I'm in charge of department flair

The more time I spend in the Anthropology Department, the more surprised I am that no successful sitcom set in the absurdist world of academia has ever been created. I can easily envision a Scrubs-like universe in which hapless graduate students awkwardly navigate the twists and turns of departmental politics, crazy professors, undergraduate upstarts, and copious amounts of alcohol. Then I remember that academics are boring and nobody wants to watch people do their homework on T.V.

At any rate, we’ve found that the department is full of odd little moments. Consider the moment when one’s eminent advisors make their presence known by poking one’s pyramid-studded belt from behind:

Noreen: *poke poke*

Me (turning around, awkwardly): “Yep, that’s my belt.”

Gary (with the delighted pride of a sixty-year-old man who feels hip enough to assign subcultures using diagnostic fashion articles): “She’s punk."

Noreen (who had the previous week complimented my sneakers): “She’s our new fashion plate.”

That was the highlight of my Wednesday. Gary's declaration was the cutest thing ever, and I lacked the heart to tell him that anyone who actually was punk would be squirming in her Chucks at sight of the argyle-and-broken-heart motif branded across mine. When I am the department’s fashion plate, we know we’re in trouble.

I really am making a name for myself in this place, though, for better of for worse. For our Origins of Agriculture section, to liven up Friday’s discussion of the Pre-Pottery Neolithic A and B, I made everyone “PPNA” and “PPNB” sandwiches – pita, peanut butter, Nutella, and apple/banana, respectively. They were quite delicious. I got the impression this kind of thing had never happened before in all the years this course had been taught. I'm not quite sure what Professor Meadow was thinking, but I suspect some combination of "Oh goody, I knew I skipped lunch for a reason" and "I wasn't aware I had been transfered to an elementary school." Our T.A., a native of Georgia (the country, not the state), refused to partake and expressed his disappointment that the pitas weren't filled with something Middle Eastern. That, ladies and gentlemen, is called missing the point.

Yesterday I went to Tufts homecoming tailgate to meet Mel, which was interesting. It was great to see her, the weather was beautiful, and I really enjoyed myself once I'd put away some cider. However, it made me realize how very little I missed college life, and how very different my experience with college was from hers. I can never see myself flying cross-country for Yale homecoming. I personally have no desire to see drunken frat boys push over a table covered in uneaten food and half-empty beer cans onto the grass ever again. The same goes for a dozen people bouncing in the back of a pickup and raining cooler ice drippings on the masses below. Not my scene.

Of course, when I realize the alternative is watching a football game, the tailgate starts looking pretty good.