Today’s topic: teaching anxiety dreams. Yes, children, a new semester is about to begin (or HAS begun, for a few of you–just remember that your winter break will start early, too), and just as the Canada geese at Onondaga Lake Park return each year to litter our walkways with giant green-and-white goose turds, the incipient semester is pooping anxiety dreams all over us.

Yes, it’s a disgusting analogy. But I like it.

Because those dreams really are a bunch of goose poop. We love the teaching, we generally respect our colleagues and students, and the work we do feeds our souls. But if you love something, set it free. No, that’s not it. If you love something, it’s that much more important to you. And if it’s that important–if it truly matters–then of course you want to do it well. And if you want to do well, then you risk doing it poorly. Or bad. Or badly. (Any word nerds out there want to choose the appropriate word, there?)

Anxiety arises, for me, out of that desire to do my job well. To serve my vocation as it deserves. And sometimes my expectations get a little out of control. What’s that, you say? Susan is a perfectionist? We are shocked!

But teaching anxiety dreams can be highly entertaining. I recall a friend recently dreamed she was teaching cows. I frequently dream that my class is made up of my classmates from high school, in their 18-20 year-old selves, while I’m usually 30ish and inexperienced and ill equipped to command their attention and respect.

Oh, and then there’s the “I can’t find my classroom” dreams, but rather than being the student version, this is the teacher version, so that by the time I find the classroom, the students have all left. (This dream actually occurs less often, now that I’ve actually missed class once or twice due to inclement weather or some other problem, and the world did not in fact come to an end, and the students did not all rebel en masse.)

Another popular theme: it’s nearly the end of the term and I have yet to collect any substantial writing from the class. This dream tends to pop up about a month into the semester, natch.

O teacher friends, do you have any entertaining nightmares to share? And those of you in other professions–do you have similar sorts of anxiety dreams?

Oh–wait. I don’t have control. No one has control. Or, at least, we have very limited control. We can’t make other people do what we want. We can’t make them behave the way we think they ought to behave.

In good news, in the midst of this meltdown, I decided to write. And writing brought insight. That’s a very good thing.

What’s going on, you ask? Well, we’re in the process of buying a new house. And selling the old house. And those are like part-time jobs in and of themselves–the paperwork, the phone calls, yet more paperwork, errands and ideas and problem-solving. As sometimes happens in these processes, stuff goes awry.

We have good professionals working on our behalf, and things will get sorted out. But today, this afternoon, I need to relinquish any attempt at being mature and responsible and in charge. I’ll get back to it in a while. But right now, I’m going to eat some cold ziti and drink some lemonade and watch some silly television.

And then I’ll write some more.

I’ve been hard at work of late preparing my syllabi for the new semester, which begins next week. I’ve got three preps, which in teacher-speak means that I’m teaching three different courses: first-year writing, a 200-level argument class, and a 200-level workplace writing class. And I just reviewed my reflections from a few posts back about revising my approach to teaching this semester–that is, once I’ve done all the pre-semester prep, I need to lighten up on the daily class prep and focus more on responding to students.

It’s all very Zen. Kinda.

So, one thing I want to do is set up a teaching blog on my department webpage (we’ve got a prepackaged profile-o-matic that includes a blog option). Just a place to put practical ideas and advice and links to resources. But it needs a cool name!

Suggestions, anyone?

When I’m feeling that overwhelmed, I start being even meaner to myself, which just makes things worse. That annoying nagging voice in my head gets started and Won’t Shut Up. So, it’s time to tell her to Shut the Fuck Up. Really.

But here’s what I wanted to say about dinner: while I was getting all teary (we’ve established I’m a crier, right?), and said something about being so afraid all the time, my sweetie suggested that maybe that’s who I am and that it’s not such a bad thing. And I had one of those moments of clarity when lessons I’ve learned before (sometimes over and over) snap back into place.

