How does it know?!?!

I have a gmail account that has a very limited use and I like the application very much for what it allows me to do. There is one thing I don't like, however. I think it's called adsense. From what I can tell, it uses keywords in correspondence to determine what kind of advertising will show up in the right margin next to the frame containing the e-mail. For example, if a novel was mentioned, an ad for a publisher or bookseller would pop up. But some of the ads are hard to link to anything that was mentioned in the correspondence and can be quite alarming, such as this one, which, apallingly, has come up way more than once (!):

10 Rules for Stomach Fat

Drop 9 lbs of Stomach Fat every 11 Days by Sticking with the 10 Rules.
www.FatLoss4Idiots.com/StomachFat

 

 

Maybe we'll see nice things on vacation.

Just a little something I picked up this evening.

No, I'm not pregnant! Well, 86%-98% probably not, anyway...But someone might be...and sadly was desperate enough to use the test in or near in the parking lot by Coldstone Ice Cream. Or at least just Vallejo enough to leave the box in the parking space along with a drink cup from L&L Hawaiian Barbeque and a container from Coldstone. Yes, as I often do, I did my civic duty - picked up the trash, watching the other patrons' gazes drop to the E.P.T. box in my hand as I walked toward the trash. I made sure to make direct eye contact with each of them, tempted to squeal, "It's negative!" to some and "It's positive!" to others. I threw away my disgusting cargo. Then I patiently panicked until I got to a place where I could wash my hands.

Now, I would much rather go to the Dairy Queen on Springs Road than to Coldstone in the Costco/PepBoys/Marshall's and Ross/Chevy's area. Yeah, it's also a chain, but somehow it feels more home-towny and I somehow feel more righteous at DQ buying a simple, reasonably sized (and priced) sundae with chocolate and marshmallow sauces. Plus, at DQ, you expect a certain level of that V-Town atmosphere, because it's right there. In Vallejo. But overpriced, conglomerate ice cream was better than no ice cream on this hot evening...Perhaps I should just appreciate that someone brought a bit of Vallejo to our version of Any Town (but No Town), U.S.A.

"Oh, cute hair..."

...she greeted me at the door.
"No it's not," I snapped.

"I look like a state senator!"

"Oh come on, don't sell yourself short. I'm thinking U.S. Rep. at the very least."
"¡That's even worse!" I wailed.

The thing of it is, I liked my hair when I last saw it in the salon, in the gleaming mirror, under the track light that illuminates every hair, washed and made shiny with high-quality shampoo. Somehow during the five minute drive to my friend's house, the sleek, almost bob transformed into a hair-helmet.

For someone for whom use of language is of supreme importance, I am too frequently quite inarticulate in my attempts to communicate in that most fraught of relationships - the one between a woman and her hairdresser. It was even harder than usual yesterday. My stylist spun me around in the chair and said, "So, what are we doing today?" while peering at my hair studiously (In her eyes I read the unvoiced question, "Did she take safety scissors to her own bangs?"). I began with my usual, "Um...", and continued like I'd rehearsed it, "sort of like it is now, but a little shorter with some more layers sliced into it?" "Mmmm hmmmm," she replied like an interrogating officer waiting for the suspect to give up some information she can actually use. I announced, "I'm growing it out!" I paused, adding "um...obviously," after realizing that I hadn't been to the salon since the beginning of Fall Quarter.

"Do you have a plan?" she asked.

"Yeah, after this I'm picking up my friend and we're going into the city and staying overnight and going to the beach and SFMoMA and City Lights books and..."

She somehow managed to stay polite and professional as she followed up with, "That sounds fun. I mean, do you have a vision for what you want your hair to look like when it does grow out?" I looked up at her. She's a little intimidating.

