I’ll Manifest You!

How can revising be so bloody hard?! I already wrote the stupid paper so making it sound good ought to be cake. And yet here I sit, sweating and itching no doubt getting an ulcer, completely unable to sound smart.

So let’s talk this through:

If: The Joker is cool.
And: I need to write a paper about Shakespeare.
Then: Regan from King Lear is evil,.
Therefore: Regan and the Joker…

Dammit!

Okay, I got it.

If: The Joker is evil
And: Regan is evil
Then: The Joker is like Regan

Right? Right?!

I mean, do brilliant people have this much trouble? Does brilliance just flow out of them onto a paper that makes the first editor who reads it go, “Oh! Brilliant! I must publish you!”

I mean did Foucault really ever sit in front of his typewriter and say, “I don’t want to?” Cause I’ve been sitting in my computer chair (which was really comfortable for hours 1 and 2 but as we head into hour 4 my bum is starting to ache a little) and have basically cursed, typed, deleted what I typed, cursed again, taken a shower, cursed, eaten a pot pie, typed, deleted what I typed, surfed the net, cursed one last time, and am now writing this masterful piece of literature.

Right about now you’re thinking: why am I reading this? I don’t have an answer for you. Bad things happen to good people all the time.

Why did I quit the tool factory? I mean the smell of coolant in 100 degree weather isn’t that bad is it? Making $18,000 a year is like…like…

*sigh*

If this were a John Hughes movie a hot guy would be knocking on my door right now and asking to make out with me. Then he would say something brilliant that would motivate me to finish writing, make out with me again after reading the finished product, and ask me to marry him. (At which point I would find out he was both hot and rich.) Seriously. The universe mocks me in ways even Nostradamus couldn’t have anticipated.

Alright. I’m going to do this. I’m going to write it. It will be brilliant. It will be published. And someone will pay me a lot of money very soon to teach at their college. And a hot guy will make out with me.

See, I know the secret. To make it manifest you need only threaten people with imminent bodily harm until they do what you want them to. Works every time.

This is the paper you’re looking for. This is the paper your looking for. Ewan McGregor’s in love with me. This is the paper you’re looking for…



I am Obi-Wan Kenobi. I am pensive and hot.

The Year of Mystery

I should be grading (shut up!) but we’re taking a small break to discuss the awesomeness of my health issues for a second. Mostly because I think everyone else deserves to know about the tremendousness of my year.

I think I’ll name it…The Year of Mystery. That has a nice ring to it don’t you think? Kind of like a pompous literary work about a woman, alone in the world, striving to discover the secrets of her great grandmother’s past before the ghost of her long lost great uncle kills the man she loves and forces her to bear the child of a fallen angel?

So anyway, it all started last year when I went for my yearly and a week later the dear doctor called me to tell me I had abnormal cells. And she kept saying “abnormal GLANDULAR cells” as if the fact that they were glandular instead of skin cells should mean something to me. After listening to her explain things and tell me I needed to come back for this and that test I finally said, “I don’t understand.” It wasn’t the most useful comment as I clearly understood that something was amiss and I was to come back for more tests, but I couldn’t understand why she kept saying “glandular” like you might say, oh I don’t know, cancer. The dear wonderful doctor then says, “I’m not saying you have cancer,” and I’m like whoa lady! I didn’t even know we had to say you weren’t saying that! Cause really, when the doctor starts comforting you, you know you’re in trouble.

So that was like February and long about May I FINALLY get in (which by the way, now that I understand that when they say GLANDULAR they aren’t looking for pre-cancerous cells--at least that was my understanding--I will not be talked down by the nurse who assured me there was no problem with waiting) and this other doctor kept saying GLANDULAR and I’m like, “WHAT THE HECK WITH THE GLANDULAR PEOPLE?!” Apparently that’s less common which means more possibility for trouble? I still don’t understand, but I share for all you girls out there who have a similar experience because I pretty much gave myself an aneurysm trying to figure all of this out.

Anyway, he asked me if I’d ever had a baby and I, not exactly in my right state of mind, snapped, “NO!” because I felt like he was calling my cervix fat. It’s not logical. Don’t question it. And when all was said and done I did not have cancer though I do have mutated cells (let the jokes begin) and every time I go back I get a nurse that doesn’t know what’s going on who is sure I DO have cancer or at least HPV and doesn’t believe me when I try to explain that we’ve done all of this before. It’s awesome.

This gloriousness is compounded by a twitchy shoulder blade (muscle relaxers for that bad boy) and a mystery rash. I blame the mystery rash on band camp since that’s when it started, but basically I scratch myself raw about every other night. The scabs on my hands, legs, arms, and chest are super sexy. Going back to the doctor she looks at me and says, “I have no idea what that is.” Exactly the words you want to hear when the only relief to be found is under ice packs that numb the majority of your skin.

So I’m recommended to a dermatologist who can’t get me in for two weeks and at this point I just don’t have any fight left in me. They ask what’s going on and I say “itchy, painful rash” and they say “Okay, see you in two weeks!” Because apparently when I say “itchy, painful rash” that actually translates to a mild discomfort, barely noticeable symptoms with no need for urgency.

And, AND I’m sunburned. So now I can’t tell what is itchy from the rash and what is itchy from the peeling sunburn and I’m hot ALL THE TIME. For reals all the time. Like basically I sit around and sweat which, when teaching, is absolutely fabulous.

So I’m scabbed, peeling, and sweaty with mutated cells. This could be the most attractive I’ve ever been in my life. Clearly it’s time for me to make my move on Gerard Butler or Paul Telfer because when my sweaty scabby self walks up they won’t even know how to contain their tremendous love.

