I'm currently in a down-home, small-town cafe in the city of my husband's birth. They have wi-fi (and awesome toasted marshmallow lattes). This year is his family for Thanksgiving since last year was mine. It'll be our first Thanksgiving as a married couple. Awww.
Dissertation: Finished with a draft of my second chapter of analysis. One more analysis chapter to go before I finish up with intro (reworking of my prospectus, so not starting from scratch) and my conclusion (which won't be nearly as involved as everything else). I need to put the pedal to the metal, but some progress is better than none. I MUST defend in April to graduate in May.
Job search: I had my first campus visit last week, and I think it went pretty well, overall. I felt confident about it and I think I might get an offer. We'll see. I have since gotten two other call-backs for preliminary interviews. One of the places is only an hour from my husband's family, so my mother-in-law is super excited about that possibility. There's still a place that I (think I) would really like to hear back from which is situated more conveniently between our families. It's a really scary process, frankly. Everything is so up in the air. I still have my dissertation to contend with, which is such a beast. And no matter where I end up accepting an offer, chances are that we're going to have to move. I mean, it's a part of what I signed up for...it's how it's going to have to be. I am very thankful for one thing, that by the time I finish, my husband will be done with coursework, so we'll be able to stay together. I know a few academics who do the long-distance thing, but that's just something neither of us are willing to do.
What I'm thankful for: I usually do this whole list thing, but this time, I want to focus on one thing. And in spite of myself, in spite of not wanting to sound like those women who post things about their "hubbies" all the time, I have to keep it 100 and say that I am overwhelmingly thankful for my husband. Who he is is what I need. That's the best way I can describe it. A lot of people think we got together "too fast," and I get it. We met 8 months before we got engaged and we were engaged 11 months before we were married. But what I love about my husband is that there was something that made him decide I was it for him, and once he made that decision, he was consistent and committed. He was not afraid of the risks because he loved me and believed in us. I'm thankful for the consistent confidence he has in me and in us. It's one of the things that makes me feel adored and secure. We wrote our own wedding vows, and his last line was "My love for you is here to stay." I'm thankful for my husband and I don't ever want to take him or what he's brought to my life for granted.
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
Thursday, November 12, 2015
No, I'm not French...I just use French interjections in frustrating situations.
As a student of languages and speaker of (optimistically speaking) three languages, I sometimes have a habit of using my second languages in mock-frustration. It's sort of hard to accurately explain why, but it's a weird way of practicing the language as well as a sort of inside joke to myself.
The reason the self-joking even functions as such is because 1. expressing myself in mock-frustration in another language is a way to tell myself I'm not really frustrated since whatever language I'm using to express myself (either Spanish or French) is not my native language, and if I were really frustrated then I would use English, and 2. if anyone were to hear me, there's an underlying assumption that they wouldn't understand me.
And number 2 is what has occasionally plunged me headfirst into awkwardness, precisely because of that underlying assumption. Here's an example, although not in the context of mock-frustration: Once I was at the grocery store about to buy some cilantro because I really really wanted some to go with the carnitas tacos I was about to make and I was doing (what I thought was) some low-key self talk about getting cilantro, but I was saying "cilantro" with a Spanish accent. I turn around and there's a Hispanic family behind me waiting for me to move so they could also get a bunch of cilantro (maybe even for the same reason) looking at me weird.
So here's my French faux-pas. Husband and I were standing in line to get free tickets to see a documentary at a venue downtown. Tickets were free for students as long as you show your ID and the place was packed. The line was pretty long and didn't really seem to be moving, so I said, "Qu'est-ce qui ce passe ici?" with this really Frenchy annoyed tone of voice. It basically means something to the effect of "What's going on here?" I didn't think anyone was paying me any mind, and I really was just trying to make my husband laugh, but then the guy in front of me turned around and with a distinctly French accent asked, "Are you French?"
Oh, em, gee, I wanted to die. It was just my luck that I just happened to use mock-frustration French in earshot of an actual Frenchman. Of course, I immediately started cackling, expressed how embarrassed I was and that I'm totally not French, but that I playfully use it sometimes, thinking no one would understand me. And then I did get to practice my French a little, telling him how I studied abroad, et al.
Moral of the story: Never assume. Because chances are you will be in the precise situation to prove your assumption dead wrong. And then you will feel awkward and boisterously cackle.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Husband, Salamander Killer
It's been a little rainy in these parts lately. I guess the wet stickiness brings out the slimy little creatures, because, on everything, we were sitting on the couch Netflix and chillin the other night when I saw a slow moving dark shadow under our bedroom door.
What is that? Oh, my God, honey, what is that?? If it was a bug, it was a long, huge, extremely undesirable bug.
So we jumped up, ran into the bedroom, peeked behind the door and there it was in the corner, a dark, slimy, long tailed creature that looked like a little lizard but wasn't, and I wanted to die. How dare that thing have the audacity to enter our apartment! The sanctity of my life literally felt violated. I started yelling and screaming and jumping up and down and felt the weight of all of the slimy disgusting things in the world enter my mindspace and I just couldn't even.
This was not just a bug that you could smash, wipe up and then go about your life. This was a creature. An animal with a heart and eyes and a little brain and little slimy creature bones that could be broken. I'm pretty sure hubs was just as grossed out as I was, but he was kind of matter of fact about things. First things first, eliminate distraction. He told me to go into the other room where I commenced to ball up on the couch with an afghan, shuddering in disgust. I figured he was going to scoop the little guy up somehow, maybe with a dustpan or something and throw him back outside. But then I saw homeboy pick up his church shoe. Oh, snap! He ain't playin no games! Somebody was about to get sent to salamander heaven. But then, I imagined salamander guts on our carpet and went back to shuddering. A moment later, he came back out and got a gignormous wad of paper towels, and then emerged with the balled up wad (avec salamander dedans) and went outside to dispose of it in the dumpster.
Slimy, disgusting little creature disposed of, I had questions. The first of which involved the prospect of creature guts on the carpet. Apparently, hubs didn't 100% obliterate it, but hit it just enough to stop it. Stop it from moving and breathing, that is. But was there any blood? Salamander innards and juices? What did it look like where you hit it? Yes, the same one screaming bloody murder and shuddering in disgust now had to know all the dirty details. No juices or innards, but it was "a little torn up" where he had hit it with the shoe. Ewwwwwwww. SO gross, but somehow hilarious and morbidly satisfying to know.
Now, when I want to make him laugh, I just call him "salamander killer." Amphibians, beware!
What is that? Oh, my God, honey, what is that?? If it was a bug, it was a long, huge, extremely undesirable bug.
So we jumped up, ran into the bedroom, peeked behind the door and there it was in the corner, a dark, slimy, long tailed creature that looked like a little lizard but wasn't, and I wanted to die. How dare that thing have the audacity to enter our apartment! The sanctity of my life literally felt violated. I started yelling and screaming and jumping up and down and felt the weight of all of the slimy disgusting things in the world enter my mindspace and I just couldn't even.
This was not just a bug that you could smash, wipe up and then go about your life. This was a creature. An animal with a heart and eyes and a little brain and little slimy creature bones that could be broken. I'm pretty sure hubs was just as grossed out as I was, but he was kind of matter of fact about things. First things first, eliminate distraction. He told me to go into the other room where I commenced to ball up on the couch with an afghan, shuddering in disgust. I figured he was going to scoop the little guy up somehow, maybe with a dustpan or something and throw him back outside. But then I saw homeboy pick up his church shoe. Oh, snap! He ain't playin no games! Somebody was about to get sent to salamander heaven. But then, I imagined salamander guts on our carpet and went back to shuddering. A moment later, he came back out and got a gignormous wad of paper towels, and then emerged with the balled up wad (avec salamander dedans) and went outside to dispose of it in the dumpster.
