I'm a Buffy Goddess and a real live celebrity

So today I had the opportunity to do my first conference paper in the Women's and Gender Studies "Gender and the Arts" Conference held at UNCG today. In addition to working the conference, I was able to present, and my presentation was bright and early at 9am. I thought for sure no one would come, but they did, and I have to say, one of the most occupied all day. Now, to be fair, it wasn't just my presentation, there was one on Judy Garland, which I found fascinating since Judy Garland's agency was basically controlled by MGM while she was contractually obligated to make movies, including MGM forcing her to have not one but TWO abortions against her will, and illegally I might add.

In addition, there was a paper on a film called "Privilege" which was interesting, though I had never seen the film before. I will need to check it out. But there was one thing that set me apart from the rest: I did not read my conference paper. Nope. I did it freestyle. I even told them I didn't have a paper to read nor a chapter of my thesis to read; this was just pure, unadulterated obsession. I did well, and enjoyed it when people came up to me and said "I'll have to check Buffy out!" This made me happy. My insides did a little dance, and they didn't stumble or suck. Yippee for me.

The conference itself went okay as far as working it, though when I session chaired today I did such a horrible job and I spilled my drink. Needless to say, it was a pretty characteristically Sabrina moment.

So, news update: I just figured out a way to copy and paste. Yes, I am the greatest. Try not to faint.

So, without further ado, please enjoy a snippet of part of my thesis that I will be working on this summer, and that has been published. More poetry and writing to come, and behold even some new work coming your way....to a blog near you.

This is part of: While You Are Gone

The doctors whisk him away to get prepped for the transplant surgery. He has to be shaved, and cleaned. Disinfected. We have to get him ready. When we enter the waiting room, his sisters are there, our Aunt Elaine and Aunt Sally. The room is pretty big, with purples and blues, and only a few people are waiting. This is where we will stay all night. We place our bags down and take a seat. The transplant surgeon has only given us a few details. The man is from Miami, forty-five, an accident, brain damage. Our father met all ten criteria, the right lung size, heart size, blood type, build, frame, tissue, more than what needs to match. He has flown with two other doctors to retrieve the heart, inspect it, make sure it is usable. Brett and I decide to explore. It?s late, and we have never been let loose in a hospital before. Four years ago, with his first heart attack, we became familiar with the cafeteria and the ICU. Now was our chance to branch out, and see all sides. We walk to the elevator in our socks, and press the up arrow.

?What floor should we pick? Where should we go?? he asks. The doors open, and we enter. We?re the only ones in the elevator.

?Hit number seven. Let?s see what?s up top.? The elevator begins to ascend, and it wobbles. We brace ourselves, placing our palms on the cool metal. Finally, it dings, and we let out sighs of relief. The doors open, and we see the words ?Cancer Unit? across the top of the wall that faces the doors. Brett is already out and is moving towards the left, down a hall, where at the end is a large window. He reaches it before me.

?Hey, Sissy, come here. Check this out!? I approach his side, and lean my forehead against the foggy glass. I can barely make out what is outside.

?It?s the helicopter landing pad. This is where life flight lands. This is where the heart doctors are going to land with his heart. We?re going to be able to see it!? Brett has both hand pressed against the glass, and his growing shoulders are almost taking up all the room, but I squeeze in next to him, and for awhile, we stand there, leaning against the glass in silence, checking every so often to make sure no one is behind us. Checking to make sure this is allowed.

?Hey, there it is. See those lights? Here it comes.? Brett was right. I could see the yellow lights on the chopper coming closer, and soon, the thin landing legs beneath it, aiming for the X on the landing pad. The blades are swooshing, and they begin to slow down. There isn?t a door, and we can see pairs of white pants, and then a leg stepping out of the chopper. The first doctor is out, and waiting for the second. We see another leg, and then a man falls out of the chopper and onto the concrete. In his hands, he was carrying a cooler, one like I used to take to camp when I was twelve. One that looked like it could hold old breadcrumbs or chocolate crumbles from Little Debbies.

