A thousand presents, tons of important family time and memories, and 225 spam comments.

Happy New Year, Peeps!

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When faced with me being particularly stubborn or angry, my mother likes to recount how, upon return from a day in first grade, I stomped in the door, angrily threw my books down on the table, turned to my mother and said, with steely-eyed anger, “That teacher thinks she’s THE BOSS.”

I’m 31 years old, Peeps, and not much has changed.

I had two teachers this quarter and both were teaching their first ever classes.  One was Dr. Dickweed and the other was the teacher who made me dumb down the paper.  I’m currently in touch with her about writing letters of recommendation because I did very well in her class and we appeared to get along like gangbusters.  Her class was enjoyable and when I left I got a hug (that I did not initiate).  I’m not getting my degree in psychology nor will I ever have occasion to take a class from her again.

She is, perhaps, 35 years old.  I’m 31.  I earned my way into the Universty program, have retained primarily A’s, and am paying OUT THE NOSTRILS for these classes.  I will attend and be attentive.  I am all about respect but I’m not about being a wide-eyed juvinile staring at all the brilliance before me with profound and utter self-abasement.  I’m an adult.  Teach what you have to teach and I will learn what I have to learn.  You’ll take my money, I’ll take your grade.  It’s an exchange.

When I got my first degree standard policy stated that one could refer to one’s professors by their first names, and they to you, and that a decent amount of respect could be conveyed.  I called David “David”, but I never had more respect for a professor than I did for him.  Interestingly, he called me by my first name and I never got my panties into a wad.

I am currently embroiled in a conversation with the prof I want the recommendation from, because she’s suddenly decided that my calling her by her first name is inappropriate and disrespectful.  After months of it being a-okay.

First, it was that I wasn’t to use her first name when in communication with potential grad schools.  I assured her that I would never, ever do that.  Then it was that she didn’t mind the first name, but had been told that it was bad general policy.  My response was that I would respect the general policy change and only refer to her as Dr. Lastname from now on.  Since then I have had something like FIVE EMAILS explaining to me why I must call her Dr. Lastname and why one should ALWAYS call their profs Dr. Lastname and why there must be separation and RESPECT.

I have repeatedly responded that I will do so for her, that during my first four years of school the norm was a first-name basis relationship, and to assure her that I meant no disrespect whatsoever.  I made the change and have not refered to her by her first name in a week.  It’s not a hill I care to die on.

And yet, I am still getting the emails.

FOR CHRISSAKE LADY GIVE IT A REST.  I think it’s awesome that you have your Ph.D.  Give me six years and then maybe we can deal with the fact that we are both of similar ages and stations, that we both are mothers, and that we both have first names and that that’s OKAY.  I will call you Dr. Lastname and I promise not to roll my eyes in your presence, but at $1,600 a class I think that perhaps you’re being a tad condescending.  I WILL roll my eyes at you over the computer.

You are not all that, and if you cannot understand that I respect (ed) you then you’re deaf to general tone.

Merry Christmas.  Now, shut up. 

**********

UPDATE:  In response to “I will not refer to you by your first name.  When I got my first degree, first-name basis was the norm.  I assure you I meant no disrespect.  KP” I got an email that essentially said this:

“Christine, I did not say that you disrespected me.  In the office it’s first names, at schools it’s generally Dr. Lastname.  Let’s move on from this”

What we have, Peeps, is someone with lastworditis.  I’m not going to respond, lest I earn more chastizement.  Booty hooty hoo.

I would, in fact, like to send an email back saying, “Dear Dr. Lastname.  Booty hooty hoo.”

Unfortunately my letter of recommendation would probaby call me a bitchwhore.

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Recently, in order that I might have more than a bare, passing relationship with my libido, and because I’ve been on Paxil for 12 years and would like to know whether deep down I really am apeshit crazy, I decided to start slowly weaning myself off it.  I tried it once before and had a breakdown, but I think I went too fast and attributed a whole lot of withdrawal symptoms to overall KP craziness.

I’ve gone up and down doses from 10mgs to 20mgs several times, passing through 15 on the way. So the past few nights I’ve been dutifully halving a pill and taking it with a full one, thus combining a 5mg with a 10.

Except I’m on a 20mg pill. So I’ve been combining a 20mg with a 10 and have upped my dose to 30 for the first time ever.

DURH.

For three days I’ve been on 30 mgs.

No wonder I feel totally loopy and have been eating everything in sight. Idiot.  I swear there’s a brain in there somewhere.  I swear.

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Ug.

As in:  “Ug, Momma, peese?”

Ugs are marvelous.  Go give your mama or your baby an ug today!

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If your child is in the bath and he suddenly develops that look and you think, “Uh oh.  That look”, and you have a moment of panic and you ask him, pointedly, if he’s going to poo, and he says “No!  No potty all done!” and you encourage him to get out and use the potty and then he can get right back in with all the bubbles and stuff…

If you do this and he repeats, almost screaming in indigntion, “NO!  No potty ALL DONE!”, and you think to yourself that it’s been a while since he pooped in the bath and that you’ve been reminding him and he does have terrible gas and maybe that’s the face you are seeing and you feel that in the interest of building potty collateral for later, maybe you should trust him when he tells you about what his bowels are up to, so you follow your instincts and run downstairs for a tick to turn on the washing machine and leave him happily burbling away in the bathtub…

DO NOT TRUST THESE INSTICNTS.

Your son is merely waiting for you to disappear around the corner before laying a big one right down at the bottom of the tub and then calling out to you, “Bath ALL DONE!” very sweetly.  And when you enter the room he will point to the other side of the tub and say, in a way that implies that some man just ran into the room, climbed into the tub, shat wordlessly and copiously, and ran out again, “ICKY!”