"I guess. Um. No," I answered. "Well I do," she said, squinting sternly at me. I was a little leery until she said, "I was thinking about your hair last night." "¿Really?" Even though it's her job and she is very conscientious that way, I was ridiculously flattered. She's been cutting hair longer than I've been speaking Spanish. Hipper and cooler in one piece of jewelry than I'll ever be in an entire outfit, she has long flaming red hair and wears cool clothes (like yesterday's black vinyl pants) and thick framed rectangle glasses that make her look like a wise and beautiful anime figure. So she described her vision and I said, "OK, do it." She described the advantages, beginning with something about how it might be nice for me to have an "update" (¡!) and ending with, "And it won't add much time to your hairstyling regime." The word much gave me pause, but I didn't say anything. I have never had the guts to tell her that my "hairstyling regime" is waving the hairdryer in the general direction of my head with one hand while taking a hit off my maintenance inhaler with the other...but then, after almost 10 years I guess she's probably figured that one out on her own. I left the salon, promising to at least try to aim the hairdryer a bit more precisely...and I was optimistic. Maybe having an actual style would lend me an air of no sé qué as I try to move into a more professional/professorial stage... and it had received the best friend stamp of approval...

Things like hair just don't matter at the beach.


When we did get to the city, the first stop was the beach, where the wind blew my sleek, shiny, political hair back into its usual state of anarchy.

Things I can do after Saturday

I miss this place.

1. Get a haircut

2. Buy: printer ink, Spring Quarter Textbooks, new gym bag, I-Klear

3. Clean

4. Read: those intriguing articles in Revista Iberomericana that I came across during the research, Hasta no verte Jesús mío now that I have a copy that's not missing 80 pages, Fools Crow

5. Go somewhere?

Notes for next quarter

1. Start papers in Week 2.

2. Although there's almost always a serendipitously useful article to be discovered, I can only read Letras Libres and Nexos in the library for fewer minutes than I do actual research.

3. Check calendar to make sure PMS doesn't coincide with PWS (Paper Writing Semana). See #1.

4. Internet use: "Checking e-mail" shouldn't take from 9:00-9:30; Reading blogs of favorite authors doesn't automatically count as studying (and reading stories about chupacabra and watching Rafaella Carra videos on YouTube never count as studying)


5. Do not agree to be a reader for Profe. Anyone. Not that anyone will ask, but if anyone does, do not make eye contact and politely decline, citing the three seminars as a reason.

6. Park in same spot each day at the ARC, thereby avoiding the time-wasting 2nd "cool-down", or wandering around parking lot trying to remember where I parked.

7. Don't forget to go to Comp. Lit. Seminar. What kind of seminar meets from 1:00-4:00 anyway?

8. Maybe it's time to look for a new sushi lunch place...

"You sure got a pretty mouth..."

So that's not exactly what she said, but my dental hygienist always has some sort of praise for my dental care habits. I don't usually brag. About anything. But if Louise says I have excellent oral hygiene, then it's true. She's a consummate professional and I respect her assessments. I hope to be as enthusiastic and knowledgeable about my profession as she is about hers. If only everyone were half as competent, efficient and up on trends in their fields as she is this world would be in much better shape.

She's quite the dental detective. As she began doing whatever she does with that little metal hook-shaped thing, probing between my two front bottom teeth, I winced. "Ah-ha. Sensitive." When she removed the instrument, I said, "Yeah, it is today. I don't know why." She smiled down at me and responded, "Well I do."

Of course she did. She went back to work on my teeth while proceeding to illuminate me as much with her knowledge as with the little headlight she had strapped to her forehead. "You're clenching or grinding your teeth. Do you do it at night?" "No..." I answered, "I don't think so." "Well, you are at some point. Are you under added stress?" "Not really." I paused to think for a minute and she resumed scraping whatever she scrapes. When she again extracted the tool from my mouth, I said, "I know! I do it when I write papers or presentations!" She proposed a night-guard (perhaps a write-guard in my case) if my current solution stops working. Like someone preparing for a big night on E, I try to have gum handy before I open Word. Unfortunately, the act of writing provokes the side effect of the involuntary teeth clenching, but none of the euphoria that the drug allegedly induces.

We can't even borrow money to buy nice things.

Overheard through my open office door..

K:Some town...was it Vacaville? No, it couldn't be Vacaville, they have that cute downtown and the Nut Tree...
L: Was it Fairfield?
K: No...but it was one of those...

I wanted to stand up, stick my head out into the hallway and shout, "It's Vallejo! Yes, my town is on the brink of bankrupcy!" It's not only been on that local news you might have seen if you clicked on any of those yellow words, but the story was also on NPR.

Could it be because of things like this?