In fact, earlier in the day I’d been cleaning off a bookshelf and found, tucked in my copy of Women and ADHD, a  list of inspirational quotations I typed up a few years ago. Here’s the one that jumped out at me, from an individual named (really) Oriah Mountain Dreamer: “What if the question is not / why am I so infrequently the person I really want to be, / but why do I so infrequently want to be the person I really am?” While OMD and I may move in decidedly different circles (though she seems, from her website and blog, to be a lovely and creative and inspirational writer and teacher), I love it when people look at problems from a new perspective, and flipping the question is a great way to do that. So, what if?

Fear is an indication of vulnerability–an awareness of risk. It is not, in and of itself, a good or bad response. If I don’t judge the emotion, but step back and notice it, as I learned to do in that excellent meditation class that didn’t quite stick, I can ask myself where the fear is coming from–what it’s in response to. I can breathe, lean into it,  just be with it for a while.

Fear means I am open to the world, to some new possibility, to some new adventure.

In the words of the great Andy Cohen, here’s what I’ve been thinking about lately:

1. I like writing. I need to write more.

2. I like teaching, but I need to spend a lot less time prepping for individual classes. I tend to do a lot of advance prep for the semester, and I’ve got loads of materials to draw on when a new challenge emerges, as it inevitably will, and great colleagues down the hall and around the world. Plus really smart and resourceful students. So, not only is all this prepping unnecessary, it’s probably counterproductive, because sometimes it makes me less responsive to what’s right in front of me.

3. I’m probably also using all this prepping as an avoidance tactic. Well, not probably: definitely.

4. I really need to get back into therapy. I’ve been avoiding that, too.

5. I want to try meditation again. There are 101 good reasons to try it, and just because I wasn’t great at it the first time I took a class, is a silly reason to avoid trying again. It’s my usual reason, but a pretty silly one.

6. I tell people I believe in radical uncertainty, but I also believe in serendipity. Which is to say, just because we can’t know anything for sure doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate and marvel at what comes our way.

7. Meeting Coleen is the best bit of serendipity I’ve ever experienced. Marrying her is one of the smartest moves I’ve ever made.

I’m glad you agree.

It’s October, and it’s gray and misty and rainy. I could almost squint out my office window and imagine I’m looking out over the hills around Bellingham. Except the hills here have a lot more deciduous trees, which are turning yellows and reds and oranges, and will soon be brownbrownbrown.

The semester is well upon us, and I’m behinder and behinder on grading. And the thank you notes are officially Past Due, since it’s been over a month since The Festivities. Which were amazing–filled with lots of folks and dancing and sunshine and excellent food and live music and more dancing. It all went by too fast.

And my shoes, with the comfortable cushioned insoles and safe rubber soles, still gave me blisters.

For those of you who don’t watch Bravo, or reality TV–and I’m only including those who choose to watch other forms of TV, like sports, because those of you who say “I don’t own a television” probably want to talk about books and NPR and stuff, and it’s too hot for that today–these are the words of Danielle Staub, woman of heavily surgified visage and boobs and such, from Bravo’s Real Housewives of New Jersey.

(Someday, I think I’m going to write a rhetorical analysis of the title of these various shows, because someone at Bravo obviously had a keen sense of irony. That will be published in the same collection as my analysis of reality dating shows a la Bachelor(ette), with the recurrent phrase “He’s not here for the right reasons.”)

Where was I? Oh, Danielle and the great new statement.

(Oh, and I think there’s a linguistic term for inserting one word inside another. I’ll look it up later. If I can resist the temptation.)

Right, anyway, on RHONJ there’s been an ongoing war between Team Caroline (which includes all within her sphere of influence) and Team Danielle, which seems to include Ms. Staub, her daughters (by default, poor things), a couple of thugs (literally–an ex-con and his minion who rarely says a word), and a group of minor characters (many nameless) who either a) really like Danielle or b) enjoy getting themselves somewhere in the reality camera shot because their boojie Jersey lives are so damn boring.

