Susan Arthur

I just got email from the last teacher I owe work to.... ungrammatical, tough shit. I was supposed to give my presentation on Monday at 3, and was going to KY on Tues or Wed. She says, though, that we have to change the presentation date to Thursday. I am SO not amused. I wanted to get this crap over and done. Who would have thought that any grad student would ever be complaining about having too much time for a paper?

I've been painting today. I decompressed by reading this morning; read a whole silly mystery before noon. Sweet. I mean, not that I was too awfully compressed to begin with, but I still had absolutely no ambition this morning. So after lunch I turned on the TeeeVeee and started painting. I have a scroll blank I was going to try to do for the competition Livia had-- I hear no Laurels managed to get anything entered in that, BTW, which was disappointing. I decided to go on and finish that one, which was drawn, inked and calliged, with a little bit of painting started. I have an Undine to do next.

Mythbusters was on this afternoon while I was painting. I learned all kinds of interesting stuff, some of which I knew or strongly suspected, but it was entertaining. Myths are all done for the night, though, and Harry Potter is now meeting Hagrid for the first time, which is pleasant painting company.

My mother called last night, trying not to let Daddy hear her talking. It was kinda funny; I felt like I should close the studio door to keep it more secret or something. Anyway, she was telling me about their taxes. She wants to believe Daddy's okay, so she has let him "take care of" the taxes this year. Yep, that's worked out just about as well as you thought it would, given that he still has some dementia from the hospital stay, and I think he has recovered about as much as he's going to. When she asked him about it, he said, "Well, let me think about that a minute." And later when she siad, "Well, where would you have put stuff like that?"he said "Don't be so critical!" Seems no one has any idea where the tax information is. It's not just their retirement income, either; they have interest income too. They have an accountant (I should probably send him flowers or steak or something) who said, "Don't worry about it! I'll file an extension for you," which was a hell of a relief for Mother. What a saint, to be so nice when they called him on April 14 with this dilemma. Mother said he was so sweet she almost cried, and she doesn't cry any easier than I do. She said he did tell her that he noticed some confusion on Daddy's part last year at tax time but thought it was because of Aunt Susan's death. That really surprised her.

What really prompted the call, though, was that the accountant said he should probably have Danny's and my phone numbers and contact info. That both scared her and made her indignant. She informed me that during the war, her job was "figures" whatever the hell that means. (And here I had pictured her with her little Rosie the Riveter scarf on.) She was good at it, too, she informed me. And while she was telling me the story, she uttered the first curse word I have ever heard her say in my entire life. She said she had done everything she could find to do, so the supervisor gave her a project she thought would take Mother awhile. Later she came back and said "How's that coming?" obviously thinking Mother would be working away for hours more. Mother handed her the papers, and the supervisor said "Damn!" Mother got such a kick out of saying this forbidden word that she repeated that part of the story two or three times. Mother learning to curse....what a Hallmark moment.

She admits that she can't afford to let financial stuff like that go now. She insists, though, that he drove to church yesterday "and didn't make a single mistake!" Sigh. Or yikes. Or both.

It's just the same-old, same-old, otherwise. I volunteered at the library today, got my taxes submitted, and filled out a job application. Wait, that isn't exactly the same old thing. Blase, that's me. Now I'm working on the last set of silly questions. Some of these are harder, though. Might have to bestir myself to go to the library or something. What a concept.

I am so frustrated with this paper. I work along and think I'm getting somewhere and then I look over the whole thing and realize that I've repeated myself, random bits of topics wander all over the place and generally speaking, it's a big muddle. I wrote the teacher last night and asked how long an extension I have and whether she wants me to do the presentation on Saturday when everyone else does. She wrote back saying not to do the presentation but didn't say about how long an extension I have. At this point I'm almost sorry I asked for an extension to begin with; I would have had to churn something out and it might not have been good but it would have been done. As it is, lord knows when I'll have to finish it, and I still have one more paper in the other class. I'm not too stressed over it. All she said is "write an essay" on something about the humanities. No length, no requirements about which damn citation style to use or anything else. Just, write an essay. Oooookayyyy then. But before I get to do that little bit of frippery, I have to finish the research proposal. Sigh.

