The Hereford Twirlers

This is it!

2006-03-27T06:49:00.000-08:00

I have been waiting for this day for at least seven years, if you count only my grad school years, or at least thirteen, if you count all the years that have passed since I made the decision to get my Ph.D. in English. I AM DEFENDING MY DISSERTATION AT 3:45 EST TODAY. I have approx. only seven hours remaining as a graduate student. Some people dream of their wedding day (or days, in this day and age). I, however, have been dreaming of THIS day for years.

By all accounts, this may be the best day of my life so far. I think about all the nights I have lay awake in my bed, tossing and turning as I've worried about whether I would get the latest draft in on time or whether my advisors thought I had what it takes to make it to the end of this degree program, let alone to make it in this profession. I think about the first time I took the GRE and the day weeks after then when I got my scores back and realized I didn't do well enough to get into a good enough grad school to have any hope of getting a job in academia. And the painful decision I made to resist the temptation to go to law school and instead to start all over again, to work at Old Navy in Tulsa (a bit of a letdown after the fanfare of my graduation from college), and study for months so that I would do better. And the day I got those second sets of scores and realized that I had, and in the meantime was given the opportunity to work with little Indian kids who desperately needed help with school--the best job of my life so far. I think about the day I returned from a week-long trip to visit my best friend in Houston and found ALL of my grad school admissions letters waiting, unopened, for me. And after opening eight of the ten of them, all of which were rejections, I got to the last two: U of OK and UNC-CH, which were acceptances. Next came the difficult process of explaining to my family that I was leaving, that I would have a better chance of going back to OK if I left for a while, even if it meant taking out student loans in the hopes that the investment would pay off.

I think about all of the years I have spent in Greenlaw Hall on the UNC campus, years when I loved it and recent years when I stayed as far away from it as possible. I think of the friends (and not-so friends!) that came in and out of that building, some encouraging me and motivating me to stick with it and others angering me enough that staying the course has become almost a mission; I've wanted to be just like some of those folks and have learned that I want to be nothing like some others. And really the same can be said for my professors. Some are the type that you speak of with words of awe and admiration and others confirm all the not-so-nice things you learn about academia. So really, as much as pundits like to talk about the Ivory Tower having nothing to do with real life, I know now that this odd academic world contains almost every joy and success, almost every heartache and hardship, almost every sign of opportunity or elitism or inequality, even if in miniscule, that one can encounter in the world.

The past year has really heightened the drama of THE END. My closest friends have been looking for academic jobs or spending their first couple of years in them. I've watched some of the smartest and most talented people turn up with nothing, not even interviews, and celebrated with some others of these folks who have finally received the validation of not only a job, but a *tenure-track* job. I have seen many of my girlfriends rewarded professionally for all of their bravery, intellect, tenacity, generosity, and commitment at the same time that men have seen all of these amazing qualities and run as fast as possible in the other direction. We have stayed up and talked and cried into the night with each other and with our families as we have made our way through all of these events.

I remember last August when Jennifer and I started workshopping our job materials; we sat at Panera and were obviously terrified. Those meetings became therapy sessions, more for me than for her I fear! That girl has talked me through all of my problems. While it was so frustrating to go through draft upon draft of every piece of every application ("not sure about your use of 'thereby' here"; "how could you present your leadership in teaching in a more professional way?"; "where do you address the college mission?"), I remember feeling so proud of Jennifer as I realized that never in one place had I seen all of her accomplishments mapped out so clearly. And I felt strangely protective of her as I imagined strangers reviewing her application. I wanted to stamp each C.V. with a hot pink post-it reading, "You'll never find anyone more wonderful than her!!"

On a more practical but nonetheless significant level, I have learned how to be obsessed with money, which is a fact of life for a graduate student, at least one who is navigating financial waters totally independently in an oh-so-chic-overpriced-rental-market college town. In this part of the journey, I think my friend Tara has walked with me the closest. For how many years now have we picked up any extra editing or teaching job we could find, learned the complicated logistics of locking in low student loan interest rates, mastered casserole (read: leftovers pie) recipes that allow for lots of freezing? I remember the tremendous sense of accomplishment I felt when last year I did my taxes and realized I made $20,431--broke that $20,000 mark--after a year of working four jobs.

