Monday, December 31, 2007

In which we are done

We are, aren't we? With this whole damn year? It hasn't been bad, exactly, just eternal and exhausting. I feel like I should do a year-end wrap-up to properly situate my personal history, but I can't even remember last January. There's a vague sense of writing feverishly to make departmental fellowship deadlines, and then... nothing for a long, long time. And then writing feverishly to make job-related deadlines, and then... suck, lots of suck. The End.

So, anyway. More recent history has included a lovely trip to the sunny, balmy climes of the American Southwest. Oh, Tucson--I love you, I miss you, and you make me ineffably sad. I ate a lot. I got a trucker tan on my right arm (so, really, a passenger tan).

And then we came home for MLA. Went to the blogger meet-up (Hi! Hi! You all were awesome!), drank fancy hotel-bar drinks, chatted a bit, and scurried home. C. had an interview on Friday, and I went ahead and registered so I'm covered for next year. I popped into a session Prof. Persnickety was presenting in, and got a smile and wink from our department's Gloriana (been there forever, brilliant and ballsy, so kind and gracious to those she likes, so terrifying from the other side). I slipped out before the hobnobbing after, preferring to disapparate instead. Strolled the book exhibit, spent not so much but got so much (see below). I had intended to go to some panels on Saturday and Sunday, but the inertia of my couch proved too much for me.

The theme of the last week or so has been How Many Books Can I Buy, and Will They Make Me Feel Better? Answers: 36 and Kinda.

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