Crossing the line.

Over the past couple weeks, I've come to recognize that there is a difference between being sexually explicit and being sexually harassing at the work place.

I work with a bunch of boys. A couple of them are older than me, but they're essentially all boys, and they're essentially all obsessed with their penises: where they've been, where they're going, what kind of talk they need to have with them to make them stay out of trouble. I could probably draw an accurate picture of all their various organs, I've heard them described so many times. And I can't count the number of times I hear the phrase "makin' with the humpin'" in a day, I really can't.

But the surprising thing is--I can't say it really bothers me. Every once in awhile I find myself pulled into a (good-natured) argument about stupid things they say, and wow, I really wish the intellectual level of the kitchen conversation could be pulled a little higher sometimes, but mostly, the punk rock boys really entertain me. I think my friends would be shocked at some of the things I laugh at. Even I didn't know it was so difficult to offend me.

Over the past couple of weeks, though, some of the talk around me has set my teeth on edge. One of the guys has been specifically teasing me, presumably because I'm the only woman there. I know he's not really serious when he's hitting on me, but I've told him to knock it off several times, and he just won't. If I get mad when he starts talking about how much he wants me, he just laughs. It particularly pisses me off when he starts saying sexual things to me in Spanish, because I'm the only one who understands them and he can be a lot more free with his propositions. It got bad enough yesterday--I got mad enough--that one of the punk rock dough boys told him to shut up, but that only worked for about two minutes, and he was back making suggestions about how we could get sweaty together.

I'm not quite sure what the difference is--yeah, I told two of the guys to shut up today because they were comparing penis sizes and I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW, but it didn't upset me. Five minutes with this other guy, and I want to quit my job because there doesn't seem to be any recognition on his part that he's crossed some sort of invisible line from funny to threatening. Today he came in with a broken hand and maybe a broken arm, and I found myself thinking, "Good!" That's a bad sign, I think, being happy that a co-worker is suffering. I'm not really sure what to do about the situation, except get another job.

I wish.

String Theory

Physics Web: Superstrings
http://superstringtheory.com/
Second Superstring Revolution
Superstrings
Elegant Universe

Coin toss.

Who's going to crack up first? Catherine is a more natural optimist, and better at living in denial, but she's been pushed to a point of desperation. Susan lives on the edge of sanity as it is, and doesn't need much of an excuse to dive into the deep, dark waters of depression. Susan's more likely to explode, Catherine's more likely to weep quietly. Susan's more likely to withdraw and quit trying altogether, Catherine's more likely to pretend everything's okay until it's too late. Susan's tired of dealing with the pressure of being the household income savior, Catherine's overwhelmed by her job and her school and her half-crazy wife. Who's going to win the race to hopelessness? It's a 50-50 proposition right now, and it could go either way.

The cruelest of things.

If I was a writer, if I had the words and the skill, I would describe the torment of that waking moment, the moment at which you realize you will never, ever be okay. You will live a lifetime before your eyes open, and another lifetime in the second afterward, and both of them will be spent in hell. Your nightmares will become real, and your reality will be the nightmare. You will never be happy. You will never experience joy. Everything is, and always will be, pain. You will spend your entire life in a state of yearning, forever deprived of sweetness and grace. You will never, ever escape the anguish of exhaustion and all its attendant demons. Between you and respite sits that single waking moment, so unforgiving in its cruelty as it forces you into the desolation of daylight.

The agonist.

http://www.agonist.org

What I think is, it's a mistake to portray yourself as invincible. I know it's required in a lot of careers. You have to look good, sound good. You need to make people think you're competent. More than that, you need them to think that you're the best, that you've got a lot of potential and you're going to reach its maximum. You've got your act together, you're going places, you're dependable, you're intelligent, you know what you're doing.

The trouble is, you learn this behavior so well, that it bleeds over into your social relationships, too. Maybe the bleed is obligatory--if you're dedicated to your job, chances are good it forms the basis of social life. Your friends are also your co-workers and colleagues. At work, you've got them believing you can accomplish anything. At play, won't they have those same expectations?

But what happens if you're not invincible away from the office, when you don't have the answers, when something gives way in your personal life? Who is going to help you? All those co-workers who think you're dialed in? Are they going to believe that you've got problems? Are they going to hear what you're saying and take action, or will they just brush it off, figuring you can handle it as well as you handle the pressures of work?

Don't act invincible, because you're not. Someday you're going to need someone to believe in your pain, and if you've spent your entire life convincing people it doesn't exist, you're going to look like the boy who cried wolf. Trust me. You're not doing yourself any favors by letting people preserve the illusion of your perfection. You're going to need their help, so try not to play the game so well they won't be able to offer it.

Not as smart as I hoped I was.

I finally finished Alan Rifkin's Signal Hill. It falls roughly into the genre I consider "guys' books," written by a man for other men, I think, focusing on the male experience (adolescent and adult). I feel like I spent quite a bit of time with the book but...I just don't get it. I hate to admit it, it makes me feel stupid, because surely there's something I'm supposed to be taking away from these stories. I'm not, though. They're not even really lingering in my mind for future contemplation. I hate it when I feel like I'm missing something that everyone else intuitively grasps. Even after reading the few reviews I could find on the book, I can't figure out what it is that is supposed to be so riveting about this collection. Someone please enlighten me.

Hey, Mikey! He *likes* it!

It's a hard task, getting me to go to a movie. Usually the wife will say, "I'd like to see [insert movie here]" and I'll say, "Yeah, I'd see that," and it never goes any farther than that. I'm a little more likely to go if the movie is at the drive-in (at least I can bring my own food and sleep if I don't like the show) or the College Mall theater (at least if I hate the movie, it only cost me a buck). But mostly I don't go to movies.

I definitely won't go to any movie that might have even a little violence in it. No horror flicks, no action flicks, no war movies, nothing that might have bloodshed. What this means is I'm a real lightweight when it does come to violence, since I haven't been properly conditioned/numbed to it as any patriotic, god-fearing American citizen should be. My eyes get big even during animated violence. Finding Nemo? 3/4 of the movie went by with my jaw hanging open--literally. Sharks! Jellyfish! No, fishes! Don't do it! Don't do it!

Anyway, today we went to see Pirates of the Caribbean and I was--again, literally--on the edge of my seat the entire time. I must have remembered to breathe because I'm alive and typing this, but I'm pretty sure I forgot to blink during most of the action scenes. Turns out, I really like pirate movies. Who knew? The last pirate movie I saw was Muppet Treasure Island, and really, that's about my speed when it comes to cinema. I had no idea I would be enraptured by ghost pirates running amok and killing people in red coats. I even though Johnny Depp was funny. And pirate music? Love it. Even the creepy monkey didn't freak me out too badly, although I could have lived without the final monkey scene (after the credits). I sat still for *143 minutes*. That is absolutely unheard of in my world.

I could have paid full price for the movie and not felt at all ripped off, and I'd definitely see it again. I heard myself saying to Catherine at the end, "I hope they do a sequel!" What is this strange force that has taken over my body?

The pharmaceutical moment.

On Thursday, we went to hear Leonore Tiefer speak on "The McDonaldization of Sex." The idea of "McDonaldization" isn't really new, and probably doesn't need to be explained, and the tenets of fast food production--conformity, control, accountability, etc.--have been applied to so many industries that people are probably more surprised when they're missing from a business than when they're present.

At any rate, Dr. Tiefer's talk was really about sexual health care, and how its streamlining is affecting women. At the base of this standardized medicine--bring the patient in, diagnose her in ten seconds, hand her a perscription--is, of course, the pharmaceutical industry. The producers of pharmaceutical products have a lot invested in keeping people interested in their medications. Dr. Tiefer talked a bit about the Viagra trend, how men are being taught that "occasional erectile difficulties" must be medicated (as if not being able to get it up on demand 100% of the time is some sort of disease), and how dangerous it is to just hand out Viagra for a problem that could be caused by other illnesses (diabetes, for example). Tiefer explored some of the social anxieties dealing with sex, and how the drug companies can play off those to make a buck.

Anyway, the main point of her talk was that since the Viagra market was so strong, the drug industry got the bright idea of exploiting the female market with a similar kind of drug. The problem was, there was no "erectile disease" to treat, so the industry is essentially making up a disease, "female sexual dysfunction" and offering up drugs to cure it. Dr. Tiefer has started an activist group, FSD Alert to try and counteract this movement to make women think their bodies and sex lives are inadequate and in need of medical treatment. The press page alone is worth a visit.

Dr. Tiefer's theory is that we're on the cusp of a pharmaceutical "revolution," that medical treatment for sexual "problems" is about to take a huge turn for the worse, and it's time to stop watching and start preventing.

Boris Grebenshikov.