So. I went to the library yesterday to look up answers for a class. No, that isn't cheating, it's what we're supposed to be learning to do. Unfortunately, most of the questions she asks are extremely easy to answer via Google, so I have to go out of my way to find other ways to answer these siliy things, or at least document the answers I find on Google. One of yesterday's questions was "What is Elton John's real name?" The amusing part is that I kept thinking... "Reginald Dwight.... Reginald Dwight... Reginald Dwight WHAT?? What is his last name?" and then found that Dwight IS his last name. Or was, anyway, since it's "John" now.

Anyway, while in the library of course I had to scan the new book shelves to see if there was anything there I wanted to read that I hadn't already read, because I'm a junkie that way. And behold, there was a book called "The Perfect Fake." No mystery genre sticker on it but my instincts were right and the blurb sounded good. Brought it home. Finished my homework like a good girl and sent it in before The Sopranos came on. Watched two hours of quality TV entertainment. Went to bed. Found new book on bed. Started reading. And kept reading. Until I finished the book, in fact, at 3 AM. Made me very happy I didn't have to go to work today.

The name of this book that I stayed up reading is The Perfect Fake by Barbara Parker. I'd never read her stuff before but she's apparently a NY Times bestseller. Of course, I think James Patterson is, too, and I absolutely can't read him. Anyway, it's about a man who is hired to replicate a Renaissance map and it's excellently done. It's a caper, of course, and I'd say I could imagine a movie of it, but Hollywood would have to change it to something more glamorous than a map, fergodssake, and then it'd get really weird as they tried to adapt everything to fit. One of the things I appreciated most about it was that as Parker introduces the characters, she presents almost all of them sympathetically and it isn't till later that the reader (at least this one) realizes what a nest of vipers it is. I'm used to authors signaling early on which are the good guys and which are the bad; even if you're supposed to like the bad guys you know from the first time you "meet" them what they are. Not here, baby. After watching The Shield on Tuesday night, The Sopranos last night and then reading this, I feel like I'm drowning in moral ambiguity and maybe I need several hot showers and a scrub brush to be fit to go out in polite society again.

Ah, well. Back to reality, I guess. I need to get started on the next paper, this one for the good teacher who is really hard. This is a research proposal on graphic novels and I'm dreading it for reasons entirely different than the reasons I dreaded the last paper.

I'm also meeting a couple of friends tonight. One's husband is in ICU; nikulai and I are taking her out for dinner. Talk about reality, that's gonna be plenty of reality right there. In that context, doing a paper for grad school is merely a pale imitation of reality. Still, it's my reality and I'd better get to it.

I've been battling a migraine for.... I dunno, a week?... now. Sometimes it's worse, sometimes the imitrex helps, sometimes it fades in and out. It got enough better last night that I went to State to the Design Library and to the main library to do some reading for This Damn Paper. I think the reading helped; at least I have a somewhat firmer grip on what the theoretical job is all about. I took another imitrex before bed hoping the migraine would be gone this morning. Ah, vain hope, tantalizing as ever, and still duplicitous. It wasn't too bad though, till the high school marching band percussion competition started up at the school next door to the apartments. I had to abandon the studio with its comfortable chair and big-screen computer and flee with my laptop to the living room, which has the sole advantage of being on the far side of the building. That drops it to a dull rumble, at least. I've cobbled together a working arrangement that I hope will serve till the little buggers finish drumming and tinking on their xylophones (which is like a thorn in the brain every time I hear it, as opposed to the blunt caveman-club of the drums.)

I'm hoping I'll be able to cobble together a paper by tomorrow night. That may seem like plenty of time for a five-double-spaced-page-paper, but I'm not feeling sanguine since I don't feel I have a really good grip on what I'm doing. Not to mention the effects of the migraine and/or the meds. I was concerned enough last night that I wrote the teacher and told her the situation; she probably thinks I'm crazy for being so concerned so "early" but I wanted to let her know in advance just in case, instead of five minutes before the paper's due.

One interesting side effect of this paper is that I've been having these wild-assed fantasies of going to conferences all over the country-- ALA in DC in June, the art librarians conference in Baltimore the week before that (guess you're supposed to go early and do both) and suchlike. If I were looking for a job anywhere in the country, it'd probably be well worth my while. If I knew how to do that sort of networking, that is. The conferences that sound like more fun, though, are the ones that are actually in the topic I'm supposed to be librarian for (in this theoretical world), like art books and graphic novels. Heh. And I can see the looks on the faces of my imaginary managers when I turn in a request for reimbursement to go to Burning Man. Hey, it's all art, right?

