Sick AGAIN

I cannot believe it. For the third time this year, I am sick. This time it's the stomach flu (it's been so long since I had this--like 15 years--that I'd actually stopped believing it exists). I got it on the way home from school, and actually had to pull over on a pretty big main Chicago street and be sick, something I've never, ever done before. It got all over my favorite pumps and most comfortable teaching pants. I know, gross. Sorry. I spent the entire UNC vs. Tennessee women's game running back and forth to the bathroom. That's okay, though, because I've had about enough of Ivory Latta for this season. She's cute and she's strong and smart, but enough already--get out of the way so Candace Parker can make a basket.

So the stomach flu came and went, and now the cold I suspected I still hadn't licked is gathering strength and knocking around my lungs and making me sound like an old man. I've got a couple of posts drafted, one about Big Love, if anyone wants this (ethnically, if not actively) Mormon girl's opinion on it.

At what point do I call my doctor and tell her I think I might have avian flu?

Sloop John B

I woke up with this song in my head this morning, and it was so persistent that I had to go to itunes and download Pet Sounds. I probably should have had this album before, and I probably should own it for real, but The Beach Boys make me whimper, for all kinds of reasons. I woke up wanting to go home, but not knowing where home is. I think it's because of the made-guy in this week's Sopranos, who, having inherited some money, dreams of moving to Florida and starting over. My mind flashed to a row of fairly cheesy apartments-turned-condos around the corner from the house my family rented for 25 years. I see the red Spanish-tiled roofs, the giant fern plants lining the condo walkways, a eucalyptus tree stretching tall against the yellowy-blue of the sky. I can feel the sweet softness of the dry, dry air.

When I used to dream about hitting the academic jackpot, in my deepest heart of hearts I dreamt of landing in Orange County and buying one of these condos. It was a modest dream, realistic in its acknowledgement of how hard it would be for an academic to buy a home in So. Cal., but it was also a dream about being close to my family, because up until last May, my sister and her family lived in that home, having taken over the lease from my mom when she moved back to her childhood home to take care of her ailing mother. My quick, pangy flash the other night reminded me of something I rarely admit: how much I want to go home, and how impossible that dream has always seemed, even at eighteen, when I first left home.

My dad is the oldest of nine children, so when I was born there were still young children in my grandparents' home, aunts and uncles who were only a few years older than me. Listening to The Beach Boys reminds me of leaning against a giant, stuffed purple panda in a corner of the room my aunts shared, listening to them talk or, more likely fight, while they got ready to go out and do whatever teenagers do. The Beach Boys take me back to that achy, melancholy childhood waiting period when it seems impossible that you will ever be included in conversations, or have a place that is just yours, that time when you wonder what you will look like when you grow up, and if you will recognize yourself. Having lived my entire adult life away from California, I often meet people who tell me about their childhood fantasies of living there, fantasies premised on shows like The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family. They tell me that Southern California seemed like the ultimate place to live, where everyone was cool and attractive and happy. They dreamt of growing up and being able to access that life.

I would like to say, for the record, that kids who grow up in Southern California have this same dream.

Sorry About the Blog Roll

When I switched my template from blue to white I lost my blogroll. I need to reload it, but haven't, and since I usually read from bloglines, I keep forgetting. I'm mindful of this right now because I've been compiling a list of feminist blogs for a class assignment I'm developing for the intro. to women's studies course I'm teaching next quarter (which begins the week after next, making "spring break" a sad sham) and have been cruising people's blogrolls like crazy.

Let's call him Dr. N(nnnn)

It feels like I posted about two weeks ago, but checking my actual site (which I rarely do) I see that it's been almost a month. How did that happen? Mostly it's because I owe a real-life post to one of my favorite bloggers and have been ashamed to post here when I haven't written him back yet.

So this is a shout out to fav. blogger: I know, I know I have to get back to you. Just because I haven't doesn't mean I'm not living daily with the guilt of not. My ex-girlfriend used to have a great saying about dissertation writing that comes to mind today: (rough paraphrase) you get to a point where the guilt and shame of NOT writing becomes much harder to bear than just writing.