3. Make her open the box.

iStock photo? Stock Friday night dinner.

Ok, so no one had to make me open the box.

2. Put your junk in that box.

M.A.-in-a-box

Some days (like today) I just want to pack it all in. Throw it in the trunk and pull out of Parking Lot 5 and speed Westward without looking back.

But then, something like Sor Juana's El divino narciso, her unique, theatrical re-interpretation of El cantar de los cantares (Song of Songs) pulls me right back in. I realize that there is no way I can drive or walk away from a world that contains something like this, as transgressive as this 16th century nun was in her description of the beauty of la Virgen....(I'm not even going to apologize for my clumsy translation)

Recien abierta granada Pomegranate newly opened
sus mejillas sonrosea; her cheeks blush;
sus dos labios hermosea her two lips beautiful,
partida cinta rosada a pink ribbon parted in two,
por quien la voz delicada an insult to coral,
haciendo el coral agravio, through whom the delicate voice,
despide el aliento sabio sends forth wise breath
que así a sus claveles toca; that like this touches carnations
leche y miel vierte la boca, her mouth spills milk and honey
panales destila el labio. her lips filtering the honeycomb

I'm so glad I took the Literatura erótica de los siglos de oro my first quarter. San Juan de la Cruz smoothed over any uneasiness about reading such sensuality written by the religious.

AND! So much of Sor Juana prefigures Federico Garcia Lorca! Packing it up would probably mean not learning anything more about FGL. There are so many others I'm not ready to pack away - Borges, Achy Obejas, Roberto Bolaño, Gabriela Vallejo Cervantes, CRG, Delmira Agustini, Cabrera Infante, Galdós...Wow, I haven't even read any Pardo Bazán yet! (shh..don't tell anyone that!) Yes, I'll have to temper my reading of them now with some Theory and some Cultural Studies. If When I manage to get a handle on that. But for now, I think I'll just let literature pull me wherever (whenever) it wants...I hope it always will.

1.Cut a hole in a box...

Quarters 1-3. Take classes.

Quarter 4. That DE thing. Forget it. Not doing one. It stands for "Designated Emphasis" and we can get them in Feminist Theory (I thought about that for a minute, but then realized that this dame doesn't really need to be in school any longer than necessary just to read things that some smart broads wrote about other dames); Native American Studies (Interesting, but my academic career is running on Indian Time enough as it is); Second Language Acquisition (Maybe I should give it second chance, it's probably changed since the early 90's); and Critical Theory (OK, I admit it, I didn't even consider this-why screw up my record of not taking even one of my department's CRI requirements from the actual Critical Theory Department?).

Quarter 5. I'm there now. "Identify dissertation adviser." Not such a no-brainer. It's like being back in high school. Like I have to ask someone to the Senior prom and I don't know who or when or how to ask. And I'm having a hard time with the rule about only being allowed to bring one date.

Quarter 6. By then, I'll be done with everything but Critical Theory 200A. Do I coast, taking my last CRI requirement and one Latin American Literature seminar? Or do I take it to the limit and take two Latin American Literature seminars, taking advantage of the opportunity to study from experts in their fields while filling in significant gaps in my reading? I hear the answer that several voices of reason are giving and indeed, they echo my own.

Soundtrack to my pain

Almost made you click out, didn't I? Por el amor de Dios, it was just a headache. Did you really think I'd use a title so trite-sounding to express my unique and special angst?



I was looking forward to meeting my dad for lunch today at the Trattoria Bohemia on J Street in Sacramento. And I did actually meet him there, arriving only about 5 minutes later than I usually do when I meet my dad. I work hard on this, knowing that when we say "12:00" he'll be there at 11:45. Today's tardiness was due to parking. After I'd found some, I rushed down the 3600 block of J St. (quite the little "hip strip", by the way), spotting a cupcake bakery that I thought we'd stop at afterwards. Of course Dad was there already, most of the way through the Bee and on his second cup. We ordered pasta (ravioli of ricotta and spinach that was too garlic-heavy) and about 1/2 way through, I became aware that I was shielding my eyes from the light bulbs and my head was slumping. Since I hadn't had one since 11 December, I was unprepared...no happy pills anywhere. "Dad, I'm getting a migraine," I said, trying not to whine. "I thought something was wrong," he said. I don't often inform him of any ills...he has been a bit alarmist in the past and tends toward misdiagnosis. "I thought there was an awful lot of nutmeg in that ricotta!" he declared triumphantly, yet full of concern. I just looked at him, "¿¿¿???" He paid the check and we left, stopping at his car. "Does Benadryl™ work on that?" he asked. "¿¿¿What??? ¡¡¡No!!!" I replied. And verging on a bit of alarm myself, followed up with, "Why do have Benadryl™ in the car? You don't take that while driving, do you?"

