Sounds like an essay title, doesn't it? I bet you can tell what I've been spending a lot of my time doing. Much as I bitch and moan about having to grind out a new essay every single week, to be posted online for all in the class to read and critique (so it better not suck), I have been getting a lot out of the class. Even my everyday thoughts are going in new directions. We've spent a month analyzing the semiotics of popular culture (in other words, the underlying meanings beneath things), so I find myself thinking about these things during my everyday life.
Consider snow shoveling. On the surface, it's usually thought of as just a (somewhat annoying, time-consuming) chore that it would be nice not to have to do or have to pay someone else to do. (Here's where my thoughts on consumption come in.) I hate paying someone else to do it. I remember when I first moved here, someone with a shovel rang our doorbell and offered to shovel the driveway. I said, "Sure," thinking he was a staff member of the town house association and it was included in our fee. When he finished and asked for money, I was kind of annoyed at myself for assuming. If I had known I would have to pay, I would have just said no thanks.
Every winter since, enterprising people, mostly young men, have tromped up our steps (packing down the snow with their boots, making it harder for me to shovel it later) to ring the doorbell and ask if we wanted shoveling. I got tired of either saying no or pretending I wasn't home.
Clearly, it was time to make a sign so they wouldn't bother us. It would be great if the sign would also discourage aggressive sales people and religious proselytizers (who annoy me even more). I fantasized about saying something like, "No selling. No snow shoveling. No evangelizing. Don't even ask. It's a standing 'no' and will always be a 'no.'" But that just seemed a tad too unwelcoming sounding to post on our front door, so I settled for a polite, "Please No Soliciting."
Unfortunately, the doorbell just keeps on ringing. Now I just find it annoying that either 1) people don't bother to look and read it, or 2) they don't know the meaning of the word "soliciting." I have been known to (politely) come down to answer the door, call their attention to the sign and explain that we don't want to be bothered, even though I may be seething with annoyance inside.
Before I got so busy, I used to have tons of time in the middle of the day to preemptively get the shoveling done before the entrepreneurs started their rounds. I actually like doing it; 1) it's functional fitness in action and 2) I can get a workout and avoid paying money at the same time--what's not to love?
Our next-door neighbor, Tom, is sometimes home in the middle of the day. (He's maybe in his mid-thirties with a high-powered wife and two little kids.) I think he feels rather strongly that shoveling is men's work, and he thinks it's odd that I'm the one doing it (and not Paul). On those few occasions that we're shoveling at the same time, he'll say something like,"What are you, Wonder Woman or something? I never see him doing it." I always explain that I consider it to be part of my fitness regimen and I'm happy to do it because I'm the one who has the time, but he'll say something like that every time without fail, as if we never had the conversation.
I think my conscientiousness brings out his competitive instincts. If I do it by mid-afternoon, his is done by 5 pm. If I don't have time for a day or two, oddly enough, he'll be content to let it wait at least 24 hours. It snowed on Thursday last week and I didn't have time to deal with it until Saturday afternoon. Tom had done his by Friday morning. We decided to let him revel in his victory. Paul and I find this dynamic endlessly amusing. As Paul said, "Well, now I can't ever do it because then we would be playing appropriate gender roles." We both agree that wouldn't be any fun.
About Me
- Karinderella
- I'm a pianist, happily married. Socially progressive, chocolate lover, interested in the nature of reality, alternates between being a slacker and being a grind.
2.17.2008
What a Card
We celebrated Valentine's Day in our customary way. I made heart-shaped cookies with strawberry-rhubarb jam in the middle, as I have for all of our Valentine's Days since we've been together. No mere homework was going to prevent me from finding the time! (A couple of snow days last Monday and Tuesday, a gift from the universe, sure helped make it easier.)
Paul made a Wednesday trip to the West Side Market for fresh flowers and salmon. On Thursday evening, Valentine's Day, I came home to find him cooking Andrew Weill's recipe for easy poached salmon, the first thing he ever cooked for me almost six years ago. We dined on my heirloom china by candlelight, listening to the same Sinatra CD that was our soundtrack on our first Valentine's Day five years ago, when he proposed. We then watched a movie on DVD (cleverly combining my required movie viewing for this week's essay with the pleasure of watching a romantic comedy with my sweetie) and then went to bed early. Predictable? Perhaps, but we wouldn't have it any other way.
