This morning, I found myself sitting in a reclined chair with a bib across my chest, my mouth frozen open, with a little drool sucking tube resting on my bottom lip, hooked under my tongue. The dental hygienist's hands were very busy inside my open mouth, moving in and out, in and out, cleaning and scraping and trying to polish off the rough edges on my Swedish filling that I picked up in England in February.
She picked up a silver tool, studied it in the light, rotated it to examine the tip, and then put it down and picked up another. This she also rotated, then gently replaced and picked up another before sticking it back into my mouth.
I couldn't tell the difference. All the tools a had a little pointy hooky thing at the end that looked ... um ... pointy. But as I watched the hygienist study them carefully, trying to match the tools to my mouth, I realized that she was an artist. She reminded me of a sculptor, selecting the perfect tool to do the perfect job. Or a painter, choosing the pigments and brushes with care. She was a true craftsman. A highly skilled worker with a practiced ability to know the difference between the pointy hook and the ... other pointy hook.
I would have relaxed under her capable hands at this point, except that I was, um, at the dentist's office with a drool sucker tube hooked under my tongue. Even so, I left appreciating the art that is tooth scraping. Wow. Didn't expect to find the artist in the hygienist chair.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
New job
My profile tells you that I have a new house, new job, and new blog.
I have written several posts about my new house. I have even written posts about my new blog. I haven't written much about my new job.
My new job is strange. I am a tenure track faculty member at a private university. I've been teaching at this university for about half of a semester now, and it has been an interesting ride. After half a semester, I get the feeling that everyone walks around on tiptoe here. Why? Because people are quick to be offended and quick to crush perceived offenses at my university.
I offended somebody last week. I sent an email that was forwarded up and up and up and down to my department chair who sent the associate chair into my office for a private chat. The conclusion: I need to be more careful with my emails, because they may be forwarded to the Enemy. The Enemy is currently having a heyday with this blog of mine, saving up every post to display all over the department during my next status review.
Thinking of Bob the Enemy, with his balding head and his potbelly, really doesn't help me to feel much like blogging. It takes all the fun out of writing when you know that your words can and will be used against you -- even if this is an anonymous blog, and I haven't really told you who I am or where I live or where I work. Most of you are just really super clever and have already figured out where I work based on the clues I leave around the posts.
So what am I doing working at this university, where the administration like to pretend they are playing The Sims with their faculty characters? I am an opinionated feminist. I screwed up one job interview 1.5 years ago by offending an administrator at a university in SoCal. (Told him that I had a young family and I wasn't going to teach evenings. So there.) And then I take a position at another top heavy university. What was I thinking?
Or why don't we spin it another way? What am I doing being an opinionated feminist in the first place? Why in the world am I still working? I am happily married to a guy who is really good at his job. We are financially stable with his income alone. I have a young child. I am an active, tithe paying, fully participating member of a religion that strongly encourages its women to stay home. How did I end up in this job?
Those questions are like interesting sculptures to be handled, turned over, studied, and then replaced on the shelf. I have lots of reasons, but most of them aren't public reasons, and I'm definitely not putting them out there for Bob Enemy. Sorry Bob, you'll just have to work with what I've already given.
On a somewhat (but not exactly) related topic, here is an interesting link I was forwarded from a new-faculty listserv this morning.
http://sciencemoms.wordpress.com/
These women also have young families but want tenure. It's a fight we're all making as individuals -- my paths so far have been different from theirs. But sometimes it's nice to read the thoughts of other fighters.
OK, Bob. Stopping for now. But maybe I'll work up the courage to write a few more things about my job. Good and bad. Maybe.
I have written several posts about my new house. I have even written posts about my new blog. I haven't written much about my new job.
My new job is strange. I am a tenure track faculty member at a private university. I've been teaching at this university for about half of a semester now, and it has been an interesting ride. After half a semester, I get the feeling that everyone walks around on tiptoe here. Why? Because people are quick to be offended and quick to crush perceived offenses at my university.
I offended somebody last week. I sent an email that was forwarded up and up and up and down to my department chair who sent the associate chair into my office for a private chat. The conclusion: I need to be more careful with my emails, because they may be forwarded to the Enemy. The Enemy is currently having a heyday with this blog of mine, saving up every post to display all over the department during my next status review.
