I practically started crying when I read this. Because I'm a dork.
This was my horoscope today:
Here is your horoscope for Wednesday, May 31:
You don't know your own strength. You think you're not up to the task, but you're so much tougher, stronger, smarter and faster than you think. The stars are giving you this challenge precisely because you're ready. It's been a long couple weeks with the thesis. It ends soon. (Kinda-finished mid-next week, when it's just minor clean up stuff. Finished-finished late next week, when I get it bound. Completely-finished early the week after, when I turn in the fucker.)
*Sigh*
I've almost seriously quit, like, five times. Seriously. And that doesn't count the hundreds of times I was just half-heartedly whinging about quitting. Nope, my methods aren't positive thoughts ("I CAN do it. I CAN!"), but rather saying, "Fuck it, I'm totally quitting," but just never actually stop working, even though I was convinced I would never actually turn it in.
I even medium-quit a few days ago. So I guess I'm a quitter with no follow through. So does that mean I'm just a liar, instead? :)
Happy Vietnamese Buddha's Enlightenment Day
That would be the Buddha's Enlightenment Day as celebrated in Vietnam. Not Vietnam's own Buddha. I don't think you can do that - have your own Buddha. I should look into that, though, because that might not be a bad thing to have. Sing it with me:
Your own... personal... Bu-ddha...Christine and Sarah are at a Penthouse party with Ali and Alae. And as classy as that sounded, I chose to forgo the $5 bottles of champagne and connotations of objectification, and stayed home to type.
But fear not, gentle readers, for one day (two weeks from now) all this thesis business will be over and I will be out partaking of the sleazy nightlife, as well.
It's the Great Rough Draft, Charlie Brown
Arrrooooooooooooooooooo
This is the part in the cartoon where Snoopy sits on the top of his dog house and howls at the moon.
I have been at work on the thesis. Which is due in two weeks. And needs much help. So I'm trying to help it. But there's only so much one can do when one's brain is running on kibble.
My advisor politely strong-armed me into coming in every day to sit in my office (across the hall from her office) to work on the subsequent drafts. Partially so we can accomplish multiple redrafts at once. Partially because she thinks I'm a lazy, apathetic moron. And at this point, I'm not really disagreeing with her - at least on the 'moron' part. I had comments on my draft, like, "this word is not a word," and "this sentence is not a sentence." My favorite was, "This chapter is not a chapter." Nice.
When I wake up to haul ass out to Bundoora (and yes, that's as far away as it sounds), there has been frost on my window. I can see my breath as I walk to the tram. It was even a worse scenario when my maniacally-angry, injured toe was still bad enough that I couldn't wear shoes and had to wear my Tevas with socks underneath and hobble around. (And yes, I did get funny looks at school from all the cool kids...and all the rest of the kids, too.)
I was so happy to get back to the shoe-wearing stage, when my talent came sparkling through. I banged my foot into the back of my desk. Same foot. Same toe. At first, I just assumed the old boo-boo hurt and the pain would go away. But as hours and then a day passed, I realized, no, I had in fact sprained/bruised myself anew. Same foot. Same toe. That's talent.
And today I've spent some time bent over, howling on the floor, because I banged the toe into various pieces of furniture around the apartment. I'm becoming an insurance risk. I should get a guide dog.
Okay, back to this little section of the thesis on postcolonial dramatic strategies in site-specific work in gender and performance spaces. I'm almost finished with this part. Just inserting another key quotation so it looks like I'm well-versed in the arguments of the authors. Smoke and mirrors, my friends. Smoke and mirrors.
Arrrooooooooooooooooooo
American to Aussie translation of the day
Bake sale = cake stall
I can't help but picture someone walking through a public bathroom, knocking open the door of each stall as she passes:
Toilet....Toilet....Toilet....Cake!
Drink if a Russian woman climbs out of the piano (everyone drinks)
The cultural event of the season.
Sunday night was May's annual Eurovision Song Contest Party, complete with drinking game that included such gems as, "Drain the glass if the England's team catches fire." She'll have to send them along so I can share. The list really must be multi-purpose. I mean, those Europeans are always doing shit like staging rock ballets with school girls and flamenco dancers and firecrackers and tear-away spandex and mullets and sparkles and gelled hair and harem bondage.
The French, of course, refuse to ever sing in English. They believe everyone else should sing in French. Ummm, France? That bateau has sailed.
Most Americans (read: me) only really know of the Eurovision Song Contest as the big, cheesy event that one year had ABBA in it (before they were famous) and they got screwed and came in second. I'd never seen it before and boy, was I sorry. (Sorry for never seeing it before? or sorry for seeing it now? Yes.)
I'm sure you've heard (who hasn't?) that the winners were a Norwegian metal group dressed up as big, scary monsters with horns and fangs and expensive guitars. Full on make-up and prostheses. You could tell the keyboardist was a woman because she had pearls on over the exposed guts.
It's amazing how many answers to questions of "Why are they ____?" were simply, "Because it's Eurovision." We Americans miss out on so much of world culture.
The answer is: Zahara Jolie-Pitt
2nd place.
We're moving back up the rankings at trivia night. And we only lost by one point this time. *And* there were multiple questions that we got wrong, but someone at the table had the right answer (but got out-voted by She-who-holds-the-pen). So really, if you think about it, we actually won.
The host-dude took great joy in taunting the American team ("Damn Yankees") every time an "Aussie cultural knowledge"-type question was asked. Luckily, the group of fine gentlemen sitting the next table over (not playing) gave us a few key answers. Our resident Aussie (May) is not-so-much a sports person so she couldn't-so-much help on those ridiculous questions. Our resident Aussie-but-refuses-to-be-considered-so-"Because I'm Samoan, damn it! Kiwi, if you must, but NOT Aussie"-player (Alae) was also no help on the sports questions. At one point, when the question was about some motorcycle racing guys, we ended up going with May's answer because she was the only one who could even come up with a name. Of *any* motorcycle racer guy.
