Such a Sap...

The end of the semester always makes me tear up a little. It is tough to let some of these kids go out into the big world without my sage guidance. Heh. Okay, the real truth is that I will miss some of the little shits. There. I said it. Happy now?

Do you hear what I hear?

I heard the Indigo Girls playing in the supermarket on Sunday.
It must be true... the gays really are trying to push their agenda on unsuspecting shoppers.
Either that or I am finally old enough for some of my favorite music to be classified as "muzak."

Hey, hey we're the freegans...

This morning found me minding my own business, walking to Starbucks for a latte. A tbt* girl handed me a paper with the headline "NO (Freegan) WAY." Huh. I ordered my coffee and sat down for a gander at the article.

Ready? A freegan lives almost entirely off of discarded goods. That includes food. Yup, these folks dumpster dive for their dinner. Now, as you are carefully monitoring your gag reflex, let's be clear that freegans are not eating half of your leftover veggie sub that you tossed. Instead, they are hitting up the dumpsters behind supermarkets, bagel stores and the like looking for packaged food that has been discarded (mainly because it was past the expiration date). Apparently there is a veritable cornicopia of food to be had for the taking. If you can make it past dealing with the stench of a dumpster to retrieve it.

Whoa. This is heavy information to digest over my latte. I mean, these cats are so against consumer culture that they won't even buy food. And while I don't think I am extremely materialistic, I do definitely partake in the consumeristic culture. And, although I find what these guys do to be a bit gross, I admire their ethical standpoint. This is something that they actively choose to do each day. I assume it is much easier to stroll into Publix and buy a bag of spinach than it is to traverse the wasteland of a Publix dumpster for said spinach. But, on principle, they refuse to partake in the convenience obsession of our society. I find that honorable.

So, as I sipped my latte, I began to think about the ways I could participate less in the consumer culture. But don't worry, the next time you eat at my house, you can be assured that all of the food was purchased first-hand.

Conflict

I am not into conflict. Truly, I am a conflict avoider. When I am forced into a conflict, I get all shaky and flustered. Then I spend an obsessive amount of time post-conflict second guessing myself, wondering if maybe my perspective was off, maybe I was at fault.

So, yesterday, when the Composition Director from UT called, I immediately was thrown into a tizzy. She insisted I come in to teach on Thursday, saying I needed to honor my contract. The problem with that, you see, is that I had set up conferences with my USF kids on Thursday. The teacher I had replaced at UT had come back from medical leave, said thank-you-much-I-will-take-my-class-back-now, and so I scheduled other things for Thursday. And then said teacher had an allergic reaction to medication which required hospitalization.

So then there I was, facing this conflict with a woman who had already been ugly to me on Tuesday about not being able to come in because I had a doctor appointment to have skin cancer removed. And now she was insisting I come in on Thursday, which meant I would have to cancel my conferences at USF.

And, as I was wracking my brain for how I was going to handle this, the most amazing thing happened: I had a moment of clarity. I knew, in no uncertain terms, what the right thing to do was. So I told her that, while this situation was unfortunate, I would not disappoint and/or let down my students at USF. I had made a commitment to them and the need to have me come in to UT to teach did not supersede that commitment.

And I did NOT spontaneously combust upon standing up for myself. In fact, I had her calmed down by the end of the conversation. Eating right out of my hand, she was.

Yeah, I am a rock star. You know it, babeeee.

Summer Is Approaching...

I know it seems odd to be thinking about summer when we just eased into Spring. But summer starts for me the first week in May. And along with summer comes... unemployment. And I mean unemployment in the bad, "holy shit, what am I going to do???" sort of way, not a cool summer break.

So that leads me to ponder what I want to do this summer. At this stage in my life, I think I would really like to look after someone's child for the summer. Unfortunately, I don't think most folks could pay what I need to make money wise. I would love to do some writing work. I enjoy writing on the church blog (http://imagineaplace.wordpress.com), which is part of the reason you never see me here. But I don't know that I can find employment that is writing based. There is a phone survey job at Moffitt, which would be great because I could work from home and I like to talk to people (I would be finding out if they are eligible for a cancer study), but the hours are wonky (4pm to 8pm)...

So, while the possibilities are endless, there is also a lot of trepidation about where I will land for the summer. If anyone remembers the Temping Incident of '07, you will know that we do NOT want to live that again. Apparently I am a bit surly when stuck at a desk in a 9-5 data entry job. Who knew??

