Mark's band Overdrive at Dan's...

...in Walnut Creek last night. They played "Working for the Weekend" by Loverboy and "Livin' on a Prayer" by Bon Jovi. They played many other songs as well. They had "Eye of the Tiger" in their repertoire but to my dismay they did not play it. I've got to tell you, too--I think this particular crowd would have been UP for "Eye of the Tiger." I really, really do. P.S. The bass player in Overdrive feels that you can replace the lyrics to Iron Maiden’s “The Trooper” with the lyrics to Jerry Lee Lewis’s “Great Balls of Fire” without encountering a metrical snag, but I mentally tried it (at 3 am last night) and I feel fairly certain it only works for two lines. Let me know if you reach a different conclusion. P.P.S. He also thinks "Livin' on a Prayer" should be called "Livin' on my Hair."

Cat Theme Songs/Poetry

Claude (top)
Kerouac (bottom)

My cats have their own theme songs:
Kerouac (aka Wacky or the Wack): “Wack the Knife”
Claude: “What if Claude Was One of Us?”

They also have poems, which I have to say fit their personalities better than the theme songs do. Wacky is a soft, fat, round “rumpy riser” Manx with a sweet disposition, one front tooth, and no harmful desires in the world, as long as he is permitted to eat as much kibble as he wants. Claude is, well…insane. My sister once told me the look in his eyes made her think of the Unabomber. Now I will let the poetry, and the haunting imagery you've just seen, say the rest.

The Wack (from “Songs of Innocent Wackiness,” by Sarah William Goss Blake):

Little Wack who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life & bid thee feed (and feed and feed and feed)
By the stream and o’er the mead;
Gave thee mottled black and white fur, wooly bright;
Gave thee such a squeaky voice,
Making thy parents at 4 AM rejoice!

The Claudster (from “Songs of Experienced Claudsterness”)

Claudster Claudster, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes!
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the *Wack* make thee?

_____________________________

Do *your* pets have theme songs and theme poems? Don’t you think it’s about time they did?

Sad, bad news

I found out today that I lost the class I was scheduled to teach--unavoidable, even though I have also just been promoted to the Preferred Hiring Pool. But, as I mentioned in my "promotion" post, my acceptance puts me at the very bottom of the hierarchy of the PHP, and that is why I lost my class. To make a long-ish story short, there were several under-enrolled sections, and the section of a teacher with greater seniority got canceled. She then, according to the rules of the PHP, became entitled to "bump" a teacher with less seniority--who turned out to be me. Although I truly do understand the point of view of the teacher who bumped me, I don't agree with the "bumping" rule; I had already met my class and assigned work, and it just doesn't seem right to me that a teacher whose class didn't fill can take it away at this point. One of the advantages of being in PHP is that you have greater power to pick the schedule you want to *begin* with, while the people with less seniority have to settle for what is left--usually the less desirable days and times. Okay, so that seems fair. But, if your class that you hand-picked doesn't fill up with students, it doesn't seem right to me that you can then take a class from someone else (especially a class that's started already). It seems like having your cake and eating it too.

In addition, I don't think it's fair to the students. They have already bought books and done some work for my class; also, at least one of them had signed up for my section deliberately, on a recommendation from one of my former students. Now, they will undoubtedly have to sell those books back to the bookstore and buy new ones, and the work they've done so far won't count. Again, though, I do understand that the teacher who took my class felt she urgently needed the work as well.

Oh well. I hope people in my life will read this post, so I won't have to tell this sad story too often! Also, if you do read this, I am curious to know what you think of the bumping system--even if you don't agree with me. I'm genuinely curious about what others think.

I am going to try to get more Writing Center hours and more copy-editing work, if I can, to try to make up a little for this loss.

R.I.P. Non-barfing Streak

Today, tragically, my non-barfing streak ended, in…barfing.


Sarah’s non-barfing streak: Jan. 5, 2006 – Jan. 24, 2006

Todd Bridges Lives!

