The Further Adventures of Deluzy

I am not happy Sam I Am

Apparently it's 81 degrees today where I live.  And I'm freezing fucking cold.

I hate hormones.  I hate impending TOM.  I hate feeling emotionally and physically out of whack.

And I hate my complaining.

On that cheery note, I'm going to head to campus shortly to hold office hours.  But on my way I'm stopping for a SF vanilla latte to warm myself up, and I'm going to get a bowl of soup from the cafe across the street.

Brrr.

End of the world

Okay, it's not -- for me -- but for, say, 12,000+ folks (and counting ) in China, thanks to yesterday's earthquake, and for tens of thousands of people (and counting) in Myanmar, thanks to the recent cyclone, it sure as hell is.

And if life isn't over for hundreds of people across the American midwest, thanks to tornadoes, and several hundred in Florida and California, thanks to wildfires, it nevertheless sucks for them right now, too.

So my complaints today are entirely ridiculous and whiny. I'm even annoying myself with them:

• TOM is in the offing, I'm bloated, and once again I spent about 40 minutes this morning trying to find something in my closet that wouldn't make me feel as if I weigh 280 pounds again.

And while I am genuinely bloated (thanks to impending TOM and no doubt the greasy pub food and Guinness I had with a friend last night), I must note that this is also genuine body dysmorphia at work once again.  I literally cannot look in the mirror when I feel this way because I truly see me at 280, not me at 163.8 (today's weight). How fucked up is that?

• I have a lot of grading to do between now and May 25 when I take off on my long-awaited trip to Alaska.  (I know --- poor me, I have to work before I head off on a vacation.  Boo hoo.  See? This is really annoying, self-indulgent bullshit that I'm complaining about.)

• I'm not even wanting to set eyes on my colleagues right now -- let alone deal with them -- because this has been one rough year in terms of relationships among the faculty, and I have no patience for anyone anymore. But I still have a few more meetings and conference calls to get through with them.

• My husband is tootling around upstairs with hammer and nails making a racket right above my study, and given how stressed and out of sorts I'm feeling right now, it makes me that much more jumpy and irritable.  (However, I've plugged into headphones and am streaming music over my computer, so maybe that will help.)

Really, I want to snap someone's head off, and anyone will do. 

Deep breath.

I think I'd better make sure I take my happy pill today, get in those supplements, have a little protein, move forward, and just get over myself -- that's what I think.

Happy Mothers Day

I'm not a parent but even I got wished a Happy Mothers Day today as I ran errands.  Pretty funny.  I think it's become sort of like "Happy Holidays!" or something.  Store clerks figure I'm of an age to have children and that they might as well play it safe and wish me a happy one.

During the most miserable, difficult, isolated period of my life during my early to mid-30s, this well-intended greeting would send me into wild grief, specifically for  my lack of children and a family of my own. 

Mercifully, those days are over, as is the sorrow. I might have made a good mother if 1) the circumstances of my life then had been different (e.g., if I'd been married and able to have children, for starters!), and 2) I were the person then that I am now.

However, that's not the way my life went, and that turns out to be okay.  Would I choose to have children now? No, frankly.  I'm too old, too unwilling to sacrifice in the way that one needs to in order to be a good parent, too unwilling to do a half-assed job.  That's okay, too. There are enough half-assed parents in the world.

But I must say that some of my friends who have kids -- even those who had terrifically difficult lives growing up themselves -- have produced some stellar children.  Genuinely likable, thoughtful, interesting people from the get-go, ones who will clearly make the world a better place for having been in it.

Now, those are the folks who should have kids!

Playing dress-up

With  my blog, that is. It's an excellent time-waster at the end of the semester -- very effective.

I was thoroughly satisfied with the previous look of my blog, which was more or less my own design and color scheme, but I felt that I wanted a change -- something clean, streamlined, and neutral for the upcoming warm weather (er, as if one wears one's blog -- not).