And then there was MLA and the constant traveling from the end of January to the end of February, with a father's near death experience in the mix. I tallied it up in my head and realized that I met almost 200 academics representing various insitutions during the course of my interviews, and I met many more in a more casual setting, in restaurants during the convention or in passing on campus visits. To these people I put on my bravest, most professional face and did all I could to prove that I belong. Some of those folks were kindred souls, people that I hope I see again at conferences, etc. And after meeting some, I escaped from them in just barely enough time to keep them from seeing me bawl as I realized that I had let some of my weaknesses be exposed. After all this, after imagining myself on various campuses from New York to Colorado, wouldn't you know it? I am heading home to Oklahoma State to a tenure-track job that seems almost eerily written exactly for me, to a salary that is exactly what I wanted and needed, and to new colleagues who seem to be the nicest and smartest of any I met along this grueling job search process. And I've got a new family member--my little puppy Tuffy. We're going HOME.

Yup, this is the best. Now only six hours until "Dr. Lindsey." And while I imagined I would feel euphoric, strangely the tears are streaming. I'm not sad at all. I just don't think there's really any emotional precedent for this. And perhaps somehow I won't quite believe it all is really happening until the defense is over, the paper has been signed, and I'm at Top of the Hill with beer in hand. I'll check back in tonight.

These woods are lovely, dark, and deep . . .

2006-02-18T06:07:00.000-08:00

Last night I decided that since I needed some exercise, I would walk to the coffee shop to do some preparation for a committee meeting that I have on Monday (yes, I'm going to a committee meeting on my birthday. Argh!).

I left my apartment at about 5:00 p.m. The sun was on its way down to its most beautiful pose, its twilight positioning, and there was more of a wind than I usually notice in NC. I had just gotten out of the shower, and within about twenty minutes or so, my long hair was dry--the wind was a nice substitute for a hairdryer. Usually it's so humid here that late in the afternoon, long after my morning shower, I can still feel dampness at the nape of my neck.

I always follow the same path to the coffee shop. It takes me out of my apartment complex, through the surrounding neighborhood, along a walking path next to Fordham Blvd, down Estes Drive a bit, through the woods along the Bolin Creek Greenway, and up through the trees to Cafe Driade. On this evening, I enjoyed waving to some of the usual folks I encounter along this path--runners, mommies with strollers, and kids crossing Fordham Blvd on their way to the BP station for snacks. I even ran into someone I used to do volunteer work with, who was jogging with his fiance.

The couple of hours I spent at Driade were pretty typical. The usual barista was there. Those of you who frequent Driade know this guy. Dark hair, tortoise-rimmed glasses (sometimes), and a distinctive voice: high volume, clipped pace. He is especially fond of mixing Driade shakes. Over the six and a half years I have lived in Chapel Hill, I have gotten to know this guy without actually knowing his name or talking to him at all besides the moments when I place my drink orders. I know that he dated a women who also worked at the coffee shop. I know that they broke up and that he started dating another women who works at the same coffee shop. I know that he proposed to this later woman, that he met her family (I saw them at the coffee shop), and that they broke it off for a while (I heard the big fight--it took place over the phone at the coffee shop). I believe that they got back together (saw them holding hands at the coffee shop), but I don't know their current status. I don't think they've married yet. He's not wearing a ring. I checked.

I read over my materials, nominations for a service award for graduate students, and once that was done, I started reading a manual for puppy adoption (I'm getting my new little friend on Thursday--I can't wait!!). As usual, I observed all the people coming and going. I saw some young professors from my Department, several high school students attired in the latest thrift store chic, and a few pairings that I can confidently say were on a first date.

