Move Over Jonathan Swift

Oh Mr. Swift, I'm so sorry to deliver the news: you are no longer the undisputed King of Snark. I must admit, to your credit, sir, that since 1729 and that piece about eating Irish babies you've held a very solid lead, not to mention a special place in my heart. And I'm not certain that you've been entirely dethroned, either, merely that you may need to share.

Behold: The snarkiest thing I've ever read on the internet, a piece by Wendy Molyneux over at the Rumpus.

And so I did that. I tried on all my clothes, and I felt better until I tried on one pair of pants that didn’t fit me anymore. And then I totally started to cry again, because I am so fat. I cried for a little while on the floor while my cats crawled all over me, purring and being symbols of how lonely I am. My cats love to be symbols of my loneliness. Sometimes, I have to be like, “Stop signifying so loudly guys, I’m watching Grey’s Anatomy!”

Oh well, Jon. At least you're being made into a feature film starring Jack Black.

Griggs'd.

In other news of the WTF varity, Judith Griggs, editor for Cooks Source magazine, thinks it's okay to steal things off the internet, publish them for profit, and then tell the author to feel grateful for it: check out the blog post over at Smart Bitches, Trashy Books.

Then make a post linking "Judith Griggs" to http://www.smartbitchestrashybooks.com/judithgriggs in order to googlebomb. :)

When I grow up, I want to be...

Prompted by this post by Dean Dad, in which he discusses his son's fourth-grade class' goals (boys=rich, girls=married), I thought I'd briefly wax historical on my own goals as a child. I think in the first few grades, most of the boys wanted to be firemen or policemen or astronauts, and most of the girls wanted to be horses. Yeah I don't really understand how that works either, but there was definitely a cadre of young girls at my elementary school who spent every recess pretending to be horses. Not to ride them. Be them.

My best friend was a girl (though not one of the horse-girls) who used to build forts and run around doing stupid sh*t with me. I don't remember what we used to do. Maybe we played house? Well, we probably used our imaginations a lot. All I can really remember of the first three grades is a general feeling of well-being, a few still embarrassing instances of being a temper-tantrum-throwing little freak, reading a stunning quantity of young adult novels (I think I read the entire catalogue of John Bellairs' books, as well as a fantastic number of Famous Five novels), and watching the Van Damme movie Bloodsport when I was over at the house of a friend whose parents were more lenient than mine regarding what he could watch on TV.

When asked what I wanted to be, I think my answer was usually paleontologist. You show a kid one too many shows on dinosaurs and he'll pick up the lingo, even at that age. I specifically wanted to be Jack Horner when I grew up, but anybody who worked with dinosaur bones would've been okay. I might have wanted to be an astronaut, too, because I can remember learning all about the planets and the moon missions and space in general. Now I just love science fiction -- is that just a sign of the times, maybe?

But this whole "be rich" thing? I don't know. I can't remember ever thinking to myself that when I grew up I wanted to be rich. It just wasn't on my radar. I wanted to do cool things, interesting things -- something to do with space(!) or dinosaurs(!!). I'm honestly not surprised by the students in Dead Dad's son's class not thinking about finishing school (high school, college, or otherwise) because I'm pretty sure I had no idea how much schooling was required to do the cool things. I just wanted to do them. But what gets me is the money thing. What kids want, when they grow up, is to be happy and successful. Everything else they say is about what they've internalized about that. So for some of the girls "horses = happy" and for me, "dinosaurs/space = happy" (maybe I wanted to be a dinosaur at one point, rather than someone who studies them?).

DD's son has internalized (probably because of what his dad does) that "university = success"
and so he wants to be successful like his dad. But the other kids have learned to equate money with success, at least the boys, and the girls have learned that having a family is the ticket to happiness or success. Setting aside the disturbing gender divide there (because I can't remember at all what even my best friend wanted to be when she grew up, but I bet it was something cool. I remember her as being pretty cool.) I'm just a little weirded out by the "money = success" thing, I guess. And at such a young age.

So what did you want to be when you grew up? Don't say "medievalist" unless that was actually the case -- wanting to be a knight is something else entirely :D Did you want to be rich? Married? Both?

The Tea Party and Fascism

Jeff Fecke, over at Alas, a Blog, has written a cogent, clear, and uncomfortably accurate assessment of the Tea Party. You should go look.