?His heart. The doctor just dropped Dad?s heart that?s in the cooler! Check his hands. Are his hands okay?? We both strain our necks to try and get a good look. We pound on the glass. They are both walking away, the doctor with a slight limp, but his hands, and the cooler seem to be intact.

?Take care of him,? I scream as I wonder why hearts are such tangible, gooey things.

*

Our last night on the island my Aunt Judy and Uncle Jim take us to Johnny Leverock?s, a popular seafood restaurant. We are tired and dried up from the sun, and wait in the bar to be seated. Finally, after just a few minutes our party is called, and the too thin and tan waitress named Kimmy leads us to our table next to a window facing the bayside, and we can see the sun reflecting on the water. Brett and I sit on one side, and the adults on the other. The table seats six, but there are only five of us. The empty chair is next to the aisle, and I am next to it. While I look at the menu and try to decide what to order, my brother glances at me, asking me what I?m going to have.

?I?m not sure yet,? and I put down the menu and stare out at the water, and wonder what the sunset will look like.

?What?s wrong?? he asks. ?What?s the matter??

*

I always take him out to lunch during the week, whenever I don?t have class or a lot of homework to do. It?s just a ritual we have, an agreement. Something to get him out of the house. Today, we go to Ruby Tuesday?s because he likes the salad bar and so do I. It?s later in the afternoon, around two, and we have a choice of where to sit. He chooses next to the window, on the side, away from people, and from noise. I order a Diet Coke and we each order and receive our plates. He gets the usual, some noodles, and a pretty plain salad with a side bowl of soup. I load up my plate with onions, and bacon bits, tomatoes, olives and pickles with ranch. He doesn?t see how I can eat that stuff. I finish before he does, and he hates that. I always watch him eat, and the older he gets, the more tired he gets, the more his body grows weak, the slower he eats. It gives him something else to do besides wait. Near the end of his meal, he tells me he has to go to the bathroom. I am freezing in the restaurant, wishing I had brought my jacket. He?s not gone long.

?That didn?t take you very long,? I said, while sipping on the last of my Diet Coke.

?It was too cold in that bathroom to whip it out. You ready to go?? Soda squirted out of my nose as our waitress and the few people left in the restaurant stared at us, laughing.

*

While you are gone I want to buy you shirts. And food. Those chocolate chip cupcakes. I want to take you out to lunch. While you are gone I still plan you into my schedule. Where are you? Where did you go? Give me proof that when I step out of a room, someone will know that I was there. Please. While you are gone we are missing, and the air around us is dusty with fog.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer is my hero; 'nuff said

This will be short. I am tired. My Buffy presentation is tomorrow and I must prepare.

So, in honor, please check out: www.slayage.tv in honor of BTVS. All things Buffy that are scholarly and academic. You will enjoy.

Proof of Rocks

Tonight I must dedicate enough time to create a response paper for my class tomorrow, as my week has quickly filled up. Today was, in a nutshell, hard to crack (haha). No, it was annoying at best and well, just a tad bit ridiculous. Job #2 assistantship is getting ready for a conference. Including myself, there are officially 6 people who staff the ENTIRE dept. and I mean dept. NOT program. And 4 of the 6 are grad students working only 20 hrs a week (well, not exactly). Anyway, it was more stressful than a naked rodeo rider.

This picture you see here is a generic sunset, albeit a gorgeous one, but not representative of the what I'm going to write about here, tonight. Since I can't really post A LOT tonight, I will post a piece of my thesis that was published once upon a time on a certain online journal (if it's online, does it really count? Of course, but I don't know if it really, you know, counts). So please enjoy, as I shall put more writings on this blog wall. And better, more personalized pictures too.
PS: this is long, so enjoy in spurts or all together.