I can say this confidently because they were engaged in the following kind of nervous conversation:
"I didn't know they had wine here. That's so cool!"
"Yeah. Isn't it great? Beer AND wine!"
"Should we sit here?"
"Doesn't matter to me. Do you want to sit outside?"
"That might be okay. Is it cold out there?"
"Well, let's see. It's kind of cold. But it might be nice."
"Well, let's sit here. Then later we can move outside if we want to. I mean, if that's okay with you."
"Okay, sounds great. Is this table in the corner okay? Not too drafty?"
"Sure, let's sit there."
I felt for this couple in particular, because after experiencing such difficulty selecting a table, they discovered that they had located themselves next to four preteen girls, who were giggling their heads off and answering cell phone calls, drowning out the mood music (John Coltrane) that was coming out of the speakers mounted on the ceiling. Maybe these folks were realizing, as I have been these last few months, that they may be aging out of Chapel Hill (the subject for another blog).

I decided to leave the coffee shop when I realized that the sun had gone down and that I was going to have to make my way along the path through the woods on the Bolin Creek trail in the dark. Well, I didn't actually have to walk this way. I could have walked along Franklin Street, turned onto Estes, crossed Fordham, and walked a short way along the trail before finishing my walk in the neighborhood and eventually at my apartment. But, even though I wouldn't call myself a risky person, for some reason I often pick the more dangerous path, especially if it involves mystery.

I made my way down the path behind Driade, the light from the outdoor seating area providing a bit of guidance as I arrived at the Bolin Creek Trail. But once I was on the trail, I could no longer hear the chattering of coffee/beer/wine drinking individuals, and there were no runners, mommies, or long lost friends accompanying me. All I could hear were the sounds of an occasional passing car and the howling of dogs trapped in the Love Overboard kennel on Franklin street above me. I started to think of the warnings I saw posted on the trail last spring, two kinds of warnings. One was concerning rabid raccoons who had been spotted darting back and forth across the trail from the creek to the kennel, and the other kind cautioned that a man had been hiding in the trees and attacking female joggers. I was contemplating which kind of danger was more frightening, when I realized that at any moment I could easily walk back up the hill and walk along Franklin Street, away from either threat.

But I kept walking. Why? I guess in way it was an act of defiance--this is my ritual, and I won't change it because of fear. But it's not as if I will never be able to walk that way again if I deviate for just one dark evening. I started thinking about Robert Frost's poem "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." I'm sure you know it. My seventh grade English class wrote the words to that poem out on white butcher paper and hung it in the school hallway, illustrating it with various trees created with brown colored pencils.

I always thought of that poem as idyllic, sing-songy even. But then when I was studying for my Ph.D. exams, I learned that Frost suffered from severe depression and that "his poems reflect deeper psychological conflicts"--that phrase might be straight out of the Norton (I made flash cards). One episode in particular from his biography struck me. After visiting his girlfriend Elinor, who had so far refused to marry him (she later did), he was plunged into despair by her cool reception. He traveled to the Dismal Swamp, which is on the border between NC and VA, and walked for miles and miles in the dark. Eventually he got really scared and was able to hitchhike back to Massachusetts.

I wonder, what did he think he was going to prove in the swamp? Was he secretly hoping he'd die some romantic death there and thus let Elinor have it? Or was he trying to prove something to himself. About danger, fortitude, romance, or the supernatural? Was he just looking for a thrill? Was this a measure of his adulthood, a way for him to act against every bit of caution his mother had offered him?

I made it safely off of the Bolin Creek Trail and back closer to my apartment. But instead of sticking to the usual path, I decided to cut across the soccer fields where prostitutes and drug dealers have been occasionally busted by the Chapel Hill police. What was I doing? I'm even scared to go in this area in the daylight of early morning, when I am often just starting out a 5K. I usually wouldn't go this way at night even if I were with a friend, even a male friend.

But I kept walking. I think I had something to prove. As I made it back into the safety of the manicured lawns of my neighborhood, I felt strangely accomplished, maybe naively so. But when I think about the last few months, though I wasn't ever *really* alone, I guess in some ways I've had to face the fact that there will be times when I will be facing something really scary (death?), and the sound of my own breathing may be all there is to comfort me in the quiet of the woods ... or my apartment in the middle of the night. Boyfriends may continue to decide that they're done with me after a while; I'll have to move away from dear friends; and Mom and Dad, my brother, and my aunties can't be here forever.

