Tuesday, August 03, 2004


How Can It Possibly Be August?

Dear readers, I suspect many of you are asking the same question. It seems just a moment ago that I was celebrating the end of the spring semester, and now, I face the grim reality that I have:

A. Fucked away my summer (both literally and figuratively).
B. Not begun work on the second chapter I claimed I would write when applying for fellowship money, and thus I will have to either (1) lie in my report about my activities during the tenure of the fellowship or (2) scramble to do a month's work in 2 weeks in order to avoid lying.
C. Not written syllabi or done the reading that I had intended to do during the summer so that I would not be running around like an idiot this fall.
D. Not even thought about the Major Conference Paper that I will give at the Major Conference in my field in 3 months, which wouldn't ordinarily be a problem except that I have somehow ended up on a panel with Respected Important Scholars and I will be speaking on a topic on which I am in No Way an Expert, or even Particularly Well Informed.

Sigh. Ok, now that I've gotten that off of my chest, and probably horrified many of you who had been trying to avoid the harsh fact that it is August, I can move on to what I've actually been doing instead of the above. Or perhaps I should say whom.

But I get ahead of myself. Friday I went out with a friend from high school - no phone call from Comrade. Saturday I spent the day reading, and by nightfall I was feeling decidedly sorry for myself. No call from Comrade (lame), and I had written off Freud as suffering from castration anxiety, which would mean I'd never see him or hear from him again. I actually called Comrade, but he wasn't home, which only served to make me feel like an even bigger loser. So, I got myself a glass of wine and settled in to watch Footloose on VH1. Pathetic.

So, it's the scene where the Reverend finds Ariel dancing at the drive-in hamburger stand to "Dancing in the Sheets" and snatches the tape from the awesome sound-system of Chuck's awesome pick-up truck, and the phone rings. I answer. IT WAS FREUD ON THE PHONE! A full week had gone by and he called me at like 9pm on a Saturday night. Bizarre.

We chat for like 30 minutes, and the conversation ends with him saying we should get coffee in the coming week, and I was like, "sure, call me up," and that was that. So, I proceeded to call people on the phone to update them on Freud, and to analyze a) the length of time he waited to call and b) what it could possibly mean that he suggested coffee and c) whether I was cool on the phone or not. I know, it is pathetic that I'm a nearly 30-year-old woman and that this is what I was doing on a Saturday night.

So, it's like 10:30 now, and I've given up on Footloose having been distracted by the above, and I proceed to attempt to call my First Love (with whom I'm now just friends, thank you) and as the number completes dialing, there is a male voice on the phone, but it's not the right male voice. My mind races. Is one of FL's friends answering the phone? Did I dial the wrong number? IT WAS FREUD ON THE PHONE! Freud had called me back just at the exact moment that I had been attempting to connect to FL. Unbelievable. In the 21st century, apparently, this sort of bizarre technological glitch where calls cross one another can still happen. So, I was entirely flustered, and in this flustered state, when Freud asked me to come over, I immediately said I would. So, I arrived at Freud's around 11:20, we hung out, drank wine, and - because really, where else could this have gone - went to bed. I arrived home at 1:30pm Sunday rendered thoroughly insensible from the excellent banging.

No idea what, if anything, comes next with Freud, as on the one hand he told me 47 times that he "needs to be independent" right now and not "lose himself in a relationship," but then on the other hand he claimed he didn't invite me over with an aim toward banging me and kept bringing up the coffee date thing for later this week. You'll be happy to hear that I responded that I totally went over there with an aim toward banging him, and it didn't occur to me that there was any other reason to go over. I also sarcastically told him that I really had thought I was going to fall in love with him so it's a good thing he told me 47 times that he was against any such emotions because otherwise I wouldn't have understood. He was horrified by me, but he deserved it.

Silly punk graduate student. He did say I was an awesome lay, and so that might compensate for the other idiotic comments. But still. He clearly has outmoded and utterly conservative notions about women, sexuality, and relationships, and I'm not sure I'm interested in tutoring him in these areas.

So, friends, that was the weekend. Comrade finally called me on Sunday night and I was annoyed with him, as he was blabbing incessently about leafleting for the socialists and his plans for protests in the coming weeks. I think the thing that bothers me is that he completely romanticizes what he's doing as important when really why he's doing it (I think) is for entertainment. I know, who am I to decide the legitimacy of his activism, but I think he likes the idea of himself as an activist more than he actually cares about what he's doing, and that, to me, is lame. (I realize, however, that my turning off to Comrade does have to do with the fact that I've got another fish to fry.... I'm sure if I didn't I would be slightly more accepting.)

So, until later in the week I have vowed to stop this boy-crazy nonsense and to put my nose to the grindstone. We'll see how that goes, as I had vowed last week that I would begin writing my chapter this weekend, and we see how well that whole thing went.

Frankly, I think the fact that it's August when it so clearly ought NOT to be, and that the concomitant navel-gazing over all the grandiose things one claimed one was going to accomplish over the summer and then didn't, in concert with all of the syllabus preparation, course-packet assembly, and niggling bits of administrivia looming on the horizon, all add up to the only seinsible course of action being to flail in protest, and flail wildly at that, throughout what small bits of time we actually have left. (Besides, I've noticed that stiff blend of Guilt and Panic have frequently done wonders for my own productivity.)
Hi Dr. Crazy

I am overjoyed to know that I am not alone!! I totally relate....

The summer has somehow slipped by in a blur & I've only written 12 pages of my dissertation, have not created a syllabus for proposed intercession courses, nor even read the textbook for it & have not even started to write my cv, despite the fact that I intend to go on the market in the fall....

I greatly appreciate knowing that I'm not the only academic female out there having these kinds of issues. I am new to the blogosphere & am so greatful for a) the vindication that I am 'normal' in my insanity and b) for the great procrastination value of your blog! It's always a lot more fun to eavesdrop on someone else's life & tribulations than to deal with your own....
Ha! Ha ha ha ha ha!

I could have written items 1-3 on your list of what was done this summer.

A. Fuck away, literally and figuratively -- check.
B. Not do things I was getting paid for and need to now scramble to meet a reporting deadline -- check.
C. Not get ahead on syllabi and other such fun stuff that would help the fall start smoothly -- check.

I am so proud of you for telling it like it is to Freud. These neurotic boys, they have to learn these things. I would have loved the fly-on-wall position when you told him (sarcastically) that you would have fallen in love with him without the warning. Ha!

You can't drop the boy-craziness for the week. I'm out here on vacation, stuck with family, utterly boyless, and needing to live vicariously through your adventures. But if you like, you can have next week off and I'll take over the fuck-and-chuck position then. :-)
You know, when I was younger, August was always my favorite month.

Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?