Slimy, disgusting little creature disposed of, I had questions. The first of which involved the prospect of creature guts on the carpet. Apparently, hubs didn't 100% obliterate it, but hit it just enough to stop it. Stop it from moving and breathing, that is. But was there any blood? Salamander innards and juices? What did it look like where you hit it? Yes, the same one screaming bloody murder and shuddering in disgust now had to know all the dirty details. No juices or innards, but it was "a little torn up" where he had hit it with the shoe. Ewwwwwwww. SO gross, but somehow hilarious and morbidly satisfying to know.
Now, when I want to make him laugh, I just call him "salamander killer." Amphibians, beware!
Sunday, November 08, 2015
The First (of Hopefully More) Adventure(s)
I'm sitting at the window of a small-town local coffee shop with hubs during a Sunday inter-service afternoon work session...what ends up going down when you're PhD students who go to a Pentecostal church which still does the two-service thing. It's rainy and gray, but nothing a toasted marshmallow s'mores latte can't brighten up. My husband is adorably hunched over his laptop, doing what he calls "coding." Linguistics stuff. We know enough about each others' stuff to understand it, but our fields are different enough for us not to be all up in each others' academic space. This is fabulous relationship-wise, but also positive when it comes to both of us having to find jobs in the same (geographic) area. Speaking of which...
This is how the academic job search works:
1. Apply (duh)
2. If they like your application, the institution will conduct a preliminary interview with you, usually a video conference.
3. If you make the second cut, the institution will fly you out for a campus visit. The campus visit includes you having a ton of meetings with faculty and students, you'll teach a class, present a "job talk," have a campus tour and have another formal interview. It's like a date. They're trying to see if you're a good fit for them, but also trying to "show off" so that they will present themselves as desirable to you. At this point, you're usually competing with 3 other candidates who have also been offered campus visits.
4. If you make the final cut, they will make you an offer, at which point negotiations usually come into play.
5. If you accept the offer, pending your graduation, at which point you'll have a PhD in hand, you'll sign on the dotted line and have an official, bona fide job! Whoo-hoo!
So far, I have made the first two cuts with a particular institution I mention here. So, a week from today they're flying me out to participate in round two of the Academic Dating Game.
I'm excited...my first call-back has now become my first campus visit. This place had the earliest application deadline, and I suspect they're trying snatch people up before the Academic Dating Game commences in full force in the spring. However, I must admit that there's a part of me trying not to feel overwhelmed. I feel the weight of things. I feel the unpredictability of things. I'm confronted, once again, with the fact that, try as I might, I can't control my life.
I naively thought that once I got married, the variables of life would be settled. Or, at least, more settled than they were when I was single. What I see now is that each point of "settling" actually opens up an entirely new set of variables.
This is how the academic job search works:
1. Apply (duh)
2. If they like your application, the institution will conduct a preliminary interview with you, usually a video conference.
3. If you make the second cut, the institution will fly you out for a campus visit. The campus visit includes you having a ton of meetings with faculty and students, you'll teach a class, present a "job talk," have a campus tour and have another formal interview. It's like a date. They're trying to see if you're a good fit for them, but also trying to "show off" so that they will present themselves as desirable to you. At this point, you're usually competing with 3 other candidates who have also been offered campus visits.
4. If you make the final cut, they will make you an offer, at which point negotiations usually come into play.
5. If you accept the offer, pending your graduation, at which point you'll have a PhD in hand, you'll sign on the dotted line and have an official, bona fide job! Whoo-hoo!
So far, I have made the first two cuts with a particular institution I mention here. So, a week from today they're flying me out to participate in round two of the Academic Dating Game.
I'm excited...my first call-back has now become my first campus visit. This place had the earliest application deadline, and I suspect they're trying snatch people up before the Academic Dating Game commences in full force in the spring. However, I must admit that there's a part of me trying not to feel overwhelmed. I feel the weight of things. I feel the unpredictability of things. I'm confronted, once again, with the fact that, try as I might, I can't control my life.
I naively thought that once I got married, the variables of life would be settled. Or, at least, more settled than they were when I was single. What I see now is that each point of "settling" actually opens up an entirely new set of variables.
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
The Only Thing a Dissertation Cares About
So, hubs and I both gave a presentation for our department's Graduate Student Colloquium on Friday. Here we are pre-presentation:
It was probably the only time we'll ever present together...unless we author a paper together, which might be something we'd consider in the future. It was a great experience. We both got a lot of positive feedback, and it reminded me that I'm actually doing something I'm interested in and that I like and that I'm good at.
I'm telling you, writing a dissertation is like one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I'm used to getting by on being "smart." What I'm saying is that I've always defined myself by making good grades, being a good student, etc. I've basically been a nerd my whole life. What I'm learning, though, is that you can be the smartest, most intellectual person in the world, but as far as writing a dissertation goes, it means nothing. Dissertations really don't give a flip about how smart you are. They really don't. The only thing a dissertation responds to is getting your butt in a chair and getting your fingers on a keyboard and hammering it out. That's it. It takes sheer work. An iron will. Showing up. Consistently getting all your little fancy ideas spelled out into a Word doc. The only thing a dissertation cares about is your hustle.
I've had some pretty dreary days. Days where I feel like I have no idea what I'm doing or why I ever thought this would be a good idea. I have days where I feel uber overwhelmed and where my desired future seems so far away. I have days where I feel woefully unprepared and like at any minute someone out there who actually has it all together could walk up to me, rip off my facade and expose me as the fraud I am. Some pretty dark and somber things get cooked up in my brain stew when I'm locked away in this garret of a library carrel. But presenting like I did last Friday is a little bright spot that reminds me that despite my feelings of insecurity, I must be doing something right.
Another little bright spot: I got my first call back for an interview! Funny story: I originally applied for a generalist position at this small liberal arts institution about halfway between each of our families. It was the first job I applied for because it had the earliest application deadline. So, they emailed me back and asked me to apply for another position they had open because it was more in line with my credentials. When I took a look at it, I realized that it was for Afro-Latin American studies! There is only one other position I'm applying for specifically looking for someone in that area of specialization. They must have posted it after I applied for the first one. It made me feel good because obviously they were interested in me if they asked me to apply for another position in the department. So, anyway, we'll see.
For now, back to writing...
I'm telling you, writing a dissertation is like one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I'm used to getting by on being "smart." What I'm saying is that I've always defined myself by making good grades, being a good student, etc. I've basically been a nerd my whole life. What I'm learning, though, is that you can be the smartest, most intellectual person in the world, but as far as writing a dissertation goes, it means nothing. Dissertations really don't give a flip about how smart you are. They really don't. The only thing a dissertation responds to is getting your butt in a chair and getting your fingers on a keyboard and hammering it out. That's it. It takes sheer work. An iron will. Showing up. Consistently getting all your little fancy ideas spelled out into a Word doc. The only thing a dissertation cares about is your hustle.
