Reporting for duty

I’m leaving for Las Vegas at the proverbial crack of dawn tomorrow morning, and finally, now that I’m finished writing my paper, I’m getting excited about going. The conference program looks pretty interesting; there’s a guy presenting who’s been writing on Star Trek and race that I’d like to meet. But especially I can’t wait to hear Le Guin read—wonder what she’ll choose?—and although I haven’t packed yet, I’ve already picked out the books I’m going to ask her to sign for me at the reading: Tales from Earthsea, The Other Wind, Dancing at the Edge of the World, and The Telling, the book I’m writing about now. My mother sort of freaked me out by suggesting I should take her a gift, a jar of peach jam or something from South Carolina, but I’ve mostly recovered from the suggestion now and resolved maybe just to write her a letter one day explaining what I feel about her work (as if I could do that). Probably she has fifty of those a month, not to mention the jars of jam.

I spent last night poking around the Star Trek Experience website and getting ready to spend a fortune on souvenirs for everybody; Will wants a Captain Picard and a Borg action figure, and Laura wants an ensign’s costume. I told her not to hold her breath on that request. I have to call Chris tonight and see what he’d like… I think I’ll see if I can find a Starfleet Academy tshirt for myself. And should I shell out fifteen bucks to have my picture taken on the bridge? Guess I’ll have to decide that once I get there. My grandmother has warned me the last three times I’ve talked to her not to get addicted to gambling, but I guess I should at least try a slot machine. And I packed my books to read on the plane already too… The Historian, that new Dracula book that’s supposed to be so wonderful, and the latest Elizabeth Peters mystery.

The worst thing about leaving is that none of my family is coming with me—and I couldn’t weasel any friends into the trip either. I really wanted to go with Chris, but he left yesterday for his teaching workshop, so that didn’t work out. Maybe if it’s wonderful we can go back out together, get a cheap flight sometime in August when every other sane person is staying away (the temperature in Vegas yesterday was 104 degrees!). Laura wants to go and get assimilated with me, and while I’m pretty sure Will’s too small for that, I know he’d have a ball too. I love that I’ve raised little Star Trek geeks. I just wish they could come too.

And of course I always worry about giving my paper, whether somebody a million times smarter than me will be there to destroy my poor weak argument. That Le Guin herself might show up at the sessions—there are four or five on her work—is a pretty scary idea too. Surely not. But almost the very worst thing of all is that between writing my paper and working on my class, I’ve been busting my behind for two weeks to get this house cleaned up—the end of the school year scrubbing—and now it’s really really clean (except for the carpet, which I’ll deal with when I get back)—and now I’m leaving. I told Laura today that if she and Will trash this house while I’m gone they’ll never ever see a Captain Picard figure in their entire lives. And I mean it too.