So Over It

Things about which I do not give a crap: 1) Charlie Sheen--I'm not fascinated. I'm really just thinking, "Sit down somewhere and hush up." He might as well be dancing around naked with bird poop on his head for all the dignity he's showing. 2) The royal wedding. I love a wedding. Seriously. But I don't know these people. They are not friends of mine, and their displays of excess are not interesting to me. Also, I don't know these people! Are Will and Kate going to be all captivated and hopping a plane over here when I have my totally fabulous 25th anniversary vow renewal ceremony in 15 years? Doubtful. 3) Justin Beiber. Or, as The Babydoll says, Justin Beaver. I just never got into star worship, so I don't get it. Michael Jackson was the closest I ever came to it, and come on--JB might be the bee's knees, but is he MJ? I know I'm not the right demographic, but what is it that makes him such a phenomenon? I don't get it. Post Script: I'm adding a number 4: Christians who claim that the 1950s were some utopian moment of virtue in America. I was fishing around, looking into parenting books suggested by a woman I used to know in high school. I was directed to a number of similar books. At first they seemed intersting and useful, but then I saw that they see the entire world as enemy territory, full of evil feminists and sex-crazed liberals who have ruined the clean living morality of yesterday. But all I can wonder is whether they are talking about the "Christians" who were holding signs and screaming at Ruby Bridges or the ones who thought that God hates women who have jobs. It's making me think of some very un-Christlike words.

A Perfect Skip Day

Today was the first day when it was really warm outside. It was a perfectly beautiful spring-is-coming kind of day. It was a little chilly in the morning, then warmed up to bordering-on-hot heat with the kind of breeze that the South is begging for in July. It was the kind of day, I told my students, that I would give myself permission to skip my afternoon classes when I was in college because it was just too pretty out to even think about sitting inside a classroom. I tried to get us out early today, but we still ended up using almost the entire class session. I was inside all day, with classes piled on each other, but I could tell that it was warm out because I kept seeing students with skimpier and skimpier outfits. Their toes were peeking out of sandals and the skirt hems seemed to get progressively shorter as the day wore on. They guys were wearing their coolest sunglasses and showing, ahem, appreciation, for the skin that finally escaped sweaters and boots. I knew my children would be eager to get outside, and I couldn't wait to pick them up. It was a good day.

But I will need a pedicure before I break out the sandals . . . .

An Epiphany

I had a revelation this morning: I don't think I'm going to use intravenous drugs.

Once again, the nurse at the doctor's office had a heck of a time trying to draw blood from me. They try one arm, then the other, then back to the other arm. Then they try my hands (which hurts like heck!) and then they sigh. Today, the nurse had to put the blood pressure cuff on in order to access the vein.

I'm pretty sure drug use would be too much trouble.

Nekkid

"Mommy?" she said timidly. "I saw that picture of the lady."

"Oh?" I said, continuing with some mundane task. "What picture?"

"That one with the lady." She gestured vaguely to her chest. "When she was doing this." She put one hand behind her head in a pin-up girl-ish pose.

"A lady? She was standing like that?" Forget the mundane task. Now I'm paying full attention.

"Yeah. It was a lady." Her hand is in her chest area again. "But she was lying down. Like this." She showed me the pose again.

"Hmmm. And what was she wearing?"

"Nothing."

"Oh." Let's see . . . I don't often fancy naked pin-up girls; my son is three years old, and, while he might very well be interested in naked ladies, having been an avid connoisseur of breast milk, isn't likely to have found any in his Lightening McQueen coloring books. That leaves Daddy, now doesn't it? Has this *%#@! taken leave of his mind?! What is going on?! "Um. Wear did you see this picture again?"

"In your bathroom. What was she doing?"

"In my bathroom? Are you sure?"

"Yes. She didn't have a shirt on. It was a pink paper."

"Ooooooohhhhh." Just like that, Daddy's life is spared. "That's a card from the doctor. It helps ladies by showing them how to check for lumps or bumps so they don't get sick. It's from the doctor. That's all." It was a breast self-check card. Oh my.

Don't Mess With the Hair

There seems to be a lot going on with Black women's hair this week.

First, there is Justin Bieber and his lack of education about indiscriminate touching. He reaches out to touch Esperanza Spaulding's hair during an interview with her. This is a bad move. As I am continuing my own hair evolution (I'm rocking kinky twists now) I can attest that most Black women I know--and actually, some Latina women I know as well--do not appreciate when white people, especially men, touch our hair. That goes double when they don't even ask. It feels like petting. A dog. I often wonder why the thought even arises. Is it because my hair's just so "weird" or what? What will touching it tell you?

Then there was Iyanla Vanzant's return to "The Oprah Winfrey Show" after her abrupt departure 11 years ago. One of the most intriguing revelations to me was that Barbara Walter's folks immediately demanded a change to Iylana's ethnic hair styles (and her clothes) when they produced Iyanla's show. "It's too harsh for TV" they told her. Of course, it had not been too harsh for the months and months when Iyanla was turning into a star on Oprah's show. So she let them straighten it in order to curl it. Even Iyanla admitted that this was a foolish move.

Then there's this weirdness about Beyonce Knowles, who is being accused again of lightening up. I can't attest to its validity, but it's disturbing.

I'm not sure I even have a comment about all of this, but I think it's all worth a second thought.

It Happens Every Year

It seems to come in cycles. First, I realize that job postings will soon be released. So I search them. Then realize that people are interviewing. I hope for one. Then I realize that other people are planning for the next year. I wonder if I should, too. It all feels so uncertain.

It's easy to get caught up in the joy of teaching and planning and pretend that I'm fixed in the office I love, working with the students who challenge me, thinking of the possibilities for the future. But the truth is that it's all very temporary. I'm temporary.

So, now I'm reading So What Are You Going to Do With That? Again. I'd love to just to keep doing what I'm doing, where I'm doing it. But with some stability and, you know, some remote possibility of tenure. Ever.

And I guess I'm going to add "Have an unexpected, exciting career" to my life list. I hear the circus is coming to town. Maybe that will be the ticket . . . .

Why We Can't Just "Let Boys Be Boys"

By happenstance, I read this post about a woman's college experience with sexual assault. Then, the very next blog post I read was this one from Confessions of a Community College Dean, about sports and raising a thoughtful boy. Together, they make an important statement about gender conditioning and parenting. In case we ever forget, the stakes are high. Oh, boy.