Monthly Archives: September 2005

keeping the night watch

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College: a giant supersized styrofoam cup full of Dunkin Donuts Vanilla coffee. That would keep me up and writing all through the night until the morning news.

Now: brewing a pot of Carte Noire coffee in my roommate’s coffee machine, hoping it’ll be strong enough to get me through tonight, the giant stack of secondary sources I have to check one last time, and the 80 pages of rambling halfassed analyses of gender, surrealism, and modernist lesbian rewriting of decadent homosocial texts that I need to make coherent so that I can send it to my godsend of a French friend, Frédérique, to read over and edit from French so bad that "ce n’est pas français" to  Sorbonne-worthy French. I don’t envy her the task.

College: Generally, I was just then starting to write the paper in question. Sure I’d done the necessary research probably within the previous four weeks. But didn’t write a word til the night before. (this is a bad writing practice that I don’t endorse but we all know it’s an undergraduate reality)

Now: I have been researching this paper since january. I have been actively writing it since April. Six months, baby. Six long months of writing and rewriting and revising and cutting and expanding are coming to an end TONIGHT.

So what the hell am I doing blogging? see you on the flip side, suckahs.

First day of school

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It’s been a long time since the days when I used to lie awake all night before the first day of school, excited and nervous about my classes and my teachers.  Been awhile since I carefully picked out my outfit, trying to look together without looking like I tried too hard.  And it’s been awhile since I selected school supplies according to their color ("purple for math, green for science, blue for English…")– heck, it’s been awhile since I had a notebook for each different class!

When I started graduate school, I had been working in the "real world" for a few years, and so had begun to use office supplies in the same way I used them as an assistant in a literary agency: keeping a manilla folder for each class and taking notes in Claire Fontaine notebooks (all in the same notebook; I went through a lot of them). This carried me successfully through my masters at NYU and the beginning of my PhD at the CUNY Graduate Center. I felt very organized and proud of myself…

Then, last year, in my first year of classes in the French university system, I was taken aback by the level of preparation the French students had.  They each carried little pencil cases with them, out of which they would pull out a staggering array of school supplies– whiteout pens (who carries whiteout with them in the States??), highlighters, erasers, several pens and pencile, rulers, even scissors and gluesticks.  They would take them out of the case and arrange them neatly on the desk in front of them.  Notes were taken on sheaths of perforated lined or graph paper.  I sneaked a peak at their notes– the usual heading, date, class, teacher, maybe that day’s subject.  But then, after they had written all this information, they would underline it using a ruler and a red pen. I began to feel like the sloppiest notetaker and I was sure the people sitting behind me were mocking my notes for their disarray, not to mention the fact that when I didn’t understand what a word was, I would write it phonetically and put a question mark underneath it to look up at home.

By the end of the year, however, my notes became as orderly as if I had been born, raised and forced through the Bac in France.  And so today, on the first day of my cours de prépa for the agrég I made a little notation to myself to get a pretty pencil case and stuff it with all the school supplies I’ll need.  And maybe a gun to shoot myself with when I’m bored to tears of hearing people talk about Thomas Jefferson.

Seriously, there is a reason I do British and not American literature. Hello, people, I abandoned America to live in France, why must I sit in a room full of French people and talk about America?? My whole day today was spent talking about American 18th century art and the scientific discoveries of the Lewis and Clark expedition. snore!

Ah well.  Tomorrow we’re doing Richard II and Henry VIII, so, paradoxically, I’ll be on more familiar territory.

Librarians are there to offend people,

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according to an article in today’s Times on Banned Books week.

I think that’s a neat idea for a weeklong theme. So that’s the official theme for the week, folks. Unfortunately I can’t write much more than a brief preamble right now, because if I don’t finish this mémoire I will be banned from books in France.

The article in the Times talks about how parents get really sensitive about what "young people" are exposed to, and that the first place they turn to in order to control the material their children have access to is public and school libraries.  One mother in Arkansas, for example, successfully managed to have the "Harry Potter" books banned from their town’s library because the books "promote witchcraft."

