting it because, until I put the anger somewhere, it will not leave me.  Life is too short to let it fester and putrify – I need to shoot this shit into space so it can dissipate into the ether.

And yes, I realize it’s completely trite that it’s Alanis, but whatever works.  Play it on surround sound if you want to know what it sounds like in my head.

It’s a pound of flesh, but it’s really a ton.

It has been quite a summer.

Since finals ended in May, I have been on trips to Traverse City, San Francisco, St. Louis, Virginia, Chicago, Iowa, Omaha, Minneapolis, Madison, Ann Arbor, and Western Pennsylvania.  And Virginia again.  And now that I’m back home in my little hamlet, I am literally at a crossroads. 

It’s a common mantra in higher education that the learning curve at any new institution is about 3 years.  This is why it is generally discouraged to do more than one degree at the same school, or to spend more than 3 years in the same post-doc.  I do find the fact that this is a philosophy generally espoused by tenured professors as ironic as all hell, but if you think about it, it makes sense.  In most undergrad programs (at least in science), your HARD year is the third year.  For me, it was the first time I took truly high-level classes (and more than one at a time) and the first time I attempted research.  (Keyword: attempted)  It was also the first time I experienced panic attacks…every time I thought about going into the lab to attempt research.  (This was also the first time I started to second-guess my plans to go to graduate school.  Frankly, I’m still wondering if I made the right call there.)  But senior year (or, if you’re a pretentious ass like me, FOURTH year) was more about tying up loose ends.  The classes were easier, I had job interviews and GREs and grad school applications, but really it was all a piece of cake compared to third year.  The tough part was coming to terms with leaving behind the best social network I had ever known – the emotional challenge, not the intellectual one.  (Ever since my mom and dad made the executive decision to put me in kindergarten at age 4, I have known that my intellectual readiness generally exceeds my level of socialization.)

Grad school follows a similar pattern.  Not that those last few years were a piece of cake, but the vast majority of the learning happened in the first three.  It takes about two years to get your classes out of the way and get the hang of group meetings and break the instruments enough times that the senior students start making you fix them.  In third year, you spend the fall working on your orals (which is really just an extended exercise in developing and defending a proposal), and in the spring you REALLY start your research in earnest.  Then you’ve got two years (or…ahem…more) to actually produce and train someone to take your place.  The stress is just starting, but the learning is mostly done in those first three years.

Postdocs: same old story, they just don’t make you stick around because you are expected to teach WHILE you learn.  I felt like I probably had given everything I had to offer to my lab in Toronto after about two years – at that point, I had pretty much taught them everything they needed me to, and learned as much as I was going to.  I stayed a third year because my project wasn’t done, and managed to squeeze out another paper, but I knew I was on the downswing.  I think that’s the number one sign that you are getting smarter – you start to recognize when the learning curve is tapering off.  I stayed for that last year for a variety of reasons – loved the group, loved the environment, was actually enjoying research, even when it wasn’t going as smoothly as it had when I started, and I had started to branch out and find friends outside of my little bubble.  But it wasn’t my best WORK at that point.

So now, I’m headed into the third year at my current job, and the last year of my current contract.  And, through the course of all of the road trips, I have had the same conversation with nearly every friend and relative I have:

“So, how’s the job?”
”Good, I have a really good deal, and my students are very sweet.”

“Any chance of becoming tenure-track?”

“Actually, yes, but I’m going to look for other options this fall.”

This is usually the point where people  jump to the conclusion that I hate my job and hate my institution.  This is not true.  It really is a good job, and I am reminded of that every time a friend at another Michigan institution posts job postings on Facebook.  I have a great department head who supports me, and I am paid better than I would be anywhere else for a comparable job.  I can just tell that I’m nearing the end of the learning curve, and at this point I have to decide whether to fish or cut bait.

I am currently living in a very small town.  When I moved here, it suited me well, because I was still able to go back and forth to Toronto to see my friends, and I am not fundamentally small-town averse.  But this particular small town is generally populated by students…married couples and families…and Townies.  None of these options make for particularly good company for a single girl in her mid-thirties who still harbors pipe dreams of getting married and having babies.  Sure, I can drive an hour to Grand Rapids whenever I feel like having a good time and meeting people, but this just hasn’t yielded any real connections that will last beyond a few beers.  Even the online dating cognoscenti keep sending me matches that are 4-8 hours away in an effort to make me pay for a subscription, because they can’t come up with any local options.  In short, aside from my genuine love for the state of Michigan, there is absolutely nothing tying me here.