I've had some pretty dreary days. Days where I feel like I have no idea what I'm doing or why I ever thought this would be a good idea. I have days where I feel uber overwhelmed and where my desired future seems so far away. I have days where I feel woefully unprepared and like at any minute someone out there who actually has it all together could walk up to me, rip off my facade and expose me as the fraud I am. Some pretty dark and somber things get cooked up in my brain stew when I'm locked away in this garret of a library carrel. But presenting like I did last Friday is a little bright spot that reminds me that despite my feelings of insecurity, I must be doing something right.
Another little bright spot: I got my first call back for an interview! Funny story: I originally applied for a generalist position at this small liberal arts institution about halfway between each of our families. It was the first job I applied for because it had the earliest application deadline. So, they emailed me back and asked me to apply for another position they had open because it was more in line with my credentials. When I took a look at it, I realized that it was for Afro-Latin American studies! There is only one other position I'm applying for specifically looking for someone in that area of specialization. They must have posted it after I applied for the first one. It made me feel good because obviously they were interested in me if they asked me to apply for another position in the department. So, anyway, we'll see.
For now, back to writing...
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
In the Moment
So, we were riding along on a beautiful autumn afternoon, windows down, admiring the gorgeous fall colors on the trees. "I love being in this moment with you, baby." Yes, we unsarcastically say things like this to each other all the time, and it is mushy and gushy and wonderful.
We finally got to a stretch of road where there was a little bit of traffic, and slowed down, almost to a stop. Suddenly, we heard screeching brakes and I remember looking to see where it was coming from when...BOOM! Someone rear ended the stank out of us.
While adrenaline was coursing through my veins and I was shaking and tearing up, my husband slowly pulls over, puts the car in park and asks if I'm okay. Then he calmly gets the insurance info out of the glove compartment and gets out to exchange info with the culprit, an old wrinkled up man in a bow tie. Homeboy tore the bumper almost completely off.
I didn't even get out of the car. I called the police so we could file a police report, but I just stayed put.
Even though I was a little shaken and highly annoyed at the carelessness of the man who hit us (you "didn't see us"? Dude, we were practically stopped for about a minute or so before you came plowing into us. It's almost like hitting a parked car and claiming not to have seen it), I was very thankful for a calm husband who just handled it.
Although it sucks to have a messed up car and now to deal with the insurance stuff (which he's handling now, too), I realized that even though getting rear ended wasn't as beautiful as driving with the windows down and enjoying the fall colors, I was still in the moment with him. It was a negative moment, but we were in it together.
I know that getting rear ended is probably the least of the negative things we will have to deal with throughout our marriage. But I'm glad that I won't have to deal with the negative things that come in life on my own.
We finally got to a stretch of road where there was a little bit of traffic, and slowed down, almost to a stop. Suddenly, we heard screeching brakes and I remember looking to see where it was coming from when...BOOM! Someone rear ended the stank out of us.
While adrenaline was coursing through my veins and I was shaking and tearing up, my husband slowly pulls over, puts the car in park and asks if I'm okay. Then he calmly gets the insurance info out of the glove compartment and gets out to exchange info with the culprit, an old wrinkled up man in a bow tie. Homeboy tore the bumper almost completely off.
I didn't even get out of the car. I called the police so we could file a police report, but I just stayed put.
Even though I was a little shaken and highly annoyed at the carelessness of the man who hit us (you "didn't see us"? Dude, we were practically stopped for about a minute or so before you came plowing into us. It's almost like hitting a parked car and claiming not to have seen it), I was very thankful for a calm husband who just handled it.
Although it sucks to have a messed up car and now to deal with the insurance stuff (which he's handling now, too), I realized that even though getting rear ended wasn't as beautiful as driving with the windows down and enjoying the fall colors, I was still in the moment with him. It was a negative moment, but we were in it together.
I know that getting rear ended is probably the least of the negative things we will have to deal with throughout our marriage. But I'm glad that I won't have to deal with the negative things that come in life on my own.
Friday, October 09, 2015
Confessions
1. Writing my dissertation is hard, and I'm behind on my writing schedule.
2. I should be in my library carrel right now, but I'm not.
3. My hair is dirty and I don't feel like washing it right now, so I'll probably throw on a hat and call it a day.
4. I asked my husband whether he'd had a thing for a certain girl in our department before we started dating, and once he admitted that he had, I immediately regretted asking him. Now, I feel stupid, not to mention hypocritical, for being bothered by it.
5. When I'm confronted with the fact that I am extremely blessed and have an overabundance of things to be thankful for, I feel convicted and I make a mental note to be more purposefully and explicitly grateful. God knows I don't take it for granted. But when I feel the way I feel this morning, it makes me feel bad again because I don't understand why it's so easy for the security of knowing that I am blessed slip away from me.
6. After all this time, I am still uncomfortable with uncertainty and I still struggle with trying to control my life, all the while knowing how futile it is.
7. Sometimes when my husband is asleep and I'm still awake, I look at him and wonder why I married someone so different from me and why he married someone so different from him.
8. A professor took me out to lunch this week to celebrate my getting an article published. It was originally a paper I wrote for her class. She was giving me advice about applying for jobs, mentioning that I shouldn't count out applying for posts at flagships on the West Coast even though it's far from where I want to settle because after a year or two I could enter the job market again and it would look attractive on my CV and give me some leverage for a more desirable position in the future. I wanted to tell her that I don't care about applying to places strategically, I don't care about increasing the attractiveness of my stupid CV, I don't care about being a successful academic. I want to finish this program, get a job, settle down and start a family. I'm tired of moving around and feeling unsettled.
2. I should be in my library carrel right now, but I'm not.
3. My hair is dirty and I don't feel like washing it right now, so I'll probably throw on a hat and call it a day.
4. I asked my husband whether he'd had a thing for a certain girl in our department before we started dating, and once he admitted that he had, I immediately regretted asking him. Now, I feel stupid, not to mention hypocritical, for being bothered by it.
5. When I'm confronted with the fact that I am extremely blessed and have an overabundance of things to be thankful for, I feel convicted and I make a mental note to be more purposefully and explicitly grateful. God knows I don't take it for granted. But when I feel the way I feel this morning, it makes me feel bad again because I don't understand why it's so easy for the security of knowing that I am blessed slip away from me.
6. After all this time, I am still uncomfortable with uncertainty and I still struggle with trying to control my life, all the while knowing how futile it is.
7. Sometimes when my husband is asleep and I'm still awake, I look at him and wonder why I married someone so different from me and why he married someone so different from him.
8. A professor took me out to lunch this week to celebrate my getting an article published. It was originally a paper I wrote for her class. She was giving me advice about applying for jobs, mentioning that I shouldn't count out applying for posts at flagships on the West Coast even though it's far from where I want to settle because after a year or two I could enter the job market again and it would look attractive on my CV and give me some leverage for a more desirable position in the future. I wanted to tell her that I don't care about applying to places strategically, I don't care about increasing the attractiveness of my stupid CV, I don't care about being a successful academic. I want to finish this program, get a job, settle down and start a family. I'm tired of moving around and feeling unsettled.
Thursday, October 01, 2015
Dream Job
So, there's this job I really want.
It just seems perfect. They're looking for someone who specializes in precisely what I'm writing my dissertation about. Not just a Latin Americanist who speaks Spanish fluently, but someone who specializes in the African Diaspora in Latin America. Hello, that is SO me.
The place is a small liberal arts college, which is also so me because the emphasis in those kinds of institutions is teaching and at heart, I am and always will be a teacher.
The place is also on the East Coast and sits snugly between our families.