Yesterday I stumbled across a Naxos CD at the library of Boris Grebenshikov. Grebenshikov (w/Akvarium [in english]) and Victor Tsoi (w/Kino, esp. Gruppa Krovi [in english]) almost singlehandedly taught me how to speak Russian, and I was just happy to see him again. When I was in school, it was all Vysotsky, Vysotsky, Okudjava, Vysotksy! And I was there for the birth of the next school of Russian folk music. How cool is that?

Addendum: Oh my. The liner notes give thanks and credit to Miki Pohl. She was my next door neighbor when we were in Leningrad in 1988. We operated in different social circles--we were in different grammar and conversation classes at LGU--but one thing we had in common was our interest in dissident rock. It is so neat that she took the topic and ran with it.

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me...

...And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head,
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

Well, I could type out the rest of the poem, my mom made me memorize it when I was a child, but poetry is exactly not the point here.

I'm reading Roberto Casati's The Shadow Club: The Greatest Mystery in the Universe--Shadows--and the Thinkers Who Unlocked Their Secrets. What an awkward subtitle. I've started the book a couple of times, but I've never gotten past page 14 or 15 because every time I read them, I need to take a break and think, "Wow," for awhile. Then I have to start the book over.

Casati is making a very basic point, that shadows and light play a large role in the history of modern science. He runs through the history of the lightbulb pretty quickly, Edison's incandescent bulb, etc. But I'm always blown away by the implications of his next point--that with the introduction of the filament lightbulb, not only did concept of light change, so did the concept of shadows. For the first time in history, both light and shadows were *stable*. That seems kind of obvious, but imagine how much the average person's worldview must have changed. Always before, even with gas lamps, shadows moved. They flickered if caused by artificial light, and they moved across the ground w/time if caused by natural light. Suddenly we have the capability of producing shadows that don't move.

Modern shadows are completely different than ancient shadows, and that is very cool. I can't believe I hadn't noticed it before this.

Actually, I guess poetry is the point, because Robert Louis Stevenson captured the essence of change when describing his childhood companion.

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

Beginner's luck.

So. I just sold my first travel article to a major metro newspaper. I'm a little stunned (but not quite speechless, of course).

A few weeks ago I took a travel writing class through the city Parks and Rec department. We met for three two-hour classes, and I think it cost me $21 or something like that. It was mostly a nuts and bolts class, how to choose a topic, how to find a market, how to write an article, how to take care of legal matters, etc. As part of the class I had to write a query letter for practice. After the class was over, I came home and sent the query letter out to 7 or 8 metro newspapers in the midwest (pulling editor's names and e-mail addresses off the web). Mostly I expected to be ignored, and I was, but I got one "maybe, but probably not" followed by a "I'd like to read the full article, and then we'll see."

Anyway, I cranked out a 900-1000 word article on the topic I suggested, and sent it off to that editor. That was last week. Today, I got an e-mail from the editor saying she'd like to run the piece, and if I agreed with the amount of money and terms the paper would offer, she would send me a contract. That is beginner's luck, big time.

I'm not sure where to go from here, but the beginning seems like a nice place to be, so maybe I'll just hang out here for awhile and enjoy it.

Who knew?

Today I found out that one of the dough makers at work actually knows how to write a complete sentence. I don't know why I'm so surprised, other than the fact that most of our dialogue consists of me saying things like, "I'm going to kick your ass," and him saying, "You have to catch me first." Not a lot of depth in the dough room.

Before this kid started working in the production kitchen, he repaired lawn mowers. He went to a local high school, and as far as I know, never once considered going to college. He doesn't read (not a bad thing, he's going to loan me a couple of DVDs) and doesn't seem all that interested in the world outside his line of vision. He's a really sweet guy, but just not a heavy thinker. I mean, my god, he bet a co-worker that the Browns would beat the Chiefs on Sunday--that is just plain stupidity in action. Who bets on the Browns?

Today he was talking about his "professional hobby," writing poetry, and mentioned a poem he wrote to his ex-girlfriend (he wanted to call it "Die, Bitch" but ended up changing it to "Rain"--good decision). I thought he was joking, but it turns out not--he really does write poetry in his spare time. Then he told me I could read his latest poem because it was posted online. He probably didn't think I'd actually look them up, but I did.

Okay, his poetry isn't great, full of romantic cliches, but it's better than I ever would have thought it would be. He actually used adjectives and adverbs. He can write a complete sentence. He used the word "vibrant" (correctly) and before ten minutes ago I would have confidently bet ten dollars that he didn't even know what it meant. He really and truly writes better than more than 75% of my freshman history students ever did.

Now I want to know--what were his grades like in high school? Why didn't he go to college? Did anyone encourage him to? He went to school out in the county, and I'm guessing that he's like every other first generation college student I've met here, with a family not interested in education, no support, no vision of what life could be like. It's too bad, really, because I'd really like to see what he could do in a different environment.

Almost relevant.

And speaking of "why I left graduate school" (sort of), I thought this was kind of wild. Some of it parallels my experience, a lot of it doesn't, but it still made for interesting reading.

Jack of all trades.

What a weird week. All these people from the old life are suddenly re-appearing, and now I'm in the middle of a mini identity crisis. Trying to fit back into the spot they all had carved out for me in their minds, trying to be who I was ten years ago without letting go of who I am now, trying to keep up and realizing I'm not so sure I want to. Who are these people, and what do they want from me?

A little bit I feel guilty. I'm standing among friends, and I think that the one friend I'd really like to have a face-to-face conversation with right now isn't in the room. So I feel bad, as if I'm looking over everyone's shoulders, hoping for someone else to appear. What, these friends aren't good enough? So a little guilt, and it makes me shift in discomfort too many times in a single evening, I think.

Mostly, though, I'm just recognizing that the way my life has unfolded over the past 6 years isn't how anyone expected it to, and although I've moved on, everyone else only has the old mental picture of me. So instead of falling back on familiar topics and old patterns of conversing, everyone has to do a little bit of adjusting, and maybe it's not going that well, I don't know.

My mind works differently now. I'm listening to people talk around me, and I'm discovering that I've left the world of ideas for the world of skills. It's not that I've become less intelligent (although I have to admit I don't engage in the critical thinking process like I used to) but more that I've just directed it elsewhere. It's not that I don't read, I just read differently and for different purposes now. I've no longer got the mind of a specialist; instead, I'm a generalist.

For the past several years, my knowledge has been expanding in terms of practical skill--the physical rather than the cerebral. I cranked up my information technology skills. I stopped thinking about architecture and started thinking about building. I draft, I construct. I've discovered I have a favorite power tool. I took music lessons and I joined a band. Learned how to skate, and then to play hockey. I learned a new language (well, sort of). Took up the martial arts. Learned how to properly slice tomatoes. I suppose I was thinking during all these things, but it's not the same as living on campus, speaking the language of the academy and thinking academic thoughts.

For once, I'm fine with that. I like working with affordable housing programs (even if it doesn't pay the bills). I like being able to go to the library and pick up any damn book I please w/out having to work it into my current research topic. I like being able to change my mind without getting written approval from my advisor.

Somehow I've got to figure out how to convey that to everyone around me, that while of course I'm interested in what they're researching and what they're writing about and what it means for the future of humankind, it's not what I do anymore, and it's not what I'll do in the future. Everyone needs to stop expecting that I'll recognize the names they're dropping and the scholars they're reading.

What I'd really like to say to them, except it sounds like I'm criticizing them and I don't really want to, is that it would do them all good to give up their career paths for awhile and hang out with the rest of us. Have some conversations that aren't so narrowly focused, and that aren't fed by guest lecturers and course material and current research. Maybe they should find some people who don't share their same career goals and go camping or something, anything to broaden their horizons. Read some poetry instead of the New York Times with breakfast. Maybe even watch some TV. Listen to something that isn't NPR.

Well, I guess that is a criticism, isn't it? But about the fifth time someone expected me to recognize the author of an article they were reading, I really wanted to say, "Look, do you know how to put insulation in your crawl space?" It's just that when I realized all these people were coming to town, I thought it would make me sad about everything I gave up. Instead, it's made me heavy with this feeling that my friends are missing out because their professions demand absolute focus and dedication. I don't know. Life is short and it seems a very bad thing to spend the entire thing trapped in the archives squinting under artificial light.

Whatever. Whomever.

S: I don't understand women and I don't understand men.
C: That doesn't leave you much. Just cats.
S: Well, I don't understand them, either.

Cowlick Ricky.

Apparently I've inherited his hairstyle.

When I was in second grade, I stole a book of fairy tales illustrated by Adrienne Segur from the school library. Some of the stories, like "Thumbkin," I can repeat forward and backwards and forwards again (anything with Thousand League Boots and ogresses is worth re-reading). Some of them, like the "The Royal Ram," I only read once. That particular story made me cry for hours the first and only time I read it, and my mom told me never to read it again. She'd be glad to hear I've still never re-read it. "Green Snake"? Got it memorized. "Bright, Deardeer and Kit"? Didn't find it all that awful, but there's a librarian's note at the front of my book recommending that children not be allowed to read it.