You will be relieved to hear that Todd Bridges is alive. I saw him tonight on "Skating with Celebrities." I thought he was dead and I think I even told a few people so.

Screaming for Vengeance

I am experimenting with uploading some images...I have never tried this before. Here are some pics I have of one of Mark's bands, Screaming for Vengeance, a Judas Priest tribute band... Mark is the one whose shirt is cursing, for those who might not recognize him.

Doesn't Damian look great? (top photo, bass player). He also used to be Gene Simmons in the KISS band in which Mark is Ace Frehley.

Our second trip to the de Young

This time I wanted to see the special Hatshepsut exhibit. Mark and I complained again about the stairway, but it was worth it, because the exhibit was really cool. This was an Egyptian woman who ruled as *king* alongside her co-regent—her nephew and stepson, Thutmose III—in the 1400s B.C. At first she ruled in his stead, when he was too young to take the throne, and then when he was an adult, instead of giving up power, she ruled alongside him as co-king. The Egyptologists believe she was the dominant partner, too. In the statue representations of her, she is shown as both a man and a woman, wearing traditional garb associated with each sex, in different representations. It is not known whether Thutmose III accepted this arrangement with contentment or not (some of the material I read said he might have had her assassinated finally). Twenty years after her death, Thutmose had a lot of the statues and images of her erased or defaced! Historians thought for awhile that this was an indication of his resentment of her usurping his role, but why wait 20 years? Also, he didn’t try to eliminate all representations of her—just the ones where she’s shown as a king, rather than a queen. The newer theory is that Thutmose didn’t resent her personally, but rather was trying to ensure the male line of kings for his son, Amenhotep II. He was trying to rewrite the historical record so as to make the line of male kings seem to go seamlessly from Thutmose to Thutmose, obliterating the memory of a woman having ever assumed those powers.

By the way, Thutmose III was a short, warlike king who was later called by historians “the Napoleon of Egypt.” We also went up in the tower, which has a panoramic view of the city. You should go up in the tower, whoever you are, you San Franciscan. Unless you are terrified of heights, of course.

Our first trip to the new de Young Museum...

…a few weeks ago. Mark and I had never been to the new de Young Museum in Golden Gate Park, even though it is just down the street from our apartment, so we finally went. We decided to just pay general admission and see the museum’s permanent collection, since it was our first time, and see the special exhibit on Queen Hatshepsut another time.

We thought it was hard to walk up the first flight of stairs. It was a long, gradual staircase with wide, flat stairs, and somehow it was difficult to build any momentum. There were extra short steps you had to take between each step, and you got out of breath faster than you might think. We thought a ramp or even a shorter, steeper staircase would have been easier to deal with. We both complained a great deal as we walked.

Once upstairs, we found it difficult to find any art. We kept walking down long hallways and coming face to face with locked doors and elevators. We were walking around at random, because Mark said he preferred that approach to the strategy I suggested of taking a map, but soon I prevailed and we got a map. We went to the wing with 20th-century and contemporary art but quickly decided our brains were too lazy to grapple with the cognitive challenge of all that abstraction and complexity; so then we moved along to the wing with eighteenth- and nineteenth-century American art, in which things looked like what they were supposed to be. We liked the paintings from the Hudson School, though I incorrectly identified some peacefully grazing cows as a herd of wild buffalo. Apparently I can’t even identify things that look like themselves.

In this wing of the museum, there was a view of the sculpture garden outside. We heard two older ladies comment disparagingly on it in a mixture of French and English. One lady said contemptuously, “Bowling balls and a clothespin! What a way to ruin a garden.” Actually, I should point out that the “bowling balls” were twelve apple sculptures, and the clothespin was a giant safety pin. The other lady said, equally dismissively, “Happy birthday to you. You can have this museum as your present—-garden and all.”