Sometimes I think I have no imagination at all. The next assignment due for the Humanities class is a five page essay; we are to pretend that we are short-listed for a job (subject specialist librarian; we can choose the subject) at USC and have been asked to submit this essay as part of the interview process. We are to describe how we would fulfill teaching, research/writing, and service obligations for the first five years of employment there. There are three single spaced pages of direction on what should be addressed in this essay, including associations, conferences, committee appointments, research, publications and university initiatives. "Will you work on a second masters degree? On a Ph.D?" "Are there gaps in the literature? Gaps in reference sources?" My head is spinning. She (yes, this is the teacher who might best be described as "whimsical") has asked three single-spaced pages worth of questions that we are to answer in five double spaced pages, while throwing in details like "someone in the field" I would be collaborating with. Like crevette's "imaginary celebrity boyfriend" but not nearly so much fun.

I have a hard enough time doing this crap for a job I really want and think I'd like, never mind one in the heart of LA (I don't think so! UCSB or UCSC, maybe) where "bibliographic instruction appears to be a key part of this position and the applicant should illustrate knowledge of technology." Considering that the things I've gotten most excited about during this whole masters degree were a book repair practicum and a paper on the effect of iron gall ink on vellum and paper, this does not sound like an ideal fit to me. I'm having a hard enough time getting my mind around finding employment in any modern library, never mind pretending I want to set the world on fire in a major urban university. (Um, given LA and southern California in general, perhaps "set the world on fire" is not the best phrase here.)

In architecture school, they tried to teach us to think outside the box. I am so bad at this, I can't even tell you. If there isn't a box, I build one and climb in it. I see what I expect to see, I go where I'm told, I think what the movie maker or author wants me to think (unless they are just awfully bad at what they do.) The box I'm in does not include anything remotely like this job.

Admittedly, this is made a little worse by the fact that I woke up at 5:30 this morning with a migraine.... just enough that I knew it'd get worse if I stayed all snuggled down under the covers like I wanted to, but not enough to be worth taking a pill. I even read for an hour, thinking it'd make me sleepy and I could sleep sitting up, which would have worked fine if I could have gone back to sleep. Perhaps I should have read my Research Methods assigned readings instead of a good novel? Alas, I'm awake but groggy and clearly uninspired. Caffeine cleared up the migraine but left me twitchy without helping the mental fog.

Well, okay, if not the tenure project, what's next? The assignment due after that is the research proposal. The meeting yesterday with the teacher went far better than I expected; she basically told me how to set up the research, and it wasn't anything like I had in mind. Fortunately, her way is better. Of course, it's one of those cases where someone else has a clear idea of what something should be and expects you to be able to produce it, whether you really have the information you need or not. I hate when that happens, and sometimes I feel like the world is full of managers/teachers like that. I know it isn't true, but I just always feel so lost and unsure of myself when confronted with/by the ones that are there, that I lose all perspective. Not quite up to tackling that one, either.

Yesterday was also my last day at the book repair lab. I'm so glad I did that-- thanks, zihuatenejo for encouraging me to try to set it up. I'm not sure I'd have had the nerve myself. (See above where I climb into the box of my own devising.) And one of the things that was really good about it was the group of conversations I had with the man who's the head of the Preservation Department. The rules for a practicum require that the student be "under the supervision" of a professional librarian. My experience with "under the supervision" of whoever is that the supervisor tells the group leader what needs to be done and we, the underlings, do it, and that's considered "under supervision." Andy took it to mean more than that, and set up four meetings with me. I was dreading them; especially the first time, when I felt like I should have important questions in mind to ask, and take notes and such. I couldn't think of a damn thing to ask, but fortunately he is very easy to talk to. Several times we touched on what I can only describe as practical philosophy-- for example about preservation, and who decides what to preserve, and how those decisions are made. He is a natural teacher and made me look at some things that other teachers had tried to pound into my head and I wound up understanding a lot more than I had before.

Apparently I had more to say than I realized. Too bad it isn't about that damn job at USC.

Okay, this weeks silly questions from my class assignment include:

Did Robert Johnson really sell his soul to the devil to play guitar well? Is this a myth? Ummmm.... okay, as a reference librarian I'm supposed to... what, look up the devil's phone number in my handy dandy long distance directory and call him to ask? This is a pretty damn existential question, if you ask me, and I thought I was done with that philosophy and religion crap for this class. Sigh.