Anyway, I couldn't tell you the story behind Cowlick Ricky, other than he was probably ugly on the outside but had luminous, golden beauty on the inside; I haven't read it in years. I do, however, recognize his hairstyle when I see it staring back at me in the mirror. It's a good thing we're required to wear ballcaps at work, I'm telling you.

Bands of America.

http://www.bands.org

Northmont H.S., Ohio.





Center Grove H.S., Indiana.







Bellbrook H.S., Ohio.

The separation between church and interstate.

I haven't seen it, but apparently there's a huge cross on a hill next to the freeway somewhere between here and Kansas. I'll look for it next time I go that way.

Went over to E&H's for dinner last night, one last chance to see David before he goes home. Great to see him twice in one week, wish Jen could have come with him. Also great to have a conversation with adults for a change. No punk rock music, no methamphetamines, no sex in the dough room.

It's funny, though, hanging out last night, I ended up feeling out of my element in the opposite direction. At work, I'm definitely intellectually slumming, I can't even pretend I'm not. With former grad school friends, though, I always feel one step from being revealed as an imposter. I knew I was in over my head when I sat down on the couch and started looking at the bookshelf. On the top shelf was a matched set of the Iliad and the Odyssey. And next to that set was a second set. And next to that set was a third set. When I asked Henry about them, he said he liked having three editions, so he could compare the translations, etc. I thought I was doing well having read them each once. Comparing translations? And it's not even his field, he's a Byzantine specialist.

Still, good to see friends twice in one week, even if I almost fell asleep in my dessert dish. Our social life completely tanked the day Jen and David left town, it really just ground to a halt. Sort of a relief to discover their's did, too. As he was leaving, David said it was good to feel like he had friends again, and we could relate. I wish they would relocate back here.

I'm supposed to be vacuuming.

I had to take my drum set over to Diane and Garett's last night, and I haven't set it back up because this is a perfect opportunity to vacuum a corner that hasn't been cleaned in five years. It's amazing how much dust can accumulate over such a length of time. It's kind of bribe--do the vacuuming, and you can drum some more!

I'd like to drum, Bobby lent me a new book, "The Art of Boogaloo" because he noticed two of the exercises play off my favorite drum pattern. It should be cool. He's good for my ego, yes, he is. Today he told me that I seriously sell myself short as a drummer, that I'm really better than I represent myself to be. Part of me thinks he's just trying to make me feel good, part of me wants to believe him. Whichever, I usually come back from seeing him all ready to drum again.

Catch up.

I was so tired last night, I forgot to even point out--that's just 1/2 a song, the background, and it hasn't been mixed, so the trumpets are way too loud. Garett is working on lyrics, and once we get those laid down, we'll make it sound a lot better.

I am so far into sleep deficit, I'm never going to get out.

New.

Once again, we started out making a rockabilly song, and ended up with something totally different. Our new song, affectionately known as "rough draft" is a cross between Van Morrison and some dead ska band.

We've renamed the band, it's now called Bicoastal.

Memories.

I promised myself about ten years ago to stop teasing Catherine about her poor memory. Soon after Michael died, I made a joking reference to her inability to remember anything I said, and she burst into tears. It turns out that she was afraid she wouldn't be able to remember Michael after awhile, that she was already forgetting John and Robert and every time I teased her about her poor memory, it was like I was reminding her that she would forget Michael, too. That was one of those moments when you realize how much damage words can do, and I never want to do that to someone again. I've carried a bit of Catherine's fear and despair around with me ever since, and try to remember things for her so she won't have to worry anymore.

But now I seem to have my own problems with memory, which is probably normal. The older you get, the more things you have to remember, the more things you have to forget. But, still, I've been having these ten second panic attacks, the kind that make you want to pick up the phone and call your friends just to make sure you still recognize their voices. Lately I've been having a difficult time remembering the important things--what my friends look like, for instance. I frequently find myself looking at the photos of my parents in my office and the living room because I can't seem to recall what they look like, either. It's starting to freak me about a little bit, this inability to remember faces and voices. If I can't remember what people look like now, how am I ever going to remember what they look like when I can't see them or hear them anymore?

But as I was sitting at dinner this evening, I realized that--at least for now--I can share the burden of remembering with other people. We had dinner with David and Erika and Henry, and at various times, we fell into the "have you heard from so and so lately?" or "do you remember when we did such and such?" And as we were talking, and trying to work our way through some kind of hazy memories from our early grad school days, it occurred to me that the real value of long-lasting relationships may revolve around the notion of communal memory. I couldn't quite remember who it was who didn't pass their oral exams at USC, but David eventually pulled the name out of his memory banks for me. A dozen similar exchanges occurred between various members of our dinner party throughout the evening, and I ended up feeling a little relieved that there were people around to help me remember my life when I couldn't.

That's mostly reassuring, I think. Not entirely, because what if you out live all your friends and family and then lose your memories of them, too? That's the kind of worry that keeps me up at night. But mostly I was a little more optimistic after dinner. As long as you keep adding people to your life, and hold on to them once you have them, you'll have help when things get hazy. And maybe that's the kind of comforting thought that I need to hold on to right now.

You know what?

I'm just too tired to write. 2,437.5 pounds of bread and pizza dough this morning. My elbows are killing me, I keep looking down to make sure there's not a bone sticking through the skin.

There's a major disconnect right now with my ability to think and my ability to communicate, a disconnect that I'm sure could be solved by several hours of uninterrupted sleep, but I'm not getting that done right now. I've been reading tons of stuff about which I should be writing, before I forget what it was about them that grabbed my attention in the first place. For instance, I finished Edith Wharton's House of Mirth last night, I'm in the middle of one book of science essays, one book on shadows, one book on being a female oceanographer, one book on being Iranian-American, and another book of short stories based in L.A. And I'm sure I'll be happy to tell everyone about them. Later. Really. I will.

Slow learner.

C: Is your arm bleeding?
S: [Looking at arm] Oh...maybe. I think I bumped it on the drill again today. Where?
C: [Pointing to wound] It *is* bleeding.
S: Yeah, I guess so. Isn't that where I cut it the last time I bumped the drill?
C: [Pointing to a nearby scar] No, that's this one.
S: Oh. Well...almost.

Because my wife told me to.

We've been semi-madly cleaning house. It would be the spring cleaning if it was actually spring instead of a freakishly warm November. Anyway, it's the once or twice a year big clean. We have a friend coming into town on Wednesday to defend his dissertation, then another friend coming into town next week to give a talk, so it seemed like a good time to pretend we actually care about appearances. We finished the painting in our kitchen--mostly stuff the flaky contractor neglected to do--and Catherine scrubbed the kitchen floor. (Before anyone sends me e-mail about what a lousy house husband I am, I'd like to point out that painting the wall really freaked out my AC joint and there was no way I could clean the floor. But I would of.)

My task today was to tidy up the office. And I've done a reasonably good job, given that my deadline doesn't actually pass until tomorrow night some time. I even picked up my homework (fucking statics) off the stamp table. Yeah, but next time I do that particular task, I'm going to make sure the shade is pulled or that I'm fully dressed. Hopefully it was just the birds at the feeder that got a good look at me in my baggy shorts and bra, stuffing books and papers into my briefcase. I'm pretty sure the kids across the street don't need to see the old lady with no shirt doing housework.

My Mother, the Scientist.

Joan Feynman

Unseasonably warm.

Fantastic weather, well into the 70s, so after we put a second coat of paint on the kitchen wall, we went for a drive. BRI was having an open house for a newly completed project, so we drove out to Stinesville to see it. Neat little house, the contractor did a good job.

Before:


After:

My 16th apology.

More like my 30th or 40th. Even after I stood up from in back of the dryer and announced that I didn't know why I was saying I was sorry, since it wasn't my fault, I kept apologizing. What tedious behavior. I was fixing the problem, not creating it, so why say I'm sorry?

It's a boring story, and I won't type it out, but we discovered that the guy who did our floor--a year and half ago--didn't hook the vent hose up to the dryer when he put it back in place. End result: we've been building a lint collection behind the dryer ever since. It's a damn good thing Catherine has beaten it into my head that you don't leave the house with the dryer running. If the lint had caught fire, at least we would have been there to put it out. Of course, we would have had to reach into the flames to get the fire extinguisher, since we keep it behind the washing machine. Still, it's a good principle. Dryers are fire hazards, even when properly connected, so don't run them un-supervised.

Anyway, the hose was damaged, and I can see why the guy didn't hook it back up, but I wish he would have said something to us. Two trips to Lowe's later, I've replaced the hose and the exterior vent since for some mysterious reason it had fallen apart.

What I was thinking about today while I was painting the back wall of the kitchen: it's not so much that men need to be taught to do more housework, it's that women need to be taught to do less. Women really could do themselves a favor by adapting to the "it's good enough" strategy of cleaning.