But the woods can indeed be lovely, even with miles to go.

Happy Valentine's Day

2006-02-17T06:40:00.000-08:00

Wow, 2006 has been one hell of a year so far: I got dumped, my little auntie died suddenly, I'm fixin' to turn 30. Life socks you in the kisser sometimes. But the worst (and strangely, maybe the best?) part of this year so far happened a few weeks ago when my dad found out that he would be having major bypass surgery.

As Dad tells it, he had been getting short of breath when he exercised. I remember that the last time I was home, at Christmas, I was teasing him for being so slow during our usual hour-long morning walks (I'm a terrible person--his poor heart was trying to tell us something!!). Then, when my cousins and he were climbing the hill at Red Bud Valley, he couldn't keep up with them, even though they are all the same age (it's a long story--my dad's actually about the same age as his nieces and nephews). When he went in for his annual physical, he mentioned his breathing problems to his doctor, who suggested that Dad take a treadmill test. Dad did pretty well, but the doctor thought his pulse was a little funny and concluded that Dad may need a stint in one of his arteries. So he contacted a cardiologist, and Dad had a heart catheterization procedure.

Major blockage (75-90%) in all of his arteries. Shocking! He's in such good health for a 60-year-old--slim and in shape. But apparently these things come about chiefly through genetics and can't always be explained easily. My parents scheduled Dad's bypass surgery and tried to be calm, knowing that this procedure is one of the most common in the world and that Dad's good physical shape was on his side. Everyone I told was very reassuring, offering their own stories of friends, grandparents, and parents who have experienced the same thing, all completing the surgery sucessfully and going on to lead perfectly normal lives. We were nervous but optimistic, the perpetual Smith state of being.

Unfortunately I couldn't make it home for the surgery because I was in the middle of on-campus job interviews (a major source of endless funny stories that I will be unable to report until I've signed a contract somewhere--but stay tuned), but I stayed in touch with my mom, who promised to leave me a message on my cell phone once Dad was out of the operating room. It was a tough day, as I sat through some conversations that seemed especially inane in light of what my dad was going through and was unable to get a spare minute alone to call home. Finally, I was delivered back to my hotel for an hour rest before the final fancy dinner, and I noticed that there where many calls to my cell phone. Mom had left reassuring but inconclusive messages. When I did get in touch with her, she passed around the phone to many family members, who all had good words about Dad's prospects but who all seemed on edge, as if their emotions were just under the surface. I was relieved but still wondering exactly what was going on.

Over the weekend, Dad remained in intensive care, which seemed strange, since he was supposed to be getting prepared to go home. I had a day back in Chapel Hill and then I left for another interview in Oklahoma, an opportunity which would allow me some time to visit with Dad. I thought he was going to be home, but he was still in the hospital. After my interview was done, I went directly to St. Francis, the big pink hospital where I was born; where, when I was a little girl, I visited my dad after he took a tumble down the stairs because of a bleeding ulcer; and where I pushed the coffee cart around to all of the family waiting areas when I was a candy striper at age 15.

I arrived in the cardiac unit in my black suit and pumps, overnight bag and portfolio in tow, and it struck me how out of place I felt. Walking in and out of the various patient and waiting areas were people who are visibly Okie. If you haven't been to Oklahoma, you may now be imagining Tom and Ma Joad, but that's not quite it. The Depression ended long ago; Tulsa just got its very own Starbucks, after all, for better or worse. I can't quite put my finger on it, but this look is some amalgamation of hard living (or the memory of it) along with the sweetness and openness of unflappable faith.