The latest blowout–analyzed with discernment by New York “housewife” Alex–occurred at a ludicrous fashion show at a country club, where all and sundry behaved liked teenagers, until the one actual teenager took it a bit too seriously and pulled Danielle’s hair, which apparently was not as fully attached as it should have been.

It’s all absolutely stupid, and not why I enjoy the show. I could really live without Danielle and her antics, though when I look at her daughters I have a glimpse of the beautiful young woman she may have been once, before she did all that weird cosmetic procedure stuff to herself.

(Really, women–duck lips are not attractive. Take a look at Liza Minelli, who looks Absolutely Amazing, and you’ll see what a good surgeon and aesthetician could actually do for you. Honestly. You’d think these women get their procedures done at a Jersey strip mall. Oh, never mind.)

I have nothing else to say about this, except that I really really love this new line. I plan to use it extensively in future. When Kitty Lee starts miaOWring in that appalling Siamese voice, which grows louder and more cantankerous the older she gets, I’m just gonna say, “That’s uh-f*$@ng ‘nough, Missie. You already had a treat.”

There will be no hairpulling involved.

Addendum: The linguistic phenomenon is called “tmesis,” and many fabulous examples of this involve the F-word. Because we are a rude and inventive people.

To tell you about this one, I must admit that I occasionally peruse Yahoo News, and that I in fact sought out the article about Bristol and Levi’s re-engagement. My bad. But then, in the comments section, I saw this:

“Homely liberal women hate Sarah Palin. If she was an ugly, old bag like Bela Abzug, they’d love her. You lib women are eaten up with envy. And you liberal guys hate the fact that your liberal girlfriend/wife/boyfriend/doberman/whatever is uglier than road kill.”

Um, sure. That’s what it is.  I am completely eaten up with envy that I am not as fabulous as Sarah Palin. If only I could have been a one-time beauty contestant who feels no obligation to fulfill her obligation to the electorate. Then, and only then, would I have some sense of self worth.

And, of course, that’s how I rate my role models and political figures: on sheer attractiveness. I’d like to use this for other categories, as well:

News/Commentary: Glenn Beck=really doofy. Anderson Cooper=not bad.

NY Governor’s Race: Rick Lazio slightly handsomer than Andrew Cuomo, while Carl Paladino looks kinda like a younger but exhausted Alan Alda.

Well, okay, it doesn’t work for that one, since those three are kind of a wash, looks-wise. Maybe I’ll have to actually look at the issues.

But that’s after I focus on my new role model: Jennifer Aniston. Because someone that beautiful clearly has a lot to teach me.

1. Having seen just how miserable I am in the heat, the wife agreed to haul the ac window unit up from the cellar. She has earned (once again) my undying adoration.

2. The cats are merely annoyed that all the windows in the house are closed and the blinds lowered. How are they supposed to stare at birdies and fantasize about hunting?

3. I’m off to Ithaca today for HR orientation at my new school! Because nothing says “I’m new faculty” like an ID photo taken after you’ve hiked up a hilly campus in 95 degree heat. So pretty!

4. Our marriage certificate arrived the other day, which means a trip to the DMV soon. They’re actually quite nice here, and of course the office is air conditioned.

“All of old. Nothing else ever. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

And like all fabulous lines, it holds up out of context. For folks like me who tend to be too cautious, too risk-averse, it’s a good reminder that failure isn’t inherently bad. It’s part of the process. And after all, the process that is my life has taken some wonderful turns in the past few years, so there’s something to be said for trusting in nature/entropy/the gods/divine providence/breathing. (Did I cover everyone there?)

This week, I’m failing at two things: keeping up with my online class and keeping up with the rest of my summer to-do list. Time to dive back in, do what I can, and then reflect on the logjams rather than simply blaming them on a genetic predisposition to procrastination.