But that was predicted. Sinclair Lewis once wrote, “When fascism comes to America it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.” Well, my friends, fascism has come to America, flag and cross and all.

Frightening.

Crap.

It's awful because even from here I know it's probably true. Excuse me while I use laughter to cover my existential terror about my choices in life.

Bardiac posts about the decision to go to grad school.

Oy vey.

I'm not a fan of Glee but...

...if I thought this GQ photo-shoot for Glee were actually in any way indicative of the quality show (and not just indicative of the low class of a certain fashion photographer of ill repute) I don't think I'd want to be.

I know this isn't medieval, but Tom and Lorenzo (of Project Rungay fame*) hit this nail so squarely on the head that I think anyone who even knows what Glee is should read this:

Look, we're not prudes. And these aren't teenagers. There's nothing wrong with a sexy photoshoot for any rising young star. It's practically de rigueur. But putting 3 of the cast members in front of creepy Terry Richardson's lens and dressing them up like porn fantasies?

Of course he didn't dress all of them up like porn fantasies, just the girls. Guys don't do sexy. Guys have sexy done for them. Guys stand or sit fully clothed while girls are meant to writhe and gyrate and spread their legs in their underwear. That's the way of things. Great message there, morons. Knowing that this show has a huge teen and even pre-teen following, whatever person approved the idea of this shoot (TERRY RICHARDSON, people!) should be fired.

If you're new to debates over what is and isn't the patriarchy, let's start with a blatant, neon example: THAT.

*yes I like Project Runway... Yes I Know... Look. Look I know. Just SHUT UP IT'S GOOD DAMMIT.

Ikea, I am disappoint*

I'm afraid all the brownie points that Ikea earned in this post have been long since lost. As you may recall, my preferred desk was out of stock, so I ended up ordering it online and having it shipped.

Word to the wise: DO NOT DO THIS.

Things went well enough at first. I had it shipped to Former State (no sales tax, hurrah), with the idea that the Mother of Vaulting would bring it to me when she visited the following weekend.

Wrong. Shipping took nearly 2 weeks. Small matter - Vellum and I were headed to Former State to see this fellow in the depressing play about the demise of a man who sells goods, so we were happy to pick up the desk at that time.

Which was great, except that upon loading the package into the car, we realized there was a sizable hole in the box. Well, we decided, it didn't look THAT large. No problem.

Until we returned to NEM and discovered that it was, in fact, a problem. One of the drawer wheels was shattered. Small matter, we again decided, and called Ikea for a replacement. Upon hanging up, Vellum (ever observant) discovered that we were ALSO missing three sides of one of the drawers.

Well.

To be expected, we decided in hindsight, given the hole in the box. So we called again, and requested the pieces. Whereupon we noticed that while we had many pieces of desk, there was not, in fact, anything to hold them together with.

Say, screws. Hardware. Metal bits of any sort.

So, still being on the phone, we requested those, as well. No problem. Ikea offered many apologies, and promised that we would receive the missing pieces soon.

"Soon" being 6 business days. Thanks.

So the missing drawer pieces and hardware arrived. Vellum, having caught on by now, was quick to count pieces, and discovered, LO, WE ARE STILL MISSING PIECES. Apparently, when we pointed out that the desk was suspiciously lacking in hardware, Ikea interpreted that to mean that we were missing a few pieces, and perhaps this handful would make it better?

So back on the phone Vellum went,** requesting, perhaps, the rest of the hardware? Again, there were apologies. Again, we were promised the missing pieces "soon."

The missing pieces, by the way, were 21 long screws and 2 short screws. Remember this.

Some days later (today, in fact), an envelope from Ikea arrived, delivered with much fanfare by Chaucerian roommate.

Would you like to know what it contained?

It did not contain 21 long screws and 2 short screws, as we had been promised.

Two. It contained two of twenty-one long screws. Fair enough, there were also the required 2 short screws. But, as you may imagine, 2 short screws when you are missing 19 large industrial screws is not going to do you any bloody good when building a bloody desk.