Thinking of Bob the Enemy, with his balding head and his potbelly, really doesn't help me to feel much like blogging. It takes all the fun out of writing when you know that your words can and will be used against you -- even if this is an anonymous blog, and I haven't really told you who I am or where I live or where I work. Most of you are just really super clever and have already figured out where I work based on the clues I leave around the posts.
So what am I doing working at this university, where the administration like to pretend they are playing The Sims with their faculty characters? I am an opinionated feminist. I screwed up one job interview 1.5 years ago by offending an administrator at a university in SoCal. (Told him that I had a young family and I wasn't going to teach evenings. So there.) And then I take a position at another top heavy university. What was I thinking?
Or why don't we spin it another way? What am I doing being an opinionated feminist in the first place? Why in the world am I still working? I am happily married to a guy who is really good at his job. We are financially stable with his income alone. I have a young child. I am an active, tithe paying, fully participating member of a religion that strongly encourages its women to stay home. How did I end up in this job?
Those questions are like interesting sculptures to be handled, turned over, studied, and then replaced on the shelf. I have lots of reasons, but most of them aren't public reasons, and I'm definitely not putting them out there for Bob Enemy. Sorry Bob, you'll just have to work with what I've already given.
On a somewhat (but not exactly) related topic, here is an interesting link I was forwarded from a new-faculty listserv this morning.
http://sciencemoms.wordpress.com/
These women also have young families but want tenure. It's a fight we're all making as individuals -- my paths so far have been different from theirs. But sometimes it's nice to read the thoughts of other fighters.
OK, Bob. Stopping for now. But maybe I'll work up the courage to write a few more things about my job. Good and bad. Maybe.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Our weekend
My brother Brent returned from a two year mission in Mexico City just a little over a week ago. Today he reported on his experiences in my parents' church. In honor of the occasion, my brother and his wife, who live one state over, drove in with their three little children on Friday night.
Saturday afternoon, weekend chores finally finished, we drove an hour north to my sister's house to meet them all. Tim and Jonathan and I stayed overnight in their spare room, and ate blueberry muffins with them in the morning. We headed south later for lunch at my parents' house, followed by the main event itself. My family filled up two benches, packed shoulder to shoulder in our wool suits and skirts and jackets.
Someone had cranked up the heat in the building. Our cheeks were flushed and red, and sweat was pooling in my shoes. If it hadn't been for the heat, I might have been able to listen a little better, and then I could have written you a summary... but I'll leave that for my mother.
Brent has grown in the past two years. He's a bigger guy than he was. He spoke quickly, with Mexican intonation. A month and a half ago, Tim and I would have spoken with English intonation, but we've lost that. Jonathan's English accent is also fading, bordering on gone. We are planning sabbaticals in the hopes of coaxing it back.
We left the church directly after the end of the meeting. We hopped back in the car and headed up further north to the city where Tim's parents live. They had planned a family dinner long before we realized that today would be Brent's day, but the timing was such that we were able to attend both family events. Three of Tim's grandparents, as well as an aunt, uncle, and cousin met us for food and chatting and company.
One weekend, 25 family members. And that's not even including my cousin Heidi who babysat Jonathan Friday afternoon. Most of these people we hadn't seen in over a year, and then we had only seen them infrequently in the years before.
There are perks to living where we live, including proximity to family.
We forgot our camera.
Saturday afternoon, weekend chores finally finished, we drove an hour north to my sister's house to meet them all. Tim and Jonathan and I stayed overnight in their spare room, and ate blueberry muffins with them in the morning. We headed south later for lunch at my parents' house, followed by the main event itself. My family filled up two benches, packed shoulder to shoulder in our wool suits and skirts and jackets.
Someone had cranked up the heat in the building. Our cheeks were flushed and red, and sweat was pooling in my shoes. If it hadn't been for the heat, I might have been able to listen a little better, and then I could have written you a summary... but I'll leave that for my mother.
