At the start of the summer, Melissa and I got our Spring grades in and headed over to London for the 19th annual Great Writing Conference at Imperial College. The conference was fascinating, and we both did very well on our respective panels. We hope to return next year.

Here’s a look at this year’s highlights:

• Dinner with Courtney and Liam, before they headed out of town. I got to finally try bubble and squeak!
• Staying with Chaz and Carmen (and their two year old, Michael). I am exceptionally lucky that Chaz and Carmen are in my life and that they let us crash with them. Not only is there always a pot on for tea, but I love just spending time with them. I was able to introduce them to American-style brownies and a couple of bottles of my favorite California reds.

At the V&A

• The V&A, where we hit the underwear exhibit, the theatre history exhibit, and one on Botticelli, called Botticelli Reimagined, which started with modern day homages and ended with actual Botticellis. I learned that women during the wars were livid when rationing restricted their access to nylons, etc.–rather than feeling liberated, they felt like the government expected them to leave the house looking indecent, that people made corsets for “active wear” (aka horseback riding and tennis), that I’m really glad tondos (round paintings featuring the Madonna and child) aren’t in fashion anymore (cause once you’ve seen one . . .), and that I want someone to explain this painting to me. What are all the demon-like creatures in this painting doing (look at the bottom)? What do they represent?

The Mystical Nativity

• The National Theatre, where we saw two great plays with two great sets. First, The Suicide, a comedy by Suhayla El-Bushra. It’s a satire and reminded me a lot of a play we did in high school–Was He Anyone by N.F. Simpson. Both are about our lack of empathy for others and our ability to make everything in the world about us and our needs. Second, we saw Deep Blue Sea with Helen McCrory–also about suicide and way more depressing, but beautiful.
• The British Library, which had a Shakespeare exhibit, including a clip of a show Denise and I saw in Chicago years ago, Othello: The Remix. I learned that actress playing Desdemona in 1660 was the first woman on the British stage, that there are no tragedies in traditional hindu theatre, and that Vivian Leigh has played basically every Shakespeare female character, having been trained in British theatre.
• The Houses of Parliament, which we toured on the same day a member of Parliament was murdered, although we didn’t know that until later. I learned that the Parliament houses are too small for the members of Parliament now, so you have to get there early if you want a seat, that people say, “I spy a stranger” if they want the people around who aren’t members of Parliament to leave, that Oliver Cromwell shouldn’t be the most prominent statue outside (since I don’t like him), that I will get the Monty Python song “Oliver Cromwell” in my head every time I think of the man, including right now, that there are statues and paintings everywhere inside of Kings, Queens, and Consorts, that they used to have bells in nearby pubs that would ring when it was time to vote, and that they have a weird and wonderful tradition: Black Rod–a person/position–has the door of the House of Commons slammed in his face during sessions, to symbolize the House of Commons’s independence from the throne and the lords. One can see years and years of damage the door, because the Black Rod has to knock–with his rod–to be let back in. Melissa said we should institute a similar tradition, slamming the door to our Congress in the face of religious figures to symbolize that they have no place there (but we’re not for letting them back in).
• My new favorite sign, because it’s both a practical warning and an invitation that some self-assessment may be in order:

• The British Museum’s Sunken Cities: Egypt’s Lost World exhibit. I learned that coastal cities in Egypt had active Greek communities before Alexander conquered them and instituted Ptolemy’s rule. In both periods, religious tolerance was high, and thus, the religions melded into each other a bit. Some Egyptian gods were made to look like Greek heroes in certain places (see Serapis/Osiris below), while the strong female influence changed the Greeks in Egypt. I also learned about Egypt’s dark queen (Cleopatra VII was called that, but there was one before her) and Neith, a sort of cross between Athena and Artemis, but in early Egypt.

Osiris as Serapis

• Falling down in front of a pub due to my stupid body and its stupid clumsiness was not a high point for me, but the drunken guys standing outside the pub loved it.
• We also very much enjoyed a quick drink with my friend Tim and his husband. I met Tim when I was in Oxford for a conference last September. Although the drink was too quick, I was able to reassure Tim and the rest of Londontown that I’d be back for sure next summer. Thanks to a very generous Amy, I’ll be in Oxford for four weeks, leading the Fantasy Summer Abroad class! In other words, I’ll be able to do this for real:

I am not a shoe person. I blame this on two things.

