. . . that I had to finish my dissertation. In two months or less; I had to check on dates and make sure that my resident committee members would be around for the defense, and that one from outside the university could come for it. It almost didn't seem worth it, since I was already employed, and then I remembered that I had a job offer contingent on finishing, one for a better job than I have now. A 2-2 load, with a good colloquium series and high-powered yet friendly colleagues who would encourage me to do brilliant work. I decided I would work 8-4 every day, go to the gym after that, make the cats wait for their food and attention, bang out a shitty rough draft as fast as possible and then start filling in details and revising.
I'd like to know if I finished and whether the new job lived up to expectations, but the cat alarm went off. The loud one, not the gentle nudging and purring of the Scot or the heavy breathing of the Tiny Girl. Seriously, no one can sleep through the wails of the Shakespearean Heroine when she thinks it's mealtime.
So I guess I'm back to grading and tinkering with the last big assignment of the semester, instead of dissertating.
But maybe I'm trying to tell myself something about that book I'm supposed to be writing.