Anyone have a job they want to throw my way?

Jesus Loves Publix

For your entertainment (and as undeniable proof that Jesus loves Publix), an exchange between pastor (Matt) and congregant (Pensive Pea):

Matt: Could you take on getting the communion elements and setting up the communion table for Sunday night?

Me: Sure. What do you mean by "getting"? Like from a closet? From the communion store?

Matt: Yeah, Communion ‘R Us. Publix? Although, a communion store might be a good business to get into. We could even have a drive-thru.

Me: I think a communion store would add to the mystique of it all...
Publix just seems so... NOT Blood of the Lamb.

Matt: Or perhaps a brand that Publix could sell. “Blood of the Lamb” Grape Juice ™ Buy one get one by grace.

Little Lo

Our friend, Beth from Atlanta, stayed with us for a few days. Betsy had told me that Beth really likes dogs. But I was completely unprepared for the love affair between Beth and Milo. I mean, 'Lo is cute and winsome and all, but I have never seen anyone take to her quite like that.

She kept calling 'Lo a tender rabbit. Huh?

Amy thinks tender rabbit sounds like something you would call your dinner ...
Come here, little bunny... Little tender rabbit...

Milo just keeps looking out the window, wondering when Beth will return to call her tender rabbit once more...

Snippets

When I do something that Amy deems to be good (like filing my taxes way before the deadline or weeding the front flowerbed), she asks me if I am running for the Kiker of the Year Award. Excellent, because she says I am far ahead of the other Kikers... bad because... uh, where is she finding these other Kiks?

Amy walked home on Friday night, after hanging out with some friends. There may have been some drinking involved. She came into the room where I was sleeping, very quietly changed clothes, walked over to the bed, picked up a glass of water and said, "I AM GOING TO DO ALL THE LOUD THINGS NOW." She had been quiet as a mouse, prior to that outburst.

I graded all day Friday and all day Saturday. On Sunday, my head exploded and I could. not. grade. any. more. papers. Instead, we went to breakfast, shopped for groceries at Target, picked out new glasses for me, had a God-forsaken meal at Bennigans, went to church, went to Four Green Fields for beverages (I had an O'Douls) and capped off the night with some tasty sushi. Spent all day with Amy. It was one of the more spectacular days in recent memory.

The new church service that I am on the planning team for went swimmingly. We seem to have found the right blend of innovation and ritual. I was invited to assist with Communion for the first time. Amy said she was pleased to have been present at my first Communion. Get it? She is really proud of that one. I thought it was funny that, given my anxiety issues, I ended up standing in front of 100 people, holding a ceramic cup of grape juice (a.k.a. blood of Christ).* Amy noted that the pastor didn't know about my anxiety issues when he asked me to participate. I, in turn, reminded her that God most certainly knew, though... Very funny, God.

Today, I had one of those moments where everything seemed so perfect that I was awed by it. Even my Fruit on the Bottom Black Cherry yogurt seemed a wonder to behold. Don't worry, I will snap out of it when I get back to grading those essays...

*I have a completely irrational fear of holding anything breakable in public. And I am very afraid of spilling beverages that stain.

Rockabilly Ruckus

Saturday was WMNF's 5th Annual Rockabilly Ruckus. I had been pretty hyped about it for a few weeks. Since I am not drinking (and sometimes get a little bored just hanging out watching folks tie one on), the Ruckus seemed like the perfect event: good music, food, beer for the imbibers and plenty of atmosphere and people watching.

We headed to Skipper's around 5 p.m. The show started at 4 p.m., but the bands continue to get better as the night wears on, so we figured we wouldn't be missing much. We neglected to take into account how many rockabilly fans are in the Tampa Bay area (who knew???). The place was packed by the time we got there. But we managed to find a bench w-a-y in the back to park ourselves on.

We sat there for all of 30 seconds before Chatty Cathy came over and asked if she and her friends could share our bench. Which would have been fine, if she hadn't been so damned chatty. Her chatter drove Amy to express an intense desire for Conch Fritters... right then. So off we went to the restaurant/bar section (thereby surrendering our seats). The restaurant was slammed... so slammed that it took them one hour to serve us cold conch fritters, cold fries, cold hush puppies and lukewarm shrimp. And the Ruckus is going on outside without us.