A small piece of "While You Are Gone" ....will have to wait. I can't seem to get this friggin' thing to copy/paste. Any suggestions from you avid bloggers?

Security Guards have a thing for me

So apparently, my feminine whiles were off the proverbial charts today. I was able to attract the attention of not one but TWO mens seeking my attention, none of which were my actual Partner. Here's the deal: I went to the gym for a light cardio workout since, you know, sleeping is not something I do often. I was tired. I'm leaving, and in the parking lot across from the rec center, I'm walking the LONG walk to my car only to have a car full of young (much too young for me for sure) boys proposition me to the beat of something like this: "Are you leaving?" said guy. "Yes," said me, "but I'm parked all the way down there" and I point. "That's cool," says guy, "do you want a ride to your car?" My reply? "No thanks, I can walk" much to the chagrin to the four or five guys in the car. So then, they proceeded to "drive" around the parking lot, waiting "inconspicuously" while I walked the five mile trek to my car. Then, they see me slow down, stop, back up, and proceed to car hump my back end before I can get out. Yep. I know how to attract the bestest most brightest of 'em all.
THEN, it's off to the 'Boro Public Library where I met Security Guard # 2 who, much to the amusement of Partner, flirted with me, in a geeky, I'm only a security guard kind of way. Partner was in the back stocking, which left me up front ringing up. I'm polite, but I suppose that's taken to literally, and then I have an awkward conversation for about five minutes, and basically the conversation consists of SG boasting about his "glorified babysitting" duties. Partner then begins teasing me that I have a thing for guys in uniform, as I also had a heyday back when I was a wee bitty 18, 19, 20 yr old and my friend G----- and I, in most elegant fashion, always seemed to attract and pick up the military guys in the crowd. It did not matter where we were or what we were doing, whether it be a bar, a club, a freaking poolhall where we'd hang out; we attracted the uniform. Appropriately, it became a long-standing joke between us, to the point that we would joke that G----- would marry a West Point grad and get to have the swords pointed upward so she could walk under them after her wedding. It was a while big thing.
Apparently my pheromones are kicking today. Gotta love my feminine whiles, or as Partner so lovingly said "you're the best looking girl here." Which to me meant "best looking......for the crappy public library that houses mostly homeless people." Aren't girls funny?
Anyway, I'm gearing up to register for my very first Ph.D classes tomorrow, so that's exciting. Let's all hope I can get loans in which to pay them.
I really should be more literary on this thing, and gosh darnit, I'm going to be. I think it's good to just write though, even if it's only for a short time. I need to build up some endurance, and like anything, it takes practice practice practice.
Hmmmnnnn...anything else? Oh yeah. Partner and I are heading to an Army Surplus Store to get him a military outfit so we can roleplay. Hehehe

Education, Zombies and a lazy Sunday

So I had what I guess you would call a filmic dream last night; it was all about zombies. Let me just say that I am deathly afraid of zombies, but I love zombie movies. I watch them even though I shouldn't. Anyway, we were attacked by zombies, I helped to fight, we went under ground, the world was pretty much wiped out except for a few survivors, and well, we were commissioned (by we I mean the human race) by aliens wanting us to help them fighting their zombies, also known as "the forgotten ones" and then we are wisked away on their space ship to fight the zombie epidemic. It was a very strange dream and I have no idea what it might mean. I should really stop watching those scary movies. And of course, that was the abridged version of the dream.

Anyway, today was spent sleeping in, and grading papers. It's actually quite stressful to grade papers you see, since the state of education in this state is quite upsetting. Many of my kids can't write sentences and I don't know if it's just because they're lazy or don't want to apply themselves or what; I know when I push them they are so resistant; they're completely complicent in doing the same thing over and over and never learning anything new. They just want to get a grade and move on, but they don't want to apply themselves. I'm not sure about the NC education system, but it's on my list to do research on this. I'm not sure how to remedy the situation; what am I supposed to do as an educator? How am I going to teach them all they need to know in a semester when they haven't learned how to write a paragraph? A sentence? Sadly, a verb? A noun? Ah. I'm glad I'm going into the Ph.D program at UNCG in Education b/c I'll get to study fabulous things like curriculum and policy, and perhaps I'll change the system so it's not designed to produce bored conformist drones who don't want to learn anything.

