Horsie-Love

So, don't read too much into this. Yes, that's right. I'm asking you to read it, but not read into it. If you think you can, you're welcome to read on.

If not, there is this.

Anyhow, so I was watching t.v. the other day (that was a test. For those of you who know me, you may know that I cancelled my cable months ago.) So, months ago, I was watching the History Channel as I carefully shaded a coloring book page from my niece. A woman was speaking. I wasn't listening, being very happy coloring Hello Kitty's nose pink.

"You want them smart, but not too smart. If they're too smart, they'll figure out a way to get around what you tell them to do. If they're not smart enough, they never figure it out."

It sounded like something a former roommate would say on her man-hunts. I looked up. The woman, in a lavender chambray button-up and feathered hair (itself antiquated enough to be befitting the History Channel) leaned against a peeling fence in what appeared to be Ireland's rolling hills. Was she talking about what I thought she was talking about?

Cut to Romans on horseback. Apparently not.

My mistake.

Cut back to the woman in lavender, now crouched over to scratch a foal's fuzzy nose and give it a kiss.

Well, maybe. . .

Smear and Stare

First, let me explain the title of this blog.

I've noticed, recently, that the difficult conversations begin with "so":

"So, I've been thinking a lot about this and. . ."

"So, I've read your proposal; it's good, but. . ."

"So, I know you said earlier that. . ."

"So" is, for me, a very difficult word to understand, much less to define. At one level, it acts as a referent in acknowledging preceding conversations, history, what have you. It can excuse and explain -- "and so, you see. . ." -- and it can be positive "it's not so bad, Melissa." Or negative: "that's so bad, Melissa!" And it can just be. A filler of space, a purchaser of time, and a chance to think. The spontaneous, the tall-tales, and the everyday conversations also start with it. So. . .

What does "so" mean to me exactly? I don't aim to find out, really. Just to find the many uses of "so". And to put them to use.

Now, without much further ado, on to something my addled brain's thought up. It's a random thought, I know, but it begins with a "so," so I think it appropriate today.:

So I'm looking through my window at a 5:30 AM, pre-dawn Arlington in the rain, through smeared notes I've written in whiteboard marker on the window from last week's brainstorm. For whatever reason -- I've forgotten -- it's a sequence of numbers.

I've always hated numbers, but I like their smear and how right now, I don't see them but through them, and how from here, they mix with the rain drops on the other side, even if they never touch.

MORE GHOSTS!!!

So you may or may not know that I have embarked upon my thesis project, which I have entitled "Ghosts of Education" and focus on the 1798 text by F. C. Patrick, More Ghosts!!! Yes. There are three exclamation points in the title. Bet you didn't know there was such a thing before texting, did you?

Anyhow, I will be looking at various Gothic satires written by women in the 1790's, including F. C. Patrick's More Ghosts!!! and Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey to explore how authority is asserted and nationalized through education and strict binaries and how, in turn, satire itself functions as a subversive educational tool. Fascinating.

But really. I've got a protagonist named Thomas Grey, occasional transvestitism, possible incests, phantasms, and a dead cat all in the first five pages. Really, really great stuff. Hollywood, I hear, is in negotiations with good ol' Fleenor C. for the movie rights.

Curious what a Gothic satire might look like? Well, not too different from this, really:

What is Love?

So,  Burtie came into town to visit! Much dancing, laughing, rib-cracking, North-and-Southing, and cookie-making ensued. In that order. It was great to have my various worlds collide. As I suspected, my fabulous friends got along fabulously and I just can't wait until I see a mass immigration of everyone awesome to DC. (We are working on this, right?) Burtie and I got a chance to go around Georgetown and the National Mall, stopping to take various photos. We drank hot chocolate, and with Marissa, watched the best love story of all time (North and South) and made chocolate chip cookies--the food of love--but didn't get a chance to hold hands as we went ice skating. Mostly because I rebroke my ribs. Darn. Well, all in all, I'd say  a very Valentinesy time was had by all. We even stopped in at the National Gallery to visit some of my favorite paintings.

Sadly, one of my favorite paintings, the botanist, is no longer there.

That's right. The dark, curly haired botanist with his geraniums isn't there. And I deeply feel this loss. RIP geranium man! (On an optimistic note, I found a statue of Nathan Hale there. Perhaps I'll have a new work of art to stalk after all.)

-M

Inauguration Day

Superman in the "Seinfeld and Superman" Visa Commercials once said, infamously, "hindsight is 20/20." Unlike Superman, I haven't locked my keys in the car yet, but I do think it's a good idea to retroactively blog. Since, you know . . . I haven't been.