Even so, we did pretty well, I think. The best point we won of the night had to be Ali's answer of "They're all cities in which Gilbert and Sullivan musicals are set." Seriously. Christine and Sarah almost won a beer for the true-false section (second and third to last standing), with the rest of the team shouting out answers. Sarah thinks one of the answers they gave was wrong on penguin laws in California. She is almost a Master of the Environment, so she should know. Eric had all his potato wedges and sour cream eaten by our mob, but it didn't hold him back from identifying random hits from the 80s. We all got a few right, a few wrong, and some questions both right and wrong because we offered, like, six different answers for each.
I almost won a beer-related prize (noticing a theme here?) for identifying Levi Strauss (the jeans dude, not the philosopher), but the guy didn't hear me and gave it to someone else. Which is probably better, since I'm not really a "beer person". I have the satisfaction of knowing that my table heard me say it. I also have the satisfaction of having eaten Eric's potato wedges. So, no drama.
Oh, and I drank a local mango beer. (Because yes, I drink "girly" shit like that. Shut up.) Really good, but strangely had on its label a drawing of a naked granny in a metal bath tub. What are they trying to say about my beer?
To my dismay, there were no questions on
Dirty Dancing, tofu, or MLA documentation styles - my personal areas of expertise. We'll just have to have another go next week and see what turns up.
The answer is D: Billy Ocean
Two weeks ago, Ali went to a trivia night at a local pub. On her own, she came in second.
Last week, the gang (minus myself) went with her. Together, they came in third.
This Thursday, I'm going along, too, to see if I can bring 'em down further.
Why can I come with? Because I turned in a full draft of my thesis earlier this week and am now unchained from my desk and allowed to leave the apartment for things beyond short trips to the local post and chemist. It's been so long, I wonder if I'll still remember how to order a drink. Yeah....I think I'll be okay on that one.
All hail Margaret Atwood
If you haven't yet read
A Handmaid's Tale, now is the time. (If you just can't read right now because you're blinded by rage, I understand - rent the movie and you can just listen.)
Apparently now all women need to be treated as if in a state of pre-pregnancy. (Unless, you are medically not able for whatever reason. Probably because you're a heathen and God hates you and has stricken you thusly.)
Are you kidding?! PRE-PREGNANCY. As is my womanly destiny, my life should be in constant preparation for the moment of pregnancy and birth.
Federal guidelines. Not just a pamphlet with a smiling head of lettuce on the front.
(here's the article)There. are. just. sooooooo. many. things. wrong. with. this.
A healthy lifestyle is a good idea for everyone, and if they were just saying, here are some ways we can all be healthier, great. But that's not what this is. To couch this in federal guidelines that categorize women as baby factories is infantilizing, degrading, patriarchal bullshit.
Can we just think for a second: 1) Not everyone will choose to have children. 2) Not everyone is having hetero-babymaking sex. 3) Hijacking a woman's body to say the government has juridiction to categorize it as "pre-pregnant" essentially makes her a minor under the law, taking away her ability to make decisions about her own body. which brings us to 4) Hello! Choice, anyone? Millions of people make choices for their own lives to decide when and if to have a kid, and if carrying a pregnancy to term is the right decision for themselves and their families, in a country that pretty much gives her the finger (regarding assistance) after the kid is born. 5) No guidelines for men - because their junk has nothing to do with the process?
Just go read the book/watch the movie. The scariest thing about Atwood's books is she says that she never entirely makes it up. While all the details might not be happening in the same place at the same time, all the topics are based on reality. And even scarier than the scariest thing, is that they keep coming true.
(And if you're not sure where you stand on this issue, the movie gives you some things to think about...)
Just tell me I'm not the only one who's infuriated by this. And even more scared of my government.
(They've been gunning for me/lotsa people pretty consistently since, lessay... January of 2000??? Somebody make the bad man go away...)
Fun with feminist performance theory
"...Case argued against the transfer of lesbian work into the heterosexual mainstream, and Hughes accused Case of being the Ayatollah Khomeini of lesbian performance criticism."
-Jill Dolan,
Geographies of LearningI laugh out loud every time I read that.
Just me? Okay. Fine. It's just me.
over the river and through the woods...
(On the phone today)ME: So what do you want to be called as a grandparent?
MOM: I think I want to be called Bubbles.
ME: Bubbles? Not Bubbie, but Bubbles?
MOM: Yeah. Bubbles.
ME: And what does Dad want to be called? Zayde? Because Bubbles and Zayde is almost like Bubbie and Zayde.
MOM: I don't know. I'll ask him.
(Pause)MOM: Ted Williams.
Come on, kids! Into the car! It's time to go see Bubbles and Ted Williams!***
A close family friend just had her first child, making the baby's parents' parents into grandparents for the first time, on both sides.
Her father wants to be called Zayde. Her mother wants to be called Peaches.
I believe, I have, in fact, lost my mind
It is 6:30 am and I hae been up all day yesterday and all night typing my thesis.
I've gone trigger-happy on the commas. I'm inserting words like 'dynamic' and 'negotiated meanings' and 'signifier' and 'destabilizes' all over the place.
My current theme music includes bells of doom. Impending doom.
I left the tv on in the background and came to shut it off to go to bed. On my tv right now are marionettes acting out 60's Bond movies, complete with appropriate costumes and sets. They have British accents. One of them just went scuba diving. I'm very confused, and a little scared.
I can't be sure that any of this is actually happening, or if I've reached the point of hysteria. Where I negotiate shared meanings. And destabilize signified dynamics.
comma comma comma