"No, of course not," he said. "I also have that same bottle of Ibuprofen that gave me that allergic reaction that time." Through the fog of the migraine I thought, "God, I hope he didn't take Benadryl™ to combat that allergic reaction!" But I didn't ask.

It was starting to rain as I left Sacto. I thought I could make Vallejo before throwing up, since that bodily function is usually quite the epic for me. I pulled over in West Sac. No joy. As I drove on, I remember that sometimes listening to music and concentrating on it would keep the headache at bay.

I hit "CD" on the stereo to find something appropriate on one of the mixes of recent musical gifts. Soul Coughing's song poem "Screenwriter's Blues" helped a bit. I hit the >> button and Anthrax came on (I know, you're thinking, "OMG, who gave you anthrax??"). >>. The next song was José Alfredo Jiménez's "Ella", but that just served to make me think I had a tequila hangover instead of a migraine. >>. The Violent Femmes..."and three, three, three for my heartache and four, four, four for my headaches" Oh God, music's supposed to distract me, not remind me! >>. The more gentle "Glory Box" by Portishead...that one usually works to create a mood that today I couldn't have been too much farther from. "Not tonight, I have a headache," I told it. >>. Andrés Segovia. Perfecto.

But the rain and motion were stronger than the guitar this time. I pulled over at the gas station at Pedrick Road. In full sight of everyone on I-80 passing by and all the patrons gassing up, I stumbled out of the car and staggered over to the field at the edge of the parking lot, dropped to my hands and knees and just did it, sort of like Stella would have, except I didn't eat any grass. I had to go inside the convenience store to do the aftercare. Shaking, sunglasses on in the flimsy white undershirt I'd stripped down to, I just said, "Restroom." in response to the clerk's "You allright?" As I pulled away, fizzy drink and gum within reach, "Behind the Wall of Sleep" cued up. It worked, the lyrics, low voice of the singer and gentle yet intense guitar playing four times, getting me where I needed to be.

Unfortunately, music alone won't take it away. I still need pharmaceutical help. Thank God for Benadryl™!

¡!¡!¡!¡!¡!¡!¡!¡!¡!¡!¡!¡!¡!¡!¡!¡!¡!¡!

Surrounded by unread reading for Cultural Studies, the Sor Juana seminar, Portuguese for Spanish Speakers, versiones finales de composición #1, los otros trabajos and probably several other things I'm forgetting about, it's not even mid-term yet and I realize that this quarter is seriously spanking my ass and making me its bitch!
I guess it has my consent...

(No, eso no se traduce.)

This is why we still can't have nice things.

I hadn't even been home 5 minutes when the landline rang. Without even bothering to find out who it was I answered, "Hi. Unless this is an emergency, can you call me back in 20? I'm having an 'I Love Lucy' moment. Thanks. Bye." I hung up and went back to pulling up the keyboard of the laptop in the kitchen. In my rush to let Stella outside (she'd been in all day due to incessant rain), I'd carelessly set down my travel mug on the desk. I heard it tip, but didn't worry, knowing it was empty. When Stella and I got back to the kitchen, I smelled coffee. Evidently, for once I hadn't consumed the entire contents before Dixon and coffee the color of a brown paper bag was seeping among the letters of the keyboard. I blotted up as much as I could before popping the keyboard out and was gently shaking it to express all the liquid while trying not to yank it out by the funny tape thing that connects it to the um...whatever that is under there. From my cell phone I heard the high-pitched "Wheeeeeeeeee, huh hee hee hee!" custom ringtone I'd made from "Winona's Big Brown Beaver". That would be "Ricky" calling and it's technically his computer. Keyboard dangling from my hand, I looked at Stella. "I'm not answering that." I said. She looked up at me and her expression said, in Ethel Mertz's voice, "Now, Lucy..." I answered. "Hey," he said, "I'm just leaving work. Do you want me to get anything on the way?" Sweet! That gave me at least 30 minutes to clean up and test the computer.