We went outside and sat in the sculpture garden. Mark said he wasn’t that impressed by the safety pin. I think his exact words were, “So it’s a safety pin, except larger! Big deal.” There was a prominent sign asking people not to touch the art in the garden, but during the brief time we were there, we saw at least three young children run up to the apples, sit on them, climb on them, and caress them vigorously. One of the children challenged the idea that there were twelve, as her mother had told her, so she decided to count them herself by running up to each one, touching it, and then shouting out a number. At the end, she triumphantly crowed that there were actually *fourteen* apples, but Mark whispered to me that she had gone straight from 9 to 12, completely disregarding 10 and 11. How incompetent.

Mark said he wanted to go back another time and try to appreciate the modern art again because he felt like he’d let it down. Our second trip to the deYoung will be covered in another tantalizing installment.

My Promotion!

I am excited because today I found out I got my “promotion” of sorts and was admitted to USF’s Preferred Hiring Pool for adjunct teachers. This was the pretty grueling process I went through last semester: I met with the dean twice; I was observed teaching by the dean and by the head of my program on two separate occasions (I wonder if that sounds as terrifying as it actually was?); and I created and assembled a fat portfolio of materials including a teaching philosophy, grading rationale, sample student papers with my comments and grades, sample assignments, copies of all my student evaluations, and letters of recommendation from both former students and colleagues. It took forEVER and I worked very, very hard. This is an important step for me because it means I will have much greater job security and a raise! I would also have access to benefits (though I am covered through Mark’s job already) and will have greater freedom and power as to the classes I select, how many I want, and the schedule I want to create for myself (though seniority-wise, of course, I am going to be at the bottom of the PHP list, so I must still defer to those who were admitted to PHP before me). I feel happy and relieved.

Whistleblower on hubby's unpopular idea

Mark thinks there should be a Federal Naming Commission that assigns names to people’s babies for them, and that the FNC should operate sort of communistically to even the economic and social playing fields. Very successful, upper-income-bracket, objectionable people would be assigned awful names for their kids, while the less fortunate would be given most excellent names. Of course, we are dabbling in the subjective here, so Mark has a lot of work to do in figuring out which names would qualify as “awful” and which as “most excellent,” and ethically, he’ll have to explain why the babies should be punished for the sins of their parents. I intend to interview him for a more extended exploration of the FNC and its implications and present the interview on this blog. For now, I’ll just add that Mark wants to take Kirsten Dunst and rename her Dorcas Krappe.

Pregnant?

I can’t believe I am pregnant. I don’t mean that figuratively—what I mean is, I CAN’T BELIEVE I AM PREGNANT. I have had no hard proof. Okay, I took about seven pregnancy tests, but they didn’t really convince me, to be honest. Those tests seem to operate by magic. Or, more scientifically, even if they show the presence of some hormone in my body, so what? All that proves conclusively is that there is a hormone in my body, not a miniature creature. I realize that I am sick and not feeling like myself, but that could be some terrible illness, not pregnancy.

I have only had two concrete pieces of evidence that there is somebody inside of me, and neither of them was completely persuasive. The first was a sonogram image, at 7 weeks, which showed a big space and a little fuzzy circular thing inside of it. It didn’t look remotely like a baby, and could have been anything. The doctor assured me that she saw certain characteristics that indicated it was a baby-like entity, but I only nodded and pretended I understood what she was talking about. All I could think of the whole time was the anti-nausea prescription Mark was currently filling for me downstairs in the pharmacy during my appointment.

The second piece of evidence, at 11 weeks, was a Doppler test that was supposed to help me hear the baby’s heartbeat. The doctor put a device on my stomach, and I heard some loud “whooshing” sounds. I asked if that was the heartbeat, but she said it could be my own heartbeat, so she felt my pulse while she was doing the Doppler. Then, both she and Mark said they could hear two different whooshing sounds: one slower, being my heartbeat, and the other faster, being the baby’s. But the machine kept getting louder and then softer, and making static noises, and I wasn’t too sure what was going on. At one point, the doctor said, “They’ve had the same equipment since the 70s. This thing is going to explode any minute now!”