So. Awed as I may have been by your warehouse full of furniture and furnishings and cafeterias, and much as I may admire your low prices and glorious, glorious selection - Ikea, I am no longer speaking to you. All I wanted was a desk. To date, after a great deal of waiting and holding-for-customer-service induced frustration, I have most of a desk, and no means for putting it together.

Ikea, I am disappoint.*

-Vaulting

*Know your meme.

**Yes, it is my desk, and yes, it was Vellum doing all the calling. He's a prince among bloggers, I assure you.

One space or two?

So runs the long standing debate: after the period at the end of a sentence, should you use one space or two before starting the next? I say one, and hate two. Vaulting used to use two, but I think I may have nagged her into submission on this front. What say you, blogizens? Post your opinions in the comment thread :)

Tangentials

I have to say, I'm starting to feel as though all the work I'm doing at Gothic Revival University is mostly (if not entirely) tangential to my interests. This isn't to say that it's not interesting in and of itself. Nor that I'm not learning things that will be of great use to me when the time comes for me to find a job.

I'm writing a review hopefully for publication for the course on Entirely Tangential National Literature I'm taking, and doing a close reading of a primary source for the course on Mostly Tangential but Slightly More Relevant Time Period Literature I'm taking. And I'm (slowly) putting together an exam in Subject I Should Really Know How To Teach (with some awesome supervisors, I might add, so I'm actually really excited about that one.. shame I don't have more time to work on it).

But despite all that interesting stuff I'm doing, I'm not really doing anything -anything, mind you- medieval right now. And that kinda bums me out.

So I'm starting an Anglo-Saxon Reading Group in January. And I'll be taking a course on medieval things then, too. And I'll be meeting up with more medievalists in a weekly workshop. So roll on, 2011.

If life gives you lemons, by all means go ahead and make yourself lemonade. I'll be over here fermenting the lemons and distilling them down into vodka.

-Vellum

I must be nuts.

*

So I'm now five weeks into my PhD program at Gothic Revival University. It's a rainy Tuesday morning, and instead of doing readings for courses only tangentially related to my field of study, putting together a reading list for my minor field of study, or scouring wikipedia for medieval absurdities, I'm blogging. There's a lot to blog about.

Since starting five weeks ago, I've read, read, and read. I'd forgotten what it was like to read a book a week for each class, and of course the supplemental readings. Also, having been in a heavily interdisciplinary Medieval Studies program for my master's two years ago (is it really two years? that can't be right... a little over two since it ended, three since it started. oof.), I've had to haul out and dust off my non-interdisciplinary toolbox. There's a lot of "isms" in there that haven't been used since undergrad, and which don't typically come up in studying medieval versions of things. Unless you're writing for Post://Medieval, of course.**

So between two classes (I know, only two. Heaven only knows how I'd fare with more) and my research work, I'm hovering around a thousand pages of reading per week. Add bureaucratic nonsense to the mix, and you've well and truly got a full-time job. I'd forgotten how much work it is to be a student. Oh and did I mention I'm working on language requirements, too?

Of course, I'm whining all the way to the bank. What it comes down to is this: I'm being paid to do what I love, full-time! With benefits!***

This is fantastic.

Sure I could be making more in the private sector. Actually, looking at the math, a full-time job at $13/hour pays better. But I love this.

Plus, everyone in my department is just so darn helpful and nice. It's... actually really odd. I'm not usually the glass-is-half-full guy, and maybe it's just the honeymoon period, but this is great. Of course, I still haven't unpacked fully par-ce que Ikea shipped Vaulting's desk sans screws and the sides of the drawers, et avec broken drawer rollers; I can't walk around without tripping over things; it's only the 5th of the month and I'm already 3/4 of the way through my personal monthly spending allowance; I'm grappling with (apparently common) feelings of imposture; when I get out I have an absurdly low chance of getting a TT job; oh and I've had to get a $9/hour job to make ends meet; but I still can't shake the fact that I'm actually doing this.

And that's enough to make up for a lot.

So if you ever stumble into me in New England Metropolis, and I'm looking a little frazzled, don't worry. For all I'll outwardly show the wuss, on the inside I'll be smiling.

But you're always welcome to buy me a pint ;)

* The gif was found online here.
** I jest, but it really does seem to me to be the crux of the intersection of medievalism and literary theory.
*** I mean sure, it's not Canadian health care, but it's better than no health care, and it's included.