The place is also near a major metropolitan city but far enough away not to be smack dab in the hustle and bustle.
And, there's a little side story. So, I came across the job posting, told myself that I was totally going for it, and then came across the posting again in a listserv for current and former holders of the prestigious fellowship I have now. Soon after the posting went out, a member of the listserv who is a new hire at the dream job institution said, "Hey, if anyone is interested in applying, let me know, I was hired last year in the same department and we can chat about it." I was like, um, me! So, I sent him an email expressing my interest. It also happened that he was going to the conference I just got back from and we arranged to meet up and chat. It also happened that I was presenting at said conference and he agreed to come to my presentation. In the end, we chatted, he had lots of positive things to say about the institution and the department and gave me positive feedback on my presentation. It's not like he's on the search committee or anything, I mean, he was just hired last year, but at least he might put in a good word for me...maybe flag my application and be like, "Hey, I met her, I saw her present, she's also a recipient of the same prestigious fellowship I had, maybe we need to take a good look at her app." Who knows?
But now, here I am, slogging away at my dissertation, having to apply to mad jobs while slogging away, and knowing that if I'm to land anything desirable in this competitive world of the academic job market, I MUST finish my dissertation. No bones about it.
I'm trying to be open, trying not to drive myself (and my husband) crazy, and wanting to hope but not wanting to get my hopes up too high.
If I could JUST finish. Finish, get a job, and have a baby. In that order.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
First Conference Presentation as a Mrs.
I guess there's a first time for everything.
I'm in a major metropolitan city (where the pope just left from) for a conference from now until Sunday. It hit me that this is the first time I've air traveled and will have conference presented under my new name.
Like, my first boarding pass as a Mrs. My first conference introduction as a Mrs.
I've decided to use my maiden name as my middle name professionally. So, on my CV and papers and publications and whatnot, I'll be Firstname Maidenname Marriedname. I like how it flows, truth be told. I still haven't gotten any funny looks or comments about my new last name, though. It absolutely screams Irishness. Girl, how you get a St. Patrick's Day soundin name like that?
Can I admit something? I am scared, I am uncomfortable, I feel inadequate, I feel underprepared, and I feel overwhelmed. I can't explain how badly I want to stop feeling this way. Everything seems to be screaming at me, You aren't ready! You aren't good enough! You're not going to finish in time!
I honestly don't know how I'm going to do it. I don't know how this is going to happen. There's more that I don't know than I do know at this point. But what else can I do but keep putting one foot in front of the other?
I'm in a major metropolitan city (where the pope just left from) for a conference from now until Sunday. It hit me that this is the first time I've air traveled and will have conference presented under my new name.
Like, my first boarding pass as a Mrs. My first conference introduction as a Mrs.
I've decided to use my maiden name as my middle name professionally. So, on my CV and papers and publications and whatnot, I'll be Firstname Maidenname Marriedname. I like how it flows, truth be told. I still haven't gotten any funny looks or comments about my new last name, though. It absolutely screams Irishness. Girl, how you get a St. Patrick's Day soundin name like that?
Can I admit something? I am scared, I am uncomfortable, I feel inadequate, I feel underprepared, and I feel overwhelmed. I can't explain how badly I want to stop feeling this way. Everything seems to be screaming at me, You aren't ready! You aren't good enough! You're not going to finish in time!
I honestly don't know how I'm going to do it. I don't know how this is going to happen. There's more that I don't know than I do know at this point. But what else can I do but keep putting one foot in front of the other?
Friday, September 18, 2015
The Internet Preachin TROOF Today
Am I in church? I thought I was sequestered in a library carrel, tired, unmotivated, and unsuccessfully resisting urges to pro-crass-the-nation (I got that from my homegirl), but no. The Don Miller blog and the Multicultural Listserv started preachin the Word of GAWD today and all I could do was shake my head like an old sanctified black lady who made some sweet potato pies for the silent auction muttering "My, my, my" with a hand held to my convicted heart and let dat troof settle into my soul.
Don Miller blog,"Why Change Can Be Good, Even When You're Not Ready":
Multicultural Listserv:
I am metaphorically forehead palming my dissertation and taking spiritual authority over it until it speaks in tongues right now.
After I take a nap, tho. It is real out here, y'all.
Don Miller blog,"Why Change Can Be Good, Even When You're Not Ready":
Sometimes when we say, “I’m not ready,” what we really mean is that we’re not ready to succeed. And we’re probably right. But the new roles and opportunities that present themselves to us often won’t for us to be 100 percent ready to succeed. Rather, what we need in order to step across those thresholds is a readiness to struggle, learn, and grow. We’re not born ready to be successful professionals, spouses, parents, neighbors, and friends. We become those things over time, through practice and process, sometimes failing, sometimes winning, always persisting.Preach. Preaaaach! Thankya Jesus.
Multicultural Listserv:
The worst thing you write is better than the best thing you didn't write.Yaaaaas! The devil IS a liya.
I am metaphorically forehead palming my dissertation and taking spiritual authority over it until it speaks in tongues right now.
After I take a nap, tho. It is real out here, y'all.
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Is this me?
Sometimes I don't believe this is really me.
Is this me?
Is this me who has a husband?
Is this me who's been married for four months now?
Is this me who's writing a dissertation?
Is this me who's supposed to graduate in May?
Is this me who's applying for jobs?
Is this me who's thinking about having a baby in the near future?
Sometimes I feel like I'm not really me. I'm just someone who is passively observing what someone else who I'm not is supposed to be doing.
Like, when I was riding in the car with my husband back to our apartment tonight, I was spacing out (as I often do) and it occurred to me that the man sitting beside me promised to be with me for the rest of his life and that I promised to be with him for the rest of my life. Lifelong promises, just like that. There was a time when my life was without him in it. Now, I have no idea what it would look like without him in it. Riding in a silver Camry.
All that my mind is wrapped around is writing my dissertation. It doesn't even seem like something I (if I were really me) would ever do. But I'm miraculously doing it. And not fast enough.
Is this me who wants to be a professor?
Is this me who wants a career in academia?
It seems like that's stuff for other people. Other people do well-researched, serious stuff. Stuff where they know just what they're doing and exactly what they're talking about and precisely what their plans are. I just chance upon things. I make it up as I go along. It seems like I've lucked out more than diligently worked. It seems like what I'm doing now isn't substantive. That can't be true. But it just feels like it.
What is it going to take to convince me that I'm going to be okay and that I must be doing something right?
Is this me?
Is this me who has a husband?
Is this me who's been married for four months now?
Is this me who's writing a dissertation?
Is this me who's supposed to graduate in May?
Is this me who's applying for jobs?
Is this me who's thinking about having a baby in the near future?
Sometimes I feel like I'm not really me. I'm just someone who is passively observing what someone else who I'm not is supposed to be doing.
Like, when I was riding in the car with my husband back to our apartment tonight, I was spacing out (as I often do) and it occurred to me that the man sitting beside me promised to be with me for the rest of his life and that I promised to be with him for the rest of my life. Lifelong promises, just like that. There was a time when my life was without him in it. Now, I have no idea what it would look like without him in it. Riding in a silver Camry.
All that my mind is wrapped around is writing my dissertation. It doesn't even seem like something I (if I were really me) would ever do. But I'm miraculously doing it. And not fast enough.
Is this me who wants to be a professor?
Is this me who wants a career in academia?