Seriously. Two weeks. And I have some steroid cream which kinda works but not really. She put me on the oral roids last week and that made for an insatiable appetite and some really awesome mood swings. And my students wonder why I’m short tempered.

And (because this story isn’t epic enough) I caught one of them staring at the scab on my chest yesterday and it suddenly occurred to me it looked an awful lot like rug burn.

I’m a classy dame.

How Do I Tell You You’re A Bad Person?

Now I’m in a writing mood but the question is certainly what to write about? There’s Paul Telfer, my new love:



And there is the really, really awful miniseries that I might have watched last night with my wife because she appreciates Mr. Telfer as well. He was Hercules but he wasn’t the son of Zeus, but he was super strong, but Hera was suddenly a fertility goddess, and the Ancient Greeks wore Roman Armor. Don’t ask. It was just all bad.

But honestly, what’s really on my mind is what to do when someone close to you does something incredibly offensive, even if only by proxy. I mean, obviously you ask them nicely and privately if they would cease the offensive behavior: excuse me Uncle Shamus, would you mind not being a racist bastard in my presence? But what if there is the chance Uncle Shamus won’t? What if he and Cousin Elbert decide that the joke is worth more than how you feel about it and you just need to get a better sense of humor?

You see my dilemma. Compound that with family politics, what is Uncle Shamus and Cousin Elbert’s standing in the family in comparison to yours, and their general sensitivity (which can’t be much if they make the joke in the first place) and you have yourself in a pickle. Of course, I don’t believe that not saying anything is the right choice either: you come across enough drunk old white guys in bars that you have to listen to silently while secretly plotting escape--it just isn’t cricket to have to put up with it in your family too.

And don’t we have a responsibility to those we love not to let them be douche bags? Maybe we don’t; maybe it’s more important to look the other way and stifle your anger, but when someone does something really egregious, makes a gay joke in front of the gay kid, makes a fat joke in front of the fat kid, makes a racist joke in front of well, anybody, don’t we have an ethical obligation to find someone way to point out the inappropriateness of the situation?

And it isn’t like all of you are going to get along all the time, or even that you should speak up at every offense, but isn’t there a line that shouldn’t be crossed? Isn’t there some level of bigotry or insensitivity that goes too far?

Honestly it’s the same part of me that wouldn’t stand down when my friend got beat up in 8th grade. There were, like, 14 of us and three of them and these stupid bullies start picking on our friend. I looked at everyone standing to the side while said friend got beat up and all of a sudden I was charging. I tried to get everyone else to join in, protect our friend, but no way in hell was I going to let him get beat up. So I shoved the dude on top of my friend down and did my best to protect. I wasn’t as successful as I wanted to be, my fist never made contact with anyone’s face for example, and I still don’t feel our friend was appropriately protected (cause he wasn’t) but I just can’t stay quiet when people do wrong things. Making fun of the fat chick, making fun of the kid with a speech problem, picking on the little guy--these are all wrong things.

And I know, not everyone feels this way. Some people who were bullied grow up to be bullies, but isn’t that just tragic? To demand someone’s obsequiousness through force in order to prop up seething self hate is simply unacceptable. And/or, to make fun of others because it improves the way one feels about themselves is also unacceptable. And I’m no saint; goodness knows I’ve secretly mocked more than a few people in my time, but I work really hard not to cross the lines that matter. I also cultivate friends who call me on it when I flirt with actual meanness.

I’m not going to say something like “mean people suck” cause sometimes mean people are really, really funny, but bullies. I really, really hate bullies. Always have. It’s just reprehensible. You don’t pick on people. You don’t tease people. You absolutely never ever make somebody cry. But if more people had a self-awareness I suppose we wouldn’t be debating whether that preacher should or should not burn the Qu’ran.

See? Isn’t there someone in his family who could pull him aside and say, “this is unacceptable?”

SupernaturalMasochism.net

I know, it’s been awhile. I would make up some awesome excuse like depression, but that just seems entirely too cliché. Instead I would like to inaugurate my new year of school with a tribute to my new remembered worst loves ever. Ladies and gentlemen I give you:

Jareth, the Goblin King



It’s wrong. I’m not going to defend it. Especially when one considers that his threats to “be cruel” in no way resemble a pledge to love, honor, and protect. And yet I don’t think it sounds like such a bad idea. Honestly, look in those dual colored eyes and tell me you could resist.



I don’t know what it is; his promise to turn her brother into a goblin? The thinly veiled threat of his eyes to love her in a way that leads to the emergency room? Those shiny, shiny balls? It’s a mystery. I mean, when compared to my other big crush from my childhood Jareth is a rockstar.

Hello Darkness my old friend…



This guy is actually the devil. And as I spent some time revisiting old childhood movies I was astounded to see I hadn’t grown out of my crush on him. The devil is not supposed to be sexy guys; the part where he steals soul? That should be a deal breaker. But there is the line in the movie where he asks her to be free and to give into her temptations--for a girl with impulse control issues that’s a little bit like chubby girl crack.

And I know I’ve discussed these two characters before but this round of nostalgia has seemed particularly sketchy. I think because for the first time ever I was tempted to say the words out loud, “I wish the goblin king…” No! I’m not going to say it! Do I look stupid?

But that doesn’t mean the idea doesn’t appeal. I’m just saying, if the sight of David Bowie in eyeshadow and stretchy pants doesn’t start your engine you might want to check the oil. Why isn’t there a match.com for girls who seek partners that may or may not kill them? We could call it supernaturalmasochism.net. I think it would catch on. The problem, of course, is that all those killer supernatural dudes don’t have a problem getting dates--we could promise a hardier breed of girl, though. Someone who promises to survive the first full moon. The tag line could be something like: Sure we’re chubby, but we’re way harder to kill.

I like it. That’s a dating service that could promise results!