So naturally, everyone asks “In a perfect world, where would you go?”

I’m a firm believer that home is where the heart is.  I also believe you never truly know where your home (or your heart) is…until you leave it.  I don’t mean vacation – I mean picking up your life, moving it somewhere new, and seeing if it fits.  This takes, at minimum, a year.  You need enough time to get over the homesickness, make new friends, and start to lay down roots.  Nothing can change the fact that my roots are grounded in Virginia – that’s where I grew up, where my parents will live out their retirement, and where it appears my brother and sister-in-law will raise their children.  Moving to the Midwest the first time made me realize how a big part of me belongs here – I have formed adult relationships with my aunts, uncles, and cousins, and now the next generation of tiny cousins are starting to invent games and jokes just for me.  Toronto gave my repressed city mouse its time in the spotlight – it changed my personal style, the way I eat and drink, and tweaked my political views and the way I foster relationships.  Coming back to the Upper Midwest consummated the love affair with the Great Lakes that started when I was about 8 or 9 years old.  These lakes have a romantic pull that the Atlantic ocean never did…no matter how much I will always consider myself from the East Coast.

Generally, when I meet people, and they ask where I’m from or what my story is, I rattle off my sequence of hometowns, and get a response something like, “Wow!  You’ve been all over!”

I really haven’t.  I have never lived more than 12 hours away from where I grew up, and all in one quadrant of that radius.  Okay, fine, having spent some of that time in Canada makes it SOUND much more exotic, but when you think about how large this country is, let alone this planet, I haven’t gone that far.

I had never seen the Pacific until May 2012.

This summer, I checked off four new states I had never been to, and I’m still not halfway.  I’ve still only been to two of the Canadian provinces, even if I’ve been on all of the Great Lakes.

At this point, the one thing I know is that I can find happiness of some sort anywhere.  When people ask if I would stay in Michigan, I answer “absolutely!” but…right now I can get anywhere in the lower peninsula in 3 hours or less.  I’m not sure I’d be quite as happy in Ann Arbor, to be quite honest.  At least where I am, my city mouse can get to Grand Rapids and my country mouse can find beaches, hiking, kayaking, biking, etc….all within an hour’s drive.

Right now, I have paid my dues where I am, both professionally and personally.  I have learned a lot about being a better teacher…I have probably formed all of the meaningful friendships I am likely to find here.  I have shared inside jokes with the preschool cousin set.  In short…each place I settle takes a piece of my heart…but I can always come back.

At Pennsic, I had a tarot reading.  It said that previously, my life has been all about work.  This is sadly true.  Despite my best efforts, my career has always been the only thing moving forward in my life - the only thing that I can really put my faith in - and I have followed it wherever it takes me.  The reading went on to say that a change was coming.  It might be scary, but I need to have faith, and trust in it.

Bitch, please.  I don’t need a tarot reading to trust my gut.  Frankly, it has yet to steer me wrong, although it does have a sick sense of humor.  7 years of grad school, IBS and whatnot.  But this summer, as some friendships have faltered, others have strengthened, and new ones have been forged…even my personal life is in flux.  It’s hard to know who (if anyone) to trust, but I have nothing tying me down, and for once I feel like I have only my own heart to answer to.

I have to say I’m ready.  Ready to find my next Home.

In this moment, I am just the right mix of exhilarated and terrified.

It’s easy to be brave when one has a steady job to fall back on and a family that loves you no matter how ridiculous you are, but there it is.  I am, once again, waiting for my real life to begin.*

*Oh shut up.  I know I’ve already used it.

Letters From the Front: All’s Fair in Love and War

This picture has been making the rounds of the Facebook since we all came home from War last weekend:

Pennsic is pretty much the ultimate in romanticized excess, and some people get very caught up in it, particularly at night.  Let’s see if I can paint a picture for you:

Step 1: Imagine yourself on vacation.  Not a visiting-people vacation, a foreign-locale-nobody-knows-you’re-here vacation.

Step 2: Now remove all traces of your normal identity.  Clothes you would never wear in normal life.  A different home, one made of canvas.  Different hairstyles.  A different name.  Different friendships.  A different accent perhaps, a different personal history.

Step 3: Now wander around at night through woods only lit by the occasional row of tiki torches, past a bog covered with mist, all with the sounds of drumbeats, dancing, and laughter in the distance. 