We finally made it back outside... to find wall to wall people. There was not a bench, a ledge or tabletop that was not already occupied. We found a spot w-a-y in the back, by the exit door, where we could stand. And we guarded that spot with ferocity. At least there we weren't shoulder to shoulder with dirty people with pompadours.

Okay, to be fair, the dirty people and the pompadour people are two separate camps in the rockabilly scene. The pompadours are a proud people. In fact, one of the bands sang an entire song about rockabilly hair. And they are also covered in elaborate, colorful tatoos. Fascinating. The dirty people are... dirty. They have long hair (often stringy), band t-shirts and less artistic tatoos. And they smell.

But the most interesting person we spoke to all night fell into neither of these camps. She was of the over 70, drunk, dancing persuasion. She approached Amy and I, as we stood innocently in the only spot we could claim as our own, and said, "I just had to come over and tell you that you two are just like mimes. You don't move, and you don't speak. Just like Mr. and Mrs. Mime."

My first thought: Lady, if you came over here and freaked Amy out right after I have finally gotten her to relax, I will f*ck you up... 70 or not. Second thought: You HAD to come over and tell us that? And the final thought: When the HELL have you seen a mime that didn't move?

I really didn't have time to ponder the situation for long, because the main act was taking the stage. Amy had been really patient up until this point (this really wasn't her scene), but I was sure she would like this act. Until the woman started to sing. Amy leaned over and said, "She sounds like a duck with a hot coal shoved up its ass." Right, then. And Kelloggs out.

Oh, and one final thought... I don't even like rockabilly. Oops.

Baby, Baby, I'm Taken With The Notion To Love You With The Sweetest of Devotion

On Monday, Amy and I went to see the fertility specialist in order to embark on what I hope will be a very short journey to getting me knocked up. Why a fertility specialist, you might ask? Did you take Biology? As much machismo as Ames throws around sometimes (hello, trying to break up a fight at Gasparilla), she is still a girl. So, the doctors order the swimmers and place them where they need to be. Hence, the need for a fertility specialist.

I have been charting my ovulation cycles for a year. Peeing on a stick for a year. No one ever said I lack perseverance. So, I go in to see the doctor, all impressed with the fertility chart that I have painstakingly created… to which she says, “You can read that better than I can. Do you ovulate? Good.” And we moved along. Not the kind of praise I had hoped for. Can I get some attention over here for my ability to urinate on a tiny stick??

After some chatting, the nurse practitioner lead me and Amy to an exam room, where I dutifully disrobed. The nurse left to do whatever it is that they do that keeps you waiting for at least 20 minutes for no apparent reason. Amy was a bit nervous, so she was pacing and chattering. Lots of chattering. Then she began what I like to call the “bunny/raptor” move. Envision: hands up in front like bunny paws, rodent face, and head jutting forward rhythmically. Uh huh. She has trouble acting normal when she’s nervous.* When I made her stop doing that, because she was about to drive me batty, she began ducking behind the changing curtain and peering around at me.

As I was beginning to understand what it might be like to take a 3 year old to a doctors appointment, mercifully the nurse and doctor came back in. They got me up on the table and were about to scoot me a-l-l the way down to the end of the table to prep me for the exam. At which point, Amy looked at me, said, “I think I will let you handle this,” and bolted out of the room. Sweet. Nah, baby, I am cool. I dig throwing my legs up in stirrups and letting someone dig around. No need for moral support. Bastard.

After the exam was over and doctor had left again, and Amy had asked to be let back into the room, the nurse went over some of the protocol for making sure I am a good baby carrying vessel (blood work, hormone level tests, some basic genetic screening), and then they took some blood… from Amy. Heh. No, they didn’t just get us mixed up. They had to test her for communicable diseases. So, four vials of blood later, Amy left MY doctors appointment asking where her treat was for being so good. Rarely does karmic debt collect that quickly. I think she will probably stay during the exam next time. Poor monkey.

*Know the song?