1. I’ve only ever found one pair of comfortable shoes–my FinnThink sandals–I’m currently on my third pair.
2. My white-trash heritage surely plays a role in my anti-shoe fetish. I grew up on dirt roads out the woods, and I didn’t always keep my shoes on outside. The second I stepped inside, the shoes came off–a habit I continue today.

Because I don’t particularly like them, I hate shopping for them (especially since I know that something that feels okay in the store often will kill my feet the first time I try to wear them to classes).

As I hate shopping for them, I don’t give myself the chance to find comfortable shoes that I won’t hate, and thus the cycle continues.

But there’s also the problem of my shoes simply falling apart.

A few years ago, in London, the heel came off the only pair of shoes I’d packed with me. The cobbler I took them to–while wearing flip flops a size too small that Carmen had lent me–he told me that my cheap Target boots weren’t worth fixing. “But they’re my only pair here!” He glued the heel, and wouldn’t even charge me, preferring to shake his head at me instead.

Last summer, in Iceland, another pair of boots lost a heel while on a tour–we were on an amazing beach, with basalt columns that looked like organ pipes. The sound of the waves coming to the shore was marred by the loud flap my loose heel made with every step. Those boots stayed in Iceland.

A couple of weeks ago, I happened to glance at a pair of sandals–Danskos–that I hadn’t worn in a long time. Later, after entering Target, I heard a noise like I’d dropped something. Part of the shoe had come off. As I grabbed bread and my prescriptions, I left a trail of shoe. Here’s what the bottoms looked like when I got home:

NPR yesterday: mumble mumble mumble [I had not yet had my tea] . . . David Bowie has died.

I felt like I’d been punched in the chest.

I won’t claim to be the biggest fan in the world; I’ve never even seen him live.

But he meant something to me.

Labyrinth premiered when I was 13. The combination of medieval scholar/screenwriter/Python Terry Jones, Henson sensibilities, and David Bowie rocked my young world. Is it a coincidence that I was coming into my sense of sexuality (aka puberty) just when David Bowie appeared as a sexy stalker/s&m king/rocker?

Of course not.

That man started everything.

I know the whole point of the movie is that Sarah learns about being strong and independent, but every single time Jareth/Bowie says, “I ask for so little. Just fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave,” I say, “fuck, yeah!” (Coincidence that the Heathen album has a song called “I would be Your Slave”? I think not.)

My step-father took a strange pleasure in telling me that Bowie was gay when he learned of my crush (he was trying to crush my crush). I didn’t know then that Bowie was bi if anything. I just had my step-father’s word on things. Now, I was being raised in the South, being forced to attend Southern Baptist churches.

I know I was supposed to be disgusted. I don’t remember how long I ruminated, whether it was hours or days, but I do remember coming into the living room and announcing that my step-father’s news didn’t change anything. Bowie was famous; I had no chance with him; thus, who he loved didn’t matter in my life or to my crush at all.

I named my last little kitten Jareth.

I dressed as Jareth for Halloween a couple of years ago.

While wearing that Halloween costume, I first met my niece, Artemis. She was screaming at her parents, as one month olds are wont to do. I showed up in my costume and took her in my arms. She fell instantly asleep on my corseted-up breasts. The Goblin King is so good with babies.

My first piece of fan fiction (before I’d ever heard the term) was written when I was 13 or 14. I started writing a sequel to Labyrinth: Between the Stars.

After I discovered Bowie in film, I discovered his music, playing the albums my step-father had, and getting cassettes of my own when new stuff came out. Never Let Me Down (1987) was my first acquisition. “Beat of Your Drum” is one of my favorite love songs. “Time Will Crawl” is an apocalyptic masterpiece, and I sometimes listen to it when I fear my migraine will last “three long years.” “Glass Spider” is epic, despite its terrible intro. When Bowie was bad, he still managed to be awesome.