Sure enough, it still worked. This is the computer that has been dropped or slammed in or into something. It's been to more places than I have, including Burning Man where someone wrote a good portion of his MA thesis on it. Its case is bent and even before today's mishap you had to jiggle the screen back and forth to get the whole screen visible. But after the coffee infusion the jiggling is no longer necessary. LaLaLa. Lucy was never this lucky!

Dirty laundry y flores

So, my department is under review. The process started last year with a survey of graduate students and the review committee (from French, German, Theater Arts here at UCD and one import from Arizona) has organized for today and tomorrow a series of meetings with staff, faculty and us. I attended today's meeting for students. The majority of students will attend tomorrow's. Having worked in education and gone through the accreditation process I was familiar with this sort of meeting. A bit of a drawback perhaps, because I left it feeling sort of icky. The committee was comprised of very busy people who are very committed (no word-play intended and I'm not changing it now) to improving UCD as a whole and to listening to the needs of their colleagues and students. They used as a springboard for discussion the results of last year's survey, but I don't know that any of the committee had training in how to direct a session like this. Especially when given only 45 minutes. I almost want follow-up so that there can be a more balanced discussion - especially about the literature requirement for linguistics students and vice versa. So many people see it as bullshit, but I think it's pretty valuable. In every seminar I've taken, there's been a linguistics student who introduces him/herself at the first meeting by saying they're nervous and don't know anything about literature and have doubts about their contributions. In every seminar, the professors assure them that they'll be fine. Indeed, in every seminar, I've found that these students make unique observations and provide perspectives and interventions that are quite illuminating. I also imagine that literature can provide them with some amazing data. Although I suspect that I remember just enough linguistics to be dangerous, I think the reverse must be true as well. Even a basic knowledge of linguistics, and not just socio-linguistics, either, can add a refreshing and perhaps appealingly scientific dimension to literary analysis and criticism.

Haciendo cola

+

until there's a faster cure than "time".

The mommy in line ahead of me at Target kept up a constant monologal conversation with her pre-verbal child, referring to herself in third person and asking the child's permission for everything. "Mommy just needs to pay the lady, Amber, all right?" "Stop throwing our things out of the cart now, okay?" I've noticed this sort of negotiating speech pattern becoming more prevalent for about the last 10 years. I wonder what Mommy will say when Amber begins to understand and then to speak and answers, "No, it's not okay. I think I'll keep throwing items out of the cart just so I can watch you pick them up." Yes, I was in a bit of a mood (OK, still am). And yes, I do realize that my state of childlessness probably disqualifies me as a judge of parental communication styles. However, I do believe I may have gotten out of teaching high school at the right time.
When it was my turn to pay, the cashier didn't even look up at me as she asked, "How are you?" I didn't feel I should have to answer that, given that I was wearing sunglasses indoors and my purchases included a Dr. Pepper I'd already opened, a two-pack of Tylenol and a box of Monistat.

Hang up and drive? Probably not.

My list of New Year's resolutions was probably just a two-for-one. It read like this:
1. Learn how to use, dexterously, the bluetooth/hands-free/earpiece device that I had to buy with new cell phone and
2. under no circumstances wear it outside of the moving vehicle that I am driving and even then, wear it only while talking on it and remove it immediately after ending the conversation

This is what mine looks like. It is a piece of technology I am not willingly embracing despite my shiny new Cultural Studies based perspectives on modernity. I think it sort of disgusts me...

However, for the last four days I'd felt sort of like a failure for not having even attempted to keep this resolution before the 2008 law went into effect. Even though it's supposed to be safer, I reallyreallyreally don't want to wear one of those things - probably more likely to smack into something while trying to adjust to the new postures and digital movements required to operate the device. Yes, I know I don't have to talk while driving, but I don't really see "no more talking while driving" as a practical resolution. Besides, it's too late for that. I already talked on the phone twice yesterday while driving, and without the thing in my ear. I felt pangs of guilt until I checked out the DMV website and found that the new cellular phone law doesn't even go into effect until July 1 (as opposed to January 1, like I originally assumed)! LaLaLa


Do you think I'd feel better about wearing one if mine looked like this?