I'm not saying that we should accept men's standards for a clean bathroom, nor am I saying we should turn our homes into breeding grounds for infectious diseases, but I will say that a few of my friends could just dial it back and clean a little less often. I swear to god I have never lost a friend over the fact that I only dust my venetian blinds once a year or so. Really, and if I did, it wouldn't be a friend I would have wanted to keep anyway. I just wonder why all my female friends add even more stress to their already full and busy lives by forcing themselves to keep a spotless house on top of everything else. Let it slide, I say. No one's ever died from a few over-sized dust bunnies under the futon, I promise.

MALB.

Ha, I was right. I told Catherine that ladybug was biting me, but she didn't believe me. They do too bite. There's even photographic proof.

Not your mother's music.

Not my music, either.

I promised Bobby I'd bring him a list of my CDs so he could pick out some music for me to practice with. I promised him the list three weeks ago, and I finally started writing it up tonight. At first, I just listed out the pop/rock CDs, but then I thought I should add the jazz/big band stuff, just in case, and maybe the country and swing stuff, also just in case. I ended up writing them all down, all twelve pages of them (the key lesson here is "don't listen to Susan when she whines about being busy, because she always finds time to do stupid, pointless tasks"). It turned out to be a rather revealing exercise.

One thing I promised myself when I got involved with Catherine was that I would not let her govern my taste in music. My previous girlfriend's taste dominated the relationship, and when we broke up, I realized I had no idea what I was supposed to listen to--all the music was hers. So, for the first couple of years with Catherine, I very determinedly held to my own aesthetic principles. Maybe it was more like the first couple of weeks, 'cause I'm looking at this list and seeing very little of myself in it. I see a lot of stuff we bought together, but the majority of it isn't mine. I guess that's okay, but it's kind of strange, since I'm supposed to be the musician of the family. Some of the albums are obviously mine--the Korean ones, for instance--but I think even my closest friends would have a hard time figuring out what other ones would go with me if this relationship ended.

Yet one more thing to add to the "when I get a job list": buy more of my own music.

Friday.

• move door/window schedules to paper space
  
• check site plan, make sure water/sewer lines = plumbing plan
  
• check site plan, make sure electric lines = electric plan
  
• site plan -> service panel, laundry door
  
• remove kitchen wall all plans
  
• A-GLAZ-PRHT
  
• porch + 4'
  

Shipwrecked.

Fuck. I was pushing the clutter around on my desk so I could move my desk lamp to a more advantageous position, and I knocked over a picture frame. It landed flat on my three model ships, which were relegated to my desk from the living room because we were afraid the cats would wreck them. I managed to do in a half second what the cats couldn't have done in a month.

The drydock has re-opened, I guess.

My project holds promise, if nothing else.

"If a sponsoring editor decides that your project holds promise for our list, he or she will seek, at a minimum, two outside reviews for scholarly projects and one for trade books. To allow for careful consideration of a project, we give our readers six to eight weeks, on average, to complete their evaluation. The review process typically takes three to four months, depending on, among other things, the nature of the project and the availability of reviewers. "

So, now I sit and wait another three or four months. Lovely.

Note the time.

I cannot believe I dragged myself out of bed on a Monday morning to get myself to work on time, only to have them send me home because there wasn't any work to be done. That should be illegal.

Shoulda.

On Friday, we bought a cake for no particular reason other than we wanted dessert. We ate some, then boxed it up and left it in the refrigerator. I thought about eating a piece of it this weekend, but decided to wait until Catherine got home so we could share it. If I'd known she'd tucked a note inside the box for me, I would have eaten me a piece the moment she left.

Dammit.

My rough estimate would be "a lot."

It's difficult to guess how much life can be improved by good friendships.

It was a dark and stormy night.

Preceded by a dark and stormy day. Catherine picked a good weekend to leave town. It was the perfect day to curl up in bed with the cats and read Dante, so that's what I did all afternoon.

Eventually I got out of bed and made good on the promise I made to Garett two years ago, which was to go over to his place and play some music with him. It's really quite amazing. In just a couple hours, we managed to lay down this completely New Age song that we made up on the spot. I definitely didn't expect to turn out something so weird when I started out today, but that's what happens when you wing it. I played all the percussion and the keyboard, Garett played the rhythm and bass guitar. First I laid down a standard clave rhythm on the upbeats, then added the ashiko, then the dumbek, and then the scraper. At that point, it sounded like we had some neo-West African beat going on, but once we added the bass guitar, it completely changed. And since my keyboard playing is almost non-existent, we had to take what we could get, which was a simplistic rendition of a chord, played with one finger. Garett's rhythm guitar almost sounds like a piano playing. Really, really odd, but still, kind of neat that two people can just pick up some noise makers and record a song, just like that.

We're going to take our New Age band, the Ethereal Soundscape, on the road, man.

E-mail down.

Well, that's the second person in two days that has said to me, "Didn't you get my e-mail?" I'm not even getting spam, which means something is seriously broken.

I arrived at the library a few minutes ago to discover that it had been re-arranged. Not just a bookshelf or two, but the entire library has been changed around. The disoriented feeling was so severe I actually swayed with panic--am I in the right building, the right town? The man behind the new reference desk called out and asked if he could help me find anything. "No...just the library..." He laughed and assured me I had found it. I don't know if he was telling me the truth or not.

I suppose.

I guess if Catherine can let me go off for a wild night in Palo Alto by myself, I can let her go to Chicago without me. I don't have to be happy about it, though. How immature is it that I'm about to spend the next 48 hours fretting about this? I'm sure Garry and Amanda are perfectly safe drivers, and I'm sure they'll all come home just fine on Sunday. I'm sure. I am.

Catherine and I have been having parallel anxiety dreams. She dreams that she's being forced to marry some guy she's never even met. She doesn't want to, and when she gets to the altar, all these men are standing there and she doesn't even know which one she has to marry. When she wakes up, all she wants to do is hold on to me. I dream that I've somehow been offered up to someone else for the weekend, and I don't want to be there. I want to go home, but I can't because there's an electrical storm and it's raining and then the cats get out and are running back and forth across the street in the traffic and I don't want to see them get run over and I have to get home but I can't. And I wake up, and all I want to do is hold on to Catherine.

Damn. I hate having to go to sleep.

Political Compass.

So, I just spent a few minutes taking the Political Compass test, and I'm thinking the results can't be right. For one thing, there were several questions where Strongly Agree/Agree/Disagree/Strongly Disagree didn't offer the choice I wanted which was "neutral" or "can't decide" or "could you rephrase that in the form of a question?" Anyway, I ended up with:

Your political compass
Economic Left/Right: -7.50
Libertarian/Authoritarian: -6.46

There's no way that can be correct. The chances of me being farther to the left than Nelson Mandela, The Dalai Lama, and Ghandi are pretty damn slim. Or pretty damn fat, whichever way you want to look at it. I think if the questions had been written a little differently, I would have come out more authoritarian than libertarian, without question.

Although the test does try to add depth by considering a "social dimension," my general criticism is that too much emphasis is put on the left-to-right economic spectrum. Okay, it's not the test's fault that we live in an economically unimaginative world, but really, why must my choices be based on an antiquated (okay, 19th century) model of economics? This is 2003, for chrissakes. Why are we incapable of thinking outside the paradigm offered by Marx and Engels? Is it really true we can only be capitalists, communists, or socialists (or somewhere in between these three positions)? Surely we can think of a fourth option.

Not a fourth option, a new option. There must be other systems of economy--based on trading and bartering? I'm not sure--not derived from Marx's interpretation of the collection of the British Library. I mean, the very fact that his system was based on an extensive yet culturally limited set of source material should make us pause and wonder about the validity of his conclusions. Marx describes what he thinks he sees, predicts what he thinks might develop, and suddenly we're totally wed to the idea. And you can't point to the fact that examples of his economic systems exist as proof that he was right. Marx was the master of the self-fulfilling prophecy, a Field of Dreams kind of guy if I ever saw one.

Well, don't even get me started on that Adam Smith, we'll be here all day.

Ampersand.

http://www.amptoons.com/blog/

I don't remember accepting this mission.

• figure out A-COMP-R
  
• schedules for floor plans
  
• finish roof plan
  
• start foundation plan (10/31)
  
• chap. 26 questions asap
  
• look at chap. 28 again?
  
• chap. 31, 32 (10/31)
  
• statics
  
• call to change appt.
  
• query letter (10/27)
  
• list of newspapers (10/27)
  
• e-mail Steve
  
• check locks Kirkwood
  
• bin from garage
  
• boxes to garage
  
• progress meeting? ask Steve
  
• balance checkbook
  
• shirt for Dad
  
• library books 10/24
  
• office
  
• Garett and Diane
  
• 2 doorknobs, rim lock, strike plate
  
• receipt to Steve
  
• list of hardware to Steve
  
• bathroom
  
• hair cut
  

Right hand.

Not broken.

Mind the gap.

I like this article, if only because I've tripped on that bloody step in Gay's the Word so many times I've lost count. Not the main point of the narrative, I know, but it's reassuring to know that not every gay and lesbian bookstore in the world has gone under.

