17 classes taught

1 rear-ending while in Vanessa’s car by Vanessa’s student, who later became my student (Davis is small)

2 trips to LA with Denise to visit the wonderful people at The Simpsons, where we got to tour the animation building, watch them record the music, and watch them record the voices. 

1 amazing day watching Alexander’s robotics team (of which he was President) win the regionals, so they could go on to the International FIRST competition

1 conference in London, where I got to see Liam and Courtney and Chaz, to meet Carmen, who has offered to marry me when I get serious about moving to England, and to present on Octavia Butler

1 magical conference in Alcala, Spain, the birthplace of Catherine of Aragon and Cervantes, where the University was founded in 1499, and where I spoke on Buffy comics and found Duff Beer!

1 endoscopy, 1 MRI, 2 neurologists, 2 ER visits, 5 allergy shots every other week

1 summer of dead electronics: 2 computers, 1 DVD player, 1 phone, 1 car, 1 watch

1 day at WonderCon with April and Alexander (with 1 meeting of Berkeley Breathed)

2 students who said I kept them from dropping out; 3 students who said I saved their lives 

2 plays at The California Shakespeare Festival

1 viewing of John Leguizamo’s amazing new show                                                  

2 cats (Osiris and Mahahes) after Isis ran away

1 wine-tasting afternoon with Rae

1 taking over the editorship of Prized Writing

1 Tim Burton exhibit

1 trip to Ashland to see 4 amazing plays with Dan

1 getting to hug Scott Thompson after seeing him with Kevin McDonald

2 trips into San Francisco, to see Stuffed and Unstrung and Richard III with Kevin Spacey

1 Driving Miss Daisy with Vanessa Redgrave and James Earl Jones

2 Grandparents who renewed their vows

1 giant (several pounds) application for a three-year contract at Davis

2 visits to Davis by Zach Weiner, author of Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal

1 replacing Mindy (temporarily) as friend to Vickie (due to computer literacy)

3 websites that regularly feature my writing, though I’ve just quit one: www.dr-karma.com; www.matchflick.com; www.examiner.com

2 Christmas trees (one taken down in time for Martin Luther King Jr Day; one put up the Saturday after Thanksgiving)

1 month of time travel dreams induced by the writing of a soon to be published paper on Time Travel in Star Trek

1 surprise party thrown for me on Father’s Day by my friends who wanted to celebrate the successful parenting of my beloved child (and yes, I was surprised)

40-something weeks of book group (which has been running about 8 years)

4 movies at the French Film Festival                       

1 Doctor Who Experience!

4 university committees & 3 journals served on

1 Christmas in Florida

12 months of teaching, with nary a break

52 weeks of great friends, new and old recipes, and wonderful reads

1 completed child, turned 18 and sent to college

1 2011 list completed, to be sent to you with my love, Karma

Let’s get the morbid ones out of the way–Alexander is now the age I was when I had him. I am now the age my father was when he died. Neither of us will be replicating those behaviors, but it’s on my mind.

Had a wonderful birthday–got to see many friends, the btp made me dinner, and even the boy said happy birthday (from a different room than the one I was in . . .). It was especially nice because I’d finished grading the day before and that means that I have a few weeks off now. I get to finish the very last of the unpacking, get that to-do list pared down, and get organized (my desk still has that “end of the quarter” look). Am also going to watch a lot of movies because I simply can.

I’m also going to try to get out and see some shows–I’ve already seen Paula Poundstone (who was very funny–I’ve always admired her ability to work a room and to do the audience engagement stuff that most comics can’t do); I’ve done my own stand-up set at Luna’s; I will see MACHOMER at CalShakes tomorrow; I saw Al on Sunday.

Al was amazing, by the way. He performed for two and a half hours. There were props and costume changes, and he did six songs that I’ve never seen him do live before. I got a starter pack of Al trading cards and now I want more (that’s the whole point, right?). I wish it hadn’t been at the fair, though, because I don’t like fairs (unless they’re Renaissance, cause I’m white & nerdy), and I wish the lady beside me hadn’t taken up half my seat in addition to hers–it meant I left with a neck crick.