Brent has grown in the past two years. He's a bigger guy than he was. He spoke quickly, with Mexican intonation. A month and a half ago, Tim and I would have spoken with English intonation, but we've lost that. Jonathan's English accent is also fading, bordering on gone. We are planning sabbaticals in the hopes of coaxing it back.
We left the church directly after the end of the meeting. We hopped back in the car and headed up further north to the city where Tim's parents live. They had planned a family dinner long before we realized that today would be Brent's day, but the timing was such that we were able to attend both family events. Three of Tim's grandparents, as well as an aunt, uncle, and cousin met us for food and chatting and company.
One weekend, 25 family members. And that's not even including my cousin Heidi who babysat Jonathan Friday afternoon. Most of these people we hadn't seen in over a year, and then we had only seen them infrequently in the years before.
There are perks to living where we live, including proximity to family.
We forgot our camera.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Being female
Last night I reminded Tim of an important fact.
"If I were to get a sex change, we would be a gay couple."
And then asked an important question:
"How would that make you feel about same sex marriage?"
For the record, I probably won't be getting a sex change any time soon. However, I'm leaving all my options open for dealing with my chronic migraines.
Because of my womanhood, I can expect migraines multiple times per month. I get them during my period, within a few days before or after my period, and within a few days plus and minus the mid-cycle mark. Often I can kill them just as they begin with pain killer and extra sleep. However, when they do take hold I end up spending a day or two vomiting, crying, and in intense physical pain. They are almost always accompanied by mild depression. While the pain killer can hold off the vomiting, it doesn't always block the depression. I find myself wondering, why I am so upset?
Oh right. Mid-cycle.
If I were male, I would not be getting the same migraines. I know this because of (a) the regular timing, and (b) the fact that I had no migraines when I was pregnant. My mother will interject here and say she knows a better solution than sex change: I could ensure I'm pregnant all the time! The only problem with that is that pregnancy hormones are worse. I spent all but the first seven weeks of my pregnancy with debilitating back pain, nausea, and mild depression. At least the migraines only last a couple of days each.
So maybe with some pre-migrainal depression looming on the horizon, I should cheer us all up by listing a few good reasons to remain female.
1. Females don't have to scrape a razor over their face every morning.
I like to put the most important reasons first on my lists.
2. Females aren't called Saturday mornings by their church group presidents for assistance in moving pianos and washing machines.
3. ...
I'm not actually coming up with much here. Tim's help: "sexy underwear." But Tim, I could still wear that as a man.
OK, this is now a PG-13 blog. So I'll stop.
"If I were to get a sex change, we would be a gay couple."
And then asked an important question:
"How would that make you feel about same sex marriage?"
For the record, I probably won't be getting a sex change any time soon. However, I'm leaving all my options open for dealing with my chronic migraines.
Because of my womanhood, I can expect migraines multiple times per month. I get them during my period, within a few days before or after my period, and within a few days plus and minus the mid-cycle mark. Often I can kill them just as they begin with pain killer and extra sleep. However, when they do take hold I end up spending a day or two vomiting, crying, and in intense physical pain. They are almost always accompanied by mild depression. While the pain killer can hold off the vomiting, it doesn't always block the depression. I find myself wondering, why I am so upset?
Oh right. Mid-cycle.
If I were male, I would not be getting the same migraines. I know this because of (a) the regular timing, and (b) the fact that I had no migraines when I was pregnant. My mother will interject here and say she knows a better solution than sex change: I could ensure I'm pregnant all the time! The only problem with that is that pregnancy hormones are worse. I spent all but the first seven weeks of my pregnancy with debilitating back pain, nausea, and mild depression. At least the migraines only last a couple of days each.
So maybe with some pre-migrainal depression looming on the horizon, I should cheer us all up by listing a few good reasons to remain female.
1. Females don't have to scrape a razor over their face every morning.
I like to put the most important reasons first on my lists.
2. Females aren't called Saturday mornings by their church group presidents for assistance in moving pianos and washing machines.
3. ...
I'm not actually coming up with much here. Tim's help: "sexy underwear." But Tim, I could still wear that as a man.
