Barely promoted

Packing in the dark

Should I bring the khakis? They don't fit now, even. Might they if I ever taper off the PIO shots? Probably not. But, if it all crashes into a wall at the ultrasound... but it probably won't... but it might, and I won't find out until long after this little black rolly-bag has left Ohindinois. If that crash occurs, then I'll sure be glad to have the khakis. Should I bring them?

What about the weddings I'm going to in April and May? Should I bring a pretty little silk slip dress or two? I even have one that stretches (although probably not enough, and it's awfully dark for lunchtime).

Actually, the second decision is much easier: shopping for a new spring dress, no matter how redundant, has far more therapeutic potential than mail-ordering new khakis.

Condolences all round

From my next-door neighbor, whose pet program just got summarily cancelled by the college administration: "Look, when you were away we accepted these beautiful flowers that were delivered for you, and of course we didn't know why they were sent but then I heard something through the grapevine about your mom and I'm so sorry, Sally and I really enjoyed the flowers when they were fresh but at least you can see the card now, should I just drop them on your porch? [Pause.] I didn't wake you, did I?"

From my favorite adjunct, who is not being rehired for next year, and whose thick Eastern European accent you must imagine as you read: "I hope you are at peace." [Blink.] "I mean, you are not waking up in the middle of the night, saying to yourself, 'I wish I had...,' are you?"

No, no, I'm not. I'm watching the snow fall and wondering who I know, that I can call, who might have good news. Because my department, heck, my institution, and my family, and many of my friends, are all suffering from big blows too. So much sympathy needing to be expressed, so much sitting quietly with other sad people.

It's strange being home. Both Beaker and I have been away so much of the fall that the house had really gone all to heck. This weekend we managed to reclaim the kitchen and install a giant, giant bookcase that was forced on us by friends, but I still haven't touched my New York luggage or the accumulated bills, which together occupy all the floor space in the foyer. Boxes of my mother's stuff are tucked into a corner of my office; the bag we picked up from the hospital is in the kitchen, waiting to be laundered.

I wish we had time to just relax here. This town, this house, have become home, finally. But Beaker's heading out on business again tomorrow, and there's Christmas shopping, and seeing probably both families at Christmas. Not to mention getting our fucking butts in gear to move to fucking California right after New Year's. Plus, the angel of death has another big chance to tap me on the shoulder next Monday.

I've decided not to go to the workshop next week. I haven't told the organizers yet (I will tomorrow); of course I'll explain, but the full truth would sound like I was stretching.

I still don't want to live in California, but I will...

... for four months next spring, at least. And in (academic) style: we have, with the help of competent administrators and simple good luck, found a devastatingly pleasant sabbatical sublet up in the hills. The rent will eat my entire stipend, I'll have to take a bus to work and eat homemade lentil soup for lunch... but oh, the view.

I've just reread Changing Places (it seemed like it was time). Let me quote David Lodge (or, more precisely, one of his bitterer characters) on the view:

You've got to have a view if you live in Plotinus. That's the first thing people ask when you buy a house. Has it got a view? The same view, of course. There's only one view. Every time you go out to dinner or to a party, it's a different house, different drapes on the windows, but the same fucking view. I could scream sometimes.

But, for four months, to be followed by six years back in the flatlands? I'll take the view.

I still don't want to live in California, scene 2

A party celebrating the merger of two hapless, helpless startups. No one outside the companies can tell what either of them does; each employee asked gives a different description, although the words "convergence," "glue," "architecture," "off-the-shelf," and "provisioning" recur.

By (thank God, not in) the hot tub: the wild-haired president of Startup A discusses the glory days of The Zetetic with a programmer from Startup B.

By the hors-d'ouevres: the tan, buxom spokeswoman for Startup B complains about having put on "full make-up!" for a "really boring!" political fundraiser (thank God, Democratic) the night before.

By the fish pond: a couple of vice-presidents from Startup A wonder why there's an electric fence around the pond. A two-year-old points and says, "Fish! Fish! FISH!" A VP runs to make sure the fence is off.

On the deck: the wife of the CEO of Startup B (she's a former investment banker^* now on a full-time spiritual journey, mostly through the Himalayas) is goaded by the friend who brought me into reading my "numbers," about which she seems to care quite sincerely. I haven't had my one glass of wine and am unable to control my intellectual horror enough to respond coherently, let alone politely, so I just nod as she spiels. She gets to a "4" in my reading: that means I'm someone who cares for other people, maybe a parent or a sibling, that I'm always the one who's there when people who are sick or in trouble. I'm honestly struck dumb.

In the house: thick white carpets, high-end harvest gold appliances, bad art.

On the buffet table: good chicken, salad, and grilled vegetables, enough for 40 people, at least. Lovely little potatoes, but in purely ornamental quantities. The vinaigrette is, oddly, as thick as mayonnaise. I dig as many mushrooms out of the gravy boat as I can.

Under the gazebo: the spokewoman is delighted to hear I'll be in California next spring. Her two recommendations for finding housing are made with equal fervor: Craig's List, and the avoidance of making final arrangements while Mercury is retrograde.

On the tray carried by the CEO of Startup B: decaf and miniature desserts. (I recommend the pineapple tartlets.)

Back by the fishpond: the two-year old returns with a flashlight. "Fish!" A worldy nine-year-old talks non-stop, as if to herself, noting that the fish are scared by the flashlights, that the turtle never comes out at night, that the snail's eggs are really disgusting. The carp mostly hide. A snail falls into the water.

^*Yes, I do realize that a childless woman in her late 30's who's recently quit a high-pressure job might, well...

I still don't want to live in California, scene 1

At the park: brown grass, reddish dirt, small birds of prey.

Weird old men walking slowly through the brush—picking berries?

Middle-aged women in yoga clothes walking dogs. Middle-aged women in ratty old sweats walking dogs.

Attractive young dot-com refugees running an industrial dogwalking operation. Three people, forty or so dogs, about half on-leash, half off-.

Stay-at-home-dads, with babies in backpacks, walking dogs.

(Every single dogwalker scooped poop. And every single one had a ball-flinger, increasing range while decreasing saliva exposure.)