Wrench Throwing

If I had to take an educated guess, I would guess that this guy is throwing a wrench in some people's ideas about Heaven and our mission as God's people here on Earth. Here is an excerpt from the interview with the Bishop of Durham, N.T. Wright, that appeared in Time on Feb. 7th:

The New Testament is deeply, deeply Jewish, and the Jews had for some time been intuiting a final, physical resurrection. They believed that the world of space and time and matter is messed up, but remains basically good, and God will eventually sort it out and put it right again. Belief in that goodness is absolutely essential to Christianity, both theologically and morally. But Greek-speaking Christians influenced by Plato saw our cosmos as shabby and misshapen and full of lies, and the idea was not to make it right, but to escape it and leave behind our material bodies. The church at its best has always come back toward the Hebrew view, but there have been times when the Greek view was very influential.

Interesting that I heard very little of this "goodness" of the material world when I was growing up in the church. Part of my disdain for the church as a young adult was based on their complete disregard for this world in favor of "Heaven." Seems as though heaven is here, my friends.

OMG, My Eye!

One of the pastors was a little heavy handed with the ashes last night. As he was making the sign of the cross on my forehead, I got ash in my eye. Do you think God is trying to tell me something?

Also, yesterday when one of my students overheard me say I was going to church for Ash Wednesday, he said "Enjoy getting ashes on your head. Gross." Uh? Really? Dude, they are ashes from palm fronds. We totally stopped sacrificing infants years ago.

Extra Ash Wednesday Bonus: When I got home last night, Amy said,"You've got something on your forehead."

Ash Wednesday

Today is the first day of Lent. This is also the day where Amy gets to repeatedly tell me I have something on my forehead. Apparently, that joke will be funny until Jesus comes back (see how I snuck that one right in there?). Also funny? When my dad asks me if Lent is something that you find in your belly button. Absolutely. I have been saving it for years now. I am going to make a lent bunny out of it this year.

Part of the purpose of Lent is to reflect on the sacrifice that Christ made for humanity. So, it is a rather somber time in the liturgical calendar. Some churches suggest giving up something during Lent to experience sacrifice, to create a deeper appreciation of the sacrifice made by Jesus. I like this practice. Each year, I get a little better at it.

The first year, I gave up beer (but still drank other malt beverages). I know, I know. Weak. But when was the last time you had to drink a Smirnoff Ice? It is a sacrifice, I tell you.

The next year I gave up smoking and beer. The beer part went okay. The smoking part... not as much. Yes, I felt guilty. Yes, I know Jesus saw me with that cigarette. He and I have since worked it out. He says I can still be His sunbeam. No worries.

Last year, I gave up meat. Excellent choice. There were health benefits. It felt like a significant enough life change to honor the Lenten season. I missed chicken wings, but I was strong in my shunning of the chicken wing. And, I still don't eat meat. I also lost 5 pounds. I think that was a little bonus for sticking to my commitment. Everyone loves a bonus prize (like when you order now and get 20 Ginzu knives, FREE).

This year... I am giving up drinking (all alcohol) and smoking. In fact, I stopped doing those things about two weeks ago. Although I did take a break for a little Chubby Monday celebration (I didn't want to celebrate Fat Tuesday because I had conferences this morning at 8 a.m.) The Chubby Monday celebration was a good decision because it would have felt a bit like sacrilege to offer oneself for reflection on the season of sacrifice at Ash Wednesday services while nursing a hangover. Yeah, Jesus, 'preciate ya, but could you have mercy on the pounding in my head?

I will be reflecting on Lent frequently during the next 40 days, which is longer than 40 days because Sundays don't count. Sneaky, no? Can I sign up for Lent Lite, the 40 day commitment?

Have a blessed Ash Wednesday. And please don't stop anyone in the grocery store to tell them they have something on their forehead.

Notes from Amy

I was cleaning out my email and found the following note from Amy. I think it really says a lot in just a few words.

Subject: A few reminders

Since I'm not there to remind you in person.

I do not like the cherry pops.
I am no longer eating cottage cheese at the house. I am reserving the right to eat it at salad bars.
I am now an Earl Grey, black, person.

I love Kendra. Tons.

Kisses love,
Amy

Yes.

Dear Student:

The correct answer is not always “yes.”

For instance, if I ask you if your name ends with an “i” or a “y,” the answer is NOT “yes.”

Or if I ask you if you want me to look at the article on your computer screen or on a printed sheet, the answer cannot be “yes.”

I understand that you would like me to be happy with you and your answer. That is nice of you. But, first, you must listen to my question. Then you should take a moment to contemplate the answer. Then you may verbally respond, provided your answer makes a damn lick of sense.