It seems like that's stuff for other people. Other people do well-researched, serious stuff. Stuff where they know just what they're doing and exactly what they're talking about and precisely what their plans are. I just chance upon things. I make it up as I go along. It seems like I've lucked out more than diligently worked. It seems like what I'm doing now isn't substantive. That can't be true. But it just feels like it.
What is it going to take to convince me that I'm going to be okay and that I must be doing something right?
Wednesday, September 09, 2015
My First Academic Publication as a Graduate Student
Hopefully this little guy will help me get one of those things. You know, one of those whatchamacallits. You know...one of those things productive citizens of society are supposed to have? A, um...yeah, that's it. A job.
Check it out here. Especially if you're into diasporas and Africa and transformation and migration and stuff.
Check it out here. Especially if you're into diasporas and Africa and transformation and migration and stuff.
Tuesday, September 08, 2015
So...Week 4.
This is how it's going to have to be.
Writing a dissertation is seriously one of the hardest things I've ever had to do in my life. Chapter 3 is due this coming Friday and I really need to pick up the pace. For real.
On top of that, there's a little book review to revise and resubmit and there are already postdoc applications that are due soon.
I can't believe I've gotten this far with such reluctance to get things done. Like, I'm the laziest "overachiever" there ever was. I am so serious. I've totally shut myself off of social media, I get up every morning at 5:45, I go work out, I get to the library between 8:00 and 8:15am, stay until 5pm, and I (try to) go to bed every night between 9:30 and 10:00pm. I'm trying my best to regiment my life to allow writeyourdissertation to seep into my bones and consciousness, but still. I still get super distracted (Pomodoro notwithstanding), I still stare at my cursor blinking for hours without any writing produced and I still question if I'm really cut out for this.
Whether I'm cut out for it or not, I'm going to finish. I have to finish. I have no choice. I mean, I guess I do have a choice, but the consequences of not finishing are pretty darn undesirable.
This is just where I'm at. In the thick of it. This is all I'm going to be blogging about, probably, until it's done. So...onward.
Writing a dissertation is seriously one of the hardest things I've ever had to do in my life. Chapter 3 is due this coming Friday and I really need to pick up the pace. For real.
On top of that, there's a little book review to revise and resubmit and there are already postdoc applications that are due soon.
I can't believe I've gotten this far with such reluctance to get things done. Like, I'm the laziest "overachiever" there ever was. I am so serious. I've totally shut myself off of social media, I get up every morning at 5:45, I go work out, I get to the library between 8:00 and 8:15am, stay until 5pm, and I (try to) go to bed every night between 9:30 and 10:00pm. I'm trying my best to regiment my life to allow writeyourdissertation to seep into my bones and consciousness, but still. I still get super distracted (Pomodoro notwithstanding), I still stare at my cursor blinking for hours without any writing produced and I still question if I'm really cut out for this.
Whether I'm cut out for it or not, I'm going to finish. I have to finish. I have no choice. I mean, I guess I do have a choice, but the consequences of not finishing are pretty darn undesirable.
This is just where I'm at. In the thick of it. This is all I'm going to be blogging about, probably, until it's done. So...onward.
Monday, August 31, 2015
Week 3 of Hammering It Out
We interrupt this dissertation writing session for a quick update:
This weekend, I went to my hometown, primarily to attend this friend's baby shower. I left hubs behind, because he preferred to stay home. If we were going primarily to visit my parents, we would have left sooner.
My mom knew I was coming, but my dad didn't. It was nice to surprise him. I went to church with my parents on Sunday and of course, the inevitable, "Where's your husband? Whuut? You're already leaving him behind?" Ugh, please go sit down somewhere. I jokingly told a few people we got into a fight, just to see their reaction. Heh, heh.
But here's what I really wanted to tell: When I got back on Sunday night, I came home to a beautiful bouquet of sunflowers in a vase with a card from my husband telling me how much he missed me and how much he loves and appreciates me. Super swoon. There is nothing like the love of a sweet freckled-faced man with a dimpled smile. I seriously believe my husband is the best husband in the entire world.
I just love spending time with him. Riding the bus together in the mornings, coffee in my little to-go cup with our church's logo on it. Getting little visits from him while I'm working in my little writing hole for hugs and kisses and "I'm proud of you"s. Taking lunch breaks with him on a bench outside the library, laughing at how a squirrel nearby darts around and nervously eats pieces of sandwich bread crust I throw his way. Work a little longer and soon we'll be heading home on the campus bus, but today we're going to make a quick stop at the campus Creamery first. Dessert before dinner.
Going to a baby shower has definitely brought about a resurgence of baby-on-the-brain-itis. The fact that a colleague recently announced her pregnancy hasn't helped matters. I even told hubs, "If all goes according to plan, next year around this time, that will be me!" He smiled and said that it would be. He is going to be the best dad, too. I know it. I have these visions of me with a cute little pregnant belly being cuddled and coddled by my husband. Sigh.
Back to work. This chapter is shaping up, but at this point, it needs to shape up a little faster.
This weekend, I went to my hometown, primarily to attend this friend's baby shower. I left hubs behind, because he preferred to stay home. If we were going primarily to visit my parents, we would have left sooner.
My mom knew I was coming, but my dad didn't. It was nice to surprise him. I went to church with my parents on Sunday and of course, the inevitable, "Where's your husband? Whuut? You're already leaving him behind?" Ugh, please go sit down somewhere. I jokingly told a few people we got into a fight, just to see their reaction. Heh, heh.
But here's what I really wanted to tell: When I got back on Sunday night, I came home to a beautiful bouquet of sunflowers in a vase with a card from my husband telling me how much he missed me and how much he loves and appreciates me. Super swoon. There is nothing like the love of a sweet freckled-faced man with a dimpled smile. I seriously believe my husband is the best husband in the entire world.
I just love spending time with him. Riding the bus together in the mornings, coffee in my little to-go cup with our church's logo on it. Getting little visits from him while I'm working in my little writing hole for hugs and kisses and "I'm proud of you"s. Taking lunch breaks with him on a bench outside the library, laughing at how a squirrel nearby darts around and nervously eats pieces of sandwich bread crust I throw his way. Work a little longer and soon we'll be heading home on the campus bus, but today we're going to make a quick stop at the campus Creamery first. Dessert before dinner.
Going to a baby shower has definitely brought about a resurgence of baby-on-the-brain-itis. The fact that a colleague recently announced her pregnancy hasn't helped matters. I even told hubs, "If all goes according to plan, next year around this time, that will be me!" He smiled and said that it would be. He is going to be the best dad, too. I know it. I have these visions of me with a cute little pregnant belly being cuddled and coddled by my husband. Sigh.
Back to work. This chapter is shaping up, but at this point, it needs to shape up a little faster.
Sunday, August 23, 2015
And at the end of the first week of sequestration...
Here's what I'm learning that finishing a herculean task consists of:
Framing the task within parameters of structure and consistency. The reason I'm waking up every morning at 5:45 am and leaving out at 6 am to then go work out for 30 minutes every morning and then arriving at my library carrel by 8 am Monday through Friday is so that I can burn "schedule" and "consistency" into my brain and consciousness. It's not that I love waking up early or that I'm trying to lose weight. It's just a thing I need to do. I'm consistently getting up. I'm consistently working out. I'm consistently going to the library. I'm hoping these things will translate into "I'm consistently working on my dissertation." It's hard. It's hard to stay focused. It's hard to make the kind of progress I would be happy with. But I'm making some progress every day. That's what needs to be consistent.
