Great news!

First of all, my Special Topics class on country music has been approved for Summer 2008!

AND...

It's official—I've been offered another one-year-contract, full-time position for the 2008-2009 academic year!

HOORAY!

This explains a lot about my young male students

NPR.org: Young Men Stuck in Adolescent-Adult Limbo

For every one of them who has his crap together, there are another five or six still jacking around in life. Wonder what happened along the way?

Truckin'

My stepfather, Steve/Seeben/El Seebeno, brought the big truck home this weekend, and of course I had many questions for him while we ate supper Saturday night.

ME: Seeben, if I go to the truck stop and pull my truck onto the scales, will they weigh it?
SEEBEN: [laughing] Well, yeah—I reckon they would.
ME: How do you go through the scales and get your truck weighed?
MOM: It's actually pretty easy.
SEEBEN: Well, you pull up on the scale, and you push the little intercom button.
ME: Right...
SEEBEN: And then the person behind the fuel desk [inside the truck stop] will ask what you want. You'll tell 'em "weight ticket" so you can have a slip of paper to show to the D.O.T. if they pull you over.
ME: [laughing] Ohhhh, Lord! The D.O.T. pulling me over in the little truck! Hahahaaaaa!
SEEBEN: And they'll ask you if you got your trailer all the way on the scales... [laughter] ...and then they'll ask you your truck number: "One." [more laughter] And then your trailer number: "One-half—" [uproarious laughter from MOM and ME]
MOM: ["redneck" accent] "Yep, Ah jes' started out truckin', got a purty small fleet right now..."
SEEBEN: [laughing] And then they'll weigh you and you go inside to get your ticket and pay your scale fee.
ME: [still laughing] You don't think I'd get in trouble if I pulled up to the Flying J or the Pilot and got Boo-Boo weighed?
SEEBEN: [laughing] No, but you'd probably get some real funny looks, and get cussed out over the C.B. "Damn four-wheelers* in here!"
ME: Heyyy, I do need a C.B. in the truck...
MOM: Seeben has an extra one in the shed.
ME: Awesome!
MOM: Well, when you get tired of whiny college students, you can always go into trucking. Just give it up, and start out with Boo-Boo, haulin' stuff around west Georgia.
SEEBEN: [laughing] Goddamighty...
ME: [laughing again] Now that sounds like a plan.
MOM: I can see it now: HKC Trucking!


*Four-wheeler: In trucker lingo, term for any non-commercial vehicle with only four wheels, as opposed to a tractor-trailer's 18 wheels.

Somebody's kitty, all right.

Fred leaped up in Mom's lap this evening and proceeded to show her how sweet and lovable he is. "You're right. He's somebody's kitty," she said as she scratched his head and laughed at his "kitty kisses" on her chin.

Signs going up in Small Town very soon: "FOUND CAT—way too sweet and tubby to have been a stray." I'll update you on Fred's continuing saga, of course.

My office kicks ass, Part 3

Mom found this old sign down the road from her house, from a roadside produce stand that's now under new ownership and, therefore, a new color scheme. It goes perfectly with the Redneck Office's other decor.

Student Essay Insanity #26!

Even though the D2U Freshman Writing Improvement Project grading sessions tend to turn my brain to mush—hours and hours of bad essays will do that to a person, ya know—I'm glad to be participating. I'm getting extra money to spend my Friday evenings and Saturday mornings laughing, eating coffee cake, and rating essays with people I know and like. And I get more fodder for Student Essay Insanity, even though the papers are atrocious. I'm suffering yet lucky, like late-night comedy show writers grinding through the current Bush Administration. Sadly, the spring installment of the FWIP comes to an end this weekend. [sigh]

Remember, folks: real students, real essays, real bloopers.

My high school is known for pregnancy.
E.P.T. High, class of 2008!

All work and no play makes Jack a doll boy.
But what I wanna know is: does he come with his own wardrobe? Or the Barbie Radio-Control Pink Corvette?

As a human being, learning to tolerate others can be one of the most difficult yet monumental things we do.
Charles Taylor could learn a thing or two from this guy.

As a freshman attending Division II University, I can definitely relate to students who aren't motivated to learn.
Weren't you in my Comp I class last fall?

In a Small Town grocery store parking lot

I have now officially seen and heard it all.

Better to be pissed off...

Regular E&P readers will recall the story of the little family of cats I found this past summer on the D2U campus. They were skinny and bedraggled, living in the bushes in front of the D2U Student Health Center, barely scraping by on the mice and chipmunks that Mama Cat sometimes caught, and the cat food left by kind-hearted people.

You'll also recall the story's happy ending—each of the kittens, as well as Mama Cat, found a loving permanent home. Susie*, English Department receptionist extraordinaire, adopted the fluffy black kitten, and to thank her for giving the little thing a home, I promised her I'd pay for Amber's shots and spaying. Susie* is in the same financial situation I was a few years ago, and I know how tough it is to struggle out of near-bankruptcy. Kind people helped me out back then, and I was happy to help Susie* now.

Susie* stopped me in front of the copier one afternoon a couple weeks ago. "What do cats sound like when they're in heat?" she asked. Amber is Susie's* first female cat, so this has been a learning experience for her.

"Is she yowling? Kind of like a mee-OWWW-WOWWW-WOWWW?"

"As much as she can. You know how soft her little voice is to begin with," Susie* replied.

"Hmmm. Is she sticking her butt up in the air?"

She frowned. "Sticking her butt up? In the air?" She shook her head.

"Yeah, kinda like this," and I bent over at the waist and kinked my hips and butt toward the mailboxes. Susie* did a spit-take with her Diet Coke, and the other receptionist, Tina*, grabbed the edge of her desk to keep from falling over laughing.

"Ohhh, yeah," Susie* replied. "That's it. And she's right up in Bogey's face, and in T.J.'s [the dog] face, and at the water heater, and the refrigerator..." She began giggling. "Good thing Bogey's fixed!"

"Yeah, really! Well, Amber is now officially a teenage kitty," I said, laughing. "Time for somebody's snippy-snippy appointment." I reassured her that I was still going to pay for the surgery—her vet is a good vet, and charges reasonable prices—and would give her a ride to and from the office.

Susie* called her vet and set the appointment for first thing Friday morning, January 18. This would be a bit of a challenge; Amber has become very hard to put in a cage. We decided I'd bring my small top-entry kitty carrier so we could grab her and plop! her right in.

So Friday morning came, and I arrived at Susie's tiny apartment about 7:30am. When I knocked on the door, I could hear T.J. barking like mad inside the foyer, and I thought I heard a loud, pissed-off mrrooowww! from Bogey. (He's three-fourths Tonkinese, so that's why he has such an obnoxious meow). I bet they're starving and mad as hell, I thought. The vet had told Susie* not to let Amber eat or drink after 10pm the night before, so she'd taken up food and water for all three animals. It was just easier to do it that way.

Susie* opened the door and let me in. "Hold on and let me grab her," she said, and moved toward the bedroom while I stood in the kitchen. She came back a couple minutes later with Amber, who was crazy-eyed and frizzy-furred with terror, under her arm. "I don't know how this is gonna work," Susie* said. Amber was already starting to fight and squirm, and thrreatened to wiggle her way out of Susie's* arms.

"Oh, hang on, I'll get her," I said, moving to double-scruff the kitten. I moved in close to Susie*, and Amber began to freak out. "Meeeerrrraaaaaa!" she warned us. Her ears were completely flat now, and the yellow of her eyes was barely visible behind her huge black pupils.

"Whoa!" Susie* yelled as she tried to keep her grip on Amber's front legs. "You get her lower half, and we'll put her in the cage then," she told me. I did as she said, and got Amber into my arms, or so I thought. She was still half on Susie* and half on me. She dug her claws into both us at once.

"Owwww!" Susie said, trying not to yell and frighten the cat even more. "Shit, that hurts!" Amber thrashed even more, almost wriggling out of both our arms. I grabbed the cat tighter and motioned for Susie* to let me wrestle her into the carrier. But Amber had other ideas. She started flailing at both of us.

"Goddamighty!" I winced as Amber's back claws dug into my inner thigh. "Hold on, I think I've got her now—" All four of Amber's feet windmilled at once, shredding my hand and leg. "OWWWW!!!" I let her go, and she shot back through the door and under the sofa.

"Shit! Now we'll NEVER get her out!" Susie said. She got a flashlight and peered under the sofa; Amber growled a deep, nasty growl and backed herself further into the dark corner. "God, I guess we should call the vet and cancel. We're both gonna be late for work! Dr. Pepper* [department chair] is gonna be so mad."

I wiped the sweat off my forehead; kitty-wrangling is a real workout. "Well, Dr. Pepper* has three cats of her own," I reminded Susie, "so she's probably dealt with this kind of kitty nonsense before. And you told her yesterday you're going to be late, so let's not sweat it. I don't have a class until 11:00. And you can always reschedule with the vet." We panted and tried to regain our composure while Susie* dialed the vet's office to reschedule Amber's appointment. As she hung up the phone, she looked and pointed to my lower half. "Hey, what's that on your pants?"

I looked down. My jeans, from the pockets to the knees, were wet. "I know I didn't spill my coffee," I said. I put a hand on the denim and sniffed.

Amber, in her desperation to get away from us, had peed all over me. How could such a tiny bladder hold so much liquid?

Susie* gasped and pointed at me again. "Oh, no! And it's all over your jacket, too!" I lifted the hem of my fleece pullover—also soaked in cat urine. I started to chuckle. I had at least three huge scratches on the inside of my left thigh, and now my casual Friday clothes were soaked in pee. Anyone seeing me right then might have assumed I'd wet myself. As the pee-soaked cloth heated up with my body temperature, I started to smell it. Ugh. And I realized it had soaked all the way through the thermal underwear bottoms I'd layered on to stay warm. My legs themselves now probably smelled like pee. Great.

"Well," I sighed, "I guess I could cancel class today, though I really don't want to," I said.

"Dr. Pepper* probably won't go for a 'class cancelled due to cat pee' sign on your classroom door," Susie said. She sat with her head in her hands. "I'm so sorry, Kitty. This is a complete disaster. I am so. sorry."

"Don't worry about it," I reassured her. "We just screwed up this time—next time, we'll take a different approach. And you're right about Dr. Pepper's not buying my reason for cancelling class. Tell you what. It's only 8:15. I'll drop you off at school, and then leave. I've got time to run home, throw these clothes in the wash, and change. And I'll bring a set of clean clothes next time, just in case."

This morning, Susie* and I successfully dropped off Amber at the vet's office, without incident, and will pick her up Thursday morning. There was only a little Mama-why-are-you-putting-me-in-the-car? yowling; Susie* had put her in the cage at 7:10am, long before I arrived, and long before T.J.'s barking at a stranger's arrival could upset the little cat.

And after this whole ordeal, I can say with the utmost certainty that it is better to be pissed off than pissed on.

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day!

In honor of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, Division II University is closed today. However, I thought it would be fitting to work on MLK Day toward the goal of higher education for my students, who are of many different ethnic backgrounds, so I am here for a little while at D2U, grading some papers and cleaning up my office. Dr. King would probably approve.

Then, it's home to play with kitties and eat homemade lasagna with Mom. Oh, and to try to stay warm, too. It was 18 degrees in Small Town when I awoke at 8:00 this morning.

Okay, so it did snow.

Yep, it sure did.

But Small Town only got about 1.5" of heavy wet snow, so my prediction was correct in that there was no huge weather catastrophe. This time.

Yes indeed, it snowed. And everybody here in Small Town acted a fool.

Including my stupid chicken.

Myrtle Mae is definitely a Southern bird. She was so scared by the prospect of snow that she hid under the gray shed out back, far from the warmth and safety of her coop (previous pic). Had she been a human, she would've been over at the grocery store, racing around to buy bread, eggs, and milk in anticipation of the impending snowstorm.

No, seriously—Southerners tend to go stock up on bread, eggs, and milk whenever there's a threat of snow or ice. Now, somebody tell me: how the hell do you make French toast when the power's out?

So when I returned home from D2U Saturday afternoon, I heard brrrrrk-brrrrrk-brrrrrk? through the heavy, wet snowfall. I tried to get her to come out and let me carry her the 25 feet to her coop, but she would have none of it. This whole snow thing was too much for her poor chicken brain to process.