This phenomenon of Okie physicality is something I've been thinking about for years, mostly as I arrive and leave the Tulsa Int'l airport (I can't imagine what other nations are sending flights directly to Tulsa, but I think there is a direct flight to Mexico. . . and many to Texas). Oklahoma is a place of widespread poverty in the midst of energy execs who are dripping with wealth, but no matter what status people occupy, all Okies know that if they come from Oklahoma natives (or Natives), at one time or another, their people have been dirt poor, made up of folks who were outcasts in other parts of America, whether they were Indians sent to Indian Territory to get out of Andrew Jackson's way, blacks who hoped Oklahoma would offer freedom from segregation, convicts who embraced the frontier's lawlessness, Pentecostal preachers, or dustbowl farmers (or some combination of all of these folks). This is why everyone there seems to have amnesia.

I walked into Dad's room, and there was my little baby cousin (well, I think he's 19 now) who is studying to be a preacher, my mom, and my dad. Dad was colorful. He was smeared with the yellow stuff that is necessary for an operation. His arms and legs had large, blood-crusted scars on them, marking the areas where veins had been removed and transplanted to his chest. His chest was completely covered with bandages that disguised the large wound where his sternum had been opened and later wired shut. He was sitting up in a chair, and he was drunk.

Yes, drunk. I don't know what kinds of drugs heart patients receive post-operation, but they must be really good. He was talking a mile a minute in this very thick, SE Oklahoma accent. The most amazing thing was how hysterically funny he was. He didn't miss a beat. Has he been this hilarious all along and merely keeping a heavy damper on his thoughts? He sweet-talked the nurses and teased the surgeon. It was a bit unsettling, the nervous joy that seemed to be flowing out of him in rivers even though his body was broken.

That night, after my cousin left to make the drive back to college, my mom and I visited with my dad as it was getting closer to the time that he should go to sleep. He started talking about the sensation of rousing back to consciousness after his operation, the subject that he says will be the focus of his memoir, which he is already mapping out in his head. According to him, as he awoke, he saw the smiling face of one of the ladies at my parents' church, and he jumped, because it scared the heck out of him. (She later told him, "I must have scared you because you thought you were in heaven seeing an angel!").

Dad says that he saw all of these friends and family members surrounding his bed with bright smiles across their faces, but that later, after waking again, everyone had sad, long expressions on their faces. I'm not sure how all these different parts of his recollection fit together (I'm not sure he does either), but somewhere in the middle of all this waking and sleeping, he continually heard a choir singing "Amazing Grace" over and over. He says that it started as very soothing and pleasant, but eventually it started taking on this freaky, repetitive persistence, like he couldn't escape it. Later, probably the next morning, when he was speaking with the surgeon, he said, "Well, the good news is that my heart's all better, right?," to which the surgeon replied, "The good news is that you're still with us."

And here's the part of the story where my own heart started racing. Apparently my mom didn't want to tell me the details of how the surgery went because she didn't want me to get off my interview game (I guess there's really no good way to handle that situation). Dad's surgery was supposed to last 3-4 hours, but during the course of the day, he remained in the operating room as my family and our friends waited for news. Time kept passing, and in the end, he was in the OR for closer to 11 hours. Once his bypass was complete and the surgeon had sewed him all up, they left the operating room, and my dad went into cardiac arrest. I'm not sure about the details, and for some reason (maybe liability issues?), my mother hasn't been told those details either. But his heart wouldn't stabilize, and the doctors weren't sure he'd make it. The surgeon and anesthesiologist told my mom that after thirty years of practice, they can count on one hand the number of times something like this has happened.

I took the news calmly and immediately reassured myself that Dad was sitting right in front of me and therefore was getting better and would still be around. But as I drove home that night, I realized that there, alone, in the car, was the only chance in several days that I had to just let all of my anxiety out. So I did. I just bawled my head off. I cried because I was still scared as well as relieved.

I think the scariest part was imagining the scenes that I hadn't been present for. I imagined my dad in one of those emotionally manipulative ER dramas, where the poor family stooges cry "What? Why?" as the stoic but faintly sympathetic doctor delivers the news that "We tried all we could..." And I imagined the parts of the story that were closer to accurate: my aunt and uncle being unable to keep their emotions in check as they faced the prospect of losing Dad a matter of weeks after Aunt Sarah passed away, my mom pacing the floor, my brother and I calling over and over from out of town asking for reassurance when the circumstances were quite dire.