This concludes our first lesson in Basic Interpersonal Communication. Check back next week for our presentation of “How to 'Like' Make a Point ‘Like’ Quickly, without 'Like' Boring the Class to 'Like' Tears.”

Your Teacher

Where do you stand?

Last night, I made a strange request. I wanted to go to Red Lobster for dinner. I know, I know. But, people, there are cheese biscuits there. And they have shrimp, done up in multiple fashions. And once the idea got in my mind, it would not leave. So, to The Lobster we went. (Amy called it The Lobster all afternoon. “Baby, it’s The Lobster for you tonight! Only the best for my girl.” And, as a side note, this whole thing is even funnier because Amy HATES seafood)

The cheese biscuits, they were delightful. Amy ended up with an order of popcorn shrimp. Which went well. Until she realized that she had eaten about 50 popcorn shrimp. And then she dared to ask the question, “What is a popcorn shrimp, really?” She very seriously went about the business of de-breading a popcorn shrimp. Now this is delicate work here, the de-breading. It was like she was doing surgery. Little tiny surgery. And when she had finished, she held up the most pathetic looking shrimp I had ever seen. It looked like a white gummy shrimp. My response? “Please put its little breading jacket back on, and let’s go.” Seems as though the jacket makes the shrimp.

We stopped by Blockbuster on the way home to fetch a film. We ended up with Ocean’s 13, which is irrelevant (but I knew you would want to know). As we approached the counter, the cashier looked at Amy and said, “Do you have a Blockbuster card?” Her response? “I stand over here,” as she walked with her head down through the security scanners to stand by the exit door. Your response right now? What the fuck?? Right. I just looked at the guy, who was giving me the “Is that your Special Friend?” look, took out my driver’s license and paid for the video.

Look, I know that it was a strange response to an innocent question. But she takes me to Red Lobster; I forgive her idiosyncrasies. She is quirky and at times a bit strange. But she is my girl, and I wouldn’t change her for the world.

Are You Down with G-O-D?!

I woke up late this past Sunday morning. Well, I was awake, but a shower seemed like a taxing event… so I took my time getting up. By the time I straggled into my closet to pick out clothes, I had realized three things:

1) I was going to have to go to the traditional service at church, which requires dressing up.
2) I was stubbornly, illogically unwilling to dress up (think a two year old that does NOT want to wear shoes. Yep, you’ve got it now)
3) I don’t even like the service I was about to drive half an hour to attend.

Then, there was a moment of decision. I had heard of a church close to my house that offers a contemporary service at EVERY service. Twice on Sunday and once on Saturday night. I could easily make it to said church with time to spare. And I could wear jeans. Score. I was in.

The parking lot of Not My Church was slammed when I pulled in. Immediately, I noticed the teenagers. There were teenagers everywhere, all decked out in their American Eagle Sunday wear. Some were holding hands. Some were giggling and chatting in small groups. Others were being herded into the sanctuary by their parents. The parents seemed involved, connected with their kids. In fact, there was an overwhelming sense of family togetherness at this church. That’s nice, right?

Upon entering the sanctuary of Not My Church, I was hit with the realization that this was a high production event. Not My Church wasn’t just offering God; they were going to offer a God EXPERIENCE. Two enormous screens on either side of the stage presented Bible verses and a countdown until the service. Yes, a countdown. Stage lights faded colors and patterns in and out. An iron cross held up by chains was above the stage.

I consider myself a progressive person. Especially theologically. But I was beginning to realize that there are certain aspects of a more traditional church experience that I embrace.

And then the rock band started jamming out for Jesus. A. rock. band. And the music minister did almost the equivalent of an alter call, on his knees, guitar still in hand. Then, more rocking out for the Lord.

At this point, I feel like I am in the twilight zone. Or, rather, I feel like I have been transported into the church service I dreamed of in high school. Or right on to the set of Saved. Either way, I am uncomfortable. But the folks around me are loving it. Hands raised, voices lifted. When the pastor says, “Let’s let God increase, while we decrease,” they respond with a hearty “Amen.” They are, in fact, having the God Experience that Not My Church offers. And God bless them for it.

Me, I will be back at my church this Sunday. I will get my happy little self up early; I will put on my good jeans, and I will head out to the early service. I believe God can reach anyone, anywhere. And He knows where He can reach me this Sunday.

Ssssay, where do you keep the sssspoons?

