… and splitting infinitives, sort of.
Things have been rather busy ’round these parts. Last week saw a confluence, a conflagration, an aggregation, a veritable tsunami of deadlines. But I also somehow found a way to go see Interpol with the hubster and good friend Amber on Wednesday night. It was fun, especially since they played a bunch of songs that I sort of know and like (as opposed to the new stuff, which I haven’t heard and which Amber reports is not good).
On Friday, I presented a paper called “Sweet Subversion: Resistance and the Power to Name in Waitress,” as part of the American Studies grad conference. Our panel, called “Performance and the Public Feminine,” was covered in the u’s craptacular rag, and the reporter, who called me Sunday afternoon with some followup questions, completely neglected to mention the title of my paper or the nature of my work. Instead, she opted to define me as a nearly incompetent wife and mother who can’t get her work done without “help from friends and classmates.” Whatever that means. What really chaps me is that she asked me about what I took away from the conference and I said that I’d left feeling really excited about my work. Of course, that didn’t show up inthe article.
Carly wrote a letter to the editor about it; the headline pretty much reflects what we imagine is the general attitude about our uppity feminist selves. Sigh. Chalk one up for the patriarchy, I guess.
Quickly, before I go bolt a Lean Cuisine before class: birthday dinner at Chez Zee on Saturday was lovely, although handicapped by a toddler. Got the new Imperial Teen and Caramba! Went shopping and dropped a bundle on new clothes on Sunday. Yadda yadda. Spanish test and paper due tomorrow; not sweating test because she gave us the questions in a handout. And yet I’m learning.