Land of Lakes and Volcanoes

I think I figured something out this morning. I'm not saying this applies to me, but I always wondered why people became teachers if they hated kids. I don't think they started that way. I think it's like how guilty I feel when I walk around in front of my dad. If you're a teacher, and you think your life's potential is tapped, and all these pretty young things brimming with possibility are walking around in front of you, it's like they're rubbing it in your face. That seems like it could be bitterness inducing. Good thing I've still got potential oozing from every pore.

Life is not like Sex and the City, or Private Practice, or any other show where people in their late 20's / 30's / 40's are dating for our amusement. It's not fun. It's not glamorous. Relationships do not end with a lesson learned and a glass of wine. Okay, the wine is fairly accurate. The rest of it is crap. We watch those shows because of how inaccurate they are. We'd like to believe that after our latest heartbreak, we will recline in a bubble bath or in front of our computers, marveling at our newfound wisdom and patting ourselves on the back for becoming a more mature person. Let's for a moment apply this entirely artificial paradigm to my life. The basic ingredients are there: single woman in her distressingly late 20s, eligible-ish men, dates, alcohol, occasionally fabulous clothes. Hell, I've even got the klatch of cackling besties to tell me that the latest guy is unworthy of my distress. The basics are here. Things just don't see

In my Fiction class (which I shall elaborate more on later), we read and discussed Ragtime by E.L. Doctorow. I'd never read any Doctorow before, but I am now pretty excited about reading Welcome to Hard Times , the second book for my class... also by Doctorow. This post is just random stuff that I liked about the book, passages that stuck out, questions I still have, etc. It's not organized; it's not a review; I'm just writing here. The novel follows three fictional plotlines: 1) a WASP family named simply Mother, Father, Mother's Younger Brother, and the Boy; 2) a Jewish immigrant family of Tateh, Mameh, and their daughter; 3) an African-American family of Sarah, Coalhouse Walker and their son. Their stories are interwoven with those of numerous historical characters, including Emma Goldman, Evelyn Nesbit, Booker T. Washington, JP Morgan, Henry Ford, and Harry Houdini. The novel is set in the early 20th century. I think Doctorow does a great job of constructin

I just had a conversation with my Dad. Well, we tried. He kept saying, "Six, nine, eight, nine." When I'd say the words back to him, he'd smile and nod, like maybe this time I was getting it. When I said I didn't understand, he'd patiently repeat himself, adding with a questioning look, "Six times nine?" We played 20 questions, and I successfully concluded that he didn't need anything; that he wasn't talking about my sister, Keegan, or me; that he had not seen a mouse; that he knew it was raining and that that was completely irrelevant. He finally lost patience, good-naturedly waving his left hand at me as he retreated in his wheelchair back inside his room. I think he just wanted to share something with me, some thought spurred by what he was watching on TV. This is the second time in as many years that I have watched a parent become trapped inside their own bodies, and it's not any easier this time around. With my father, ther

There's a new man in my life. A good one even, and I'm clearly threatened because after I spoke to my sister about it the other night, she looked at me, rolled her eyes, and said, "Denise, don't sabotage it." Most people would be happy about all this, which I am. Most people, however, might stop there. Not me. I worry, relentlessly, fretfully. It's who I am. I used to hate this about me, but now I've accepted it. It actually turns out to be a useful trait in many contexts - work for instance. While I've accepted my worrying, I still feel reluctant to share it with others. No one can possibly be expected to deal with all my neuroses, and so, instead, I do what any mature adult would do. I act like a child. A petulant, annoying child. I sabotage, I knitpick, I behave passive aggressively, a trait I'm sorry to say I inherited from my mother. The best I can say is that I'm working on it. At least I recognize it now for what it is. So