That kind of parent makes me so angry.  Are parents like that in France? that’s something worth looking into. In any case, that’s typical of American culture today.  Rather than being good parents and paying attention to the way these books are taught or discussed, rather than being careful about instilling the right values in the child, they just want to eliminate the perceived threat altogether. It’s easier for the child never to hear about sex than to have them read about it in a Judy Blume book and then have to explain to them what it is and what it means. Just make sure they can’t get hold of a Judy Blume book and they’ll be safe from the nefarious influence of teenage sexual activities, right?

Ha. And what happens when they’re in school and rumors are going around that so-and-so gave head to so-and-so over the weekend? That’s the kind of thind I heard at my school when I was 12. But through a combination of good parenting, good young adult literature, and a lot of discussion with my girlfriends, I managed to come up with my own set of sexual values despite the adolescent experimentation happening around me.

Of course, I tend to think the sexual values I came up with would not be compatible with those of that mother from Arkansas. But whatever. I bet her kids grow up to be either sexually repressed automatons or sex fiends with whips.

Next time I post, look forward to a brief commentary on "Pity, Fear, and Getting My Period: Aristotle’s Poetics and the YA Novel."

Bibliography day

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In a comment I made to my last post I mentioned I’m the type of scholar who builds immsense bibliographies for every paper I write. So with apologies and a "what did you expect from me" shrug, I refer you to the following articles that I’ve been reading today…

Someday I’m going to want that year back: Particles in air of Europe’s cities  cuts year of life.

Paris traded a thousand year-old market for a late twentieth century mall that has become one of the most disgusting neighborhoods in the city. Now what?

Be strong and read hard: that’s how I ‘m getting through this breakup.  For Heidi Julavits this also represents the way to a "new book culture." Warning: the article is over 2 years old, but it’s worth a read.

Let them eat off antique silverware: Alain Ducasse takes over another restaurant in Paris.

Simone de Beauvoir is one of my role models, for better or for worse. The founder of modern feminism, a great writer of journals, novels, and letters, agrégée (in philosophy), but a total doormat in spite of herself and her ideals when it came to the man in her life.

Happy anniversary to me

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Yesterday, the 21st, was the one-year anniversary of the day I shacked up with Paris. That’s right, kids, on September 21st 2004 I got off the big 777, which groaned with relief when my two suitcases full of books and shoes were removed from its belly, and hailed a taxi to the 14th arrondissement of Paris, where I stayed in an apartment on rue Daguerre with Kaitlin and Justin (aka Touché, who used to have a blog but I lost the link).

So it was somewhat fitting that last night I returned to the 14th arrondissement for Paris Blogue-t-il 3, a little shindig organized by Nathan and some other people I don’t know, and attended by a whole bunch of people I’d never met but whose blogs I felt I should have read. Honestly though, there’s nothing more embarrassing than being introduced to someone and not being able to say oh, I love your blog, when you just told the person next to them how much you enjoy their blog. I guess it’s the graduate student in me– I felt unprepared for class not having done the requisite reading. In any case, I’ll be sure to catch up to be in good form for Paris Blogue-t-il 4.

The party made the news, too, which is kind of neat.

Actually, there is something slightly more embarrassing than that: having to tell French people you have a blog called maitresse. Because to them, it apparently has rampant sexual associations that were a very minor part of why I chose the name. There were a number of reasons I chose the name "maitresse", which I used to have written in the upper righthand corner of the blog, but which I removed ’cause it figured it didn’t really matter. But now, after getting the fish eye from teh French bloggers, I think I’ll put my explanation back up there. But for now, just so we’re all on the same page, je suis la maitresse de personne.

(Incidentally, I didn’t realize I was having such a poofy hair night last night.  I do look like someone’s mistress!)

Speaking of being a graduate student… it’s well known we’re a masochistic, antisocial breed, but I may have signed up for the most masochistic experience of all: a French national exam. This year, I’ll be preparing to take the agrégation, the concours it is receommended, though not apparently obligatory, to pass in order to teach at the university level in France. I’m doing it in Anglais, with a specialization in literature, but I still have to pass the linguistic and the civilization portions. However, although the subject is english, 75% of the exam will be in French.

Mind you, the statistics for French people passing this exam are not promising, so I don’t know how I, an upstart American, expect to pass. Nevertheless, once I do clear this hurdle, apparently I can expect to find a cushy teaching job where all the non-agrégé teachers will bow to me in reverence when I pass them in the halls.