And lo, your evening will be much longer, more disgusting, and bleach-filled indeed.

Learn from my mistakes, my children. 

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On the first day of Christmas my memories gave to me: 30 different hol-i-day trees.

Christmas Trees are fantastic.  I have memories of all kinds of different trees throughout my life and each one is kind of a tribute to the Christmas it lived in.  There was the year the tree fell on me.  I was, I don’t know, five?  I have pretty vivid memories of being trapped under a tree and screaming for someone to drag it off of me.

I remember the look of the tall, stately tree that we had one year in the brown house when we lived in Westmont.  I remember adoring that tree.

There was the tree my mom and I had the first year after the divorce.  It was a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.  It looked full when we bought it, but after paring away the lower branches so we could get it in the stand we discovered that the branches pointed upward, so the lower half of the tree was bare.  Then it wouldn’t stand up so we had to tie it to the wall.  Also, someone stole our Christmas ornaments that year so we had cheapy little wooden cat orniments in victorian dress (?).  I don’t know.  They were inexpensive.

Then, after my folks got married, there was the cholesterol tree we had.  It was huge and fat and marvelous and took up a whole corner of the sizeable livingroom.  I don’t remember what we named it, but we named it something.  I always try and name my trees.

My dad and stepmom have a fake tree, but it’s always so covered in lights that you can’t see the branches.  When the lights are out it’s like the thing is actually projecting gamma rays of Christmas cheer.  Beautiful!

My favorite kind of tree is one that you cut down off a farm.  My second favorite is one that you buy off a lot from some guy who’s driven them down from somewhere far away.  It helps if the guy looks rough and shady but helps you pack it up and get it on your car and is so nice that you want to give him extra money.

I didn’t used to like fake trees, but my dad’s house convinced me that they can be beautiful.  I don’t see ever getting one myself (what?  No needles to spend January vaccuming?  Are you crazy?), but they are very pretty.

What are your tree memories?  What kind do you like?  Tell me, Peeps!

Also, if you would like to participate in the 12 Days of Christmas Memories, do!  Just link back here and make sure I have a link in the comments!

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Under the title of “Here’s Another Photo of My Kid from Yet Another Angle”, I have the latest Wallace photos up. You can see them all by clicking here.

Here are some highlights:

Clone -

As close as we got to wearing the Halloween costume:

Boy in London:

That’s plenty close enough, Santa.

Identical Screaming:

First bubble bath-

Parents succumb to merchandising push:

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All but Ageless, Turtles Face Their Biggest Threat: Humans

By NATALIE ANGIER

Published: December 12, 2006

Last March, a giant tortoise named Adwaita said to be as old as 250 years died in a Calcutta zoo, having been taken to India by British sailors, records suggest, during the reign of King George II.

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Hi there, Peeps. 

Once again I’m writing to you on a down cycle.  Things have been fairly good lately, but yesterday and today they crashed again.  I had some bad news vis-a-vis my weight, which you can read at the Poopyhands Weightloss Junction, if you are so inclined.  We are also in the midst of finals hell.  That, added to the cost of Christmas, is feeling all soul-crushy.

What we are giving up so that I can attend school:

1. The light in my husband’s eyes as neverending work destroys his will to live
2. The time my husband gets to spend with his son
3. The sleep my husband would get if he weren’t working three jobs
4. The money for both of us to feel secure in small purchases and things like buying gas
5. My brain as I try to split my focus between work and school
6. My brain as I try to find time to study between working, taking care of Wallace, and keeping the house from becoming the shithole it always aspires to
7. My sleep as I churn over the thousands of things on the list that I have to get done
8. Our peace of mind about the future as the reality of what Grad School will mean to our already stressed life
9. The baby that both of us want to have, and yet know we have neither the emotional nor the financial resources to deal with

I have had enough.  I have had enough of watching my husband try and keep the family financially floating.  I’ve had enough of being terrified of the next month or the next year.  I’ve had enough of putting off the baby we both feel it’s time for.  I’ve had enough of the guilt and the exhaustion and the guilt.  THE GUILT. I’ve had enough.

But we’ve put two years into this and only have two to go.  Two more years of hell and I’m back to earning at least what I was before starting school.  Two more years and we have a second child knowing that our earning potential is enough that our kids should go to college.  Two more years and The Troublemaker can stop busting his ass without busting the bank.

Two more years to a job I enjoy.  Two more years to a better house and a more comfortable life.

TT insists that there’s nothing for it but to push through.  He may be right, but I’m not willing to sacrifice my family.

I don’t know what to do.  I only know that I have two finals this week and I’m not really prepared for either.  And I don’t care. 

Right now, today, I’m exhausted and depressed and ready to give up.

I promise soon that I’ll post some good things that have been happening.  I promise.

Today, I wallow.

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Okay, Peeps.  I have calmed down since yesterday and finished most of my paper.  I have about three paragraphs to write and the References page.  Then I have to red-ink it to death. 

But today at work I’m having to go through the billboard charts to try and find a song for a meeting and I’m also perusing YouTube so that my boss can hear them all.  It’s the most enjoyable morning I’ve spent in quite a while!  Here are some gems (I’d embed them but it doesn’t seem to work with my coding):

I think for the first time ever, my three top songs are sung by women. 

My very favorite current song.

Corinne Bailey Rae - Put Your Records On

An anthem to empowerment.  It’s marvelous.

Beyonce - Irriplaceable

I love KT, and this song speaks to me.

KT Tunstall - Suddenly I see

Bringing the men back into it, I already told you about:

OK go - Here it Goes Again

And Bowling for Soup has my heart, first for

1985

and then for the most excellent follow-up

High School Never Ends

I hope this meets your music needs for the day!

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