These are the images that are still cropping up in my head as I make my way to the grocery store or gas station--for some reason they always enter my mind when I'm in the car. I wonder, did Dad have a near death experience? Certainly he did, in a practical sense, but was he really on his way to heaven, already hearing the choirs when God turned him back our way? Or did he (or we) just get lucky? Were all the people praying for him, people all over Oklahoma, North Carolina, Virginia, Arizona, Texas, Pennsylvania, Washington, D.C. . . . keeping him here or helping him get ready to go? Did those prayers fail, since his surgery was so difficult, or were they what saved him? Or did they make no difference? If I were a person whose faith never falters, I guess I'd believe that God heard our prayers and kept him here on purpose. And if I were a person whose faith was in a lack of faith, I'd believe in luck. I guess I'm a person who's in the middle, a Switzerland of sorts. I think there are risks in that kind of cowardice.

I spent that night in my parents' house, which I still think of as my house too, and I was awakened by birds chirping; critters usually aren't enough to rouse me, but this morning was different. It was Valentine's Day after all, and never before have the paper hearts that one sees in storefronts had the kind of impact that they did this year. I decided to go the flower shop up the street to get my dad a bouquet before I made my way to the hospital.

The flower shop was a mad house. Every heterosexual man in midtown Tulsa was there in a panic, hoping there would be enough roses left so that he wouldn't end up in the proverbial dog house (or on the couch), and every gay man in midtown Tulsa with skills at flower arranging was there helping these procastinators save their relationships. I've never seen such a scene. I tell you this: any hope we have to cure homophobia (even in the bible belt of Oklahoma!) lies in a flower shop on Valentine's Day.

As each boyfriend/husband took his turn with a clerk, he exhibited some degree of proclivity with the kind of bouquet that would be just right. It was plain that some had received careful instruction from their girlfriends/wives, while others had good but not-so-specific ideas about what would be appropriately romantic. But there was one task which threw every single one of them a curve ball: the card.

Some of the men, when asked what they wanted to appear on the card, lowered their voices, blushed, and diverted their eyes, whispering a sweet but uncreative "I love you. Love, [insert name here]." Others were not nearly so capable. The best example of this lack of articulation occurred when a man in line in front of me, after spending about twenty minutes carefully specifying lavender roses as the center of his desired bouquet, responded with a blank stare when the owner of the flower shop asked for instruction for the card. This man not only paused; he was visibly shaken.
"I've thought of everything except this," he said.
"I don't want to rush you," the owner said. "This is important."
After several minutes of waiting, the poor guy had nothing to say. I thought to myself that this man must be in the early stages of a relationship, excited about its possibilities but unable to voice this excitement (or some such junk explanation for male behavior that I've read in a stupid magazine).

But to my surprise, the flower shop owner asked, "How long have you been married?" to which the guy replied, "Two years." TWO YEARS??? Two years and he doesn't know what to say??? Sigh. Finally, the owner said, "How about 'I love you ten times more'?" And the guy, a wave of relief washing over him, exclaimed "That's IT!!" So, ladies, beware: that tender message that arrived with your bouquet this year may be an act of plagiarism. But it's the thought that counts, even if that thought occured for about a minute and a half in the flower shop on Valentine's morning. But of course, those lavendar roses were indeed carefully planned. Aren't we always hearing that actions speak louder than words?

As the folks in the flower shop rushed around to find a suitable arrangement for a daddy recovering from heart surgery, one of the flower arrangers kept me company while I waited. We talked about the resurgence of downtown and midtown Tulsa, the difficulty of balancing a longing for home with the urge to get the heck out of town and never look back. The conversation turned into a discussion about growing older, and we tried to guess each other's ages. I had told my new flower-arranging friend that I had a birthday coming up. Considering my near-completion of a Ph.D., he guessed 24. (Oh, how I wish this degree had only taken two years!) After several unsuccessful tries, he finally gave up. "I'm turning thirty," I told him. "Girl, you got it. You don't even need Oil of Olay," he said. I think this man, besides my daddy, was the best valentine I ever had.