I just had to buy her that DVD player...

As part of my Be A Better Spouse campaign, I've decided to watch more movies. Catherine loves movies, but we hardly ever go to the theater because I can't be bothered to sit still that long. When we rent movies, I tend to watch about ten minutes of any given flick, then leave the room. Or, if I stay in the room, I read and miss most of the movie, anyway. So, I'm trying to force myself to watch movies, because I know that it would be more fun for Catherine if she had someone with whom she could discuss them. So, I've just finished my fourth movie of the weekend. Ouch.

I'm not sure the first movie, Matilda, counts, since it was on WTBS when we finally dragged ourselves out of bed. Plus, I'd seen about half of it already. It's a pretty decent kid's film. Dark, but dark in an children's way, not in a Texas Chainsaw Massacre way. I think it got mixed reviews when it came out in the mid-1990s, but it really does a good job of capturing that secret desire of every over-punished kid to develop magic powers and teach those grown-ups a lesson. It was based on a Roald Dahl book (wow, am I ever disillusioned by the fact that he has an official website), which explains everything about it, I think. Very much in the James and the Giant Peach sort of way. Catherine loved the library scenes.

We rented A Shot At Glory because I'd read that it was a good soccer film. I suppose it wasn't an incredibly fantastic film--I didn't really get too pulled into the family drama that formed the subplot--but it had some excellent footie scenes. And I actually shed not one, but *two* sports tears. That makes it a good movie in my book. I wish I had thought to turn on the subtitles before watching it, though. I'll have to do that before we turn it back in to the rental store.

I really expected to like Down With Love. Not love, but like. It was supposed to be a Rock Hudson/Doris Day kind of remake, and I was expecting a light romantic comedy with a bite. Unfortunately, it was a poorly done parody. I know it was supposed to be a farce, but it was an overacted farce, and I couldn't even bear to watch it through to the end. Catherine told me it got better after the (one) plot twist was revealed, but I'm thinking I'm glad I spent my time looking at pictures of skyscrapers instead of watching the movie.

Fourth Film: A Mighty Wind. Anyone who liked Best in Show will like this one. This was Catherine's pick, and I didn't really want to watch it, but it was worth the 4 buck rental fee and 90-minute commitment. Eugene Levy creeps me out on a regular basis, but other than that, I liked it. I really like the trio, and enjoyed watching them pick up different instruments every time they rehearsed. Also, the "neuf-tet" cracked me up, especially the two lead singers who looked like evangelists one step out of prison for tax evasion. Catherine is watching the supplemental material on the DVD right now. I hate DVDs, they take a usually too-long movie and just double it in length.

I've just got to make it through two more DVDs, and I can go back to being bad husband sleeping in the recliner.

But I expected the old Frank Gehry.

Exit the front door of my building, turn left, and start walking. Walk through downtown, across Wilshire, up up and up the hill, past the Museum of Contemporary Art, past the Wells Fargo building. If you hit the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion or the Mark Taper Forum, you've gone too far. Chances are you won't get that far, though. How could you just walk by Frank Gehry's Walt Disney Concert Hall without pausing to look at it?

I spent way too many hours hanging off the chain link fence across the street from the future concert hall, watching the construction of the concert hall parking garage. In fact, I spent one particularly chill, still Thanksgiving morning on that fence, toes wedged in the gaps, freezing fingers wrapped around the links, trying to figure out what was going to happen (not really knowing that it was just the parking garage taking shape at that point, that the concert hall would be across the street). I think I was the only person breathing in downtown L.A. that day, with the exception of the guy who tried to panhandle me (excuse me, but do you think I'd be standing here out in the cold on Thanksgiving morning if I had any spare change? No, I'd be drinking coffee somewhere warm.) The concert hall was still just a rumor back then, absolutely unimaginable by even the best educated and most knowledgeabe architectural historian. Because in 1988, Frank Gehry was still the architect of found objects, of eclectic residential structures and novelty public buildings. Sure, he was awarded the Pritzker in 1989 (1990?), but I don't think anyone realized that he was about to create a museum typology so recognizable that his early work would be consumed by it, and museum and art culture would be dominated by it.

So, the great concert hall is finished, and if anything it's an anti-climax. So controversial in the late 1980s, its path to completion was paved by Bilbao and the EMP. Even Cleveland has it's own version of Gehry's signature design by now. A concert hall that was simply inconceivable 10 years ago is now common place. We didn't have the visual language to describe Gehry's (future) building back then, but now he's offered so many examples, we can simply shrug and say, "Well, it looks like a Gehry, of course." It's so familiar it's almost banal. It's difficult to convey how amazing that is, that a building that had no blantantly obvious predecessors (although I can sure see it in the architectonic forms of the Vitra Design Museum) could not only contrive to get itself built, but manage to make itself common. What other architecture firm has managed this?

I'm not someone to go around spouting about Great Architects. But reading an article on the completion of the Disney concert hall made me pause, remembering the time I spent on the fence, unable to fill in the hole in the ground in front of me with any sort of structure. And now, I'm unable to not fill it in, unable to not imagine what a Gehry building looks like. It's only been ten years, but my visual vocabulary has entirely changed in that decade. And that in itself is a great thing.

Addendum:

No, it won't become iconic, it's won't represent L.A. to the world. Maybe it will prove to the world that L.A. isn't a cultural "backwater" (not my description), but it won't be a symbol of the city. It's too international of a style, it's too familiar already, it's already located in too many places. If L.A. had built it back when it was commissioned, maybe they would displace Bilbao in the public's mind, but it's too late for that. Nice building, built by a local boy, but it will never belong to Los Angeles exclusively or even primarily.

Amazingly proud.

The kids at USC have come a long way in the past decade. They're planning on holding a mock same-sex wedding to protest Bush's stupidity. That's amazing, because when I was there, the kids in the campus GLBT group (it was called GLASS back then) expended more energy trying not to get caught talking to another queer in public than they did doing their school work. Hold hands on campus? Wouldn't risk it. Ever. Lesbian editor of the campus newspaper? Run homophobic articles unchallenged so you don't give your queerness away. As I recall, the big crisis of the during the 1991-92 academic school year was that the student director of GLASS wasn't even out of the closet (and I still feel guilty for not being more vocal in my defense of her. I should have excoriated a few self-righteous queens instead of just getting up and walking out). So, although I have no real lingering school spirit for the Trojans, no affection at all, really, I am happy to see the queer kids are doing better and getting braver.

Buy the bag.

What I really need is a canvas book bag to take to the public library. I've been saying this forever, and I've finally started using the book bag that has been stashed in our closet for the past year or so. It's a great bag, nice and sturdy, flat-bottomed, with strong handles. The problem is, Catherine got it as a free gift at a museum opening she went to in New York last year. Yes, that would be the Museum of Sex, and while I think the bag and all the stuff that was in it was a nice gesture, it also has a URL and graphic from a website that specializes in selling sex toys and related accessories. Not that I have any particular hang-ups about that kind of thing, but I just feel uncomfortable inviting speculation on my sex life while walking through the public library. So, I spend the entire two hours I'm there making sure that only the blank side of the bag can be seen by other patrons. That is a freaking waste of energy. Two solutions: get over myself, and educate the world on the purchasing possibilities of the web; or, buy a new bag.

Pretty sure I'll buy the new bag.

Sign of the 'L' on her forehead.

That's right. We've been looking forward to Midnight Madness for a year. Yeah, a full 365 days. I even took a two-hour nap yesterday afternoon so I could stay up late for a change. About nine o'clock, my head was nodding, but Catherine said she would wake me up at 10:45 if I fell asleep. Plenty of time to get over to campus.

10:45 arrives, Catherine wakes me up, and I try to figure out what I'm going to wear. Next thing I know, I'm waking up out of a nightmare about being chased around campus by some unknown menace. Look at the clock, and it's 3:15. And there's Catherine, sound asleep beside me, fully dressed--including her IU Women's Basketball sweatshirt. We slept through Midnight Madness! Someone should be calling us losers, alright.

Therapy sucks.

And we're not going back.

As far as I understood it--and Catherine concurs--the reason we wanted to go to a counselor in the first place was because I seem to be having a hard time coping with the uncertainties of life. I guess not so much that, but because I was having trouble communicating what I needed from her and myself so I could cope. I could tell Catherine was trying to help, but it was mostly making it worse, but I couldn't figure out how to explain to her why things were getting worse and not better, despite all our joint efforts. That's what I understood before we called the counselor. And that's what I understood after the first session, we were going to work on how to balance my general fucked-up-ness with Catherine's general tranquility and work on how to communicate better.

