New Year, New Fear

New Beer, New Gear, New Frontier, New Cheer, New Deer, New Dear?
New Shear, New Tier, New Peer, New Rear heh heh heh heh.
New Seer, New Leer, New Jeer, New Queer, New Veer, New Ear
New Here? New Clear, New Commandeer, New Freer, New Fleer,
New Kir (yum!), New Spear, New Sphere, New Smear, New Sneer.
New Premiere, New Veneer, New Zaire. New Engineer.
New Souvenir, New Mere Pamphleteer, New Sincere Volunteer,
New Austere Gondolier.
Old Year Disappear. New Year.

I done did it again: I spent a fortune on books. I should not be let into bookstores, for my own good. The temptation is too much. The only healthy option is total avoidance. I must desist these impoverishing visits. I must refrain from entering bookstores for to abort the spending this provokes! And so I will, from this day forth. In fact, this is ideally fit to be my annual soon-to-be-broken new year's resolution....

The easiest people to shop for this year, I find, are the dogs & cats. Everyone else is such a struggle.

Dear People,

I'm really tired. I feel like I've been physically and cognitively and emotionally drained for a good several weeks now. I'm semi-looking forward to the holidays but not altogether. I don't want more things to do. Even if it's things like getting gifts. Doing something with the gifts I get. Sigh.

I got into a little conflict (overnight) with some people I sort of collaborate with. I was asked to proof some translations that turned out to be unbelievably badly done. Like, some parts were left blithely untranslated, the sentences didn't altogether make sense, tons of typos. These people are mainly students and I can't get over the sense that they feel that they aren't altogether responsible for their work. Like, it doesn't matter how well they do it because it's just an assignment. Except that it isn't. So I wrote them some irate feedback and got an email back this morning saying that because I'm a psychologist I really should have more in my feedback arsenal than irritation, and that perhaps what I wrote will defeat the purpose and be de-motivating rather than motivating. To which I say:

1. I have as much a right to be an asshole as the next guy, my occupation notwithstanding.
2. When did I become the motivator-in-chief? Motivate Yourselves, You Twits! My goal in life is not to motivate You to do Your jobs well! You're not my students or my employees! You're my so-called partners in an endeavour that YOU CARE ABOUT DOING WELL (at least theoretically).
   
3. My purpose was to tell You that people NOTICE when You do a CRAP JOB and they get IRRITATED. So I guess I was successful after all!
4. Goddamn.
   

If You ever want to see me irritated ask me about the ubercomplex move we spent 10 FULL MINUTES ON today at bellydancing class.

I'm not jealous of my friends who have kids in couples. I'm jealous of the single mothers.

So today, despite my worst intentions, I was wholely responsible and came home at just the right hour to wake up tomorrow relatively sober and go to my 8:30 class. Hurrah.

The Vietnamese Minister of Education totally stood me up today. And me so well-dressed. I get all sorts of nice comments when I dress like a grown-up. Too bad dressing like a grown-up is such a hassle. Very uncomfortable to drive in heels and in a long jacket, panty hose are a disaster. Keeping a shirt looking ironed is impossible. Etc.

This week I learned more than I ever really wanted to know about APA style. The fascinating thing is how many bizarro forms of reference there can be, especially in the age of, ahem, internet communication. So many sources to cite in so many ways! and so little time....! Yet so much time wasted on this....

Belly dancing class is one of the few contexts in which I have real trouble suppressing my inner asshole. It is EMBARRASSING how unfit these women are. EMBARRASSING.

Today I recalled one of the many, multitudinous, various and variegated reasons I adore Dave. I was once TA-ing for his course and expressed pleasure that one of the students had, in a blind-graded exam, achieved the highest grade, because at the time he was my favourite student (chair of the college democrats, in general adorable, etc.). Dave then asked, "Oh, are You dating him?" as if it were the most natural and not-at-all-imprudent thing to do. This I mention because it contrasts with today's NYT The Ethicist column, in which Randy Cohen writes "To respect professional boundaries benefits professor as well as student, making it easier for the former to teach and the latter to learn." Of course, I'm just mentioning this in passing, not as if it's particularly relevant or anything.

I'm going to bake a carrot cake today. I just went shopping and got precisely the ingredients and nothing else. I do so hate shopping. Enough to not buy the stuff I might need but to limit my purchases to those required for the specific recipe at hand. Anyway, the main thing I wanted to mention is that my oven is a gas oven, which has a heat-control knob whose sole designations are "1" and "1/4".

I have been thinking recently about creating a main-events time-line of my life. Tomorrow J turns 24; there are a few important things that happened when I was 24. That was a bad year. A bad year. I'd have trouble thinking of events from earlier childhood. Interviewing would have to be planned with experts in the field....

I feel old. How can I describe this state without saying "old"--because that's not altogether accurate. How about, I feel older. I am swooning over a 20-yr-old, I have to sleep at least 6 hours to be conscious... well, OK, I can't think of anything else. Those are the basic symptoms. The first one isn't really a symptom of my being older (god knows it has happened before) but when I phrase it "I am crushing on a man who is 14 years younger than I am" then it sort of sounds worse, don't You think?