A colleague introduced me to a productivity app that I'm going to try stick to called Pomodoro. Each "pomodoro" is a 25-minute interval, which ends in a 5-minute break. After 4 pomodoro/5-minute break intervals, then you get a longer 15-minute break. It's a way to make yourself consistently work without feeling overwhelmed. It's good for a person like me who finds it hard to consistently work for long periods of time. But 25-minutes of consistent work at a time is doable. And it gives you the option to skip a break if you're on a roll and then at the end of the 4 intervals, you get a longer break. Operation Pomodoro starts tomorrow.
I have the chance to personally interview and communicate with the author of one of the books I'm analyzing. I wrote her and let her know that I'm excited about the chance to talk to her, but that I would like to have time to prepare first, and asked for her availability to perhaps conduct the interview via Skype. I'm pretty pumped about it. My adviser and I are discussing the possibility of bringing her to the university for a talk. That would be pretty awesome. We shall see.
Framing the task within parameters of structure and consistency. The reason I'm waking up every morning at 5:45 am and leaving out at 6 am to then go work out for 30 minutes every morning and then arriving at my library carrel by 8 am Monday through Friday is so that I can burn "schedule" and "consistency" into my brain and consciousness. It's not that I love waking up early or that I'm trying to lose weight. It's just a thing I need to do. I'm consistently getting up. I'm consistently working out. I'm consistently going to the library. I'm hoping these things will translate into "I'm consistently working on my dissertation." It's hard. It's hard to stay focused. It's hard to make the kind of progress I would be happy with. But I'm making some progress every day. That's what needs to be consistent.
A colleague introduced me to a productivity app that I'm going to try stick to called Pomodoro. Each "pomodoro" is a 25-minute interval, which ends in a 5-minute break. After 4 pomodoro/5-minute break intervals, then you get a longer 15-minute break. It's a way to make yourself consistently work without feeling overwhelmed. It's good for a person like me who finds it hard to consistently work for long periods of time. But 25-minutes of consistent work at a time is doable. And it gives you the option to skip a break if you're on a roll and then at the end of the 4 intervals, you get a longer break. Operation Pomodoro starts tomorrow.
I have the chance to personally interview and communicate with the author of one of the books I'm analyzing. I wrote her and let her know that I'm excited about the chance to talk to her, but that I would like to have time to prepare first, and asked for her availability to perhaps conduct the interview via Skype. I'm pretty pumped about it. My adviser and I are discussing the possibility of bringing her to the university for a talk. That would be pretty awesome. We shall see.
Monday, August 17, 2015
Sequestration: Day 1
My new semester routine:
1. Get up and out the door by 6 am to make your way over to the Ramsey Center.
2. Jump on the elliptical for 30 minutes while you listen to audio of the Bible.
3. Get back and take a short, energizing shower.
4. Down a cup of coffee with a fruit/a bagel/oatmeal and take a multivitamin (if we're planning on getting preggo in about a year from now, gotta start getting vitamins and good stuff in me now.)
5. Get yourself together, grab your lunch (that you made the night before) and make it to the library by 8 am.
6. Sit your little self down in your library carrel and read/write/take notes/highlight/write down ideas/organize, do whatever you need to do to work towards one goal: Writing. Your. Dissertation.
7. Take a lunch break with hubby.
8. Sit your little self back down in your library carrel and repeat the actions in step 6 until 5 pm.
9. Give your mind a break, and make sure you get to bed by 10:30pm.
That's how it's gotta be, folks. Ain't nothin to it but to do it.
1. Get up and out the door by 6 am to make your way over to the Ramsey Center.
2. Jump on the elliptical for 30 minutes while you listen to audio of the Bible.
3. Get back and take a short, energizing shower.
4. Down a cup of coffee with a fruit/a bagel/oatmeal and take a multivitamin (if we're planning on getting preggo in about a year from now, gotta start getting vitamins and good stuff in me now.)
5. Get yourself together, grab your lunch (that you made the night before) and make it to the library by 8 am.
6. Sit your little self down in your library carrel and read/write/take notes/highlight/write down ideas/organize, do whatever you need to do to work towards one goal: Writing. Your. Dissertation.
7. Take a lunch break with hubby.
8. Sit your little self back down in your library carrel and repeat the actions in step 6 until 5 pm.
9. Give your mind a break, and make sure you get to bed by 10:30pm.
That's how it's gotta be, folks. Ain't nothin to it but to do it.
Tuesday, August 04, 2015
Everything You Wanted
Another husbandless night.
Even after having every single qualification that she wrote down met, they still didn't click.
I don't know, there's just something equally hilarious and sad about that. Like, he had literally everything she professed to want, but when it was presented to her, there were still reasons why she didn't feel they were compatible.
I found a list that I wrote when I was 16 and realized that my husband does line up with pretty much all of them:
1. "He has to be tall." He is, I guess, around 5'10, which isn't basketball-player tall, but a good 4 inches taller than me. And I can wear heels and still not be taller than him, which is all good.
2. "For some reason, I don't know why, but he absolutely must have long eyelashes. It would also be nice if he wore glasses." He has very long lashes and he does wear glasses.
3. "He would have this absolutely charming smile that would make you melt every time he flashed his pearly whites. Dimples would be nice, too." He does have a nice smile, and he does have dimples.
4. "He has to like to read." Check.
5. "He has to have a passion for music, and an appreciation for all types. It would be cool if he could play the guitar (I love guitar!)--then he could make up guitar ballads about his undying love for me (just kidding)." I really wasn't kidding, though. He definitely has a passion for music, he definitely plays the guitar and he has definitely written ballads about his love for me. He proposed to me with one. When I wrote this 17 years ago, little did I know that I would one day also play the guitar and that playing the guitar would be what initially brought my husband and me together.
6. "He has to be understanding--he has to be sensitive to my feelings and realize that sometimes I say or do things that I really don't mean, and sometimes I myself may not understand why I feel a certain way, but he'll understand that, too." This is so true. I am emotional and sensitive and cry all the time and he is the sweetest, most understanding man ever about this side of me.
But here's what's crazy: If there were some other person out there who had all the same qualities that I claimed to want and maybe even need, there's absolutely no guarantee that he would have "clicked" with me. I mean, my little teenage list aside, even if my "mature," 30+, single self had written a list like the girl in the video did and that man materialized right in front of my face, there would be no guarantee. Everything you wanted is really not everything you wanted until you actually have a chance to want it in a flesh-and-blood person who also has a chance to want everything they wanted in you. I know that's a little convoluted, but it's true.
There are things you think you want/need, but then there are things you never knew you wanted/needed that only come alive within a living, breathing bond between two living, breathing people.
The guy the girl in the video described up on the whiteboard was not a real person. He was a conglomeration of ideas and characteristics. Even if all of those ideas and characteristics could somehow become concrete (imperfectly, because the abstract can never be made perfectly concrete), there is, as the video showed, no guarantee that this concrete abstraction would or even could meet our needs, or as we like to call it, "click" with us.
This is another idea that makes me see a marriage as a sacred metaphor. Great is the mystery of godliness. Great is the mystery of what it is that makes what we think we want and need somehow secondary to something as ungraspable as another human being's bond with us.
I'm eating and watching trash when I should be dissertation reading. There's something about my husband being gone that turns me into a sad bum.
But I watched this video of this girl who makes a list of all of the qualities she wants in a man, the producers or whoever finds a man who meets all of these qualifications, and she goes out on a date with him:
Even after having every single qualification that she wrote down met, they still didn't click.