In my quest to further my status as a quasi-adult, I have taken to getting up a bit earlier in the mornings. Nothing crazy. Just enough time that I don't have to brush my teeth while I am trying to water the dogs, pack my bag and find my wallet. Everyone needs some quiet oral hygiene time to start their day out right.

Anyway, yesterday I was buzzing around the house, trying to grab something nutritious and sensible for lunch. I grabbed a frozen veggie number out of the freezer and went for a fork in the utensil drawer. I felt the drawer catch a bit, as if it were off the runner. Odd. And then.... hissssss. A gray reptilian head with a forked tongue was HISSING AT ME. FROM MY UTENSIL DRAWER.

Did I scream? No. Instead, I aborted the fork mission and herded Amy outside. Deathly afraid of snakes, she is. And then... we left. For work. With a snake in our utensil drawer.

The scene on the ride to work:
Kik: I am really worried about leaving the dogs. Do you think they will be okay?
Amy: Aaauuuuggggghhhh.
Kik: I mean, it looked like a garden snake, and it was small. But...
Amy: A-a-a-ahhhhhhhh. There is a snake in our house. Eh-eh-eh-auuuugggghhh.
Kik: Did your dad say he could come look for it? Do you think he would check on the dogs?
Amy: Aahhhh. Let's just board up the house. We can't go back there. They have infiltrated! Ehhhhh. Aaaahhhhhhh.
Kik: It might just leave on its own.
Amy: How can I ever trust anything again? Everything I believed was a lie. The snakes have infiltrated our house. Is nothing sacred??? Auuuuggghhhhh.
Kik: If you make that aaaauuuuggghhh, noise again, I am going to kick your ass.

So, yesterday there was much speculation about Ssssir Sssnake and his whereabouts. Amy's dad and cousin came over to bravely flush out the snake. To no avail. Amy's dad called all day with helpful hints: Snakes don't like moth balls. Snakes don't like loud noises either, apparently. Who knew?

Our friend, Hank, was the last of the Snake Hunters to bravely offer his services. He looked through every cabinet in our kitchen. No snake. Of course, Amy and Kate (his wife) had to be banished to the living room for shrieking every time he stuck his hand in a drawer... I guess for fear he would draw back a bloody nub with a snake attached to it? Alas, Hank's ultimate verdict was that the snake is gone.

I wouldn't be surprised if Amy has arranged a Wiccan House Cleansing to rid us of the evil of the snake. After all, as Amy noted yesterday, it was pretty much like Satan had been found in the utensil drawer.

Sssomebody pass me a ssspoon.

Call Me Senorita Spaz...

Why, oh why, is it necessary for me to get so worked up before the first day of class that I am a shivering, whimpering mess on the morning of the first day of the semester? Shouldn't I be, I don't know, emitting positive energy or something? Fortunately, by the end of the first five minutes of my first class, the doom and gloom had lifted. I was my spunky, if not slightly distractable, self.

I did notice that, when going through the syllabus on the first day, I sound rather like a raging bitch. Mean. A whole list of "Don't Ever Do This... Lest You Piss Me Off"... Which is usually fine. I typically play a little game where I try to get as many kids to drop the first week as possible. I know... devious. But it means more manageable class size. The difference between grading for 18 and grading for 22 is astounding. They. write. all. the. time.

Anyway, this semester God forbid any of them drop. Enrollment is down, and the English Department has already closed many sections. I need to hang on to every one I can! But I explained to them how much they will like me down the road. I mean, I am totally cool. And having students who took my class last semester and were clammering to spend one more semester with me really give me some street cred. Or something like that.

I think I will love teaching four sections instead of five. Right now, I am scrambling to find extra work to make up the pay from my missing section. There is an editing job that, if I can manage the Chicago Style Manual (15th edition), I think is mine. No, I have never even seen the Chicago Style Manual. Yes, I think I can pull it off.* Safe to say my optimism has returned? I thought so.

*I will have a copy of the manual with me when I take the editing test.

New Semester

I really enjoy teaching. There is something that strikes me as significant about reaching out to 18 year olds, even if they are difficult at times. However, I do NOT enjoy the first day of classes. I get hyper-anxious and panicky the Sunday before classes start. I have to coax myself into the classroom on Monday morning. Overall, it just isn't much fun. Looking forward to Tuesday, when I have something to report other than mild anxiety. Come back then.