So it is without further ado I present to you: INAUGURATION DAY!

The day started out at 5 a.m. After making breakfast for (and with) a crew who had gone salsa dancing until 2 a.m. we all somnambulistically (yay, I get to use my favorite word!) emerged into the 18 degree weather of D.C. to witness the infamous event.

The metro was alive with bright, happy faces. (For those D.C. natives, you will know that, hour aside, this is unheard of. I learned in my first week not to smile, look at, acknowledge, or well-wish anyone on the metro. Those who do talk to me, I can now safely label "tourist." Only a totally random aside from my already lengthening aside . . . I have never seen quite so many Romance novels--no, not the ones I'm studying; the ones with Fabio on the cover and contents that make me blush--in one place before. I guess this is another reason why people don't want to be looked at on the metro. I know I wouldn't, and I'm only reading semi-pornographic 18th Century Gothic Literature. I guess maybe I understand Brigham Young's snide remarks about novels. . .) What? Oh. Obama. Right.

After walking a good distance to the Mall, we managed to secure ourselves some spots by the second teleprompter. Pretty close, as my photos indicate, but we couldn't see Obama directly. In fact, we didn't see him for many hours. Our panic-induced rush on the Capitol resulted in about 7 hours of idling, during which time I lost feeling in my feet and put my hands up to my mouth to keep them warm. Some kind folks near us let us use one of their fleece blankets, a shock blanket, and several hand warmers. (I really had wished I had had more foresight to purchase fuel for my handwarmer, rather than try to track some down the night before. Apparently the several million tourists also had had the same idea as me.)

Finally the time came. It was momentous. I was disappointed to hear people boo Bush (really? He's on his way out. Can't you just let him exit with some dignity?) but was happy at least for their support of Obama. I hope it lasts. And I hope I feel my toes again soon.

It's ALIIIIIIVE!

Well, I'm still alive. Were some of you wondering?

As promised, I forgot to check other peoples' blogs, forgot how to update my blog, forgot about the blog altogether . . . but I didn't forget you. (It's a communal "you" at this point. To all the people I should be calling on the phone, I apologize.)

I've started a new semester at my graduate program at Georgetown in DC. It's an interesting experience, to say the least. I'm TAing this semester with a person who has taught for years in the prison and at first I was worried. After all, on the first day of class, she goes face-to-face with one of the 6'7" basketball players (one of my students) and says "If you and I go head-to-head, you. will. lose." Well! 

But we've got the "good cop-bad cop" relationship down well now, and the students go to me for approachability. Unfortunately, "good cop" can't teach very well, but we're working on that. I'll be teaching Frankenstein this month and am about scared senseless. First class did not go well due to some under-planning (she gave me 35 minutes to teach instead of the promised 5) and it consisted of me asking "So, uh, what do you guys think of when you hear the word 'Gothic?' Yeah? Interesting. Well, uh. . . what do you think of when you hear the word . . . 'Romantic?' Great. Let me write this down on the board. . ."

The good news is that I am bound to make an improvement. If, you know, I stop procrastinating and finish reading the book I'm about to teach. Yeah. But I'm getting some snide remarks on not updating my blog.

I told you not to expect anything, so I don't feel the least bit compassionate to your pleas. But yes, I am alive. . . :)

Oh, on a side-note, I broke three ribs from a cough. How is that even possible? I'm trying to come up with a good cover-story (because GU students might not appreciate an invalid). Ideas thus far are 1. cage-fight. 2. stampeding (insert animal here) 3. roommate came at me with a golf club.

Only Dull People are Brilliant at Breakfast

There are two phases of my life:

1. The anti-morning phase: 23 years.*

2. The morning phase: 8 months.

This being the case, I can have some sympathy with Oscar Wilde's addage from An Ideal Husband, the title of my blog. Along with "I always carry my journal with me. One should always have something sensational to read on the train" (Gwendolen, The Importance of Being Ernest).  Only, as you might suspect, I don't keep a regular journal.

You will likely not see any pictures of breakfast, or mornings. In fact, you may not see many pictures at all, if things keep up at the rate they are going. But, I'll have you know I've finally created the blog I've so long promised. Feel free to visit my equally sparse other blogs. You know, once I manage to figure out how to attach them to this site.

--Melissa

*This statement's accuracy relies upon my mother's account that I have "always been a night person." I myself can't vouch for the fact before five years of age.