We don't do gifts on demand (Christmas, birthdays, Valentine's Day, etc.). Why not just opt out of that tangled web of obligation, pressure, and analysis of what-is-this-person-trying-to-say-by-
choosing-to-give-me-this-particular-object? I always tell Paul that he's got a lifetime A+ from me :-) No need to continually pass more tests and jump through hoops just so that I might deign to "renew his license" in the In Karin's Good Graces Club.
He did surprise me that evening with a really sweet card that had a great story. The story just makes it. Let me set the scene for you. It's Wednesday night, February 13, in the holiday/seasonal aisle at the Rite-Aid Drug Store. The red and pink bags and heart-shaped boxes of candy appear as though a natural disaster has just passed through, followed by looters and scavengers bent on survival.
The shelf of Valentine's Day cards is in a similar state. Now we know the card selection at the drugstore is never the greatest to begin with, but the pickings are mighty slim by Valentine's Eve. If you limit yourself to cards meant to be given to a female significant other, your options are truly pathetic.
In one corner, you have the "humorous" cards. This can communicate such tender sentiments as "You're a saint for putting up with my habit of [leaving dirty socks on the floor/laying around on the couch, belching Dorito breath, bellowing like a walrus at the game/insert other clueless, boorish, "male Neanderthal stereotype" behavior here] and once a year I'll tell you how much I love you because Hallmark expects me to." Be still my heart.*
Alternatively, there are the ones with pages of purple poetry in Italic Script. At least the guy is trying, but it's not like he would ever say such things if they weren't pre-printed. It's more about what he thinks she wants to hear.
Paul, realizing this wasn't looking promising, expanded his field of card candidates to the ones in the "To My Husband" category. (This explained why the back story was necessary.) He was just looking for one that was sincere and direct. I guess the card industry thinks that only a woman would want to give a card that simply says "I Love You" without a joke to diffuse the awkwardness. The inside of the card says, "Saying it a million times still wouldn't be enough. Happy Valentine's Day to My Wonderful Husband Karin! We laughed a lot when he told the story. It's really sweet and I'm a lucky woman. :-)
*What is it with American wives' seeming obsession with their men leaving dirty socks on the floor? Even Michelle Obama mentions it as one of Barack's annoying habits. Articles like this really bug me too. Are most married people in America really relating to their spouses at this level?
Paul made a Wednesday trip to the West Side Market for fresh flowers and salmon. On Thursday evening, Valentine's Day, I came home to find him cooking Andrew Weill's recipe for easy poached salmon, the first thing he ever cooked for me almost six years ago. We dined on my heirloom china by candlelight, listening to the same Sinatra CD that was our soundtrack on our first Valentine's Day five years ago, when he proposed. We then watched a movie on DVD (cleverly combining my required movie viewing for this week's essay with the pleasure of watching a romantic comedy with my sweetie) and then went to bed early. Predictable? Perhaps, but we wouldn't have it any other way.
We don't do gifts on demand (Christmas, birthdays, Valentine's Day, etc.). Why not just opt out of that tangled web of obligation, pressure, and analysis of what-is-this-person-trying-to-say-by-
choosing-to-give-me-this-particular-object? I always tell Paul that he's got a lifetime A+ from me :-) No need to continually pass more tests and jump through hoops just so that I might deign to "renew his license" in the In Karin's Good Graces Club.
He did surprise me that evening with a really sweet card that had a great story. The story just makes it. Let me set the scene for you. It's Wednesday night, February 13, in the holiday/seasonal aisle at the Rite-Aid Drug Store. The red and pink bags and heart-shaped boxes of candy appear as though a natural disaster has just passed through, followed by looters and scavengers bent on survival.
The shelf of Valentine's Day cards is in a similar state. Now we know the card selection at the drugstore is never the greatest to begin with, but the pickings are mighty slim by Valentine's Eve. If you limit yourself to cards meant to be given to a female significant other, your options are truly pathetic.