I had an orientation meeting for it yesterday in which we had to translate an article from French into English. I have to say, I expect to have the advantage here, as long as I know the original French vocabulary. Or so I thought. We got to a line where we had to translate the term gilet pare-balles. "This is a cinch," I thought to myself as I smugly wrote in "bulletproof vest."

Ha. when it came time to correct the exercise, apparently the answer they were looking for was "bulletproof jacket." Because British people apparently call it a bulletproof jacket. A Frenchie in the front row raised his hand to ask if "vest" was appropriate. "No," boomed the British instructor. I raised my hand indignantly. "Excuse me, Monsieur, but in the States it’s called a bulletproof vest. Will we be penalized if we answer in American English?"

The man looked at me, shocked. He had utterly no idea we call them "vests" in the States. He informed me that were such a thing to happen in the exam, the judges will take out a dictionary to double check that I’m not BSing them.

To think I would live to see the day where I wasn’t sure of a word in English. But even as I type this, I question myself. They are called bulletproof vests at home, right fellow Americans? Am I losing my mind?

Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be blogging about the agrégation for the next 6 months– you’ll be hearing lots more fun stories like this… next up: Maitresse has to read The Scarlet Letter for class, just like when she was a rebellious baby littarateur in 9th grade! And she loathes early American literature as much now as she did back then!

Happy birthday, teddy funnybox!

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Today is my little darling’s 2nd birthday! So even though he can’t read (yet! he’s only 2), I thought I would do a special birthday post for Baxter.

Here he is at 8 weeks, shortly before we got him, when he lived with his mom, dad, sister, and a crazy breeder who made him pose in flowerpots:

Baxter

And here he is recently, modelling the only article of clothing he owns (well, other than a fleece raincoat) because my parents’ house is so highly air-conditioned that we had to bust out the menorah sweater to stop Bax from shaking:

Img_1128

So which is worse, the pot or the sweater?

He’s a good sport, though.  Just give him a ratty old raccoon puppet and he’s happy for hours.

He loves running around in my neighborhood, and he is my devoted protector, fighting off any pigeons we come across and dogs ten times his size. Yes, I’ll always feel safe with my little David around to fight off the Goliath golden retrievers.

In return, I am a crazy overprotective mother. One of my ex-boyfriends’ friends dropped him once so I’m extremely selective about who I let hold him.  When I went to NY in June, I left him in the care of a couple, two of my good friends, and when I came back, one told me that Baxter slipped out of his collar while they were walking one day and went running off by the Edgar Quinet metro til some kind group of people corralled him. I think my heart stopped beating; I drew a sharp breath and wondered if I didn’t rather wish he hadn’t told me that.

I have certain high opinions about my dog that lead people like my ex, J, to say that I have une relation trop exclusive with him.  That’s ok; I fully admit to treating Baxter like my child; I see nothing wrong with this.  I get extremely angry that I am not allowed to take Baxter into parks that are full of bratty little kids running underfoot and getting in my way; I think Baxter is far cuter and more well-behaved than the majority of kids I know, and so I resent when the same privileged are not extended to him. The argument I get is, well, those are humans and Baxter is a dog. But those kids will grow into obnoxious adults and Baxter will always be sweet and adorable.  I’m sure when I have children I will love them as much as Baxter, and I certainly don’t ignore my boyfriends in favor of my dog (if anything, I think Baxter would complain it’s the other way around!), but it would be erroneous of anyone to think my dog isn’t easily one of the most important parts of my life.  Why? Maybe it’s because I’m a writer, who sits around all day by herself otherwise.  Maybe it’s compounded by the fact that I am a stranger in a strange land, with no real ties to France other than my own obstinance.

The "teddy funnybox" thing came about one day last month when my sister and I were cooing over him, and I burst out with motherly pride that my little dear reminds me of a teddy bear, a bunny, and a little fox, all in one. We played around with different permutations– funny bunnybox, etc.– but finally opted to call him a funnybox.

Anyway.  Happy birthday, funnybox.  I’d get you a cake but I wouldn’t let you eat it.  How ’bout a Greenie?

Time to take a stand

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Thanks to Laurence for this.

