Gone fishin'

Alas, I must go on a blog diet. I am finishing my dissertation and need to be at my very best for the next couple weeks. I am spending way too much time here:

Lest you think I have my own office or anything:

When I'm not at my desk, I'm doing a lot of this:

And snorting and rolling my eyes every time I see this on my bookshelf:

Working evenings and weekends. Visiting the emotionally unavailable barista way too much. Not getting enough exercise. Not baking. Not making time to get my bubba a badly needed (first!) haircut.

Not that he cares.

Making time for bubba, always, and some time for soaking up early spring:

And generally, in spite of it all, trying to savor this time. My productivity. The support of friends and family, the attention of my professors. Moments, a few, of feeling like a well-oiled writing machine. Like a thinker, even. Fretting that I won't get it all done. Realizing that this is it, the culmination of what I have been doing for the last four-plus years (except for that having a baby thing), and it could be the peak of my career. What a great opportunity this is, and how lucky I am. It's all socially constructed, it doesn't really mean anything, and I will certainly not change the world. And it's sure not related to intelligence. But it's a goal, and I'm trying my level best to achieve it.

So 'xcuse me for a bit. If I comment on your blog, shoo me on out of there. Go away, Nora! Get back to work!

Here is another thing I look at every day while I work. Me skydiving--that's me, up in the air in the parachute. Here I come...

Until next time, a couple more weeks,
Nora

My barista is emotionally unavailable

Dear Barista at my workplace espresso bar:

I know I have had, at times, a tendency to attach myself to people before they have demonstrated that they have "earned" my trust. I know that this can appear "needy." I am working on this. Might I also point out that in some circles I might even be appreciated as "trusting" or even "sweet."

Remember that conversation we had in the beginning of our relationship? About how the iPod has made it socially acceptable to be rude to your neighbors, because your neighbor snubbed you by putting his headphones on even after you established you were both on your way to the QFC? And I said, maybe it's a west coast thing, the pioneer spirit is alive and well out here and people like to be independent, and you said yes, yes, that's it, but shouldn't we all have community too. I had such high hopes for our morning happy talk then, Barista. A good morning greeting, a little edgy banter, some espresso-laced philosophy, and on to start the day. And when you remembered my regular drink that time? And told me that the americano is a barista's drink? I was in coffee shop heaven. All my years of being a nomad up and down the eastern seaboard, I never stayed in one place long enough to have a barista remember my name or my drink. But you, you showed me that I could be a regular. A fixture, even. You showed me a glimpse of what it is to have a place where everybody knows my name.

But then it all slipped out of my grasp, like trying to pick up a tomato seed. Maybe you were scared when I squealed with excitement that you remembered my drink. Maybe I was too "needy" and you are the kind of barista that needs a lot of space.

I can give you space! I can change! We can start over, Barista. Remember the iPod? Remember my sparkly social commentary? My trenchant grasp of current events?

But, Barista, as I Give You Space, do you really need to speak to everyone in front of me and behind me in line as if they are your BEST FRIENDS? Call them by NAME? Did you have to go right over my head (an accomplishment since I am taller than you) today to ask the lady behind me where she's been for a week? Did you have to ask her if she watched Washington Week? Is it because she gets French press and I just get Americano? Because I can talk about the Democratic primary with you. I can talk about classical music enough to be worthy of conversation without disturbing your reign as opera expert and espresso overlord. I can strike the right mix of interest, knew-that-already, and concern as you loudly educate me of events in the Middle East poorly covered by the mainstream media.

Sometimes you remember my drink, and others you stare at me blankly and make me say it as if I were *gasp*a NEW CUSTOMER. But I get the SAME DRINK every time! I have for years! I ask how you are, and if, and only if, there is no one else in line we have a chat. But I want our relationship to be public! I want to be validated, recognized, appreciated as a regular. Surely I have paid for my overzealous squeal six months ago. Whatever happens, I'll always have the iPod banter.

Very truly yours,
Nora

Eagle

I took this picture this weekend on a walk in the city. I know they are not endangered anymore,
but still, what a treat. The weather too, eh? Spring may be springing.

Bub, still developing his flair for the dramatic, reacted to the majestic animal:

Is settling the way to go?

I read this article today by Lori Gottlieb, and I'm wondering what yall think of it. It's been stuck in my head all day. The gist of it is this quote, but of course it is better to read the whole thing:

My advice is this: Settle! That’s right. Don’t worry about passion or intense connection. Don’t nix a guy based on his annoying habit of yelling “Bravo!” in movie theaters. Overlook his halitosis or abysmal sense of aesthetics. Because if you want to have the infrastructure in place to have a family, settling is the way to go. Based on my observations, in fact, settling will probably make you happier in the long run, since many of those who marry with great expectations become more disillusioned with each passing year. (It’s hard to maintain that level of zing when the conversation morphs into discussions about who’s changing the diapers or balancing the checkbook.)

I wonder. I got married when I was 30 and it sure felt like he was The One, which I interpreted to be so largely because he was the first person I ever wanted to have babies with. I can't deny that I had gotten "old" enough to face that I might be alone forever (honestly, the prospect was not that bad, after the initial anxiety passed) and might not have children (this was worse, but still okay). I loved some things about being single, but it sure was a club that anyone dropped out of as soon as they got the chance, and I didn't love that about it.

She's right I guess. We could approach marriage like the creation of a small corporation that provides "infrastructure" for family. We could have our parents or churches arrange it for us. And (she doesn't say this) look for passion outside the marriage or channel it into our children or work. But more of us would have babies, yall. Babies. It's what we all really want, anyway. (!)

I don't have anything intelligent to say about this, except that I feel very sad for all of us. Not lucky or superior that my situation is on the greener side of her fence. Just really? Is this really how it is?

If yall have any thoughts, you just think them out loud here. I'll go put the kettle on.

Art + technology = More art

We may be the last house in North America, but we finally got a scanner. (Jeff would cringe at my calling us late adopters, but the fact is between perfectionism and procrastination that is what we are. But in our heads? EARLY adopters, dude. Totally.)

My brain is buzzing with all the new things I can share now. 1970s baby pictures! Eighties awkward adolescent bad fashion pictures! Maybe I will even draw you a PICTURE! I can hardly stand it.

Here is the very tame, proof-of-concept warmup to the Whopping Cornbread Scanner Era. Are you ready? It's a New Yorker cartoon. Jeff is all, you have to put this on your blog. The guy? That's me (Jeff really loves me, he thinks that I am famous). The girl? That's Jeff. Or my dissertation committee.

Par-tay time

Bubba got a new outfit in the mail from his great aunt. I love how loved he is. I love it. And my world is bigger now--because this is not what I would "normally" pick out for him. And by normally I mean never. But I get to enjoy it, and now he is the best dressed person in our house. I think I'm just jealous. Because he would rock a disco hall right now and I probably wouldn't even be allowed in. And I want to dance with him, looking all dapper like that. So here, because he will probably outgrow it before we get invited to anything where he could wear it. And because it's Saturday. Party on the internet, baybee.

Nursery rhymes

Bubba has a book of Mother Goose nursery rhymes, published 1968. It's a lovely book to read through, but I think it may be the most violent book in our house. Grandma reads him the rhymes with a magic ability to change the words. But when I read them, I'm shocked at how rough it used to be to be a child, if these rhymes are accurate.

Hunger, corporal punishment:

It was rough to be an animal too, by the looks of it.

And of course, training for our sons and daughters about the place of women:

This is a little more my speed.

And I like the pictures.

And some things are just timeless: