still writing. less fine-ish.

O, grumble grumble grumble.

last minute paper writing... and I feel fine (ish)

I tell my students not to do it, and yet here I am. Up this morning trying to write a conference paper for a panel presentation I'm giving tomorrow morning (!). Finding time to write this thing had been nearly impossible. I stay so busy during the weeks I'm teaching, and find myself so burnt out and exhausted during the weekend I'm able to do fairly little. I graded a lot over break, but also slacked off quite a bit, so got no work done on the paper. Every day this week has been a constant rush of trying to finish things up. Search committee stuff. Grading stuff. All manner of little things that seem to have piled up.

This may all change, but this morning I'm feeling pretty non-plussed about the paper. It is a panel on teaching, after all, and as I started taking some notes from my sources and filling in a few other ideas, I realize how much I already have to talk about. I only need to speak for 10 minutes, formally. I do that all the time, don't I? I've drafted short lectures to give to students in far less time than 24 hours.

So all I need to do is say a few things about other approaches for teaching what I taught, give a few choice reasons why many folks hesitate to do what I did, and then just describe the class's progression and insert a few choice anecdotes along the way. The students I'm brining with me (to present their final papers from the class) will do the rest. And I feel perfectly fine moderating the conversation we hope will ensue afterwards.

I really need to chill out about all of this. The stress level I've been experiencing this week (ha! all semester, all year, really!) is just insane. The stress at trying to make myself useful so I'd still have a job next year (my position was officially just a one-year job) led me to take on FAR too many other things I probably didn't need to: volunteering for all sorts of committees, judging a contest, helping out in honors interviews, giving presentations at festivals, deciding I must go to this conference (since it's local) and take students, etc., etc. I got my contract (for next year) yesterday, but I think all my panic was very unwarranted. I'm still up to my neck in teaching and all the additional things I've volunteered to take on. I have a hard time hearing myself think... but that's exactly what I need to get back to now.

Whoo. Self pep-talk and venting over. Back to work, z., you slacker.

search committee blues

It's strange being on the other side of this whole process, having the fate of so many hopeful and highly educated, fine, fine people in your hands.

We narrowed our applications down to 5 today. The process seems so very random to me. Some not strong applicants are getting phone calls just because they can teach a specific course we want someone to teach. Some amazingly gifted scholars and teachers are getting passed over because their case for being able to teach the classes we need is a teeny bit weaker. The job market sucks. I feel for these people.

And then there's the question of whether any of these people are still available or if they'll even want to come here once they hear about how lousy the salary is. (Another assistant prof. in my department is having a hard time paying her monthly bills!)

And now I'm wonder what the committee was saying about me last year. Yikes.

thirty

It happened. I turned thirty. Today's my birthday. So far, nothing feels out of order. Thankfully all the embarrassing stuff (being sung to in restaurants) was taken care of last week. Today feels conspicuously quiet. It's my last day of spring break, so I happily don't have to go into the office today. I did spend an hour or so at Big U. state library, though, and I'm having students over tonight for dinner to talk about a conference panel we're pulling together, so it feels rather un-birthday like. I want to find someway of marking today, just for myself. There needn't be any big celebration, but 30 does feel like a milestone of sorts, and I want to let it sink in. I spent most of last year telling folks I was 28 when they asked, somehow not remembering that I'd passed 29 already. 30 will be less forgettable, I think....

but what does it mean? What am I supposed to feel, now that my twenties are over? Do I rush at all the opportunities this new part of my life will have in store for me? Do I lament all the opportunities I missed out on in my twenties? Both? Neither?

I've never gone backpacking through Europe, or travelled to a new city or country exploring completely on my own (hideous MLA conferences don't count), or joined the Peace Corps, or held a really cool internship. These are things one should do in one's twenties.

I miss the friendships I had in my early twenties, in my college years, and I miss the openness of my mind to new ways of thinking in the first part of graduate school. I miss dancing. I miss late nights out. I miss and largely missed out on cool bars & martinis. (Parenthetical anecdote: as a wedding present, my brother and his wife sent us a blender with some liquor and margarita mix. When I got around to trying things out, I topped off both drinks with olives. whoops.)

I am, however, thrilled to finally be done with my dissertation, to have a "real" (?) job, to be married, to have pets, to be closer to starting my own family.

Instead of waiting for something to happen today, I should've tried to make it happen for myself. I could''ve scheduled a long hike, or invited friends, or gotten a haircut. But maybe writing will suffice.

I'm thirty. No turning back. Time to get on with things, & to cook a nice meal, at least, for my students.

public cat nibbling

I'm home from an exhausting few days' "vacation" at my parents' place, during which I was publicly embarrassed only twice-- both times with happy birthday songs in public places. One of those occasions involved a sombrero. My parents are all about public embarrassments, but usually they're unintentional, and they'd never before involved sombreros. I do turn thirty this week, though.

Sat down here to catch up on all your blogs and the little cat (who missed me, it seems) jumped up on my desk, where he kept walking over my wrists and rubbing up against my arms before he finally decided to nibble on my ear. Lovely.

Hmmm... I wonder if this post will provoke a fun google search--like "public ear nibbling" or "cats nibble somberos." I've gotten NONE that are notable yet....

There's still time.

A few highlights of the trip:
First: I got to see my uncle bud, whom I mentioned before, along with a lot of wonderful photos of his mother (and father) which my aunt had compiled for the memorial service. They met at a dance-- swing dance-- they could really "cut up a rug," I'm told. They went to New York City on their honeymoon. She was beautiful. He was dashingly handsome. Her real name was W-----, it turns out, a name which she hated and which no one ever pronounced right, anyway. She started being called Shorty while she was working at Kroger, and actually came to prefer that name, so much that she'd introduce herself as "Shorty" to anyone she met. Apparently all sorts of folks (including my parents) had a hard time finding out anything about her status during the time she was in the hospital beacuse no one knew (or could remember) her true first name. I was soooooooo close to getting in a morning hike in a place I love with my uncle... but thunderstorms were in the forecast. :(

Second: Went back to the college where I got my bachelor's degree to peek in on two of my former (and one of them fabulous!) English professors. The fabulous one has much to do with how I ended up studying what I studied and being what I am now. They remembered me, greeted me with great enthusiasm. The fabulous one even hugged me. Will I ever get to hug former students this many years later? It was strange talking shop with them, particularly with Dr. Fabulous, who is also an early modernist and was interested in how I teach Shakespeare and the rest of it. My head was spinning so from those conversations that I couldn't even sleep that night. I wish I'd had more time.

Finally: the sound of my own voice as a first-grader. We were living in Germany at the time (I'm a military brat) and, since international phone calls were soooo expensive then, our family and both sets of grandparets sent cassette tapes back and forth. My aunt got her hands on a few we'd sent and passed them back to mom. So strange, hearing that voice. My r's sound a lot like w's. I'm excited about getting to wear a "weal cowgiwl" outfit for a fasching parade. My brother was going to be a "weal cowboy" and my parents "a weal sherwiff" and "a weal sherwiff's wife." Yikes. I still remember riding in that covered wagon float and throwing candy. In the first grade, I was also apparently obsessed with my cousin, C----, who I speak to repeatedly on the tape, encouraging her to come visit and telling her about things I think she'd like.

On another tape, I'm reciting this very troubling poem about goblins who snatch away kids who won't say their prayers or mind their parents or respect authority. Yikes. I memorized lots of poems before I could even read... and I could recite them by heart on command. (Here's another, also in dialect, which I actually recited at a base Christmas party.) There are many things that I find troubling about the fact that THESE are the poems my mom had me memorize. What kind of a world was I being indoctrinated into? And all those lines about goblins "gitting" you "if you don't watch out"? No wonder I had so many nightmares as a kid.

Apparently mom liked Eugene Field, as I also learned this Little Boy Blue poem, which I loved then, and still find quite lovely, really. And another, about a boy falling asleep under a haystack!-- though I can't remember anything else about it now, but that image...

I'd lost those memories about early encounters with poetry. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed poems as a kid. I loved hearing the rhythm in my 6 year-old voice; to think about the pleasure I took then in saying the words and hearing how they fit together. That pleasure came back in a wonderful way when I took a poetry-writing class in college, but I'd never connected that to these early poems before...

I should start making a list of poems for my kids. Garcia Lorca has some poems for children (P. introduced me to them) which are simple, and short, and absolutely beautiful. There's a lovely one about a Mr. and Mrs. Lizard, for example, but I'll leave you with this one.

Caracola

Me han traído una caracola.

Dentro le canta
un mar de mapa.
Mi corazón
se llena de agua
con pececilos
de sombra y plata.

Me han traído una caracola.

which translates:

Seashell

Someone brought me a seashell.

Singing inside
is a sea from a map.
My heart
fills up with water
and litttle tiny fish,
silvery, shadowy.

Someone brought me a seashell.

[It's nice to be back.]

ouch

Woke up this morning with a terrible, terrible headache. Couldn't get myself out of bed until nearly 10am. Managed to get myself dressed and to work, but was totally unable to do anything. So I took some Motrin, closed the blinds in my office, turned the lights off, and lay down on the floor in front of the heater, willing the pain to go away. Much of it has, now (2 hours later!) but it's still there, a bit, threatening me. Moments like this make life itself seem so precarious. I am helpless, completely at the mercy of my own body, which in those moments I seem to have no control over. The pain has exhausted me. I'm tired, still nauseous, I just want to go home, crawl back into bed and fall asleep until it's really gone, until it's let go of me for good (or at least for a while). But I've got to finish writing up a midterm exam to give later this afternoon, & I'd wanted to finish grading their papers, too. Not sure the latter's going to happen. Sorry, kids, I'll have to say to my students. I'm only human. I'd wanted to blog about more interesting things, like this topic on women and arugmentiveness, etc. which many folks listed in my sidebar & elsewhere are taling about... but it seems that's going to have to wait, too.

The good news? Spring break is just hours away now. Thank God.

Dresden 101

In an upcoming week I'm having some of my first-year students read about the bombing of Dresden (in this book), which has brought this beautiful passage (from Vonnegut's Slaugherhouse Five) back to mind:

Billy looked at the clock on the gas stove. He had an hour to kill before the saucer came. He went into the living room, swinging the bottle like a dinner bell, turned on the television. He came slightly unstuck in time, saw the late movie backwards, then forwards again. It was a movie about American bombers in the Second World War and the gallant men who flew them. Seen backwards by Billy, the story went like this:

American planes, full of holes and wounded men and corpses took off backwards from an airfield in England. Over France, a few German fighter planes flew at them backwards, sucked bullets and shell fragments from some of the planes and crewmen. They did the same for wrecked American bombers on the ground, and those planes flew up backwards to join the formation.

The formation flew backwards over a German city that was in flames. The bombers opened their bomb bay doors, exerted a miraculous magnetism which shrunk the fires, gathered them into cylindrical steel containers, and lifted the containers into the bellies of the planes. The containers were stored neatly in racks. The Germans below had miraculous devices of their own, which were long steel tubes. They used them to suck more fragments from the crewmen and planes. But there were still a few wounded Americans, though, and some of the bombers were in bad repair. Over France, though, German fighters came up again, made everything and everybody as good as new.

When the bombers got back to their base, the steel cylinders were taken from the racks and shipped back to the United States of America, where factories were operating night and day, dismantling the cylinders, separating the dangerous contents into minerals. Touchingly, it was mainly women who did this work. The minerals were then shipped to specialists in remote areas. It was their business to put them into the ground, to hide them cleverly, so they would never hurt anybody ever again.

The American fliers turned in their uniforms, became high school kids. And Hitler turned into a baby, Billy Pilgrim supposed. That wasn't in the movie. Billy was extrapolating. Everybody turned into a baby, and all humanity, without exception, conspired biologically to produce two perfect people named Adam and Eve, he supposed.

Beautiful. P & i wept when we heard this on audiobook (beautifully read by Ethan Hawke) some several weeks ago.

My brother's a military pilot. Thanks be to God he was assigned a rescue plane and not a fighter (which they all seem to want). He's been to and from Iraq & other middle Eastern parts somewhat unknown twice now, and it looks like he's going back again this summer. He has a new baby, and he's going back. It's probably less dangerous for him now than it was in previous times, but it's never exactly safe, you know? Once, before the baby came, during a visit to his place, he told me a bit about what he'd seen, and about nearly life-ending events. It was late one night, we were out putting out this fire, everyone else had gone off to bed... He told me about his nightmares, about having had to kill some men who were shooting at him.... men who he knows had families and kids of their own. He was nearly crying. How can he profess to be a good father, he wondered, when he'd done these things? I'm sure he told me only because of the lateness of the hour, and the free-flowingness of the beer from a bit earlier in the night... He doesn't talk about this with his wife, he said. He doesn't want to put those images into her head.

I think they'll always be in mine.

There's so much that disturbs me about this country I live in. So much dangerous bullshit.

la hormiga atómica

My husband calls me the atomic ant. Can you see the resemblance? How I acquired the name is somewhat of a long story, but it has something to do with the brute strength with which I once carried heavy furniture, small refrigerators, and backpacks overflowing with books from the library for my dissertation research. (I might also mention I'm a bit under 5 feet tall.)

Now if I could just learn how to work at atomic speeds. Whatever that means.

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

Unfortunately, I seem to have lost all my previous comments. :(

one more week...

or 5 days, more precisely. Spring break is coming, though spring itself may not, I fear. The local weatherman predicts snow again on Wednesday. Grumble grumble.

The weekend has flown. I've spent much of today (though not as much as I should've) grading papers for my Shakespeare class, and after last week's excessive attention to freshman comp., this is a welcome relief. I'm breezing through these in comparison. But here's what I'm noticing: Some of the students have chosen to do a bit of outside research for their papers-- which is certainly fine.... But several of them are entirely losing their own voices as they bring in the other critics. That troubles me. I told them (before they handed in papers) to be sure, if they were using outside sources, to use the criticism to further their own arguments rather than letting the criticism use them. I can see that they're trying, but how do I grade these things? I'm concerned that they'll be expecting A's and getting B's or C's.... but maybe that's a good lesson.

Last night, P. took me to see the new Merchant of Venice film. I have mixed feelings about it. While I think they handled the anti-Semitism of the play sensibly and sensitively, they also made the play a bit too PC for my liking in their treatment of Portia, whose racist comments concerning the Prince of Morocco's devil-complexion are entirely cut out. She does come across as a bit cruel in the trial scene, though--which I think is entirely to Pacino's credit. Pacino's a rather fine Shylock, methinks. Even my husband, who oft calls Al Pacino "Mal (bad) Pacino" found him compelling here. Jeremy Irons was also wonderful here, too, though I was less impressed with Fiennes. I must give the film credit for exploring the darkness of the play and or not tying up everything in a neat bow. I'm still a little haunted by it.

This post is a mish-mash of weekend. But if I can just get myself to keep writing, eventually something good will come of it. At least I think so.

I kept hand-written journals (6 of them!) all through my college years. When I look back on them, I actually like what's written there. My mind was so open then. There was so much I was thinking about and through, trying to absorb. My mind has become so cluttered now that it's hard to focus on anything for very long. But it won't stay that way if I can do something about it. Breathe, z. Just breathe.

tempted

There's a new job in my field out in the ads today-- and it's for a university located in a part of the country I'd love to live in. The teaching load is lower than it is here, which means I'd be able to do research much more easily. The salary is significantly higher than I make here. The problem? It's a one-year visiting position. I know what they say about birds in hands and those in bushes, but I'm so ready to get out of this city and state. What to do, what to do? Were I to take a one year job, that'd mean I'd have to be applying again next year.... but if I stay here, I'll probably do that anyway. The other consideration is baby-making-- it's probably considerably less risky to have the kid here, while working the job I'm currently in (in a very friendly and supportive department, no less) than it would be to show up somewhere else where no one knows me and I still have to prove myself, and with my not knowing what complications I might have to face in pregnancy (for there may indeed be some). Argh. I'll probably stay put, I guess. Ohhhhhhhhh, but I'm dreaming.

How distracted are you?

To find out, go here. This video was designed for an experiment in psychology at the University of Illinois in Urbana-Champaign. The experiment won an "Ignobel prize" in 2004. See if you can count the number of times that the players dressed in white shirts pass the ball to each other. Don't count the passes made by players in black shirts. What number do you come up with? It's harder than it sounds.

When you've finished (only then! Don't spoil it!), you can read about the scientists' findings here. Surprised? Do comment!

I'm hiding.

At the start of this semester, and most of last semester, if I'm remembering right, I kept the door of my office open while I was inside. I'm in a suite with a few other young professors. With the door open, I can see and hear them coming and going; I can be aware of students coming by. The past few weeks, though, I've not been feeling very social. I've been hiding in here with the door closed. I'm just so tired, and talking to anyone feels like a great effort. I want to crawl into a warm cave somewhere and hibernate for a while... at least until spring comes. But there are so, so, so many things to do in the next week and a half before spring break:

• write up and give 2 separate midterm exams
• finish grading and return 3 sets of papers
• prepare for and teach the rest of my classes
• prepare for and teach workshop for high school students this weekend
• meet with some students I'm taking to a conference
• prepare for and meet with students I'm hoping to take to England this summer
• get in touch with my dissertation director
• check up on this article of mine that was supposed to come out in "Spring 2005" (I've not even seen proofs yet)
• find, submit and send in some insurance forms
• eat
• live
• breathe
• sleep?

