If a cow ever got the chance...

Things are looking up. For example, I'm actually getting some interesting manuscripts to work on (this is possibly an attempt by my boss to mitigate the horrible psychic distress and intense boredom signals I've been giving off--if so, it's greatly appreciated). One is a very academic book about people's mental software and how it differs from culture to culture and that we need to take into account the individualist/collectivist dichotomy of various nations as well as evaluate them on the masculinity/femininity axis, power distance axis, uncertainty avoidance axis, and some other thing I can't remember. There are lots of little graphs. However, this is actually a repackaging of an older book that was originally published by someone else, and when I looked it up on am*zon I discovered the research and methodology are now considered suspect (the author based most of his conclusions on one study of IBM employees from, uh, 1970). But it was sort of a seminal work twenty years ago. And you know what? When I read through the manuscript I have this odd sensation, which I think is my brain cells NOT writhing in agony and popping like so many square inches of bubble wrap at being forced to process sentences like "There are thousands who have caught the fancy nail craze! I�ve seen girls as young as six in the nail salons getting fashionably prepared way ahead of their years! The rise of hundreds of nail salons in every large city tells you that their popularity is still very much on the rise!" [sic] So it's all good.

My other big new manuscript is about Emily Dickinson and her botanical interests (I'm trying to say this in a roundabout way so as not to just hand you its title...). This is just absolutely killer lovely since I've always liked Emily Dickinson and besides, now I get to sit here at work and read poetry. The problem with this book is that a bigger, better, prettier book on the exact same confluence of topics just came out, and is already on the shelves. (This one won't be out until October or November.) So that bodes ill for this tiny manuscript. Plus, these particular poems, I don't know... Emily Dickinson was an undisputed genius when she was talking about death, or unrequited love, or despair; but to me her flower poems tend to be, well, flowery--just sort of hyper-Victorian and twee. ("I'm the little Heart's Ease! / I don't care for pouting skies!") I'll be reading them over and over for the next few months, so there will be ample time to reconsider this judgment.

Plus this weekend is going to be way fun, and my new freelance thing got delayed until Monday so I'll be able to enjoy it with a clear conscience. This Sunday, the "vegan social event of the season" with J. and a lot of free food. Tonight, Kill Bill Vol. 2, and Saturday, I'm going "clubbing" (a new concept, at least for me, since I really think people should drink alone in their houses while muttering angrily to themselves...). Must find something to wear that's voluminous and black, yet not completely devoid of sex appeal. My entire wardrobe is the product of these two contradictory impulses.

To the nice person who inquired a couple days ago but doesn't seem to have a guestbook: yes, I was and am an English major. Apparently the taint never goes away.

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