But we got there yesterday, and it was a total waste of time. To begin with, the therapist was running late, so we started 15 minutes later than usual. And she sent us on our way 20 minutes early, so I figure our insurance paid her for 60 minutes, when we were really just there for 25. That would have been okay if they would have been a helpful 25 minutes. I really felt like she just kept blowing me off every time I tried to say something. She kept talking as if finding a new job for Catherine would solve all our problems, and it really just wouldn't. I mean...I might still be unemployed in California, Catherine might hate the job, and then would it be my fault we left here, since I'm the one who forced her to apply? And she might not even get the job, so what, then, will have changed in our lives?

I'm not sure how many times I repeated yesterday that my anxiety level was high already and seemed to be climbing. She dismissed my complaint about not sleeping well by pointing out that I never sleep well. So, what, that makes it okay? Everything is just so unsettled, and I thought it was the therapist's role to help me express my worries so Catherine could understand them. That sure didn't happen. I have no idea what I should be trying to with my life right now. Should I be going to job interviews, trying to get a new job, any job, just in case we stay here? Should I take any job offered so I can get out of the kitchen, which is totally breaking down my body? Can I take a new job then take 3 weeks work off as soon as possible to have shoulder surgery? Can someone please help me with my homework?

I could type for forty hours and still not exhaust the list of questions keeping me awake at night. And an online journal is not exactly the place I hoped to be exploring these issues, but I'm not sure what else I'm supposed to do at this point. I'd like to hire someone to make my decisions for me.

I love Wil.

http://www.wilwheaton.net/mt/archives/001406.php#001406

Oh my god, it's even better in mp3 format.

Not as bad as I thought it would be.

Just spent two hours on campus, talking to my former boss. I put off talking to him face to face for too long, I guess, but I wanted to make sure my anger was gone before going over there. Also, I knew he would ask me about the online courses I was taking, and I didn't want to have to admit that they weren't going very well. So, it took me awhile to go out to school.

It was okay, though. I rediscovered that Kirk is a nice guy. I just don't think he means to not follow through on his promises, he really doesn't recognize that he's jerking people around. We talked for two hours about the department and course requirements and construction methods and project manuals and trigonometry and machine design and a dozen other things, and I had a good time. It made me realize how starved I am for intellectual stimulation. I have fun at work, and on days when Jay isn't dropping fiberglass trays on my thumb, I'd even say I like my job. But it is good to be around people who share my interests and can hold a spontaneous conversation on a variety of related topics. It's just good to be able to talk about building/construction/design software/architecture and have the person on the other end of the dialogue know exactly what I was talking about. And Kirk and Tom both talk to me like a member of the team, not a student or semi-professional. I like them both as co-workers, and I guess I'd kind of forgotten about that with all the frustration I was feeling with the job itself.

They were also reassuring about my online courses, confirming my suspicions that the instructor teaching the courses is completely inadequate. I'm trying to just work through the homework and get it over with, but I lack motivation because the material isn't clear, I'm not getting any feedback, and I just don't see any point (other than to get it done so I can graduate). I finally sent a really pointed e-mail to my instructor, indicating that it was 8th week of class, and I had yet to get any assignments returned, and that had to change, and in reply I received the assignment back for one of the three classes that I turned in during week 2, with no other discussion of the matter, no other feedback. I know that sucks, but it was still nice to get independent verification of the fact. It was good to be validated, to hear that my expectations aren't unreasonable.

As we left it, I'll get in touch with Kirk when we know what Catherine's career plans are, which will hopefully be w/in the next month. He knows he has one course available to teach, with the possibility of anywhere between 1 and 4 other courses opening up. And as I was sitting there talking about some arcane Revit feature, I realized that even though I'm not particularly wild about teaching, not particularly thrilled about low pay for a lot of work, that I do want to work in my field. Is one course enough? No, we can't live on it, but maybe I can piece something else together if I need to.

Oh, so disgusting.

I know some people think it tastes good, but my theory is: if a recipe calls for 5 pounds of sour cream, 5 pounds of mayonnaise, and 5 pounds of bleu cheese, the end product should not be consumed by humans.

Fuck the AC joint.

So, this is the diagnosis, arthritis of the AC joint. The orthopedic surgeon would like my permission to take off an inch of my collarbone. I'm thinking--no fucking way.

Builder by birthright.

I don't get to talk much to my dad anymore. He's lost his voice, and we only have about 30 seconds at a time for him to spit out whatever he thinks is important at the moment, then we have to wait for another day. Lately, he's been tossing me little bits and pieces of the family tree, trying to get me to chase up more information about his side of the family. We already know a lot of the family history--at least one branch of his family came over in the 1700s (my mom once thought about signing me up with the Daughters of the American Revolution in hopes of getting college scholarships for me, thank god she never got around to it), and one of my ancestors fought in the War of 1812 under Commodore Perry. That seems pretty cool.

Even more cool, though, is to discover that straight up the branch of the family tree that gave me my last name sits a builder and building contractor, my great, great uncle August, born in Saxony, moved to Ohio in 1866. As it turns out, I've probably even seen some of his work: He was given a contract in 1890 to remodel the state capitol building in Columbus, Ohio. According to his obituary, during his life he "took pride in the fact that he had built 15 churches and 40 school houses. The German Lutheran, English Lutheran and Methodist Episcopal churches, Second National Bank, Y.M.C.A., Kearsley residence, Chesney residence, of his home town of Bucyrus, the Ohio Wesleyan university building at Delaware, the Espiscopal church, the Indianola Methodist church, and the St. Philips churches at Columbus, being some of his edifices. At the time of his death he was just completing the $25,000 residence for Mr. Creith, the Columbus lumber man, and buildings all over Columbus mark his activity in the contracting line; in one year his contracts in Columbus amounting to $250,000."

Right now we're planning a road trip to Bucyrus for Thanksgiving weekend. My great grandfather's home doesn't exist anymore, neither does the planing mill that gave all the carpenters and furniture makers in my family their starts, but some of the other buildings designed by my uncle are still standing. And I'd like to find the cemetery and take some photos of the family burial plot for my dad.

At least I know now from whom I got my greed for power tools. That's not a bad legacy to inherit, I say.

Worth the jail time.

Obviously, I'm going to have to make a road trip to Laramie, Wyoming, sledge hammer in hand. He can try to carry through with his plans, but I'm perfectly willing to spend some quality time in jail if that's what I have to do. I can knock it down as many times as he can put it up, private property be damned.

My people.

Yeah, this would be my people. Don't mess with us.

Get with it, dude.

I am so out of touch with my people. Today is National Coming Out Day. My own coming out story is dead boring, so read someone else's instead.

Presents.

Mmm...Catherine gave me my anniversary present a few weeks early.

My electric screwdriver, which sucked in the first place, died about a year ago, and I've been using my drill to do the job. What a hassle--drill a hole, take out the bit, put in the screwdriver head, fasten the screw, take the screwdriver head out, put the drill bit back in, drill a hole, repeat ad infinitum in situations where you can't just drill a line of holes but need to go one by one. I often end up just using a manual screwdriver, but that just kills my hands, so I can't do very many that way. Anyway, my whining paid off in the form of a Black and Decker electric screwdriver this morning. A much better design than my original driver, so I'm happy.

Power tools for everyone, that's my motto.

Kind of crazy around town and at work because of homecoming. I hauled over two tons of dough this week, and I feel like my ulna (or is it my radius? I can't tell) is about to break through the skin at my elbow. Bad joint! Bad!

I can complain about my job, but at least it pays for my drum lessons. I met with Bobby today while Catherine went to the homecoming parade. I always knew Bobby was a fantastic drummer, he's worked with a lot of famous groups and donesome great studio work, but today I found out that Jeff Porcaro of TOTO used to be his teacher. That's pretty damn cool--two degrees of separation between me and Jeff Porcaro! He also told me that Jeff's father, Joe, taught him how to really get the swing beat down (instead of counting it, think of it as "Please shut the door, shut the door, shut the door." It works!).

Got together with Catherine for dinner at The Trojan Horse, finished up in time to catch the end of the homecoming fireworks over Dunn Meadow, then headed off to watch the IU women's volleyball team get their butts kicked by Michigan. Oh, well, can't win them all. A nice evening, though, and it made us really pause and think about whether we really want to leave Bloomington or not. It's looking more and more like Catherine might be headed toward a job offer, but neither of us want to be responsible for making the decision to stay or go. We're just kind of hoping that a) there will be no job offer; b) if there is, it will be so fantastic we can't turn it down; or c) if there is, it will be so awful we won't have to think twice about turning it down.

Argh. Everything is so complicated. On Thursday, Steve at BRI suggested he might be able to find enough work to keep me busy, and that's something I really, really want to do, but I hate not being up front with him about the very real possibility that we might leave in January. And he might have just been making chit chat, not thinking that I really would be interested in the nuts and bolts work of affordable housing projects. And then, today I got a phone call offering me an interview to do production work at a local publish-on-demand company. I don't think the work itself is that great, but the salary is better than my current one, and it would have benefits. But I just got a raise at my current job, and I know it's not a good job, really, and it's breaking my body into little, tiny, bitter pieces...but it is kind of fun.