Okay, so Step 3 is kind of hard to try at home.  If you are also carrying a mug and/or hip flask filled with something you have to be 21 to purchase, then you’re getting the idea.

There’s a saying among SCA folk.  Let me see if I can capture the sheer romantic poetry of it…

If you can’t get laid at the Pennsic War…you can’t get laid.

 

I mean, seriously.  There is a lot of drinking going on, some truly debaucherous parties, backrubs are handed out freely, and everyone is on vacation.  Your average Pennsic evening could range anywhere from singing songs by the campfire and toasting marshmallows to naked bellydancers and moans of ecstasy emitting from the next Port-o-John. 

It’s basically Medieval Spring Break (woo!).

 

With its population at around 11,000 people, Pennsic is a crowd you can easily lose yourself in.  And some even manage to pull off the “What happens at Pennsic stays at Pennsic” thing.  But it’s also something else.

Pennsic is, at its core, just another small town.

It has restaurants, shops, and small entertainment venues.  It has greenspaces and neighborhoods.  You can cover the entire area on foot, but it’s going to take you a while. 

And, like every small town I’ve ever known, it also has GOSSIP.

 

Our camp is a mix of marrieds, families, and singles.  Some of the singles are of the sort to go out to the parties, find people to make out with, and come home saying things like, “He was NOT CUTE.  But he was SUCH a good KISSER!  I need to find him again…” And I have no problem with that sort of thing…it’s just the sort of thing I grew out of long before I started going to Pennsic.  (For the record, after a handful of gentleman callers stopping by throughout the week, it was this guy that she wound up with on the last night of War.  Note to all gentleman callers out there: a woman’s “type” goes right out the window when confronted with a Very Good Kisser.  True story.)  These people don’t really get gossiped about, because everyone already KNOWS who they’re hooking up with.  We just do lovingly mocking impressions of her the next day.

I, on the other hand, have never hooked up at Pennsic.  Okay, full disclosure: I have, once or twice, engaged in some hot-and-heavy hand-holding.  I know…SCANDALOUS.  I don’t hook up because it’s impossible to bring someone home without everyone knowing about it.  It’s impossible to spend the night in someone else’s tent without your walk of shame being duly noted.  It’s impossible (for me, at least) to have any romantic fun without making recognizable noises and those tent walls aren’t as thick as they seem.  I just don’t want people all up in my bidness.  Other people can put their bidness out there for everyone to see, and I’m fine with that.  Live and let live, and at Pennsic, anything and everything goes as long as it happens between consenting adults.  I just happen to always hang out with my Clanmates, and go to bed alone.

And yet, according to this year’s in-camp gossip mill, I have apparently slept with at least 3 men (2 of whom are married) and one woman in our group.

Perhaps it’s due to my personality – my natural way of relating to people and putting them at ease is to joke and flirt, and innuendoes fly like that weird floatie stuff in a snowglobe everywhere you go at Pennsic.  Ever since my first War, I have gotten more than my fair share of backrubs and doting from various men in camp, and it’s expected that some people will be jealous of that.  Jealous and/or bored people have nothing better to do than to make shit up to keep themselves entertained.  But I refuse to apologize for being attractive and fun to be around.  Healthy self-esteem is not something one should be ashamed of.

 

So for next year, I have made a resolution: I will not rest until the rumor mill links me to, at the very least, a sex tape, a ball gag, and a very confused hamster. 

 

Ya gotta give the people what they want.

Some people wear their heart up on their sleeve. I wear mine underneath my right pant leg strapped to my boot.

Ages ago, I started a draft of this post.  Not a draft, really, just a list of hot-button topics.  I thought it was time to actually write it.

I love weddings.
I hate Wedding Crap.
I hate the hoopla.  The dresses, the flowers, the Hall, the invites and politics, the Expense.
(I will admit to enjoying Say Yes to the Dress, but only because I love watching how the salespeople suss out the customers, NOT because I give a shit what they eventually pick.  Both the Atlanta version and the Bridesmaids edition thereof can go straight to hell.)
(Also: I may or may not be writing this to an Ani DiFranco soundtrack, which is damn near guaranteed to make me more bitter than necessary.)

Let me get anecdotal on yer ass.