Anyway, I had to grade, and I went for a bike ride, and I love Sundays: there's something about Sundays that is relaxing and makes you just want to nap.

I should write more, but I'm being distracted by Partner watching "Family Guy" and I really should be writing up my response paper for my class; right now, there is a song describing the procedure of a vasectomy on the show. Needless to say, it's very distracting. I really should be writing more quality writing on this blog. GRrrrr, arrrrgghh.

Boba, a Prairie Home Companion Band and no V

It was a night of mayhem. Well, not really. That's almost as bad as beginning a story with "it was a dark and stormy night." It wasn't actually or metaphorically. Partner and I saw a band at a church (yep, a church, try not to faint) but it wasn't a Jesus band; it was a band made up of very talented people singing folk music. Folk music. Not my kind of music by far, but Partner really enjoyed it. See, we had planned a date night, if you will. First, it was off to Boba House for some nifty vegetarian food (yum, although it messes with my tummy; I've got sensitive insides) then off to the concert (free! b/c Partner got tickets through the library) and then off to see "V for Vendetta" (again!). We made it to dinner and the band. The band was, hmmnnn, good. Interesting. Different. First, it was in a church, albeit a Presbyterian one, and this one called itself "Progressive" which, who knows their actual definition of the word; needless to say, I felt uncomfortable. I don't like churches. I feel out of place, and like everyone can see that I don't believe. Ah well. To each his or her own. Nevertheless, the band was good, talented, interesting. But there was something about sitting in a pew listening to a band play many songs, some patriotic in nature, others were obviously some sort of Jesus song. I knew none, but appreciated their talent. Think "Prairie Home Companion" on NPR and you can imagine the folkiness of the music. I'm definitely not a PHC fan, but Partner liked it a lot. So much in fact, that he didn't want to leave, but we did so, and never made it to the movie. My nose was stuffy, my tummy felt funny, and I had a bad taste in my mouth from the soyish sauce that was used on my vegetables. V for Vendetta would have to wait.
However, I did find out that this church would be hosting the author of "Misquoting Jesus" on April 3. But this is baseball opening night for Partner, and he even asked off of work to be home to watch. This is also my dad's birthday, and a day in which I partake in a ritual of sorts: I go to one of his favorite restaurants (Cracker Barrell, Chili's, Outback, Piccadilly's Cafeteria among others) and then watch his favorite film of all time: Casablanca. I don't really know what else to do on his birthday, but I feel he must be honored as if he were here, so I do what he'd want to do, especially since I rarely granted him the watching of "Casablanca." I was a teenager, and I just didn't appreciate the wonder that is a classic film with amazing acting. But the problem comes in b/c I also want to see the speaker of this book which father would NOT consider to be something he would do on his birthday. So, I will go with the traditional dinner and a movie: food and film, his two favorite things.

But that is a ways off; I hope I will be able to talk Partner into partaking with me. I'm sure he will, after his baseball of course. Anyway, I've been thinking about the following phrase: word slut. I want to use it as a title for a poem, but I'm not sure what it is about yet. Current mood is: numbish, perhaps just bored. I was looking forward to writing on this blog tonight, but now can vaguely remember what it was I so desperately wanted to share. Blah. That's the name of the cloud around me.