Like everything I love, Bowie intersects with my work. Years ago, I wrote a movie column: 13 Facts About Labyrinth. When I teach poetry, I always start with a couple of songs, to both demystify poetry and to encourage students to pay attention to words. “China Girl” is a staple of the lesson.

My work on Hanif Kureishi (I wrote the encyclopedia entry on him for World Writers In English) includes Bowie; Kureishi went to the same high school as Bowie and models a character on him in The Buddha of Suburbia. Bowie did the soundtrack for the film version.

When I teach Sandman, there’s Bowie–Gaiman had his artists model Lucifer on him. Gaiman also wrote a piece of fan fiction about Bowie.

In Y: The Last Man (another graphic novel series I teach and do work on), almost every man in the world dies in the same instant. One woman mourns when she realizes that all the male rockstars are dead. Grief is especially painful when Bowie’s death hits.

We’ll miss you so much. We are honored to have shared this time with you. Thank you for everything.

I used to have a note on OKC saying that I would answer messages other than “hi” etc. Faithful readers know that this causes problems.
Thus, I now have a note on my profile explaining that I used to answer all messages, but that I have to be more discriminating due to the rudeness some guys exhibit. I apologized to awesome guys for letting the un-awesome guys wear me down, but still invited awesome guys without dealbreakers to message.

This morning, this was in my inbox:
“After re-reading you message me if, I just want to say. You kinda get what you put out there in the universe. With that said I think you may be getting what you deserve. not to be rude but we reap what we sow.”

As I’ve thought about my year, the theme is inescapable. It’s been a year of loss.

I lost the best relationship I’ve had in my life to date, leading me to the disastrous adventures I’ve chronicled here. (It should be noted, of course, that I’ve only written about guys who would never get either a first date or a second. I haven’t yet written about the seven guys who have managed to have two or more dates and the misery that accompanied some of them.) Suffice it to say that I miss being in a relationship, I miss intimacy, I miss being held. It just doesn’t seem right that only cats and toddlers touch me.

I lost my Jareth over the summer, and it still hurts. I find it surprisingly sad that I can just hang the toilet paper up on the roll and that it remains unmolested, that no one is picking out an ornament about four or five feet high on the tree and deciding to go at it with a good flying leap so that it might be destroyed, that no one enforces a ban on tacks being on the walls by prying them out with tiny teeth. I shouldn’t have to sleep not only without a man but also without my little girl, who would come make a nest out of my hair to curl up in while she nibbled my head or neck until she fell asleep. It’s all these months later, and when one of the other cats comes into my room in the middle of the night, my sleepy mind thinks it’s her, and then I have to remember that it isn’t. It happened this morning again.

Jareth snuggling with Alexander

I lost one of the closest relationships in my life. As many of you know, a year and a half ago, I took in my aunt when she became disabled and could not obtain care in the Obamacare-refusing South. We all expected it to be challenging, especially since I couldn’t afford to move us to a bigger place. What none of us expected was the emotional stress it caused–I was suddenly living with emotional circumstances too much like my dysfunctional childhood. I had flashbacks and nightly nightmares. My blood pressure shot up, and my own health got worse. I tried counseling, but it takes two, and one of us resisted. I got diagnosed with PTSD, and the situation became untenable. My aunt now lives with a roommate here in Davis and is holding a lot of anger and pain, for which I don’t blame her. But she denied it when I try to talk about it; the idea of counseling has been unilaterally banned. Now, she’s decided I’m “evil”–that I do things intentionally to hurt her. It’s a defense mechanism, I know. But I’m in great mourning. For 40 years, she was my second mother, my closest ally, my best friend. Naturally, this schism has rippled through the family, and my relationships with other family members are suffering. Neither my aunt nor I have ever meant to hurt each other, but we have done so, greatly. But at least she has access to healthcare now.

My grandfather is losing the ability to hold conversations, and so it’s difficult–practically and emotionally–to talk to him. He’s also getting ready to shuffle off his mortal coil. Earlier this year, he wrapped up our conversation by telling me he loved me just as I am. He’s always told me he loved me, but addendum was new. I am, and have been for decades now, a great disappointment, since I’m liberal and I live in California and I teach at a University, etc. Daddy’s a man of few words, and those few made me sob.