Obviously this is purely for my own amusement so there's no need to comment. I expect to rotate through quite a few prefab templates in the next few weeks, just to try things out. I'm an aficionado of red, but I'm actually trying to branch out into other, paler palettes at the moment. Something a tad more Zen-like (and yes, I'm aware that Typepad actually has a template called "Zen" in a range of shades).

This may be my blog equivalent of trying on the clothes in my closet and vowing to move beyond black, now that I've lost weight.

(Yup, this is a time-waster all right!)

Happy birthday, Fred Astaire

What can I say?  He was my first and longest crush -- and my point of entry into classical Hollywood cinema.

I wrote him endless letters as a child and teenager (by today's standards, I'd have been a considered a stalker and the FBI would have a file on me -- or maybe it does!).

I was harmless, though. And many years later when I was a Ph.D. student in Los Angeles, I left a bouquet of flowers on his doorstep on his birthday with a brief thank-you note printed on university stationery.  I rang the bell and then ran --  Ding Dong Ditch -- but I  heard the sounds of a convivial  gathering  floating from around back of the large house, and  I didn't want to intrude or bother anyone, least of all an old man.  I just wanted him to know that his own work had led me to mine. I'm glad I did. He died the next month on June 22.

A piece of personal trivia: he named his dog after me.  Yup, a true story and not the ravings of a delusional fan :)

And speaking of narcissists

as I did the other day, there's a Serious Piece of Work at work who takes the problem way beyond dysfunction (after all, most of us have our narcissistic moments) and into full-fledged craziness (or, as my therapist last week said, to what he'd guess is the zone of the  "high-functioning borderline personality"). 

I prefer the term crazy, myself.

Blogging in any detail about one's work, work place, and those one encounters there can be A Very Risky Thing to Do, so at the risk of sounding coy, I won't do that here. 

Suffice to say, however, that this person's actions just may -- may, mind you -- have finally landed her in hot water after a couple of decades on the job. 

I certainly hope so.  The wholesale emotional and professional damage that this woman has wreaked on colleagues, students, and others in her orbit is staggering, and most of the time it's so unpleasant to stand up to her that no one does.  Even, technically, those in positions of power over her.

So we shall see what next week brings in the way of outcomes. Realistically speaking, there's probably no profound sea-change at work here -- but on the other hand, there might be. And that's a reason for hope.

Full to the gills

Go figure the food thing.  I can't.  I'm coming up on my period, and as is typical since WLS, my appetite shrinks drastically in these few days before it hits.

Only as I've said, I'd swear it's not just my appetite but my actual stomach that shrinks: I get that backed-up-in-the-throat, full-to-the-neck feeling that I used to have in the first 6-8 months after my DS when I got full very easily.

Today it happened after my husband and I had gone out for a late Mexican breakfast. I had a small cup of tortilla soup for starters (I ate around the tortillas and took the broth, vegetables, a little melted cheese, and the stewed chicken) and then chile verde. I ate only the stewed pork (which was tender and delicious) and left the rice and beans.  Protein only, in other words.

An hour later, as I was strolling around a local arts and wine fair that's held annually, sipping a bottle of water to stay hydrated, and thinking about walking home, I realized I had that gaggy feeling at the back of my throat. 

WTF?  I was full, certainly, but I hadn't overeaten, eaten too quickly, or not chewed my food thoroughly. 

However, just topping it all off with about half a bottle of water less than an hour later put me over the top.  I made my way home (about a 30-minute trip), walked in the door, and headed directly for the bathroom.  The water came back up immediately, rather as if I were a human fountain, but the meal stayed down. (Fortunately. I wanted to hang on to that protein, thankyouverymuch!)

At other times of the month I can be a bottomless pit and put away large quantities of food, though not as much as I used to.  But right now?  Well, let's just say that I'm sipping a protein shake so as to make sure I hit my protein minimum for the day because it's not going to happen through food alone.