Case #1: Labmate
Yep, THAT Labmate, from years ago.  Never a romantic role model, but I don’t believe I’ve ever shared with you the circumstances of her engagement.  She and her boyfriend had been dating for at least a couple of years when I met her.  A couple of years later, he graduated and was ready to start his postdoc.  He had been offered a position at a Very Prestigious University approximately 4 hours away. 
It is understandable that Labmate wanted to go check out the area with him.
Less understandable is the fact that her parents went as well.  Not his, HERS.
But okay, fine.  Cultural differences and whatnot.
While visiting VPU, they naturally stopped into a jewelry store, where they were promptly sold on putting a deposit on a diamond that had not yet arrived in the store.
Yep, you read that right.
Oh, but the paperwork was very impressive.  Nothing really says everlasting love like some irrefutable paperwork.
A few months later, on Labmate’s birthday, Boyfriend went all out.  It was an all-day-Labmate-extravaganza.  Overpriced dinners, pricey jewelry, desserts from her favorite bakery.
I think it was Valentine’s Day when he actually proposed.  Apparently it was “so romantic.”  He gave her a beautiful box…when she untied the ribbon and opened it, it was filled with rose petals…and…

…a blank check.

You know, for the balance of the unseen-but-pedigreed diamond.

Let’s be clear: I could give a shit about a ring.  If you want to marry me, say so.  If you want to give me a ring, make it one you can afford when you ask me.

So now it’s time to actually have the rock put into a setting.  She asks for the setting that will make the diamond sparkle as much as possible.  Naturally, this means it will be set very high so that light can pass through it as often as possible for maximum jealousy.
For at least the first year they were engaged, that ring sat in her parents’ safe.  The reason? She couldn’t wear it every day because it was set too high and would interfere with her work.
<FACEPALM>
See?  I hate this shit.
I believe Labmate and Mr. Labmate are FINALLY planning their wedding this year.






Case #2: Facebook
During my postdoc, I had an acquaintance who got engaged and later married.  They were one of those couples who posted everything about their relationship on Facebook. 
Don’t get me wrong – I was very happy for them.  They were a very cute couple, and while I didn’t know her, he was a really neat guy.
But every aspect of their wedding planning seemed to be captured on FB:
Professionally-shot engagement photos?  Check.
Dog adopted out of wedlock?  Check.
Status updates about every aspect of the wedding?  Check.
Wedding photos?  Check.
Mobile uploads from the honeymoon?  Check.
And even after all of this, I was still almost enjoying the process, until they posted a link to their favorite photographer of joyous events.
It has been a long time, so I can’t find the link to share the delicious irony of the situation, but upon entering said photographer’s site, you are greeted with sample videos from previous satisfied customers…
…one of which is set to Mika’s “Happy Ending.”
Um…call me crazy, but I don’t particularly want my night of golden memories set to the dulcet tones of:

This is the way you left me,
I’m not pretending.
No hope, no love, no glory,
No happy ending…

WHY ARE PEOPLE IN LOVE SO FUCKING STUPID???





Case #3: Facebook (Part Deux)
So I decided to finally write this post thanks to a video that is making the FB rounds lately.  I will not link it here because it pisses me off too much to give them extra hits.  If you must know, it is entitled “Isaac’s Live Lip-Dub Proposal.”
I HATE SHIT LIKE THIS.
You videotaped your elaborately staged proposal.  For your future wife to reminisce by?  Aww…how cute.
Wait…you uploaded it to YouTube.  To share with your friends and family in distant states?  Aww…how cute.
Wait…in approximately two days it has gone viral on FB.  Because you are hopelessly narcissistic?  Aww.
If you haven’t already seen and/or Googled it, the video is a VERY elaborate proposal, set to “I Think I Wanna Marry You” by Bruno Mars.
How original.
If you’re the sort of person that has to surround yourself by a gaggle of friends and family (including a token gay couple – how progressive!) in order to commit to a woman, then fuck you.
If you have to put the proposal up on YouTube and have it go viral to validate your love, then fuck you.
And if you need my female friends, who don’t even know you, to “AAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWLLLLLLL” to feel like you are a good boyfriend/fiancee/husband, then FUCK YOU.




To me, the best part of every relationship is what happens behind closed doors.  I don’t like public displays of affection or girl talk.  I don’t like meaningless tokens.  You will never see my relationship status on Facebook.  My best friends will never understand why my most meaningful relationships were such, because that is just between me and him.
My relationships aren’t for a diamond, a party, or a dress.  Not even for a viral video.  They are for my heart, my head, my body, and my soul.
My relationships are for me, not for you.