Oh my. Another school year approaches. I am now a second-year college instructor as well as a second-year graduate student. I'm also busy reading/writing already, which is neat.

Because I am one of those people who abuse their books, I tend to underline, dog-ear, and note-take with wild abandon. I don't dislike lending books because I am worried the other person will harm them; I dislike lending books because I am worried the other person will stare with increasing worry at the margin where I have scribbled, "Ha! I am right about the mouse circus! Bring me Voice and swordfights!" and stop talking to me because their mother wisely instructed them to Avoid Lunatics and then I will never get my book back.

What was I saying? Ah, yes, the coming school year.

My university has asked that faculty include a go-to plan for handling any student who comes down with the swine flu. I find this rather odd, as it seems like the obvious go-to plan is yelling "get away from me, you're one of the infected!"

On the positive side, I no longer feel new-teacher anxiety - in fact to the contrary, because I am teaching essay writing to freshmen this year I have decided to take the laid back approach, because after all, these people cannot legally drink.

Because less of my time is taken up with lesson planning, and also because my gentleman caller STILL lives 3,000 miles away, I am sifting through hobbies to keep me entertained. Conveniently, my roomate has a piano, and relatedly, I have strong headphones with the right output jack, which has lead to a lot of delighted banging around on my part without any Stab The Mad Piano Player With A Fork on her part.

I am also baking. I decided to start of slow, with boxes. You may think this would not be necessary, but then, you have not heard the epic story of Chelsey's Home Economics Class, where the phrase, "Good God, what had you done?" was uttered more than once. Baking from boxes means the only practical step for me to master is cracking eggs, which I currently do with a lot of fearful tapping followed by less fearful cursing.

I am finishing a story that includes all of hte following: medical terminology, a charging rhinocerous, a practicing faith healer, pig dissection, and an argument over jelly. I'm so proud.

I don't know what normal people do when they feel sad about something they can't change.

An Imaginary Conversation About Catcalls:
(note: this conversation assumes you, the audience, are male. You may not be, but pretend for the sake of my limited rhetoric.)

A: Catcalls can be unwanted, hurtful, and/or frightening. Please refrain.

Q: Wait a second. Isn't the questioner supposed to go first?

A: Yes, but you never considered asking, and this is a problem.

Q: Okay, then: What's the problem with catcalls?

A: They force me, the uninterested chick out walking, to be part of your sexuality, and they do so without regard to me as an actual person.

Q: What? Is this some kind of Feminist thing?

A: Unless you genuinely believe I am worth less than you because of my gender, you are a feminist, so stop resisting that word and get on to a better question.

Q: Fine. How can catcalls be offensive? They're compliments!

A: You think "Nice ass!" "Nice tits!" and "Hot body, baby!" are compliments? Maybe our definitions differ. But they are not innocent comments, they are comments meant to drag my sexuality to the forefront for your enjoyment. Think of it this way: if you would not give the same compliment to your grandmother, why would it be acceptable to shout it at a stranger?

Q: I would totally give that compliment to my grandmother!

A: Okay, well, either a) you frighten me, or b) you have some kind of repetoire with Granny (or anyone else you're hooting at) where she laughs and you laugh and it's all fine. But it's fine because you have mutually agreed that you trust the conversation to be playful and safe.

Q: But I know girls who like being catcalled!

A: And I know people who like being sprayed with water from the hose on a hot day. That does not, however, mean that it is socially acceptable or even nice for me to spray everyone who walks by.

Q: You're being overly sensitive. I would love to get a compliment on my ass.

A: You don't count.

Q: Hey! That's unfair.

A: Yes. It is. But you don't count. As a male, you are far, far less likely to be raped. You are less likely to be harrassed at work, you are less likely to be told, when you have a legitimate complaint, that you are being mislead by your ovaries. You are less likely to be cornered by someone with more muscle mass at a bar and be hit on, relentlessly. You are, comparitively speaking, not a sexual target.

Q: If I were a girl, I'd still like it!

A: "It wouldn't hurt me, therefore it should not hurt you" is not a valid argument. Stay after class if you do not understand this.

Q: Really, it's empowering to women.

A: That word does not mean what you think it means. Women will be the ones to decide how they would like to celebrate their sexiness, thank you very much.

Q: But I'm a nice guy. I really just want to let a girl know I like her assets.

A: You probably are a nice guy. Am I supposed to assume that you are, though, when I don't know you? When you are driving by me (with the power to get away, or to park beside me, or to turn a corner and wait) and forcing your sexuality upon me without my consent, you do not seem like a nice guy. Plus, I've just told you that your catcalling hurts me. Why would a nice guy like you want to go on hurting me?

Q: I'm not forcing my sexuality on anything.

A: Yes, you are. You may not mean to, but you are. Any catcall means the same thing: I find you fuckable. And that statement takes me, a person who was out walking for coffee and thinking about what to have for lunch, into something that exists in reference to your sex life.

Q: But...

A: No.