Although my problem frankly has nothing to do with America’s foreign policy and everything to do with the existence of a town called Aix-en-Provence. Yes kids, that’s right, I’m back to blaming my love problems on second-tier cities…

[photo copyright The Onion]

microsoft word is the devil

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I really loathe Microsoft Word. If anyone out there knows a better word-processing program, please pass it along. Mine closes on me every third time I touch the apple key– which I do quite frequently, as I am always using the apple key shortcuts to cut and paste and–gasp!–save my document as I work on it.

To make matters worse, my screen editor is going crazy and sending that squiggly green line under everything I write. I would turn off the editing function, but I actually do rely on that thing to tell me when I’m supposed to make things agree– like, I just wrote that a model of Rrose Sélavy “avait des cheveux dorés et bouclés.” What I wrote first was “dorées et bouclées.” But then I saw the green squiggle go, telling me, duh, cheveux are masculine, silly. So I lopped off the last “e”s and boom, perfect.

But now with all that squiggle I don’t know what I’m doing wrong and what I’m doing right. I refuse to believe my entire paper is gramatically incorrect, even if I am a dunce about genders sometimes.

Hey– since my paper is all about how Cahun calls gender categories into question, does that exempt me from getting all my grammatical genders correct? Gender is a social construction, as is language, and they are both tools of oppression wielded by the patriarchal hegemony. So to heck with gender, why can’t hair be neither male nor female, but whatever gender I’m feeling at the moment? Why does it even have to have a gender, why can’t it be genderless– “cheveux dorys, bouclys“!

You want to know why? you want to know why I’m going to play by the rules? Because I am submitting this paper in exhange for cultural capital that will give me the habitus I need to subvert the patriarchy from within.

On another note– a cute boy liked me today at a café near the BHV and borrowed my pen! (Cixous would say he took my fake phallus away from me) He was super-cute and he was my waiter and I might go back looking for him…

gloomy sunday

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this is a gloomy gloomy day. obviously it’s a sad anniversary, but that’s compounded by the fact that I’ve been in bed all day with la guele de bois. I didn’t even get drunk at the party I went to last night, and I’m still being made to pay the price of consuming alcohol. My fatal mistake: following the couple of glasses of cab sauv with a cup of Despé. God, I loathe that stuff. It takes like vomit laced with lime. I will never drink it again. above all I must remember not to chase heavy red wine with beer.

it was an interesting party thrown by a german friend. very international crowd: italians, germans, a british guy, a polish girl, me as the token american, and of course the frenchies grousing about feeling invaded in their own country. my german friend and I realized that the only time we’re ever in purely french social groups is when we’re with whatever french boy we happen to be dating and his friends. when we’re with our own friends, the crowd is always very mixed, and people end up speaking variants of each others’ languages all night.

for example, my conversation with an italian girl went like this:

maitresse: ah, la mia famiglia e italiano, parlo un po, ma pas troppo
italian girl: ça va, on parle en français alors
m: si, si, va bene
ig: or we can speak english if you prefer
m: dov’e il treno?
ig: (moving away, frightened)

no, just kidding, I didn’t really ask where the train was. I gave her relationship advice about her conservadox Jewish boyfriend. I told her to go see a rabbi about converting if she wants to stay with him and she said she wants to go to shul with me sometime. I said I don’t really go to shul, I have trouble getting up early enough.

then by the end of the night I found myself seeking relationship advice from a charming girl from martinique. “He’s young,” I explained, à propos of my current heartbreak. Then, gaining momentum, I spilled out “he’s not ready, but he won’t even call me to resolve this, it’s so up in the air, we had a terrible fight and now nothing for a week, he’s totally incommunicado… I just need to know what’s going on, this is driving me crazy!”

“Wow, you really love him,” she said after an almost imperceptible pause.

I realized I had become that crazy girl who vents to very kind strangers at parties. I think that’s when I started drinking the Desperado.

She gave me some good advice, and shared her own experiences of heartbreak with me, but I was sitting there thinking, I’m almost 27, why am I still acting this way, you’d think this was the first breakup I’ve ever been through, why can’t I deal with this like a normal adult?

Maybe I’m not ready for these “real relationships” either.