Who was Antonio Salieri and why did he hate Mozart? Riiiight. Because Salieri kept such an extensive diary full of little tidbits like "OMG!! I have just HAD it with Mr Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart! Mr High and Mighty! Gets all the chicks just because he can write music. I'll show him! I'll whisper in the King's ear that his music has... has... TOO MANY NOTES! Yeah, that's it!" Because we all know that if it was in a movie it must be true.

What is important about Art Kane's photograph called "A Day in Harlem"? Or something like that? Sigh. Just.... sigh. Because there's only one reason any artwork is considered "important" and everybody, including notoriously opinionated art critics, agree(s) on what it is. And why is a photograph in the "Performing Arts" set, anyway?

The good news is that she finally graded the question sets that we've turned in so far, and I got full credit for all of them, so I guess my use of Google isn't going to get me flunked. That's a relief, since we're almost done with the semester.

I didn't get the mail from my mailbox yesterday so today I got a birthday card from my parents. My mother picked it out (pink!!11eleventy!! boy, is it pink! With sweet poetry!!) and wrote it, of course; she always has. Her handwriting hasn't changed in a definable way, but suddenly it looks like an old person wrote it. She's called two or three times this week. I think it may be partly because of my birthday but it's also because she needs reassurance. Despite her earlier assertions that Daddy's doing better, she said yesterday that he's gotten noticeably worse since I saw him last. She said she found him the other day sitting in the chair in the bedroom wearing his boxers, socks, a t-shirt, and two heavy outerwear jackets. During the conversation I mentioned that I thought he was more confused when he is really quiet; it's like he is afraid if he says anything someone will notice how confused he is. Mother's response is that he's like that most of the time now. She said a friend suggested that she talk to their doctor; he might decide they need to take away Daddy's driver's license. Mother said "It would be awful if they did that; it'd just kill him." She did say that she exercises control and has decided not to let him drive on days he's particularly confused. I was relieved to hear that, and mentioned that while she's concerned for his mental well being if they take away his driver's license, she also has to consider her safety and that of others on the roads. The thought that he's worse off now than when I was there but is driving now scares the crap out of me.

On Saturday I had an appointment with a psychiatrist about my disability claim. I think it's about the Social Security one, but I'm not totally sure about that. This was triggered because of one of the meds I take. One of the first questions he asked was my age; when I told him he said "That will really help your claim!" I burst out laughing. "I'm glad it's going to help something!" He actually acted like he thought I might be approved. I remain unconvinced, but boy, that'd be something. People who have seizures and are legally blind have to fight to be approved, but I'm going to get it? I suppose it's remotely possible that different areas have different analyses, but on the whole, I think not.

I'm working on an assignment for the Humanities class. While poking around the other day I found a photo and brief bio of the teacher and damn, it has helped me a lot. Very strange how I need a picture in my head of who I'm writing for, but it's definitely true. Even writing this journal I have a sort of mental composite of readers. Anyway, the homework is to create a subject guide. We need to specify our target audience so she can gauge how well we have tailored our recommendations. I chose "quilting" as my topic and public library patrons as my audience, and damn, I am going to have trouble limiting my selections. In addition to "getting started" and patterns kind of sources, I also want sections on different styles (including art quilts), history, collaborative quilts and regional variations. Damn, these things are beautiful. I hadn't counted on the research having quite such a strong effect of making me want to quilt. Just what I need-- another art to pursue. I haven't quilted for years-- not since I made a panel for the AIDS quilt for my architecture school friend, Scott Hallam. Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be a way to zoom that image and I don't have those photos on my computer. My favoriet square on his panel shows a beach scene at night with lace for the froth at the edge of the waves and a satin moon and seed bead stars on a black silk sky. The text around the block is a quote from Scott: "The only problem with sex on the beach is that sand gets EVERYWHERE." Heh.

And so this gets more cheerful towards the end, I had a great time yesterday shopping at the art store with the J-half of zihuatenejo. I am pulling her to the dark side.... er, make that, "teaching her to be even more finicky about her drafting techniques." We had also hoped to get some egg tempera paint, but the store doesn't carry it; we'll have to order online. Le sigh. No instant gratification on that score. After shopping we had breakfast (midafternoon-- yay!) and were both gloriously unhealthy. Yum, I say, even if corned beef hash does look like dog food, and we both agree it does. Still, yum.