Okay, obviously thinking should not be happening at 9:30 on a Friday night. I could go around in circles for hours. Better just to remember we had a good time tonight, and we can have good times wherever we are and wherever we go, and it's best just not to worry about it.

Everybody loves the new carpet:

Finally alert enough to do that math. No wonder I'm so tired. We did 35-1/2 batches of dough yesterday. Each batch is 55 pounds. That's almost a ton of dough I had to pick up and load into trays. 1,952 pounds of dough, plus the weight of the trays, man, my elbows ache.

Hm...I'm pretty sure I got a tetanus shot before I went to Costa Rica. Maybe I should check with the wife on that.

Yeah, I know I'm old and pathetic.

When the paychecks came in to work today, all my co-workers were "Yeah! Drugs and alcohol! Drugs and alcohol!" And I was "Yeah! I can finally get that cortisone shot in my shoulder!" Definitely a bad sign.

The funny thing about this California deal--I didn't use to hate Arnold Schwarzenegger. I didn't watch a lot of his movies, but every now and again, he'd release one I liked. Now, however, I'll probably never see another one, not even if he goes back to light comedy. Did he mean to tank his acting career? I just have to wonder at his naivete during this whole campaign process. Wasn't he paying attention during the Clinton administration? Dork.

Whenever I'm feeling depressed (which is--stupidly--a frequent occurrence), I just trot on over to zombo.com and let them make me feel welcome.

Other weird things from Doyle and Alex:

http://www.freshsensation.com/samorost.swf
http://yugop.com/ver2/
http://www.lares.dti.ne.jp/%7Eyugo/storage/monocrafts_ver3/03/index.html
http://www.sonicteam.com/chao/
http://www.linkydinky.com/dewkiller.shtml
http://www.gvetchedintime.com/

Today was Catherine's big volunteer day with the Monroe County Humane Association. Every year she helps organize the Walk for the Animals, and every year I fail to show up. I finally made it there today, though, and even walked the circuit with Erika and Henry (oh, and the dogs, Foghat and Dinah). Many, many, MANY happy dogs out there today.

I've decided I'm just too high strung to be a dog owner. They never stop moving, never! You'd think I'd never owned a dog, but that's not the case. It's just that having a dog in the family when you're growing up is vastly different from being solely responsible for the beast. Can't do it, I don't think. Not home enough, not patient enough when I am home. I'd snap in a second. I can barely handle our nutcase kitten, imagine what would happen to my nerves if I added a basset hound to the mix.

What, exactly, is feminist architecture? The problem with architectural theory/history is that when it really comes down to building a structure that occupies social space, there is only a very tenuous relationship between the words on the page and the nails in the wall. Most architectural historians have no practical experience with building; in fact, I can't think of a single one of my friends working in the field who have actually built a house...or even a shed. It's all theoretical. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE theory, but lately I've been wondering what I can offer to the world as a designer/builder that I couldn't offer as a historian, and I keep coming back to this idea of building as a feminist. It's an entirely different endeavor than writing as a feminist, I think.

As a historian, as a writer, I'm perpetually occupied with the is and the was, rather than the what could be. And perhaps that is the great flaw of architectural theory--it's very seldom speculative, no science fiction allowed. It's not that writing isn't creative, and I've always maintained that writing history isn't much different that writing a historic novel (you just have to provide more footnotes), but it's still primarily occupied with examining what has already happened instead of what might happen in the future. There are architectural critics writing about what they are seeing right now, but those buildings are already the past, already built, already alive. I want to get to them before that stage, when I can still change them into something I believe in. Not that I necessarily believe that the built environment can be transformative, but just in case it is, I want my mind and hands involved at an early point in the design process.

So, what is my responsibility as a [liberal/feminist/lesbian/socialist] designer? At a very basic level, I want a building that functions more than I want anything else. I'm an advocate for universal healthcare; likewise, I believe all humans should have the right to safe, functional, and sanitary dwellings. While the intellectual in me really loves buildings that challenge our conceptions of how space is supposed to work (Eisenman's Wexner Center comes to mind), I think those kind of structures should be designed only for quasi-public spaces (places like museums *not* gov't buildings, which should always provide equal, non-challenging access to public services). I don't believe every human needs a 3,000 sq. ft. house. In fact, I don't think *any* human needs a 3,000 sq. ft. house. Our society craves privacy and individualized space, but you don't need a behemoth of a house to gain that.

Huge houses are socially irresponsible on many fronts. In materials alone, they are devastating the planet. Yes, you can raise timber for wood-framed houses on plantations (monoculture bad!), but what about all the remaining building materials? Synthetic insulation, composition roofing shingles, vinyl siding, even latex paint is bad news. Everything is required in greater quantities, even the pipe to run cold and hot water supplies. Plus, the bigger the footprint of the house, the more soil you disturb during the building process. The more ground you cover, the more problem you have with run-off. More sq. ft. means more space to heat. It's just not an environmentally wise decision.

This is one thing I like about Habitat of for Humanity. Their mission is to build "simple, decent, affordable houses" for as many people as possible, so they build small houses so they can afford to build more. I love the compactness of the plans. This is also why I like working for Bloomington Restorations. By renovating historic homes for low-income buyers, we're not necessarily using less building material--it can take as much to renovate as build from scratch--but older homes tend to be smaller and thus waste fewer resources over the life of the house once we've got it insulated and energy efficient.

So, as a liberal environmentalist, energy efficient affordable housing is huge in my book. But as a feminist? There has to be something more. There has to be a recognition that single-family dwellings don't work for the majority of women (even though that's all we design in school). For instance, in my own family, my great niece is being raised by her mother and her grandmother. To make the living arrangements work, they had to completely remodel the grandmother's house, converting a garage into a living space for the mother, which turned out to be a huge hassle because zoning laws didn't take into account that two adults might be co-habitating and still need separate bedrooms. A cursory survey of statistics indicates that there are something like 12 million single parents in the U.S., and according to the U.S. Census Bureau Household and Family Characteristics March 1998, 84% of children who live with one parent live with their mother. Clearly, my family isn't particularly unusual.

Let's face it. Men aren't going to do the work for us. I'm not into all that 1970s womyn-loving-wimmin-helping-womon ideology, but I do think that I should probably start taking care of my own if I can. Women shouldn't have to modify traditional dwellings to meet their needs, that certainly doesn't fall under "best practices" for architects. There is a paucity of affordable housing designed for single parents, and maybe I should think about working to change that. I wouldn't be alone, there are already organizations like Women's Housing and Economic Development Corporation and Women's Research and Development Center (teaching women how to install drywall!) doing things like this. I don't know why I can't contribute to the movment.

To finish this long-winded post, a list of some of my favorite affordable housing projects (feminist or otherwise), taken from the Affordable Housing Design Advisor:

Holladay Avenue Homes, San Francisco, California
YWCA Family Village, Redmond, Washington
Viviendas Asistenciales, Tuscon, Arizona
Melrose Court, Bronx, New York
The Reservoir, Madison, Wisconsin

Random thoughts for the day:

1. Obviously the majority of the people in California are on crack. How else can you explain the fact that Arnold is still in the race? Good on the Oakland Tribune for rescinding its endorsement of him, bad on the Oakland Tribune for thinking he was a good candidate in the first place.
   
2. Is it my imagination, or is the entire world suddenly looking at my hair? Time to shave it off. Half way through today's concert, our conductor was advising me to play out because I had a significant snare part on the next song. "You have to play out because you're playing into the wind. I can tell you are, because your hair is standing straight up." So, I started the song thinking about the feasibility of a buzz cut instead of the music.
   
3. I hate people, I really, really do. We went to the discount movie theater today to watch Finding Nemo, and the place was crawling with children. One mother left her young son alone in our row to hold down four seats while she went and gathered her other two kids. Pretty soon, here come these two adults trying to take this kid's seats away from him. He was obviously not going to be able to hold them off, so I said that I thought that they were saved, but the woman was all, "Well, I'm going to sit there, anyway" and tried to push past my legs. I repeated myself, and her boyfriend said, "Seats aren't taken until someone is sitting in them." Relax, dude! Don't you have better things to do then push this little boy around? What is it with people? I find it hard to believe we will ever have peace in the middle east when two supposedly mature adults think it's okay to push around a little kid.
   
4. Living with Catherine is a lot like living with a blue tang fish named Dory.
   

How embarrassing.

Today, I missed the green left-hand turn arrow because I was thinking about baseball, of all things. I glanced up and saw the arrow turn yellow, and finally realized the car behind me was honking. I wanted to apologize, but what would I say anyway? "Sorry about that left turn thing, I was thinking about the World Series." Right.

When I was a kid, we lived pretty close to Tacoma. Some of my best memories are of my mom popping up a big grocery bag full of popcorn, and then my parents loading us all into the van to go watch Triple A ball at Cheney Stadium. I still think fondly of that greasy paper bag being passed up and down our row of box seats behind home plate.