These are the things I dwell on when I can’t sleep, that wake me up at night, and that greet my consciousness in the mornings.

However, there have also been some wonderful things this year.

Anubis tried to die (a few times), and while my savings are completely depleted from keeping him from doing so, he is running around like a kitten again.

In some ways, I’ve gotten my son back. When my aunt was living here, I basically never saw him–he stayed in his room all the time. Now, he’s back in our living room/office again.

I only went to the ER once; I haven’t thrown up since July. My team is still working on all the problems–not making much headway at the moment, but I can do what I need to do on most days.

I got to meet my new niece, Lucy, to spend time with my nephew, Jack, and to watch nephew Liam and niece Artemis grow when they come over every week. Plus, all of these children got me great Christmas presents. 🙂

A free Southwest flight got me a visit with Tiffany, Denise, and Vanessa. My work trips took me to Portland, Vancouver, New Orleans, London, Oxford, Fort Wayne, and Iceland! Next year, I’ll be in San Diego, Seattle, and London–probably more places too.

Iceland

(I still need to blog about Iceland.)

I got to go to the following shows: The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain; Sarah Vowell; Paula Poundstone; Julian Sands; Tim Meadows; Mnozil Brass; King Lear; A Doll’s House; Weird Al; Hamlet; Warp 11; Margaret Cho; Mr. Burns: A Post-Electric Play (by Anne Washburn); Ira Glass: Three Acts, Two Dancers, One Radio Host; Big Wow! ComicFest; Dan Savage; Sac Con (where I did a Simpsons Trivia Panel); Eddie Izzard; Sacramento French Film Festival; Man and Superman; Anna Devere Smith: Notes From the Field: Doing Time in Education; The Book of Mormon; Much Ado About Nothing; Kathleen Madigan; Coriolanous; Pink Martini; Vince Gilligan; The Reduced Shakespeare Christmas Pageant; Disgraced. I also got to spend some time with Temple Grandin.

I got to be on NPR and on The Huffington Post. I gave a sermon on The Simpsons at the UU Church, and I was part of two talks at CapStage. I gave quite a few special talks at UCD and did stand-up comedy with my students.

My classes (all sixteen of them) went well, and I got a few people into med school, law school, etc. Two of my students got into Prized Writing. The Upper Division Comp Exam has started running smoother, now that I know what I’m doing and now that I’ve revised the rubric for clarity.

I won the AF Excellence in Teaching Award and a Professional Development Grant (didn’t get my raise, but that’s under appeal). My collection on Atwood came out. My article on Sherlock came out. An autobiographical piece will be published soon, and I’ve just had a scholarly article accepted for the premiere issue of a Sci-Fi journal. I got an edition of the Atwood journal out and launched the online platform for it. Melissa Bender and I will submit our book collection to McFarland in a month, and I’ll turn in my essay on The X Files in two weeks. Denise and I are moving forward on a new Simpsons collection.

And then there are my friends. My house is full a couple of times a week. There have been good meals, good tv, good wine, good cocktails, good happy hours, good trips.

My friends, I am so thankful for you, and I look forward to our next year together.

Hi, all! I had a terrible backache on Thanksgiving night, so I opened one of my best bottles of wine and decided to update the look of the blog in lieu of doing real work (it was a holiday, after all).
I probably wouldn’t have bothered, except I was starting to get the idea that more people were reading this than I realized (I was just sort of assuming it was my friends and family (hi, Emily!) and some former students who have admitted to stalking following me. 😉
Having heard some rumors, I installed a visitor counter a week and half ago. I have to admit I was surprised to find a couple hundred of you were here every day. (Especially since you almost never leave comments!)
And then one of my blogs ended up on this dating site.
Here’s the skinny:
I’m gonna keep writing about the personal stuff that only those close to me should care about, the dating stuff that everyone can enjoy (especially those who have never had to resort to online dating–I think reading about it is probably good for your long term relationship, since you’ll be more thankful), etc.
And I’m going to forget that lots of people see it (which is surprising easy, since I don’t quite believe it yet); I would hate to actually censor myself in a terrified state of what I’m putting out there to the world.
Thanks for reading; comment more!
Love, me.