So. Back to quilting books.

Not an exciting day. I suppose I should be grateful for that. Not a particularly good day, either. I woke up at 5 with a migraine, AFTER taking an Imitrex last night before I went to bed, because I could feel it starting even then. I only slept 4 or 5 hours, and that includes feeling the migraine every time I woke up. I wanted to take a nap this morning after the second Imitrex kicked in but the caffeinated coffee I took for medicinal purposes foiled that scheme, except for dozing off for a couple of minutes while I was reading whatever bad book I had in my hand. At least I know that author isn't worth checking out again.

Before I forget it, I wantI have an appointment to thank wakeupmagy for her recommendation awhile back for a treatment for cold sores-- I got some l-lysine at Whole Foods, and damn! That stuff worked, literally overnight. I forgot to take it with me when I went out the next day and the swelling came back a little, but it was pretty much over with. Yay for that!

I was an impetuous woman yesterday. My iPod, upon which I have come to rely, wouldn't turn on one time too many. If modern gadgets can have loose connections, I swear this one did. It worked, it didn't work, totally at random. It was fine yesterday morning, but in the afternoon, no dice. Having recently received a check for three months of disability from the state, I said tohellwithitall and stopped at the Apple store, which just happens to be conveniently located between the Book Repair lab and my house. Convenient, eh? I was originally lusting after the cute little Nano, but when I realized that the regular size iPod provided three times as much storage space for the same price, I abandoned "cute" in a heartbeat. Screw cute, give me more music. And just like the nice man at the store promised, it "recognized" almost all the music on my computer as being mine, or assumed since it was on there, and it was bonding for the first time, it must be okay, or something, and loaded everything. Except one Lyle Lovett song, for some bizarre reason. Just the one song. So I've been playing with my new toy, which of course led me to play with my iTunes and set up some more playlists and such. Fun.

I have an appointment on Saturday with a doctor to see if I'm disabled enough for Social Security, which as we've already discussed, I know I'm not. Still, I'll play their silly games and go. As I said to someone this morning, I have no idea whether this guy will give me a cursory once over before telling me "Nope" or whether he'll examine me in excruciating detail before saying "No."

A mental health professional recommended yesterday that I only work halftime instead of full time, in the interest of not provoking the migraines to greater heights. Since the disability guarantees me a certain amount of income whether I work or not, (as long as it isn't the job that made me sick in the first place-- not bloody likely!!) that makes a great deal of sense. I think getting out and working some will help keep me sane(r) but I hadn't really considered all the ramifications of this whole disability thing. I have been blithely assuming that I'll be able to do a less stressful job as long as I keep taking my Imitrex, but there's no real guarantee of that, or that this will be less stressful, for that matter. Maybe it'll be the same amount of stress but in a different way. Joy! It's given me a lot to think about. In between thinking about the papers I have to write, and the random other assignments, and of course, most important of all, squeezing in time for a scroll blank or two for Coronation. I mean, let's keep our priorities straight here.

Now that the Imitrex has kicked in, I've had lunch and a couple of winks of nap, I think I feel alert enough to work on one of the random assignments, so I'll start writing now.

There are contractors working in the front hall, attaching drywall over the plaster. I suppose this will look better when it's done, but I didn't have a serious problem with the shabby chic of the peeling plaster. There been a few half-hearted motions in the direction of repainting, but this will be much more comprehensive and will provide a smoother finish. However, they have been drilling for what seems like days now, and the kitties are most decidedly unhappy with the racket. I'm not too thrilled myself, being of the mind that dental work is of the devil and is entirely suitable for torture, and drills (unless I'm the one wielding them) sound entirely too much like dental drilling to be borne without complaint. I have been biting the insides of my cheeks to stop the sympathetic vibrations; the cats have all been showing agitation by jumping at every noise, slinking everywhere and hiding in any little corner or cubbyhole they can find. Every now and then I look up from my reading to see a cat staring besechingly at me, as if I could make it stop if only I were willing to stop torturing them.

I'm preparing to leave them to their own protective devices, however, since the student library association is sponsoring a trip to the NC Art Museum's library this afternoon, and after that I'm having sushi with zihuatenejo to celebrate her completion of her comprehensive exam. Woot! for finishing comps. And Woot! for visiting the Art Museum library. Now if they were only hiring... Heh.