Q: So you're saying, just because some people don't like what I have to say, I'm not allowed to say it?

A: First of all, this is not about "not liking." This is about fear. This is about acknowledging the fact that we live in a culture where rape jokes are casual, where victims are told to pay for their rape kits, only to find out that those kits sit on a shelf for fifteen years until the statutes of limitations run out. This is a culture wearing a short skirt, or having a drink, or making out in a parking lot are all "asking for it." This is about fear and loss of power, and if you do not know what a rape flashback is like, I suggest you do some reading on PTSD because I do not have the stamina to get into that right now.

Second of all, of course you can say what you want. And I can think you're a dick because you said a dick thing, and I can flip you off, or tell you to leave me alone - unless you're one of the bad guys. Better I stay quiet, and hope you don't stop at the next light.

We don't shout random things at people in our society. In fact, we normally consider people who shout at strangers to be mentally ill. Why would this one thing be an exception?

Q: What if I genuinely want to compliment a woman on her awesome shoes?

A: Smile. Say, "I dig your awesome shoes." Walk away. Do not shout, on the street or from your car. Do not chase her down to tell her this. Do not follow her. Do not invade her personal space. Do not replace the word "shoes" with "rack" "body" or similar. Recognize that you are in a position of power, even if you don't want to be, and respect that maybe women are not languishing for your compliments, and are just on their way to grab a coffee, and have better things to think about then how their shoes, or their ass, look to you.

Sometimes I think about posting here more.

Who has submitted their grades? I have.
Who is done with their own schoolwork? I am.
Who will have a ceremonial bonfire of the year's useless papers? I won't, but I'll pretend I will.
Who's going to Boston in five days? I am.

Things that I have learned in my past few days outside of the academy:
* I am officially too old to have interest in The New Young Acting Sensation. Zac Effron and Kirsten Stewart just look like sloppy kids to me who need some lectures about getting off my lawn.
* I am not, however, too old to delight in new young adult books. Relatedly, I am not too old to walk down the sidewalk pretending I am a spy from an all-girls boarding school.
* I would make a terrible spy. I try to make sneaky observations on those around me and accidentally encourage the hobos to serenade me, apparently.
* I like True Blood and peanut butter-flavored ice cream.
* I do not know how to pack for summer-long vacations. ("Why do you think I drive everywhere, Sammy?")
* I want a kitten. Gray or calico or brown-stripey. I would name her Microcosm.
* Despite the past year of emotionally abusive instructors, I still enjoy writing.

I have not learned about appropriate sleep habits. Alas.

Can anyone tell me what I do to place a friends-only banner on my journal? Can I just post-date an entry, or is there some other method?

I am rewatching Black Books with a Diet Cherry Coke. Everyone should be so lucky.

In other news, I am almost done with my first year of graduate school. I think on the whole the experience has been beneficial. Among other things, I have learned that contrary to popular belief, the rain in Spain does not fall mostly on the plain, and Auntie Em wanted to give Dorothy Gale electroshock therapy (which, honestly, would have been my reaction as well. "A lion, a witch and a journey to a magical land? This sounds like tawdry plagiarism, young lady.") It certainly feels as though the year has sped by in a flicker.

In about three weeks I'll travel to Boston. This means I get to say things like, "Me? Ah, I'll be summering in Boston," as though I were in an Edith Wharton novel. Of course, being an Edith Wharton heroine means I'll have to leave my husband in the flurry of a social scandal, but we must take what life gives us. Other lofty travel destinations include Pittsburgh, Maine, Arkansas, and any other state I fly to by accident when I board the wrong plane because I have finally, in my graceful maturity, have I learned to walk and read at the same time.

If anyone else tells me they are on a boat, when they are not, in fact, on a boat, I may have a seizure. I can't keep up with pop culture at this rate, people. I'm old, and stodgy, and listening to Depeche Mode and researching Serbian Wedding ceremonies. I AM ONLY ONE WOMAN.

Dear students,

If you would like to use the First Amendment in your argumentative paper, allow me to recommend ACTUALLY READING IT.

Contrary to your impressions, the First Amendment does not:
* ensure the right to the pursuit of happiness
* outlaw hate speech
* state that no one is allowed to argue with someone exercising their Right To Free Speech.
* use the terms "fighting words" "Fire!" or "unpleasant words."
* guarantee equality
* state that your teachers, employers, newspapers or parents are required to let you say whatever you want.
* define democracy. Allow me to point you toward all the other democratic nations, who actually have their own governing documents.

I didn't FORCE you to talk about the First Amendment. You came up with that all by yourselves. If you WANT to talk about it, THEN DO FIVE MINUTES OF RESEARCH.

Pointedly yours,
Chelsey

Facebook quizzes keep telling me I am no fun. I do not know which is more upsetting: my quiz results, the fact that they sadden me, or the fact that I feel compelled to post about them on an entirely different website.