OK, this is now a PG-13 blog. So I'll stop.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Words
My world is awash with words. I spend 90% of my time at work organizing words. Then I reorganize them at home into different meanings and phrases. Sometimes the words are easily organized. Sometimes they fight back and refuse to settle into place. Occasionally, once organized, they break free and attack without warning. I had some words attack me yesterday.
My little boy, seeing my distress, took my face in his hands and asked how he could help. He gave me his teddy to cuddle, and wrapped a blanket around my legs. He brought me a tissue, snuggled up close to read a story, and replaced my words with little boy words. Next we threw out words altogether and ran around the basement screaming. Sometimes sounds are best when they are not organized into words.
Do you think running around screaming would work in the classroom?
Our basement is finished, by the way. Except that the doors on all the rooms need to be shaved and re-hung. And the windows need to be finished. And there are still a couple of paint and patch jobs. But we finally got carpet, and it makes the rooms downstairs just so warm and livable! I'm down there now writing this. I love our new basement. Someday soon I will post pictures and you can love it, too.
My little boy, seeing my distress, took my face in his hands and asked how he could help. He gave me his teddy to cuddle, and wrapped a blanket around my legs. He brought me a tissue, snuggled up close to read a story, and replaced my words with little boy words. Next we threw out words altogether and ran around the basement screaming. Sometimes sounds are best when they are not organized into words.
Do you think running around screaming would work in the classroom?
Our basement is finished, by the way. Except that the doors on all the rooms need to be shaved and re-hung. And the windows need to be finished. And there are still a couple of paint and patch jobs. But we finally got carpet, and it makes the rooms downstairs just so warm and livable! I'm down there now writing this. I love our new basement. Someday soon I will post pictures and you can love it, too.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Snow
It's not as though we hadn't been warned.
The trees on the mountain sides have been flaming red for weeks, waving their warning foliage in alarm. It is coming, they have been signaling.
The apples and pears in the valley, taking notice, have been leaping from their branches, diving head first, cracking twigs and branches in their rush to escape. They bounce on the lawn or splat on the sidewalk, stinking out a warning. You cannot escape either, their carcasses ooze.
Last weekend the rain pelted the valley for more than two days. When the clouds cleared, the green had been rinsed from the tops of the trees. Fading and tired, the other leaves began within days to sag and droop. The battle is already lost, they sigh.
Each morning the thermostat registers lower and lower. The mailbox fills with papers and fliers shouting out in oranges and yellows that pumpkins are selling and Now is the time to buy snow boots. Join us, they call treacherously.
I layer my windbreaker over my fleece. I unpack the box of sweaters, wondering where my wool jacket ended up. And where is my black wool skirt? It would look good with my red striped English stockings. We will not protect you, my closet derides.
This morning, a whirl of white, the first snowflakes fell. The tomato plant cowered and then shriveled under their touch. The daisies pressed their bodies to the ground in fear. The flakes laughed and swirled and mocked us all briefly. We will be back, they said.
Nine years you have been hiding. Nine years. But we will come for you.
The trees on the mountain sides have been flaming red for weeks, waving their warning foliage in alarm. It is coming, they have been signaling.
The apples and pears in the valley, taking notice, have been leaping from their branches, diving head first, cracking twigs and branches in their rush to escape. They bounce on the lawn or splat on the sidewalk, stinking out a warning. You cannot escape either, their carcasses ooze.
Last weekend the rain pelted the valley for more than two days. When the clouds cleared, the green had been rinsed from the tops of the trees. Fading and tired, the other leaves began within days to sag and droop. The battle is already lost, they sigh.
Each morning the thermostat registers lower and lower. The mailbox fills with papers and fliers shouting out in oranges and yellows that pumpkins are selling and Now is the time to buy snow boots. Join us, they call treacherously.
I layer my windbreaker over my fleece. I unpack the box of sweaters, wondering where my wool jacket ended up. And where is my black wool skirt? It would look good with my red striped English stockings. We will not protect you, my closet derides.
This morning, a whirl of white, the first snowflakes fell. The tomato plant cowered and then shriveled under their touch. The daisies pressed their bodies to the ground in fear. The flakes laughed and swirled and mocked us all briefly. We will be back, they said.
Nine years you have been hiding. Nine years. But we will come for you.
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