In one corner, you have the "humorous" cards. This can communicate such tender sentiments as "You're a saint for putting up with my habit of [leaving dirty socks on the floor/laying around on the couch, belching Dorito breath, bellowing like a walrus at the game/insert other clueless, boorish, "male Neanderthal stereotype" behavior here] and once a year I'll tell you how much I love you because Hallmark expects me to." Be still my heart.*
Alternatively, there are the ones with pages of purple poetry in Italic Script. At least the guy is trying, but it's not like he would ever say such things if they weren't pre-printed. It's more about what he thinks she wants to hear.
Paul, realizing this wasn't looking promising, expanded his field of card candidates to the ones in the "To My Husband" category. (This explained why the back story was necessary.) He was just looking for one that was sincere and direct. I guess the card industry thinks that only a woman would want to give a card that simply says "I Love You" without a joke to diffuse the awkwardness. The inside of the card says, "Saying it a million times still wouldn't be enough. Happy Valentine's Day to My Wonderful
*What is it with American wives' seeming obsession with their men leaving dirty socks on the floor? Even Michelle Obama mentions it as one of Barack's annoying habits. Articles like this really bug me too. Are most married people in America really relating to their spouses at this level?
2.11.2008
Too Much of a Perfectionist?
I've just had a hellishly busy week. Since last Monday morning, I have put in the following homework and study time:
28.5 hours spent on schoolwork alone, not counting 3 hours commuting time and 4 hours class time for attending my accounting class. Holy crap. Put it all together, and that's more time than I spent on my paid work.
I like getting A's. (Not surprisingly, I'm getting A's so far in both classes.) I did have time to have somewhat of a life for 3 of the last 7 nights, although it was a challenge which involved staying up until at least 1 :30 am much of the time. At the rate I'm going, it will probably take me at least 3 1/2 more years, including summers, to finish the degree. Is this kind of a life worth it for such a long time?
Yesterday at church, my friend Joy said I was too much of a perfectionist. She had learned for herself, after hard experience, that it was better to just pass the classes so you could have a life. No prospective employer, she says, will care what your grades were. B's are good enough. But I haven't reached the point of being willing to settle just yet. I'm not trying to juggle this with motherhood, as she did. (I can't imagine motherhood being any easier than my life right now.) This is hard but not impossible. Paul is really supportive, even though it means we have less time together in the short term.
- 4 hours studying for accounting exam
- 8 hours over 3 days on accounting homework (having to do it in Excel, as opposed to pencil and paper, takes considerably longer)
- 3.5 hours watching 2 out of the 3 movies I need to use as sources for this week's English essay
- 2 hours reading and studying the reference essays for last week's essay
- 2 hours mulling over last week's essay assignment, figuring out what to say, and looking up more citation sources online
- 5 hours writing last week's essay
- 1.5 hours reading everyone else's essays and essay responses on the online message board
- 2.5 hours composing my own (required) essay responses
28.5 hours spent on schoolwork alone, not counting 3 hours commuting time and 4 hours class time for attending my accounting class. Holy crap. Put it all together, and that's more time than I spent on my paid work.
I like getting A's. (Not surprisingly, I'm getting A's so far in both classes.) I did have time to have somewhat of a life for 3 of the last 7 nights, although it was a challenge which involved staying up until at least 1 :30 am much of the time. At the rate I'm going, it will probably take me at least 3 1/2 more years, including summers, to finish the degree. Is this kind of a life worth it for such a long time?
Yesterday at church, my friend Joy said I was too much of a perfectionist. She had learned for herself, after hard experience, that it was better to just pass the classes so you could have a life. No prospective employer, she says, will care what your grades were. B's are good enough. But I haven't reached the point of being willing to settle just yet. I'm not trying to juggle this with motherhood, as she did. (I can't imagine motherhood being any easier than my life right now.) This is hard but not impossible. Paul is really supportive, even though it means we have less time together in the short term.
2.04.2008
4-Eyes 4-Ever
I think my contact lens-wearing days are over. I opened and put in a new pair 3 weeks ago (January 11). Usually they're really comfortable for the first half of the month, but that day my eyes must have been especially dry or something. Add to that the fact that, when wearing my contacts, reading glasses are no longer optional.
Advantages to Contacts
It's time to embrace my status as a proudly out, visually-challenged person. :-) I'm blind! I'm middle aged! I'm a nerd! Why present a false facade of normality anymore? Besides, I think these glasses are cute.