In other news, Proposition 8 has been declared unconstitutional because it, um, is. The whole reason we have a bill of rights is so that a biased/prejudiced majority can’t deny rights to a minority. Jefferson wouldn’t sign without that bill because he knew what we were like–he knew what we would do. For example, I would like to deny bigots the right to procreate. They tend to raise children who are accepting of a “bigoted lifestyle.”

The hysterical right keeps bringing up the same old points. That these are special, not equal rights. That this is a threat to marriage. Well, I have to say that I managed to have two failed marriages before I was thirty. That’s because I made bad choices; it’s not because my homosexual friends were having more successful relationships than I’ve ever managed to. And my current desire to not marry nor to cohabitate has nothing to do with gay people, except for the knowledge that if I could turn gay (like the hysterical right thinks I can), I maybe could cohabitate successful with a woman, as Courtney’s presence seems to indicate that it’s the heterosexual roommate pairing that doesn’t work for me (unless the other person is my son, who theoretically has to do what I say).

It’s also nice that California is now once again keeping up with places like Iowa and Argentina–because it was embarrassing when we weren’t.

Well, Tiffany’s birthday was celebrated last night by a white trash party.  I was all decked out.  Panties and bras were on the clothes line in the car hole bar (complete with weeks worth of beer bottles on not-quite-patio furniture.

Some other touches:  had sports on the tv on mute.  Sports Illustrated on the table.  Tums out with the food.  A framed poster of young anakin in place of the monet.

Ken objected to the latter.  He said that since the poster could be a sign of geek-dom, it can’t be considered white trash.  Well, my outfit could have been a sign of me being a hooker, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t also connote white trash.

Methinks Ken protests too much.  (I acknowledge that many of my day-to-day decorations are signify white trash.  I can defend their kitsch value or their nerd value (in case of The Simpsons), but that doesn’t mean that they wouldn’t signify trash to people who didn’t love me.)

We found out that we shouldn’t have the tv on, after we turned it to cops.

We also found out how strange it is to have this party (with us decked out as trash) was perhaps not the best time for the neighbor to come over to let us know that the sound machine used at night (to try to keep me from killing Ken since he’s in the bedroom playing video games while I’m trying to sleep) is too loud.

All in all, there was much cheese, beer, and chocolate.  Hooray!

Being in The Big Easy was hard, mainly because we were all sick.  Also, a certain mother behaved badly.  Enough said–I don’t want to rant about that (I’m still sick and I don’t want to get sicker by writing for hours).

My mother and step-father used to have a time-share in New Orleans, so that was our family vacation destination when I was a child.  I’ve returned only a few times as an adult and each time, the place loses a bit of magic for me.

Why was it better before?

Lucky Dogs were a dollar instead of 5.25 (and New Orleans was the only place I could have hot dogs before).

I hadn’t been any place else (now I’ve been to two whole other countries and found cities I love more.

Growing up hasn’t made me like Bourbon Street any more.  It still smells bad & is full of annoying drunk people.

As I have my own income now, being in New Orleans isn’t the only place where I can have a little bit of money to spend at a place like the French Market.

Don’t get me wrong–New Orleans still has its charms–I love being covered in powdered sugar at the Cafe Du Monde and listening to Jazz and Blues.  I like that the people are friendly for the most part and I generally like the food.

I’m just glad that, unlike when I was a child, this city isn’t the only vacation spot available to me.

Ack.  Have been down South with the family in anticipation of a low-attendance conference presentation (8:30 p.m. in New Orleans–really, who do they think is going to be there?)

Am exhausted from a lack of sleep and family-induced stress and illness.  Ken can now walk around again, but we’re both having to take a lot of medication to do so.

I had the opportunity to watch a few hours of 7th Heaven with my grandmother (and by opportunity, I mean the viewing was forced upon me).  Vacuous characters, inane dialogue.  One episode managed to make the evils of smoking part of all four intertwined plots!  If you need these people telling you about smoking for an hour, you really need to be smoking something.

Now that Obama is the president, my grandmother no longer believes America is a great country.  She said so twice.  Now, if I’d said something like that a few months ago, when someone else was President, I would be called unpatriotic.  For once, I would like consistency.  Just a little consistency.