I don't know, there's just something equally hilarious and sad about that. Like, he had literally everything she professed to want, but when it was presented to her, there were still reasons why she didn't feel they were compatible.
I found a list that I wrote when I was 16 and realized that my husband does line up with pretty much all of them:
1. "He has to be tall." He is, I guess, around 5'10, which isn't basketball-player tall, but a good 4 inches taller than me. And I can wear heels and still not be taller than him, which is all good.
2. "For some reason, I don't know why, but he absolutely must have long eyelashes. It would also be nice if he wore glasses." He has very long lashes and he does wear glasses.
3. "He would have this absolutely charming smile that would make you melt every time he flashed his pearly whites. Dimples would be nice, too." He does have a nice smile, and he does have dimples.
4. "He has to like to read." Check.
5. "He has to have a passion for music, and an appreciation for all types. It would be cool if he could play the guitar (I love guitar!)--then he could make up guitar ballads about his undying love for me (just kidding)." I really wasn't kidding, though. He definitely has a passion for music, he definitely plays the guitar and he has definitely written ballads about his love for me. He proposed to me with one. When I wrote this 17 years ago, little did I know that I would one day also play the guitar and that playing the guitar would be what initially brought my husband and me together.
6. "He has to be understanding--he has to be sensitive to my feelings and realize that sometimes I say or do things that I really don't mean, and sometimes I myself may not understand why I feel a certain way, but he'll understand that, too." This is so true. I am emotional and sensitive and cry all the time and he is the sweetest, most understanding man ever about this side of me.
But here's what's crazy: If there were some other person out there who had all the same qualities that I claimed to want and maybe even need, there's absolutely no guarantee that he would have "clicked" with me. I mean, my little teenage list aside, even if my "mature," 30+, single self had written a list like the girl in the video did and that man materialized right in front of my face, there would be no guarantee. Everything you wanted is really not everything you wanted until you actually have a chance to want it in a flesh-and-blood person who also has a chance to want everything they wanted in you. I know that's a little convoluted, but it's true.
There are things you think you want/need, but then there are things you never knew you wanted/needed that only come alive within a living, breathing bond between two living, breathing people.
The guy the girl in the video described up on the whiteboard was not a real person. He was a conglomeration of ideas and characteristics. Even if all of those ideas and characteristics could somehow become concrete (imperfectly, because the abstract can never be made perfectly concrete), there is, as the video showed, no guarantee that this concrete abstraction would or even could meet our needs, or as we like to call it, "click" with us.
This is another idea that makes me see a marriage as a sacred metaphor. Great is the mystery of godliness. Great is the mystery of what it is that makes what we think we want and need somehow secondary to something as ungraspable as another human being's bond with us.
Monday, August 03, 2015
Done! (For now.)
The first thing I've finally cleared off my plate are thank you cards for the wedding! Woo hoo! Excuse me while I get my praise on right quick. Y'all don't even know. Like, I feel like I just took my burdens to the Lord and left them at the altar and got delivered for the first time in my world-weary, downtrodden, Jesus-needing life. I feel like I just got brought out of the miry clay and got my feet set on a rock to stay and got a song put in my soul today, tho.
My sweet, sweet husband helped so much. He refused to let me do it all by myself, even though I kind of tried to, but he was insistent. I really appreciate that about him. I have this big-sister, I'll-handle-it mentality a lot of times that I'm learning doesn't really fly in a marriage. Not for the long haul.
We sent off the ones that could be sent off. It felt so good dumping those 90 some-odd cards into the mailbox. You will be thanked. You hear me? You sent us waffle makers and can openers and picnic baskets and planned bridal showers and lingerie showers and sent CHC (cold hard cash) in wedding cards to us and you think you gonna get away without being thanked? Nawl. Like I said, you will be thanked. And you are going to read every handwritten word in those handwritten cards and you will smile and get a warm fuzzy feeling inside and you will go to bed and sleep in peace, knowing that finally, at long last, you have been officially thanked.
Now for local church folks, it'll probably take me a month to actually hand out the cards, but, hey, the hard part is done.
The second thing I've cleared off my plate is this blasted online class. It is ovah. It is finished and it has given up the ghost. Got those finals graded and and those grades posted and those reports printed out and put in the big boss's box. The last class I'll ever teach pre-PhD. Yup. But of course no college-level course worth its salt is without a last minute email from a desperate student. Is there aaannnnyyyythinng I can do? It's like, girl, you got a freaking A minus. Go saddown with all that. No, you cannot do any last-minute extra assignments. Especially not after I've busted it trying to get your finals graded and get final grades posted on time. The grades are in and they're staying in. Like, I feel like it's kind of disrespectful and presumptuous to even ask that. It's like, my friend, you have earned the grade that you've earned and that's that. Why should I give you special consideration?
So now that those two biggies have been checked off, the road has been cleared for plunging head first right back into dissertation writing. I'm planning to finish re-reading the novel of my next chapter this week, I'll take a little beach break with my husband and his family next week, and then, get ready. I'm about to wear my library carrel out. It's all nice and reserved, I got my books all nice and set up in the bookshelves and I even bought a little chair cushion from Bed Bath and Beyond to put on the library's ugly little hard wooden chair so as not to wear down my natural padding. It is bout to go DOWN.
Saturday, July 25, 2015
The Day of Things Broken
Yesterday was the last day of the lease on my husband's old apartment. His former roommate had since moved out, moving on to bigger and better things as a new lawyer in a brighter tomorrow. Unable to sublease, we'd just used it as a temporary storage for our wedding gifts and as a transitional place while my husband was getting settled in our new (well, new to him) (tiny) abode.
So, we rented a truck and started hauling our stuff out to then be deposited in a storage unit place in a podunk town about 15 minutes away. When you live in a college town, storage unit places around town this time of year get snapped up. Of course everyone and their grandmother was also moving out that day. Although I had expressed it earlier, I was still nursing a bit of irritation at the fact that his roommate had deuced out without necessarily getting rid of all his stuff and sort of left it up to my husband to sort out. I get that some of the stuff was mutually shared and bought (i.e. plates and kitchen utensils and their couch) but his bed? His bookcase? (We took the bookcase, tho. He didn't want it.)
Anyway, you know how moving goes. Well-laid plans with the best intentions that start melting in the sun and Georgia humidity. I started out as a trooper but ended up sweaty, tired and irritable. The turning point came when we were finally unloading our stuff into the storage unit. A box which had a delicate item in it slipped and the item inside, an elegant white serving dish, was smashed to heart-wrenching pieces. Tears sprang to my eyes and my husband apologized about 50 million times and I ended up making him feel bad and it was just a bad moment. But in the end we just took the box with the broken pieces (and gift receipt!), put it in the car and hoped that maybe we could get a new one. That was the first thing broken.
I got the new bookcase all nice and set up and was sorting through junk to throw away or things with sentimental value enough to keep. In the process of moving things around, I dropped a little ceramic creation we made with the Young Married's group from church (before we were actually married, but we were included anyway). That was the second thing broken.