Dear Universe,

IF you are going to make me horribly allergic, and IF you are going to make me nauseated for no apparent reason, and IF you are going to make my eyes hurt every time I look at the computer, and IF you are going to give me nightmares, and IF you are going to let it rain for weeks at a time...

YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO MAKE ME RUN OUT OF ICE CREAM. DO YOU HEAR? WELL DO YOU?

I am not lactose intolerant; I am lack-of-lactose intolerant.

Today, I began a sentence with, "Now, for my thesis..." and ended it with "... for the zombie horde?"

And so you see what graduate school has brought me. The ability to discuss reanimated corpses academically.

Is there anything you do not talk about with anyone? I do not mean, necessarily, anything you have never told anyone, but something that you do not have anyone to discuss with the details, the ramifications, the bits and pieces that flit through your mind... There are very few things in my life that are completely secret. However, there ARE things that I feel I cannot discuss freely and thoroughly with anyone, particularly anyone I love.

Do any of you feel this way? You do not need to get into specifics if you do not want to. Anonymous commenting is on.

Uh, I may have just purchased a Kindle.

I think I need an icon that says, "I cannot be held responsible. It was SHINY."

I keep thinking of making a post about what it's like to have a long-term, nonvisible illness (yes, I believe depression falls into this category. If you do not, I say to you: bite me.) However, one of the consequences of living with a long-term, nonvisible illness is that my creative and argumentative energy is limited, so instead I'm saying that if you haven't read The Spoon Theory, you should.

Times it is completely acceptable to take a break from revising:
- You need to buy groceries.
- You need to cook your groceries.
- You need to eat your cooked groceries.
- You need to teach a class.
- You need to take an extra five minutes to tell your students a story about a lobster in a microwave.
- You need to check your email to make sure you don't have any other important responsibilities.
- You need to check your email to see if any of your classmates have handed in their revisions yet.
- You need to check your email to see if any of your classmates have responded to your email (subject: I don't want to do this revision don't make me nononono.)
- You only got four hours of sleep last night and need to take a nap.
- You need to activate your new phone.
- You need to yell at verizon because you cannot activate your new phone.
- You need to be put on hold.
- You need to know how that book you've been reading ends, even though you don't really like it.
- You need more coffee.
- You need better coffee.
- You need to post to livejournal.
- Dr. Phil is on.

In order to avoid my revision, I will now conduct a happiness poll.
For this poll, please use your personal definition of "happy." Please do not use your personal definition of "ecstatic" or "fine." Please do vote, whoever you are. Lurker, anon, friend of friend... anywhich thing. Please do comment if you wish.

Poll #1362891 Is your happy like my happy?
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 10

How often do you usually feel happy?

When was the last time you felt happy?

What can happen when you are feeling happy?

Do you think most people in our society have a similar definition of "happiness."

If you had to rate your happiness RIGHT NOW on a scale from 1-10, you would be:

Ticky box?

Hi, Livejournal. We've been a bit estranged lately. It's not you, it's me. So I know it's probably not fair to ask for your attention right now, but I'm a gonna do it anyway.

If you have a kind word to spare, or a nice little distraction, or a picture of a kitten in a bowler hat, or something, can you share it with me? I would really, really appreciate it.

Only two more weeks of this semester.

Because I've lost that loving feeling:

Why I Write
1. Because a lot of wonderful things aren't real, but should be. There should be dragons. There should be a Thieves Guild. You should have the opportunity to be swept off your feet by adventure and meet outrageous people and learn about yourself and get hurt (but only a little, and only because it helps you grow.)
2. Because just because I don't argue doesn't mean I don't like to make up some zingers.
3. Because I don't want to waste the witty remarks I think of far, far too late to say out loud.
4. Because it's very satisfying to let a character land a solid punch.
5. Because I'll never meet the man in the sparkly blue eyepatch, or the washed-up wrestler with the iguana and the affinity for Nair, but I still want to hear what they have to say.
6. Because I like to entertain but I'm shy in conversation.
7. Because there's nothing like watching a character go through an experience and say, "Yes, that. Exactly that is how I feel."
8. Because when I come up with that beautiful, unique phrase that is exactly right, I feel like I've made a masterpiece with just a handful of words.
9. Because when I let it be, it's a terrible amount of fun.

I think I came to an MFA program too early.

It's not to say that I regret coming here, or that I'll leave. But I think that I don't have the writing experience to make the most of this. I don't have much of an idea of what I want my writing to be like, and that makes it hard to wade through the criticism and pick out what I agree with and what I don't. I haven't had the chance to experiment much with style, and I don't know how to explain why I make the style choices I do because I just haven't had the practice.

It's not that I can't learn these things here; in fact, I hope I will. But I think that coming here, having already figured out some things about what you want to write, why, and how, and what your own strengths and weaknesses really are, might make the experience less confusing and more profitable.

As it is, right now I am just slugging through a rough term and hoping I come out okay on the other side. Next term might be similar. I am really looking forward to the summer, a chance to write and try and sort out my thoughts without constant input from the program.