North Country

I haven't written anything on my blog in a long time, but I'm going to try to get it going, and to publish stuff I think of, and to just, you know, publish some writings, and in general give my point of view on the "state of things." At present, I'm pretty disillusioned at the state of our country at the moment, and I'm very disconcerted about the state of reproductive rights and women's rights at the moment. What spurred this on you might ask? Well, it was a little movie called "North Country." Partner and I bought the movie off movies on demand, and well, it was a helluva ride. It made me angry above all, and I'm just sort of pondering the movie now, letting it linger on me like the smell of my shampoo after a shower. I smell it everywhere. I'm sort of melancholic right now, (is that a word even? Reminds of cholic, which is something babies have, but since I'm no baby fan, I have no idea. Quick sidenote: I made one cry the other day). Anyway, it's about a woman who was raped at 16 by a teacher, had the baby, married an abusive dick, left, got a job at a Minnesota mine, and had to deal with her father treating her like a whore for getting pregnant (he didn't know she was raped) and then her having to deal with severe, and I mean severe sexual harrassment by other miners, who thought she had "stolen" their jobs. As far as I can see, any woman has a right to a job, a living, money, and security. Unless you know, this isn't, like, America.
I read on imdb that a user posted that what is depicted in the movie could not have happened "anywhere in America." Um, really? *SLAP* It could be Anywhere, USA buddy. Are you kidding? Have you been living under a rock? Well, as a man, I suppose they don't see those sorts of things or experience them, but as a woman, they are everywhere, everyday, in every piece of clothing put on and taken off, in every book, under every bed, in every room, on every nighttime star, on the end of my keys when I'm walking to my car at night, or I pass by a man on the street, or I'm passing construction workers as I go to class. Tell me if any man feels that way, every day, almost every moment, as if there were nothing else.
Anyway, it really got to me. I would highly recommend the film. It definitely got me thinking, but to tell the truth, I'm thinking enough for an army of angry women.

Anyhoo. I definitely think I'm going to use this blog to just write everyday, since I've seriously gotten out of the habit. I need to practice more, especially if I'm going to entertain illusions of re-writing my thesis this summer. Sidenote 2: I just got in to the Ph.D. program at UNCG in Educational Leadership and Cultural Foundations. What is that you ask? Go to uncg.edu and search ELCF and read up. It's a totally awesome program, and then you'll have to call me "Dr." Yes!

Something I was thinking on my way home from the G'boro Public Library where Partner works in the bookshop: my father. He was an avid reader, and I would often buy him books. He always trusted me to pick out books he liked: Louis L'Amour, mystery novels, he was a fan of Dean Koontz, war books, history books (he should've been a history teacher; he knew everything about anything relating to history) etc. Every day I enter into the bookshop where used books are sold cheaply (one dollar, 25c, 50c, etc) I wish I could find some for him, ship them home so he could open up a weekly box of wonder from me: the book sender, his daughter, me. But I cannot, alas, because he is no longer here. But I wonder about him. I wonder what he would think of me now. I wonder if he would hate what he'd see, or if he'd be okay with me. See, I'm a lot different than he wished, more of a feminist, liberal, political type; he would've liked the political, a little less of the liberal. On one of the many occassions we thought he was gonna die, he asked me to become a member of the FSU Republicans. I agreed at the time. I was only 18, what the hell did I know about politics? He was my dad. Anyway, on the way home, as I was getting ready to turn left onto Wendover to head on home, I thought of kids; of having kids in the world where there is no longer you, and you are a piece of them. I am a piece of him, but I no longer recognize that piece anymore. What happens then?

I suppose this weighs on me b/c his birthday is coming up April 3 and his 3 yr anniversary of his death is April 13th. Three years. I am flabbergasted by this; it feels like a hundred and only a day. Is this normal? What's normal anyway. All I know is he's not here, and I wish like hell he was. But in my dreams when he's there, I'm always surprised, and a little disappointed to see him. I don't know what that's about. I can only hope it's nothing bad that I need to feel guilty over. I shoudl publish a poem I've written about him, as there are many. But like anything else in the world, when it's not used it spoils. I think some of my poems have spoiled, as they have spores and mildew on them. I will need to yank them out, brush them off, and begin anew. And that's what this blog is for. I hope.