Tacoma was a farm team for a lot of different clubs and they had a lot of different mascots--they were the Twins when we first started watching them, and then I think they became the Tugs. They were the Tigers the last time I saw them, part of the feeder system for the Oakland A's. I loved that last season--it was Jose Canseco's last (and I believe first) year in the minors. He showed up mid-summer, and our attendance record went up accordingly. We were all about seeing Jose play.

The last game I went to in Tacoma was Canseco's last game in the minors. We were bitterly disappointed when we arrived and saw that he wasn't dressed--we came to see him! But then this rumor started going through the crowd: he'd been called up, he was going to the Big Leagues! Ah...I get a sports tear in my eye just remembering the feelings of anticipation and excitement because of one of *our boys* got called up. He didn't play that night, but he did step out and hit a few home runs for the fans. Bashed three over the wall at center field, then stepped across the plate and did the same thing batting left. It was awesome.

Well, he was great to watch, he was the 40-40 man, after all. Before everything started going wrong, before he became a perpetual member of the disabled list and/or police blotter. Somewhere in there, around the time he was traded to Texas, I stopped watching baseball, and the strike made that a more or less permanent decision for me. Yeah, I've still got my collection of baseball cards hanging around, and I still think they're cool, but I guess I don't really watch much ball anymore.

Well, this is a long-winded explanation of why I've decided to go for Oakland to win the Fall Series. I know that "chicks dig the long ball" and all that, but that small-ball moment Oakland had the other night against Boston reminded me that I really need to be rooting for the home team, and for me, that would still be Oakland. So, I apologize to my partner, who is backing the Cubbies, and I apologize to my friend, who is going for the Giants, but I'm all in it for the A's. Or, as the t-shirt says, "My favorite team is Oakland...and whoever is playing against Atlanta."

Play ball.

Well, now I get to make a choice.

I've been pretty good at just letting things slide at work, letting my co-workers talk about whatever the heck they want to talk about. If it gets too bad, I just say something like, 'Hey, chick in the dough room, and she doesn't want to hear about your equipment, okay?" and everyone just laughs and I usually succeed in getting the subject changed. I haven't complained about the music, I haven't complained about the punk rock boys calling each other "bitch," I haven't really done much of anything except my job.

But really, should I have to listen to this at work? I thought I was doing pretty good letting this one slip by without comment, but I'm not sure I can keep my mouth shut if I have to listen to this one again. I don't know, the only other woman in the kitchen doesn't complain, and I feel like I shouldn't, either, but really, can I really be expected to be happy about going to work when I know this stuff is going to be going full blast all day long?

When I was on the plane from St. Louis, there was this kid sitting back one seat from me but across the aisle. About half way to Indy, I heard him say, "You can still see Mars! That's bullshit! That's just bullshit! You can still see Mars!" Now I wish I had turned around and asked him why that was such a problem.

Hockey weather.

It's a beautiful autumn afternoon, bright and sunny, but cool enough that you need a long sleeved t-shirt or sweatshirt over your shorts. A perfect day to be heading toward the rink with your equipment bag pulling on your shoulder, and your stick banging against your shins as you kick it across the parking lot. Early season ice, pristine and clear and hard, just waiting for the bite of your blade, the feather of a C-cut spraying toward the boards. The blue line gives way to the red line and then you're back out of the zone again, circling around the center and back over the blue again, forward then backward, that mohawk turn isn't quite right. Adjust your laces, check your outside edge. Quick start, sudden stop, take a breath, do it again.

It's a great day for hockey.

The real question is: what the hell do they feed their yellow jackets on the West Coast? I wanna know. 48 hours later, and I still feel like someone jabbed a hot needle through my knuckle. A knitting needle, if I'm not mistaken. What's up with that?

Well, I meant to audioblog while I was gone, but mostly I couldn't be bothered. Too much stuff going on, too little time. Waaay too little time.

I can barely remember the flight out, it seems like it was five years ago. Oh, wait. Air sickness, that's right. I wish I had known that was going to be the leitmotif of the weekend's symphony..."Here's Susan feeling sick on the plane, here's Susan feeling sick on the train...in the car...on the plane again...at dinner...in bed...at the park...at the wedding..." What a fucking waste of energy, an endless fugue of illness and pain.

Anyway, despite that, it was an easy trip to Portland, and an easy trip to Sacramento and then Chico from there.

I think Friday went okay. Well, right--I think my heart stopped when Catherine announced Susana's arrival, but CPR wasn't actually required, so that's okay. It ended up being a pretty nice, low-key evening of shopping and dinner and chatting. I managed to spill coffee on myself (twice by Monday, in fact), but I mostly just thought it was funny.

But, yeah, I wish I could have most of Saturday back to do over. There were really good parts of it, like walking in Bidwell Park, but by the time the wedding rolled around, I was so sick all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry. It should be easy to spot me in the wedding photos--I'm the one who looks like she's about to pitch forward and crack her head open on the concrete. It's really too bad, the wedding was at the most beautiful spot up on the Skyway, but I honestly think Susana enjoyed herself more than I did, and they weren't even her relatives. Well, I've hidden away a few moments from the day to take out later and enjoy them, and hopefully the rest of it will just fade from memory after a bit.

I am so fucking un-butch, I almost asked Susana to drive us home from the wedding. But I probably would have burst into tears, and that would have been absolutely humiliating. It's kind of funny now, I had this raging dialogue with myself the entire way down the canyon, telling myself "You cannot wreck the car. You cannot. You have your wife, your mother-in-law, and your greatest friend in here, and you will hold it together and get them home. You CAN.NOT.WRECK.THE.CAR." And I didn't. Didn't hit that 'possum, either, so it all worked out okay in the end.

And when we got home, we watched Roger and Me and quite frankly, once you've contemplated life in Flint, Michigan, it doesn't matter how crappy you feel--your life can only look perfect in comparison.

Oh. Someone should have reminded me of that on Sunday when I was bitching at Catherine. I could have used it. I know everyone else was still in wedding mode, but I had my eye on my watch the entire time, watching the rest of my weekend tick away. Watching, and getting more and more annoyed because I wanted to be out of Chico, on my way south, a lot earlier than we were. I am so high-strung, I don't know how Catherine stands it. I didn't even begin to relax until we hit Sacramento.

I'm not sure when I totally relaxed. Definitely by Monday morning. When the alarm went off, I had the passing thought that I should get out of bed and take a shower before anyone saw my hair, but that was pretty quickly replaced with an "Ah, screw it, I'm too tired." And ten minutes later, S. did me the favor of pointing out that it was indeed sticking up all over--a true friend :)

The interesting thing about the internet that I'd never really thought about before--it masks motion. E-mail is static, web pages are mostly static, and you just don't get the sense that someone is actually moving around behind those words. Sitting and typing, more likely. Well, I discovered that Susana is a perpetual motion machine. I saw a bit of it on Friday and Saturday, but wow, once she hit her own front door, it was amazing, especially since I was still in "don't make me move" mode. It is absolutely fantastic to watch someone inhabit their own space, it really is (even if it was a bit dizzying to watch her toast a bagel). But what *really* got me was that her rapidity was punctuated by these moments of absolute stillness when she was thinking. I would ask a question, and everything would just freeze for a few seconds. The first couple times it happened, I thought it was just that she hadn't heard me or something, then I realized, Oh my god, she's actually trying to give me a well-thought out answer. How cool is that? Cool, and for some reason endearing. I don't know, I can't explain it. Just a completely opaque and silent moment when I have no idea if she's going to say yes, no, or fuck off, like she's drawn into herself examining the possibilities. I don't know, just very, very cool.

Needless to say, Monday was my favorite day of the whole trip. At one point, I was trailing after her (if I am ever cast in a Hollywood film, it will be as the sidekick, eternally drifting along behind the protagonist), heading toward her pickup, and I suddenly channeled myself at 10, 11, 12, when I used to follow my cousin, Sheryl, around in this hero-worship sort of manner, all excited because she was going to take me along where ever she was going, and maybe if I was good and quiet and didn't sing off key, she would let me stay on. All that was missing this weekend was the 8-track player in the truck. Otherwise, I was totally there for a few seconds.

I just needed more time. Time to not be sick, time to get rid of my family obligations, time to just *be*. Hopefully some day. I don't know, as I was standing in Liz's yard, trying not to look like an idiot because everyone was staring at me, I felt just like an angry three year old, robbed of my favorite toy (C: Why are you crying? S: I don't want her to go! Make her come back!).

Yeah. Anyway. I'm trying to console myself with the fact that I should get a lot of mileage out of the broken toilet handle over the next couple of years.

It is SO COLD in Indiana. Completely cruel to give me sunny, warm California for a few days, then plunge me into freezing temperatures. The flight from St. Louis, which was delayed *forever* came sans heater. We did manage to get home five and a half hours before I had to be at work, and now that I'm home from there, I'm getting in some quality time with the cats. Life ain't all bad.