Margaret Atwood has been nominated for an award for her nonfiction Payback, which I’m teaching in UWP 18. 

I love the beach, but not when it’s filled with Spring Breakers.  What is it about Spring Break that makes people act like that?  Why don’t they just drink and have sex in regular life, so it’s not such a big deal on vacation?

I miss Kelly and Tessa.

I keep thinking about drinking games I could start with my mother (like every time she starts talking bitching about a certain thing that she’s obsessed with now, I could take a shot).  Unfortunately, all conversation roads apparently lead to this subject and I’d be dead of alcohol poisoning in half an hour.  It’s still tempting, if only to dull the road to death that will surely be caused by these conversations anyway.

Hi, Emily!  (I heard you’ve been reading!)

I’ve been bragging to everyone about the boy.  He’s in a magnet program, he’s building robots, he’s taking violin, he loves scifi and Eddie Izzard and Monty Python and The Simpsons. 

His hair is long and is starting to show a slight curl.  A group of juniors (a year older than he) are starting to use his middle name (Dante) and thus he is happy, finally, to have it.

His high school put on a sort of history fair last week–they did group project on WWI.  We went, not expecting much, and were suprised to find costumes, props, videos, and a bunch of dressed up teenagers.  Someone had told them to make eye contact, which means that some of us saw the boy’s eyes (his hair was in a ponytail) for the first time in years.  The kids were articulate and when asked questions, could answer (with the correct information).  I actually learned a lot from them, though not from the boy, who wouldn’t let me hear his presentation (apparently, I make him nervous).

The most interesting thing was watching my son standing outside and getting people funneled into his group’s presentation.  My somewhat shy child was basically a carnival barker and I’ve never been prouder.

So, I don’t have to celebrate this holiday, right?  I mean, I’m not Catholic, so I don’t have to do Saints’ days.  However, Jeopardy! just taught me that some believe this holiday was actually based on a Roman fertility festival.  So if I’m feeling pagan . . .

I’ve never been that into this holiday.  It’s not out of bitterness.  I’ve been partnered for more of them than I’ve been single.  And they’ve all been more or less adequate, as far as these things are supposed to go.  In fact, some of the times when I’ve been single have been better (as I used to have pizza and beer and watch The Hunt for Red October).

I think what mostly turns me off to this holiday is the bullshit expectation in heterosexual circles that this is the day men are supposed to go broke for their mates.  It’s about flowers and candy and cards and sometimes rings, but always about spending money on her (in rather predictable ways).  So, two things:

1.  If this is supposed to be a day about love, women should be contributing.  (And fine, if that means the guy wants a bj for all the money he spent, whatever, but that does bring up how close to prostitution this all is.)  In my perfect world, the couple should be equal, even on v-day.  (That’s why Ken and I bought each other a roomba last year).

2.  While I’m not knocking flowers and candy on v-day, I don’t think it’s the height of romance.  Because a day when that kind of thing is mandated is not about romance.  If your partner is only romantic on v-day and anniversaries, your relationship must suck.

Let me clarify, though.  Romance is not candy and flowers exclusively.  Ken washed my car inside and out this week because I complained about the dust aggravating my allergies.  That’s more romantic than holiday-nazi mandated flowers because the washing indicates that he listens and cares and is willing to take actions to make my life better.

On another note, I feel sucky this Valentine’s Day because I didn’t get out any cards or anything to my friends, though they made me cards and cookies and such.  In fact, am tempted to scan the card MD made because it was hilarious. 

I just hope they know I love them without the cards. 

Speaking of love, The Simpsons premieres in HD tomorrow.  I wonder if I’ll actually be able to tell the difference.

People who should get Valentines this year:

Obama (duh)

George W Bush (I love that you’re not President; many happy returns).

Creationists (I love that you give me something to write about).

Weird Al Yankovic, Eddie Izzard, Colin Firth, and many other crushes.

The forefathers (if only for Free Speech).

Panama City Beach, which Joy Turner on My Name is Earl declared “classy” a few weeks ago.  Hooray for one of my hometowns!

Margaret Atwood, but I already send her birthday cards, and it’s only my affiliation with the Atwood Society that doesn’t make that slightly creepy.