Uncle Bud

Last week I wrote about the death of a woman my cousins and I know as "Shorty." It took me a full week to get around to calling my uncle with condolances, one day after her memorial service. The fact that there was a memorial service (instead of a funeral) is itself significant, since that side of my family and the (unfortunately) Southern Baptist church they attend is all about 2 or 3 days of open-casket "visitations" + funeral. Apparently Shorty didn't like the idea of people gawking at her and didn't see much point in spending a lot of money "just to be put into the ground," so she was cremated, and the single memorial service was it.

My uncle told me all this on the phone, and plenty more, too. He told me the kinds of things uncles just don't tell nieces about (at least in the world my parents seem to live in). Apparently, Shorty's husband (my uncle's father) has Parkinson's, which I never knew about (though he does seem to shake quite a bit). As a result of the medication he's taking, my uncle says, he's convinced he sees "little people" everywhere he goes. They're always watching him. They tell him to do things. When they're angry with him, they punish him. In order to function, my uncle says, he has to maintain very close contact with his environment. When he walks, he drags his feet, keeping them on the ground. He hesitates at doorways, as if he's not sure quite what to do there. He doesn't have any hobbies and never has, my uncle says, and the biggest problem he has is being able to keep his mind occupied. He can't complete thoughts. His vision is deteriorating. His grip on reality is very tenuous.

My uncle is now the chief executor of the family estate. He has power of attourney over his father and will look out for him for the rest of his life. He's feeling a lot of pressure here, as my aunt takes care of all the finances in their family. He wants to leave his dad in his own place for as long as possible, since he suspects the change in environment might make things harder for him. He's having to set aside what used to be a hiking obsession-- no time now for multi-day camping trips or long hikes through the Smokies or along the Appalachain trail. And while he used to think life wouldn't be worth living if he ever had to give up his time in the woods, he's changed. These days, he enjoys a good book.... have I read any good books lately?

The intimacy of this conversation is beautiful and rare. No one else in my family talks to me this way, at such an equal level. My relationship with my parents has always been the sort where parents don't confide in children and many things that just aren't discussed at all. I am a different person when I'm around them. While there have been moments I've tried to open up to them and communicate, they don't really know me for me. They don't seem to want to know.

Two summers ago, when I was home for a week or so, my uncle and I went hiking one weekday morning by ourselves. I think he'd even taken off work to do it. It was the first time I can remember ever being alone with my uncle or having a meaningful conversation with him. I was shocked at how much he seemed to want to know about me, surprised at the questions he'd ask me. They weren't the impersonal "how's school?" kind of questions I generally get from family members. They were smart and provocative questions, about why I do what I do, and what I find meaningful. We talked about nature, and politics, and families, and technology, and culture, and stories, and it was amazing. He treated me as an equal, not as a child, and not as a stranger. I'll never forget that.

My folks don't think so highly of Uncle Bud. Though he's an incredibly intelligent man, he never went to college and "settled" for a job as a mechanic. He's fiercely independent and doesn't follow all those unspoken rules. He wears camoflague pants to church. He goes on strange diets. He hiked then biked obsessively, sometimes on important holidays. He let my aunt take care of most of the raising and disciplining of the kids. I don't think they approve of him holding me upside down by the ankles when I was little, either. But I love all these qualities about him, and I especially love that he sincerely seems interested in knowing who I am as a person.

I'm probably the shyest person in my family, and it's not always easy for me to talk about myself or to hold a conversation with someone I don't know well, but I want to be open with him and build on this relationship. I don't know why he's taken such an interest in me, but it's taught me a lot about the kind of aunt/parent/adult role model I want to be for all the kids in my life.

saturday cleaning

My mom's a domestic goddess. In our house, everything was always clean, and everything had its place. My dad was in the military-- where order goes, they were a match made in heaven. When my brother and I would complain about having to remake our beds (a rushed job wasn't good enough for mom), he'd tell us stories about boot camp and ROTC and having to make beds you could bounce a quarter off of. I've never been able to get this to work-- but maybe it has something to do with how I'm throwing the quarter.

One of mom's traditions is a weekly cleaning day. In high school, Thursday was the special day. We'd come home from school and swim practices to dust rags and vacuum cleaners. The house was always so spotless, many times I wasn't even sure what I was cleaning. I couldn't see the dust I was supposed to be wiping off, but Mom could, so I wiped, wiped, wiped. My brother did the vacuuming on account of him being less likely to bang vaccuum into wall and leave marks. (I'm still a bit clumsy that way.)