We went back to my husband's old apartment to do some final sweeping and vacuuming. He produced a plate and serving dish one of our colleagues had let him borrow for his little CD release party a while ago. I had planned to go but decided not to for whatever reason. That was about a month before our initial coffee date. So, in effect, my husband had borrowed and kept those things from before the time it took to meet me, date me, become engaged to me and marry me until now. We had a good laugh about it. We put them in the car. I drove the car and he drove the truck on the way to donate the beds. Enter a weird driving person who kept putting on the brakes at weird times. Just as I was about to get into a turning lane, homegirl suddenly stops in front of me for whatever reason, so I slam on the brakes. Of course the dishes (on the back seat) fly off. And one of them shatters on the floorboard. That was the third thing broken.
Back at home. Finally. My husband is digging around for some boxes and/or bins to put his to-be-donated kitchen items into. In the process, he drops a box of these little stone coasters with our initial on it. I was planning to take those back to Bed Bath and Beyond because people got us like a million of them. My husband apologetically emerges with pieces of one of the coasters...except...it's not his fault. I actually broke that coaster a while ago when I was digging around in our little closet. But I put it back in the box with the others and figured we'd take care of it later. And that was the fourth thing (still) broken.
Today, sore from our moving expedition, I thought about our reactions to things breaking and how it related to our marriage. I was nearly crushed after the first broken thing. It was a really nice dish someone had given us for our wedding. And it was sort of my husband's "fault" since he was moving stuff around when it fell. I got upset. But what about the things that I broke? Even something that didn't belong to us? Even something that I broke a while ago and never said anything about? He was calm. Forgiving.
I realized that I could definitely stand to be a little calmer and a little more readily forgiving when things don't go the way I think they should.
And we took back the broken elegant white dish and got a brand new one. I felt so badly for my unnecessary drama when the first one was broken. I apologized over and over. My husband smoothed down my hair, smiled, and assured me that it was okay.
So, we rented a truck and started hauling our stuff out to then be deposited in a storage unit place in a podunk town about 15 minutes away. When you live in a college town, storage unit places around town this time of year get snapped up. Of course everyone and their grandmother was also moving out that day. Although I had expressed it earlier, I was still nursing a bit of irritation at the fact that his roommate had deuced out without necessarily getting rid of all his stuff and sort of left it up to my husband to sort out. I get that some of the stuff was mutually shared and bought (i.e. plates and kitchen utensils and their couch) but his bed? His bookcase? (We took the bookcase, tho. He didn't want it.)
Anyway, you know how moving goes. Well-laid plans with the best intentions that start melting in the sun and Georgia humidity. I started out as a trooper but ended up sweaty, tired and irritable. The turning point came when we were finally unloading our stuff into the storage unit. A box which had a delicate item in it slipped and the item inside, an elegant white serving dish, was smashed to heart-wrenching pieces. Tears sprang to my eyes and my husband apologized about 50 million times and I ended up making him feel bad and it was just a bad moment. But in the end we just took the box with the broken pieces (and gift receipt!), put it in the car and hoped that maybe we could get a new one. That was the first thing broken.
I got the new bookcase all nice and set up and was sorting through junk to throw away or things with sentimental value enough to keep. In the process of moving things around, I dropped a little ceramic creation we made with the Young Married's group from church (before we were actually married, but we were included anyway). That was the second thing broken.
We went back to my husband's old apartment to do some final sweeping and vacuuming. He produced a plate and serving dish one of our colleagues had let him borrow for his little CD release party a while ago. I had planned to go but decided not to for whatever reason. That was about a month before our initial coffee date. So, in effect, my husband had borrowed and kept those things from before the time it took to meet me, date me, become engaged to me and marry me until now. We had a good laugh about it. We put them in the car. I drove the car and he drove the truck on the way to donate the beds. Enter a weird driving person who kept putting on the brakes at weird times. Just as I was about to get into a turning lane, homegirl suddenly stops in front of me for whatever reason, so I slam on the brakes. Of course the dishes (on the back seat) fly off. And one of them shatters on the floorboard. That was the third thing broken.
Back at home. Finally. My husband is digging around for some boxes and/or bins to put his to-be-donated kitchen items into. In the process, he drops a box of these little stone coasters with our initial on it. I was planning to take those back to Bed Bath and Beyond because people got us like a million of them. My husband apologetically emerges with pieces of one of the coasters...except...it's not his fault. I actually broke that coaster a while ago when I was digging around in our little closet. But I put it back in the box with the others and figured we'd take care of it later. And that was the fourth thing (still) broken.
Today, sore from our moving expedition, I thought about our reactions to things breaking and how it related to our marriage. I was nearly crushed after the first broken thing. It was a really nice dish someone had given us for our wedding. And it was sort of my husband's "fault" since he was moving stuff around when it fell. I got upset. But what about the things that I broke? Even something that didn't belong to us? Even something that I broke a while ago and never said anything about? He was calm. Forgiving.
I realized that I could definitely stand to be a little calmer and a little more readily forgiving when things don't go the way I think they should.
And we took back the broken elegant white dish and got a brand new one. I felt so badly for my unnecessary drama when the first one was broken. I apologized over and over. My husband smoothed down my hair, smiled, and assured me that it was okay.
Thursday, July 23, 2015
Things I Did While My Husband Was Out of Town
1. Went to Target with all the Target gift cards we received. I bought a little rolling cooler for the beach (in two weeks) and a sunflower-colored beach bag. I can only find cute clothes/shoes when I don't have any money or gift cards to spend.
2. Ate leftover chicken poppyseed casserole and watched Buzzfeed videos.
3. Worked all night on a bibliography that I should have finished a while ago because I needed to finish it, I wasn't tired, and I needed to keep my mind occupied.
4. Ate a middle-of-the-night piece of banana bread.
5. Got in on his side of the bed not just because it's closer to the lamp. Smelled his bottle of cologne and his stick of deodorant and looked at a little baby picture of himself he got from his mom's house when we went to visit over Christmas.
5. Tried to go to sleep, but, being unable to, read a couple of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie short stories.
6. Finished a short story that ended pretty depressingly, felt sad, felt cold, didn't feel like moving to turn up the temperature, cried into his pillow and still couldn't sleep.
7. Tried a breathing exercise I'd read about in one of those stupid "listicles" to help me fall asleep. It didn't work.
8. Started thinking about babies again and how my father half-jokingly said we were "postponing" having one. Mom I can understand, but not you, Dad. Not you.
9. Woke up from a strange dream-filled sleep at 8 am.
10. Thought I'd lay back down just for a few more minutes and didn't wake up again until 10:45. There's a morning wasted.
2. Ate leftover chicken poppyseed casserole and watched Buzzfeed videos.
3. Worked all night on a bibliography that I should have finished a while ago because I needed to finish it, I wasn't tired, and I needed to keep my mind occupied.
4. Ate a middle-of-the-night piece of banana bread.
5. Got in on his side of the bed not just because it's closer to the lamp. Smelled his bottle of cologne and his stick of deodorant and looked at a little baby picture of himself he got from his mom's house when we went to visit over Christmas.
5. Tried to go to sleep, but, being unable to, read a couple of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie short stories.
6. Finished a short story that ended pretty depressingly, felt sad, felt cold, didn't feel like moving to turn up the temperature, cried into his pillow and still couldn't sleep.
7. Tried a breathing exercise I'd read about in one of those stupid "listicles" to help me fall asleep. It didn't work.
8. Started thinking about babies again and how my father half-jokingly said we were "postponing" having one. Mom I can understand, but not you, Dad. Not you.
9. Woke up from a strange dream-filled sleep at 8 am.
10. Thought I'd lay back down just for a few more minutes and didn't wake up again until 10:45. There's a morning wasted.
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