So, I have to be honest and say I might not be pregnant. I hope no one (Mom, Dad) gets too disappointed if this all turns out to have been a big mistake.

Bon Jovi Lyrics Lead to Marital Strife

Today after lunch, Mark and I discussed the lyrics to “Livin’ on a Prayer” by Bon Jovi. I have never been able to understand the second verse, but Mark said it goes something like, “Tommy’s got his six-string in hock. Now he’s holdin' in, when he used to make it talk so tough.” Here is the dialogue that followed:

Me: I can’t believe that’s the worst hardship they could think of to illustrate Tommy and Gina’s rough life. His six-string is in hock? So?

Mark (after long, confused pause): Do you understand what “in hock” means?

Me (insulted): Of course I know what “in hock” means. I just don’t understand why that is the most powerful lyric they could have come up with to show us how hard Tommy’s life is.

Mark: He had to sell his guitar to a pawn shop!!!!

Me: Again, I really do know what it means to “hock” something.

Mark: You wouldn’t understand a man like Tommy.

Lists

I have random notes and lists all over my house, on the backs of old receipts in my purse and scribbled in notebooks--things I think of that I think I'll want to remember later, ideas or lines of dialogue to incorporate into a story or ideas for my class next semester, or whatever. But often when I look back at them, I have no idea what I was talking about. For example, I have no idea what this means (scribbled on a raggedy sheet of paper in my "things to take care of" box): "She'd gotten hold of some of our collaborative writing. Quote!" Other things make sense but it's a shame that I wrote them down, such as two bullets on a list:
.Buy juice, granola bars, cat litter
. Don't be self-pitying
I also think it is sad that I made a list called "Foods I like," as if I would not be able to remember. Underneath that list, there was also some self-help advice: "No. Don't be tragic. Be fun, and casual, and light-hearted!"
But by far the stupidest old list I found today was called "British Things to Say." Here it is:
British things to say:
nackered (=tired)
cheerio
jolly good
brilliant
"Is it meant to do that?"

I am not sure why I thought I would ever have the need in my life to sound British, or why I thought these particular expressions would create the illusion of my Britishness. Or, maybe I was going to create a British character in a story, and the way the readers would understand his or her Britishness was by virtue of these catch phrases? If so, that is pretty lame and gimmicky. I don't think I was planning a British character, though. I must have wanted to sound British myself. How sad. ("Don't be self-pitying!")

Cheerio,
Sarah

Preggie Pops

Preggie pops work. Damnit, they really work.

Uhhh...hi?

Wow, I can't believe I just did this procedure to get a blog. I doubt anyone will ever look at it, ever. I feel like an idiot. Oh well! So... what should I say, in this momentous first entry? I should either be very self-conscious, and not say anything too personal, or pour my heart and guts out, in support of my theory that no one will ever look at it but me. Realistically, I guess I will end up doing something in between. Since the ostensible purpose of the blog is to fill my family and friends in on how I am doing with this pregnancy, I guess I can start by saying that it's Jan. 9 and it has been four days since I last threw up, which feels like a major winning streak. I am making an effort not to get too cocky about it, since the last time I got cocky and declared myself better, I threw up the very next day, which happened to be New Year's Day. I also threw up on Christmas morning. I hope everyone feels suitably sorry for me.

As I am writing I am sucking on something called a "Preggie Pop" that I discovered at a maternity store. I hate to give credence to anything with a cute, diminutive form of "pregnant" in its title ("preggie" should definitely be banned as an adjective), but it is helping me. The ants ate my last bag of preggie pops, so these ones are safely protected in a ziplock bag. I discovered ants in my underwear drawer a few days ago. I have decided to let them take over this apartment. To do anything else would just be too much effort.

The only flavor of preggie pop I can't eat is the ginger one. I ate so much ginger when I was first getting sick that now just the smell of it makes me want to barf.

Bye.