The Gideonse Bible   With the beard? Yeah, you!

If you’ve been following my micro-blogging (also known as tweets or Facebook updates), you know that the big events of last three weeks for me have been, well, the stuff comprising the title of this post. Needless to say (but I’ll write it anyway), I’ve been a little stressed out. Also, exhilarated. And exhausted.

Anyway, I’ll do this recap in chronological order.

The last weekend in May, Rob and I flew to Cincinnati to celebrate my mother’s 70th birthday. (To the left, that’s us singing to her and my aunt.) Her actual birthday was June 3, but the previous weekend was the most convenient time for all of us. Coincidentally, my birthday was that Sunday. (It’s May 31. Mark your calendars for future reference.) Actually, it hasn’t been coincidental since I was born; now it’s just convenient. Either way, it was a celebration of my mom’s and her twin’s 70th and an acknowledgment my 35th, as it should be, since 35 is nice, but 70 is impressive, especially since we should all be so lucky to be at 70 as happy, healthy, energetic, and wise as my mom and my aunt are. Though I hope my hearing will be better than theirs is. Note to self: Turn down my iPod.

Presents I got:

• A grill and a grill brush from my cousin Sarah. W00t!
• My brother and sister-in-law got me fantabulous headphones for the…
• …new, expansive iPod that Rob (and I) gave me.
• Socks labeled with the days of the week from Rob. They’re awesome, except when I can’t find Tuesdays socks when it’s Tuesday.
• The Overflowing of Friendship: The Overflowing of Friendship: Love between Men and the Creation of the American Republic and Cathedral Cats from my aunt. I love gay books about pre-gay times. Also, cats.

The weekend was pretty wonderful. In addition to getting quality time with my mom and aunt, we got to hang out with my cousin Sarah and my brother and his wife. We ate crazy delicious food — which included not only my mom’s and brother’s great cooking, but also Graeter’s Ice Cream and Skyline Chili — had vigorous political discussions, saw old friends, went for lovely walks in the lush Cincinnati summer, ate all the hors d’oeuvres before the guests arrived for dinner, and, when the older ladies weren’t around, the 30somethings laughed ourselves silly making crude jokes.

We also laughed ourselves silly when I tried to explain “cubs” to my mom. I said that a cub was a young bear, a thin bear, or a bear who, well, is a bottom. Ha. Yes, it was after a few glasses of wine. Anyway, mom asked what a bottom was. So, my brother and I explained. Mom: “I thought you guys just took turns.” Me: “Some of us do.” Mom: “I have to go brush my teeth.” Good times, good times.

One of the best parts of the whole Cincinnati experience was flying there nonstop. Granted, the reason this is now possible is the Delta-Northwest merger, which has caused utter chaos at the San Diego airport. Nevertheless, door to door, San Diego to my mom’s apartment, is now five hours instead of ten. Yay.

Once we returned to San Diego, I had to buckle down and prepare for the defense of my fieldwork proposal. I made up a bunch of potential questions from my six committee, added some from my friend Whitney (who was ruthless), and then tried to figure out how I would answer them. And then I spent the day before the defense putting together a PowerPoint presentation on my project. I used that picture to the left as my opener.

I didn’t get particularly nervous until about an hour before the meeting. At that point, I started imagining that I would be the only person in memory to fail my defense, or I piss my pants and not notice, or one of my committee members would quit at the lat minute, or a stray plane from Miramar would crash into the building, or I would say something outrageously crazy, such as “Oh, yeah, medicine is totally culturally constructed. Like, ya know, HAART only works because we were told by the government that it does.” Of course, none of that happened. A couple committee members were late, and I worried that I offended someone by not offering refreshments beyond water (a break with tradition, as many of my predecessors have catered their defenses with cuisine of the their field site, which I find problemtaic both power-relations-wise and meth-heads-don’t-eat-wise). And while my husband, my San Diego bestie, and one of my favorite fellow PhD students were there, I was a little nervous that my peanut gallery was under-populated. Did the folks who weren’t there know something that I didn’t?

Anyway, here’s the abstract for my proposal:

While San Diego is no longer considered the “crystal meth capital” of the United States, meth use in “America’s Finest City” is still a major concern for public health, law enforcement, and community leaders. This is particularly so in the gay community, which has seen the drug implicated in increased HIV infections and other physical, mental, and social problems. Institutional efforts to prevent and stop meth use among gay men have included multi-million dollar advertising campaigns, while the more subtle cultural response has been to stigmatize and ostracize meth users. The stigma of being a meth addict is often added to the stigma of being HIV+. In America’s gay communities, meth addiction and HIV/AIDS comprise “a double epidemic,” in both biomedical and cultural terms. The current era of biomedicalization encourages people to focus intensively on risk to oneself and to one’s community. This doubling of risk has encouraged the government, biomedicine, pop culture, and San Diego’s gay community to isolate gay HIV+ crystal meth users as culturally radioactive, physically infectious, and logically impaired. This dissertation project will focus on this experience – on the subjectivity of HIV+ gay crystal meth users. Through person-centered ethnography and participant observation, this study will describe the complex workings of discourses of health, rationality, gayness, and Americanism as they help to shape the lived experience of these risky subjects.

But it went well, for the most part. I felt as if I answer the questions well, and articulately, and the peanut gallery agreed. Or they lied, though I feel I would have noticed them lying. Or not. I was a little out of it. Partly, I was out of it because it was, of course, stressful being smart on command. Partly, I was out of it because I was asked some questions that, while I could answer them easily, I shouldn’t have had to, since they were answered in my proposal. Partly, I was out of it because I was asked to write up a more specific methodology, which, in the moment, made me feel like I’d been asked to retake the SATs because I blew them the first time. (This was a rather large overreaction. Revising and specifying your methodology seems to be part of being a researcher.)  The next day, I was asked how it felt to be “qualified,” and I said, “Not as good as it should.” And my friend said, “It feels anti-climactic and frustrating, right?” Right.

But, hey, now I can say I’m C.Phil — a Candidate of Philosophy. That night we went down to Baja Betty’s to celebrate and I had too many margaritas.

The next day, I started looking for a new home in earnest. If it wasn’t for the relentless scammers and overposters on Craigslist, the process would have been quite easy. Well, that implies that it took a while to find a place. We saw three places in three days. We applied for two — an adorable house in Normal Heights and an adorable and gorgeous and dishwasher-included house in Azalea Park. We were approved for both, and took the latter. (See pic to the left.) It’s a wee bit smaller than our current apartment, but it has the following benefits:

• It’s not in the soul-less UTC.
• It’s in a very gay neighborhood where we are unlikely to have “FAG” keyed onto our cars.
• It has hardwood floors, not the ugliest carpet to ever to be known by man or woman.
• A dishwasher!
• A washer and dryer. For, ya know, clothes. For free.
• It has green walls! Not poo-brown walls.
• A yard. A yard!!! It’s little, but it’s ours.
• A garage. Ha!
• A jacuzzi bath tub. Ha!
• There’s a downstairs neighbor, who may or may not have issues with people walking around upstairs. But he’s moving next week. We need a cool downstairs neighbor. It’s a HUGE and gorgeous one-bedroom with a huge and gorgeous backyard.

Of course, now we have to pack and move. How did we end up with so much crap?