New Zealand-bound

Where will I be this Thanksgiving Day?

Um, New Zealand? Yes, that's right.  For a conference.

I was notified today that my proposal (which is related to the grant I got, the research assistant I have working for me this summer, the book I'm writing, and the graduate seminar I'm teaching in the fall) was accepted.

Yes, this is good news in my itty-bitty corner of my professional universe. Things are gelling and coming together.

Practically speaking, however, it's kind of a frightmare:

• I'll probably get some travel money but not a lot (especially not with California's budget cuts)
• I'll have to make up the difference in costs myself, and gee, it's not as if I make an exotic salary (allow me to snort at the mere idea)
• It's one damn long trip between the west coast of the United States and New Zealand, so a surgical strike isn't possible, even if it were professionally acceptable in this case (which it's not)
• It occurs at the end of fall semester --  not good timing

Um, plus I'm kind of intimidated by the folks who are going to be there.  I have a lot of reading, research, and writing to do between now and then before I can feel adequate in that company and on my topic, and I already have butterflies in my stomach.

Six months from now -- I guess I can do it.

The conference is being held at a university where I think there are some papers that I  need to look at, so that's one good thing (and part of the reason I applied to the conference).  After all, if any of my research means that I have to go to New Zealand to look at documents, this would be the time to do that, obviously.

Ack. Honestly, I feel very nervous. Time to pull a Scarlett O'Hara and think about it all tomorrow.

Blog smack

Today is one of those days when I'm convinced that the very act of blogging is just incredibly narcissistic. (I realize that doesn't say anything good about me -- the irony is not lost on me, thanks.) And the more specifically narcissistic a particular blogger is, the more blind and self-deluded he or she is. Despite protestations to the contrary.

Maybe I'll take a vow of silence or go back to conventional journal-keeping.

The thing is, I feel guilty for reading blogs by folks I don't care for because I feel as if I should  Be a Nicer Person. I feel as if it's somehow hypocritical for me to be reading the blogs of anyone I don't like. (And if you're reading this, and you know I read your blog, and we maintain a relationship of any kind, on or offline, don't freak out because, no, I'm not talking about you!)

Why, then, do I feel guilty? The people in question aren't any with whom I pretend to have any relationship whatsoever. Our paths may have crossed, virtually or actually, as I once read their blogs in the pursuit of further knowledge about WLS generally or the DS specifically, but they aren't friends or even acquaintances in the present. They aren't people with whom I maintain any kind of relationship, on or offline, on the phone or in email. It was  only after reading them for over time that I realized they were Big Scary Trainwrecks and ran in the opposite direction. Except by that point I was hooked on the Trauma-Drama dynamics of their blogs, like an addict on heroin and so, in fact, I kept coming back for more virtual hits of the blog smack.

Well, but it's not nice to gawk at scenes of carnage, even when that carnage is emotional or psychological (maybe especially when it's that kind). God knows my psyche has been spread out over the asphalt at earlier times in my life, and it wasn't pretty. I should be that much more compassionate, less judgmental, and more tolerant as a result of my own experience of such damage, right?

And I'm not.  Why not? Is it really that I'm just kind of an awful bitch?  Is it just that it's petty Schadenfreude that's my problem? 

NOUN:

Pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others.

---

  ETYMOLOGY:
German :  Schaden, damage (from Middle High German schade, from Old High German scado) +  Freude, joy (from Middle High German vreude, from Old High German frewida, from  fr, happy)

When I can tear myself away from my own self-flagellation around this issue, however (and yes, my sense of guilt is quite real), ultimately I figure that no, that's not it. I'm a reasonably empathetic person, and I don't take delight in the misery of others. Not usually.  Not for no reason, anyway (okay, there went my chance at a golden halo).