I finally made my way to the hospital, and my mom, my dad, and I spent the day together, reading newspapers and magazines, talking to my brother and other friends and relatives on the phone, and watching CNN's coverage of Dick Cheney's hunting accident (which provoked much nervous laughter). We helped Dad make his way through his physical therapy, through which he tried walking down the hall a bit farther than he'd been able to go in recent days and exercised his lungs in order to build up their capacity in order to stave off pneumonia. As the day came to a close, I got ready to go home so that I'd be ready to make my flight early the next morning.

As my mom and I were about to leave the room, we decided to stay just a bit longer as my dad made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth and get ready for bed (this was the first night he got to wear real pajamas instead of a ridiculous hospital gown). My mom helped him get up from his bed and made sure the wires coming out of his chest didn't get tangled up or disconnected from his heart monitor. My dad turned to me and said, "This is how you know you have someone really special, who stays with you when you're talking out of your mind, in your stink, when you can barely move and your dignity's just about gone." My mom, who has been rather subdued (in shock, maybe?) through the whole ordeal, recalled that when she first saw Dad in the ICU after his operation, she couldn't think of anything to say except, "Well, I'm here."

The next morning, as my plane took off and headed east through a sky that was painted a brilliant pink, I realized that those words are all you need on a card that comes with a bouquet on Valentine's Day. Many of my girlfriends have been going through a lot of heartbreak recently, and of course, as women do, we have sat around and discussed ways of "working harder, doing better," next time so that we can avoid getting hurt. I may be the most guilty one of all when it comes to working really hard to push my expectations to new lows.

It's as if I'm saying, in so many subtle words and actions over the course of relationships, "I will make things as easy as possible for you. I don't expect anything, least of all commitment; I'm not one of those high maintenance girls! I will cheer you up and make your day sunny but won't believe too much in anything, since that requires its own work and sacrifice. Feel free to come in and out of my life whenever you please. I will ask nothing of you."

As I read back over those words, I know that they won't get me anywhere, with relationships, work, or anything else I care about. When I think about what I really want in life, I know that in many ways I already have it. Over the past months, some of the hardest I have ever been through, my friends and family have expressed, in words and actions, that they are here, even when I selfishly focus on my own problems, and I hope that I show them that I am here for them as well.

Maybe the greatest gift that you can give, or expect, or the most meaningful pledge of love that you can deliver, or the simplest hope you can cling to is simply this: "I am here."

America's Next Top Model. . .

2005-12-07T19:29:00.000-08:00

Yes, I admit it: I watch it. I can't believe Nicole is ANT!! Whoa, and Nik (see how their names really are different?) has been the Cover Girl pick for weeks now. Sorry P, I *was* looking at your materials for MLA interview prep. . . during the commercials.

I've been thinking about that Merle Haggard song "If We Make it Through December." I always think of that song during finals. First I took them, then I had to grade them, and now they come in the form of the academic chopping block at MLA. At least I have interviews. I wasn't sure I'd get those.

Today I spent the day at the fruity grocery co-op in Carrboro (The Paris of the Piedmont--indeed I think I was the only one there who had bathed), and it was literally a fight for the power outlets. Free wireless access, you see. It's strange how being in a noisy public place can make me more productive. I spent HOURS there finishing up sample syllabuses for my job portfolios. Other times, when I go there to enjoy a meal with a friend, it drives me CRAZY when the folks with laptops hog the tables forever, nursing that chilling cup of coffee. But when I've got stuff to do, and home is too isolating, I'm all "Please, people, some of us have work to do." One of my friends was telling me how there's been a study of coffee shops and their role in the lives of twenty- and thirty-somethings. I hate to think of myself as so pathetically isolated that I have to stave off loneliness by winking at the creator of my lattes, but I must admit that I'd never finish this degree if it weren't for coffee shop culture.

God, I remember being a kid and watching Thirty-Something reruns and thinking, "These people are so old, and they all have these wincing looks on their faces as if they have perpetual stomach-aches." I guess they've had too much coffee.

2005-12-07T19:24:00.000-08:00

My passion.