Advantages to Contacts
- Vanity
- Unencumbered peripheral vision
- No fingerprints, sweat, grime, fogging up
- Dry eyes are uncomfortable
- Dryness results in sometimes blurry vision, even distance vision
- Pain in the butt factor: Cleaning, storage, making sure I always have supplies on me, etc.
- I have to wear reading glasses. In other words, I can't see! Since, oh, I don't know, 90% of what I do involves close focus, why should I stick something in my eye if I'm going to be wearing glasses anyway?
It's time to embrace my status as a proudly out, visually-challenged person. :-) I'm blind! I'm middle aged! I'm a nerd! Why present a false facade of normality anymore? Besides, I think these glasses are cute.
2.02.2008
Looong Day at the Piano
It looks like I'm now on the regular rotation at Stages. They want me every weekend! But two nights there back to back last weekend had the result of an achy back and glazed eyes staring at the computer writing my essay until 1 am both nights. Once in a while, okay, but this is no way to live! So this time, when offered both nights for the next month, I said I'd be delighted to do one night each weekend. So much more sane! I finished this week's essay last night so I don't have to work on it tonight at all.
Good thing, too. Here is my day today:
9:00-11:30 am--my usual two ballet classes at CSD , only an hour earlier than usual
1:45-5:00--back to CSD to play for the audition for the summer program at the School of American Ballet. If last year is any indication, 70 students will show up from all over the region, and it will be fast-paced and required me to be at my most quick-thinking.
I am then scheduled at Stages from 5:00-8:00. Yes, this means I will be late (which I hate). And I won't have time to eat anything save something portable I can inhale behind the wheel of my stick shift while hurtling down Carnegie Avenue (likewise).
Just think, I decided to go back to school because the jobs were thinning out and now look! Well, it does beat not having enough to do.
Good thing, too. Here is my day today:
9:00-11:30 am--my usual two ballet classes at CSD , only an hour earlier than usual
1:45-5:00--back to CSD to play for the audition for the summer program at the School of American Ballet. If last year is any indication, 70 students will show up from all over the region, and it will be fast-paced and required me to be at my most quick-thinking.
I am then scheduled at Stages from 5:00-8:00. Yes, this means I will be late (which I hate). And I won't have time to eat anything save something portable I can inhale behind the wheel of my stick shift while hurtling down Carnegie Avenue (likewise).
Just think, I decided to go back to school because the jobs were thinning out and now look! Well, it does beat not having enough to do.
2.01.2008
Prune Juice for my Writer's Block
It's only the third week of school, and it's already hard. I'm taking Honors English Composition and having to write an essay every week, each one longer and better than the last. Do you know how long it's been since the last time I wrote an essay? About 25 years. 22 years since I've written any sort of term paper whatsoever. For over half my life, my skills, though still decent, have atrophied and slowed down like the heart muscle of a couch potato. Right now, it feels like I'm trying to run a mile when I should be starting with a walk around the block.
I'm just whining, really. I'm doing just fine, getting an A so far. It's just taking me forever to do the writing. A three credit-hour class is supposed to take about six hours of study and homework time per week, and this one is taking me at least twelve. We're writing on the semiotics of popular culture, which I really enjoy. I do have something to say--it just takes me a while to figure out what it is. Then I have to make it articulate, find and correctly cite references to back up my views, and tie the whole thing together coherently.
Three weeks (and three essays) in, I have increased my speed to about 100 words per hour. It's still a mighty effort, and I still feel mentally constipated, but even in casual conversation, my vocabulary seems sharper and I feel a little bit more articulate. Things are starting to "move along." :-)
I'm just whining, really. I'm doing just fine, getting an A so far. It's just taking me forever to do the writing. A three credit-hour class is supposed to take about six hours of study and homework time per week, and this one is taking me at least twelve. We're writing on the semiotics of popular culture, which I really enjoy. I do have something to say--it just takes me a while to figure out what it is. Then I have to make it articulate, find and correctly cite references to back up my views, and tie the whole thing together coherently.
Three weeks (and three essays) in, I have increased my speed to about 100 words per hour. It's still a mighty effort, and I still feel mentally constipated, but even in casual conversation, my vocabulary seems sharper and I feel a little bit more articulate. Things are starting to "move along." :-)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)