So, I called the Humane Society shelter this afternoon to see if anyone had come to claim that poor dog that staked out my house last week. No one has, and I was told that the dog is available for adoption. I am extremely tempted. All I would have to do is fix the fence to my back yard, and get a cover for the couch . . . what stops me is the fact that I travel a lot, although there is a place to board dogs in town that a number of people have recommended and said good things about. Agggh! Decisions!
Besides, what if I ended up with a dog that hated opera? This is too terrifying a prospect even to consider.
Also, remember that important musical event in January that is going to cause me to miss a day of class because those doofuses at Carnegie Hall went and scheduled it on the Wednesday that is the first day of spring term? Well, I was given the teaching schedule for spring that I asked for, which is T-Th, and since it is humanly possible to get from New York to the nearest large city to where I live by 10am, and since my first class is at 11:00 — well, actually that one will probably end up cancelled, but it’s a big survey and it’s the first day so it won’t matter. But I can definitely make the afternoon one, although I’m not sure how awake I’ll be. So I’m feeling a little bit better about that.
Finally. Disturbing news from the Chronicle of Higher Education. (Not that this is a surprise, really. I mean, it’s the Chronicle of Higher Education. They specialize in dark foreboding, complaints, and advice about crisis-avoidance.) Apparently it’s the thing now to specify in ads for assistant professor jobs that candidates must have earned the Ph.D within the last three years. They want ’em fresh and inexperienced, I guess. I got my degree in ’08, and I got my job spring of ’12, which is three and a half years . . . I was probably at the very end of my marketability. Yikes. Also, blech. Sometimes I hate this profession.