Scene: Harriet�s driveway early this morning, where much snow shoveling is taking place. [Click back for pictures]

A car drives by and someone inside leans grinning toward the window and waves vigorously at us.

Husband: I just figured out who [insert name of preternaturally cheerful neighbor here] reminds me of.

Harriet: Who�s that?

Husband: Ned Flanders. If Flanders were a vegetarian Buddhist.

Harriet: Namaste-oodly!

Husband: [in Flanders voice] Get bent, everybody!

Harriet: Stupid sexy Flanders!

Yes, this is what passes for conversation in our house.

Like my old friendlemming, I woke up in the middle of the night after some disturbing dreams � caused, no doubt, but the scrape, scrape, scraping of all-night snowplows -- and kept myself awake with dissertation-related panic. I got up early and did something about it, but I am left with a residual feeling of anxiety anyhow. This was not helped by one of my committee members who wrote to ask, �Are you really planning on defending by the end of spring quarter?� This is a totally reasonable question � he�s seen little of my work of late, since my chair won�t comment on the diss until he sees the whole thing and yet prefers for me to pass things by him first before I pass it on to others. Also, said faculty member has a tendency to alternately drop completely unexpected compliments in your lap and make humiliating comments that I�m pretty sure he doesn�t intend to be humiliating. It�s all part of the unhealthy psychology of dissertating. I am lucky: most of the head games here are of my own creation. But just the same, I�m really ready for them to stop.

And now, I will attempt to achieve a state of enlightenment by strapping long, pointy boards to my feet and plunging into a snowbank.

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