But I am allergic to Drama Queens (male or female) because when they're the genuine article, they tend to be those schitzy types who construct and perpetuate a sense of victim-hood and heroism around themselves and to alternate between those two poles.  They engage in tactics of revelation and secrecy to heighten the drama, hook the people around them or their readers, and to keep them coming back for more because they themselves are addicted to the attention. They need people in their orbit -- actual or virtual -- to feel enthralled in order to feel as if they exist. And furthermore, they would protest that this is so.

That's it -- that's what I don't like.  The sense of manipulation I feel from such people.

Yes, I know I'm particularly antipathetic to manipulation because I was the daughter of a master-manipulator who spun a web of fascination of a sort, and later in life I was also the close friend of a female friend who did much the same thing. Eventually I got really, really sick of participating in such dramas, even as an observer, however, and now I try hard to steer clear whenever I have the power to do so.

It's not that these kinds of people have no positive qualities. Quite the contrary -- they can be very attractive, dynamic individuals. But they're toxic -- to themselves, certainly, and often to others. And they'll do whatever they can, spin whatever narrative they need to, in order to avoid confronting their own toxicity and narcissism.

While I pretty successfully avoid Drama Queens and manipulators in real life now, I'm still susceptible to them in their virtual, blogging forms. That's evidence that I'm not as free of my own tendency to engage as I'd like to think of myself as being.  Worst of all, in giving these folks attention, one is complicit, a reluctant Drama Queen-by-proxy.

And that's a really disgusting thought, I have to say.

Retail therapy

Ohforfuckssake. I'm so suggestible it's sickening.

One of my grad students walked into my office a couple of months ago with a Sigg water bottle (I think it was this exact one, pictured) and over the next several weeks I fixated on it.

What's the deal with Sigg? Well, according to its website:

Extruded from a single piece of aluminum, our innovative SIGG Lifestyle Water Bottles are surprisingly rugged, crack-resistant and completely reusable and recyclable. A ground-breaking interior lining is 100% effective against leaching and combats residue build-up, so your SIGG Lifestyle Bottle is easy to clean and ensures that all you taste is the water, juice or the energy drink that you just poured into the bottle, even after its been sitting in the sun!

Energy drink????

And read on: it's Swiss! Sort of.  I like Swiss Army knives.  I have a Swiss Army watch that I've worn for 11 years.  The Swiss Alps are pretty. 

And this isn't just a water bottle, you'll note. It's a Lifestyle Water Bottle:

Choose the SIGG style which matches your style. Express your originality and enjoy the functionality and quality of Swiss design with our SIGG Lifestyle Water Bottle collection! Designed to fit your on-the-go lifestyle, our ultra lightweight water bottles are available in a wide array of colors and designs, allowing you to choose the one that best fits your personality.

Er, I've got such "originality" that I've just hopped on some trendy brand-name bandwagon! Moreover, I don't know that anyone could say I have an "on-the-go lifestyle." At least, I hope not. Folks who describe themselves in such a way are kind of smug, self-satisfied, self-congratulatory, and generally awful anyway. The very phrase is sort of sick-making.

However, I decided It Would Change My Life if I owned such a bottle. Perhaps I would become that Original, On-the-Go Chick with her yoga mat under one arm, her Sigg water bottle, and her -- um, okay, well, maybe not.

Can you say retail therapy? Transfer addiction? The stress among colleagues continues at work, the semester is hurtling to a close, and it came down to either this or diving head-first into a flourless chocolate cake. I chose this.

After a failed attempt late this afternoon to find the Sigg water bottle of my dreams at Whole Foods, where my student told me she knew the brand was sold (and so it is -- but the bottles have become so popular here that they had a poor selection), I searched online and ultimately went with a highly rated seller on eBay.

No, I didn't get it for less than retail -- but I did get the one I wanted, the one in the photo. Moreover, I didn't have to drive to hell and gone to find it, ultimately.  With gas at its current price, that more than made up for slight extra I did pay.

I'll probably use it once and lose it. Or just not use it more than 2 or 3 times.

I'm ridiculous. And self-indulgent.  But I'll be hydrated!