As much as I loathed weekly cleaning days growing up, and the daily maintenence required to keep the folks happy (daily bed making and room tidying, not being allowed to leave my books and papers spread out over the floor), now that I'm on my own I really marvel at how well they were able to keep things together. I'm convinced that my house will never look as clean and sparkling as theirs does, no matter how hard I try.

Though at the time it could feel oppressive, there was and is still something very calming about walking into and moving and living inside of a clean house. There's a part of me that sighs with joy everytime I walk into their pristine house... and there's another part that feels a bit uncomfy after I've been there too long.

but to the point: Ever since we moved in together, it seems, P. and I have been saying "we really should set aside one day a week to clean the house." We say this everytime the house gets sooooo dirty/disorganized/oppressive that neither one of us can stand it and one or the other or both of us break down and spend hours grumpily cleaning as much as we can. Today felt different. We got up in the morning, did the laundry, P. cleaned the kitchen while I reorganized the disaster the bedroom had become and picked up in the living room, and unloaded the dishwasher, then we worked on the bathroom together. And the strangest thing happened: we had the nicest time doing it. We were nesting. And the feeling of having accomplished all of this lingers. I can breathe again.

I would say "mom would be proud,"and I guess that's true, but at the same time I'm feeling guilty about all the cleaning projects we didn't get to: both offices are a mess, the carpet could use a good cleaning, the kitchen floor could be mopped, the laundry and storage rooms tidied, and the shower could be scrubbed, scrubbed, scrubbed some more. Our landlord left it looking pretty icky when we moved in; I've tried cleaning it many times and still can't get all the mildew to go away. If any of you cleaning gurus happen to be reading this, I could use some suggestions about how to deal with this one...

We're hoping we can keep neat all the rooms we worked on today and get back to these other projects... maybe next Saturday.

tumors

In the past two weeks, three of my students have developed tumors. Tumors? 18-20 year olds? Does this seem bizarre to anyone else? I'm seriously starting to wonder if there might be some serious environmental problem going on here.

In my last semester teaching at Big State U., a smart student started missing numerous classes. I finally got in touch with him (by email I think) to ask what was going on... and it turned out he'd recently been diagnosed with lymphoma, and the chemotherapy was making him too nauseous to come to class. Lymphoma's some pretty serious stuff.... and yet he finished out the semester (showing up just occasionally) the best he could. I have no idea how or where or if he is now.

Tumors.

And I thought I'd been having a hard time.

midsemester blues

Thirty. That's the number of paper I have to grade so far, more or less. I'll get between 16 and 20 more this afternoon. I could be grading now. I should start, but somehow I just can't do it. I've been craving a nap since I got up this morning, even more so since I got done teaching my first class at 11. I have two more to get through today. My prep is finished, but I'm still sooo sleepy the last thing I can do is concentrate on grading. I should bring an alarm clock to work. And a mat. And a pillow. I could sleep right here if I weren't afraid I wouldn't wake up for class.

I don't know if it has something to do with the weather, or the recent death in my family, or my students, or what, but I've been so down these past few days. The smallest items on my to-do list feel overwhelming. I'm obsessively writing the same reminders in ink on my hands day after day. I see them several times, daily, but t the end of the day and after a number of handwashings they've started to fade away and I still haven't gotten them done. How hard can it possibly be to address an envelope and mail my completed and bound dissertation to my director? It's ridiculous. I'm in a rut.

I woke up this morning already stressed about my morning class and what to do in it. Days like this make me question whether I'm cut out for this kind of work. I'm sure (I hope!) that as I get some more experience under my belt, and especially as I can start re-using lesson plans from classes I've taught before, that anxiety will lessen. Right now, I'm almost constantly abuzz. I came home last Friday after classes were over and it was hours before I could calm down again. I am feeling stressed and fight-or-flight-y even when the stressful stimuli (teaching) have been removed.... and that's exhausting.

dear reader(s), please forgive the self-indulgent whininess of this post. I've really got to work on this.
Off to teach two more classes.

One more reason I heart P.

P. has been listening to books on tape on his daily commute to and from Big State U. an hour or so away. He'd heard Anna Karenina, Slaughterhouse Five, The Canturbury Tales, The Blind Assassin, A Tale of Two Cities, Ragtime, Dr. Norville and Mr. Strange (or is it Dr. Strange and Mr. N?), and Life of Pi so far. I'm jealous. Tonight he arrived home with tears in his eyes. I said, "What's wrong?" and it turns out it's this: Don Quixote died during the ride home.