Usually, when my allergy shot nurse opens my folder, I see a picture she took of me years ago in the very front, before pages and pages of records. Today, I saw myself–but it was a different picture–the picture UCD used in celebrating my teaching award here.

This was both flattering and ironic. A few weeks ago, one of my colleagues mentioned that she wasn’t surprised by my teaching award because she heard so many good things about me. It seems she had been to the UCD medical center. When she mentioned where she worked, people asked if she knew me and apparently said nice things about me. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it had nothing to do with my teaching–it’s just that I’m at the medical center an inordinate amount (I’ve had four visits for treatments/tests just this week) and that I’m a lovely patient.

Now, though, they may be able to mention my teaching. 🙂

***

This week started out rocky–I had a flare up of my stomach problems again. I threw up on Sunday and then found myself nauseated for several days after, including the day I got the teaching award. Luckily, I managed not to get sick all over the Chancellor and the Provost.

The ceremony was actually really nice. Several people were being honored, both in the Senate and the Federation. Margie Fergusen, who was my prof in grad school, and who is the current President of the MLA, won an award for teaching graduate students. She mentioned having so many gainfully employed students, which gave me the perfect opening to start my talk. I thanked those who taught me, my students, my friends and family, my union, the Federation, my department, etc. I did an ad for my department, got a couple of little giggles with asides, and told them about my current stand-up class.

Then I told them what I tell my students on our last day of class:

“You’re job, while you’re here, is to think. No matter how stressed out you are, remember how lucky you are. Most people in the world will never get the chance to be where we are.

“Most people would give anything to be where we are.

“I love this all so much that I just moved from where you are to the other side of the desk. Let’s think about what I do for a living.

“I think about stuff. I come into class and tell you what I think. I make you write papers about what you think. Then I tell you what I think about that.

“That’s amazing. I’m incredibly lucky. We all are.”

***

In other news this week, I got to have short Twitter exchanges with two of my heroes: Dan Savage and Harry Shearer. Dan Savage was interviewed by another one of my former profs, Beth Freeman, at the Mondavi Center. (I do have to say, though, that I’m disappointed that he got downgraded to an interview due to a protest.)

HuffPo contacted Denise and I about recording a question for Harry Shearer. Du didn’t have time to do it, but after about 40 minutes of technical difficulties, I got a question out and recorded for the ages. I assumed that lots of people had been invited–that I would be part of a big Q&A. Instead, Harry was interviewed and my question was the only “fan” one. His answer was insightful, and I’m shallow enough to have let out a little squeal when he called me “Dr. Karma.”

You can see me not knowing where to look and positioned awkwardly in my office at minute 24 in this video.

***

This weekend, I’m going to try to catch up on work, to have some wine, and to celebrate over two decades of motherhood with my special little guy.

It’s been a pretty good week.

There’s absolutely no reason to read this unless we’re close.

As I write this, I’m lying on my couch after another night of vomiting.

As many of you know, I’ve had many episodes like this over the last several months. We’re ruled out food poisoning, an infection, etc. We’ve ultrasounded where my gall-bladder used to be to see if a stone got left behind. We’ve done a test to see if I have a blockage in my system. No and no.

The vomiting is happening in a certain context, however. I have bile in my stomach now that the gall-bladder is gone. Due to a hernia at the top of my stomach that prevents the stomach from ever closing all the way, bile and acid frequently reflux. My esophagus spasms (it’s weird until I remember that all of my muscles are prone to spasming). Ever since my gall-bladder surgery two years ago, I’ve woken up with digestive issues. (This is normal for a little while, but not for two years.) I have to take at least half an immodium a day to go to work.

This is all gross, which is why most of you don’t know about it.

My gastro-interologist has narrowed things down a bit. So here are the current theories–something called abdominal migraine (of course I would get that). Vomiting due to the bile reflux (though it should be more frequent in that case) or from a worn system from the stress it’s under (again, it should be happening more).

The gastro-doc is leaning toward the first problem; however, that’s something for my neurologist to deal with, and she’s incommunicado cause she’s on maternity leave.

We’re also going to take a picture of my brain. Just cause.

I’m gonna build up a little more strength this morning and then demand some attention from neurology.