How about this?

Aspiraciones...

Dyson handheld vacuum cleaners, oh yeah.

I'm not complaining about my presents, but even my mom would understand that I really wouldn't mind if someone gave me one of these. She certainly transmitted good gift-giving etiquette to her kids and we understood from an early age that domestic appliances are not an appropriate gift choice unless clearly and specifically requested. But even so, if a woman today requests something like this, vacuum lust burning in her eyes, she's rarely taken seriously. My surface-cleaning device fetish is no secret, but I have yet to receive one as a gift. I choose to think that it's because anyone who would give me gifts just assumes that, as a feminist*, I'd be offended by something that seems to glorify the role of woman as housekeeper. I conveniently ignore the possibility that anyone who would give me gifts knows that as a housekeeper, I usually fall short of glorious (But I am a bit precious about the granite countertops and I sort of Martha-Stewarted the kitchen after everyone left this afternoon). They probably assume that I would use that magnificent piece of cleaning technology quarterly at best (but they're wrong this time). So why, then, is it OK not just to give men power tools as gifts, but for them to specifically request them, even when they use them way less frequently than the average domestically challenged woman uses, say, her (in the category of Things That Sound Dirty But Aren't) Swiffer® Wet Jet? But if I had the Dyson...

After a few swipes with this baby you will no longer be able to eat off my floor.

* While my brand of feminism may be different than my mom's, I do agree with Tara Brabazon, in Ladies Who Lunge, that the lyrics of the "I Will Survive" Gloria work to a point, but at some point, as we get older, the words of the other Gloria are actually more sustantive.

¿¿¿Why are they even at Goodwill in the first place???

I came out of Goodwill yesterday to find my Subaru jam-parked between two Mercedes-Benz, one so recently purchased it didn't even have plates. As I cranked the steering wheel and inched forward, then back, then forward, then back, then forward,then back, then forward,then back, then forward until I could finally pull out onto Tennessee St. I raged, in a fit of reverse clasismo (?) "Why the fuck are you materialistic rich bitches shopping at Goodwill in the first place? Probably one of you beat me to that $20 bookshelf, like you can't go get a brand new one...Oh wait, are your car payments so high that you actually can't? But, hah! Even if you did buy that bookshelf, it won't even fit in your trunk whereas it would slide with no effort on my part into the back of my PAID OFF station wagon!"

Why I was at Goodwill this time: It was part of the quest for jeans that fit and that had no stretch. Jackpot! One pair of Levi's, one pair might have been from Spain (brand Ermenegildo Zegna - saw stores called that in Spain), and the other a pair of Wranglers that I wore last night to Chris' western-dress party. I think all 3 were actually men's jeans as the sizes were all a waist size x an inseam length. Those numbers, while not covered by FERPA, will only be released to those who possess a legitimate academic need to know. I will, however, disclose that the Levi's tag, alarming, includes the adjective "husky".

Between her fingernails

String of Lights has some bulbs out this week, as my attention has been focused on the papers that are due way too soon!

Cristina Marcos as Petra in Méndez-Leite's TV adaptation of Clarín's La Regenta

For the past few days I've been (like her co-protagonists Ana, Álvaro, Fermín, Paula and Víctor) at the mercy of Petra, that manipulative little vixen par excellence of late nineteenth century Spanish literature. I think I'm finally out from under her thumb, or as Petra herself might say, "entre las uñas". Hope to print out and turn in tomorrow the paper in which I analyze this character.

Then, on to examine a contrasting literary personage, Juana Manuela Gorriti, who attempts to create a sense of sisterhood in her community of Latin American writers and thereby foster a spirit of pan-americanism. Isn't it nicer, but not nearly as juicy a story, when we all cooperate?

Challenges today-

-starting the run
-continuing the run
-finishing the run
-keeping the "¿what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about?" expression off my face during Actividad 14 p. 524
-trying to stop for or at least not to mow down oblivious cyclists as they struggled in the rain
-reading my own writing