So I brought her some cat food.

And boy, was she ever hungry. She quickly gulped down several handfuls, and I left a big pile of food under the shed for her.

This morning, I was happy to see that Myrtle Mae had found her way back to her coop, where there was food, water, and heat. I closed the door and turned on the mini-heater. It'll warm up in there shortly. As I type this post, it is 26 degrees in Small Town. Brrrrrrr!

'Sno(w) bullshit.

The Weather Channel website, and I guess the Weather Channel itself (I don't have cable so I haven't seen it), are about to crap themselves about some threat of snow today. I've heard forecasts of anywhere from 1"-5" of accumulation.

I forecast 1"-5" of bullshit today. Look, this is Georgia. We're not lucky enough for it to snow. It'll rain, be cold and miserable, and then blow through. And that, folks, is your Educated & Poor Hack-U-Weather forecast for today.

Now back to Pixie in Denver, where they know a thing or two about snow.

UPDATE, 7:06pm: It has indeed snowed...1.5" of heavy, wet snow. I saw no fewer than 12 accidents on my way home from D2U this afternoon. Still, though, it's been no major weather catastrophe, although my mom reported at 11:00am that all the local supermarkets were packed with shoppers in anticipation of the widespread power outages and famine that always follow a wimpy snowstorm. [rolling eyes]

Student Essay Insanity #25!

That's right—the first one of 2008. Real students, real sentences, real essays, real awful. (Okay, so that last part is gramatically incorrect. It should be "really awful.")

These are just a few gems from the D2U Freshman Writing Improvement Project, for which I have volunteered my Friday nights and Saturday mornings all this month. Bleh. More horrible wonderfulness to come soon, though. Seriously, I'm finding more goofs in these essays than on the Georgia Regents' Exam, which says a lot—about what, I'm not quite sure.

My snarky comments follow each bold/italicized blooper.

The summer before my eleventh year in high school a tragedy occurred.
When I read this one aloud, the room burst into laughter. Linda-Lou* exclaimed in her best "dumb redneck" voice: "Ah'm 26, reckon Ah better git on outta school now."

I saw life as a gift and a way to do things.
Me, I see death as a way not to do things.

On driving in Atlanta:
During the rush hours, it is logical to take an ulterior road to avoid the traffic jam.
You think that route is a good one, but it has something entirely different in mind, Mr. Spock.

i can has maykup plz? kthxbai

I got a big gift box of makeup today from my sister—a belated yet awesome Christmas present. Thanks, Pixie!

So I went into the bathroom to play with my new goodies and the shit-ton of samples Sephora included in the box. I had to close the door and crank up my little space heater, but that was okay; that's what I do in winter here at the Happy Kitten Cottage with no central heat.

I'd been in there about five minutes when Ernest meowed to get into the bathroom. He must know at all times what Mama's doing. So I let him in.

Good kitteh! Managed not to get lip stain all over himself...yet.

tail mayks gud blush brush k?

Mama, I'm bored...whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa-WHOA!

'Nesto, your work here is done.

Can I get back up there now, Mama?

Is not Clarkyz butt. Iz mai pillo.
Helping Mama with her new makeup goodies is hard work.

Happy Blogiversary, and RIP

Today marks 11 years since my father died, and two years since I started E&P.

I'll write more about Dad when I can post something coherent. Not making much sense right now—the anniversaries get somewhat easier every year, but I just like to stay low-key and not think about too much when January 16 rolls around.

Thanks to all of you who make E&P worthwhile.

Being on a committee has its advantages

"And what, pray tell, are those?" I can hear some of you asking, those of you who are reading this post while drinking your coffee, grading those last dozen papers, dealing with the desperate student standing hopefully in your office doorway, and answering committee-meeting e-mails. All at the same time.

Yes, fellow professors, I hear you. But hear me out—serving on multiple committees can be really exhausting, but the experience of being on a search committee can be very instructional.

As a new full-timer, I was asked to sign on for at least three committees; I ended up on four. This is expected of all full-time professors at D2U. I signed up for my favorites, the First-Year Composition Committee and the Rubric Committee, of my own accord; since I'm a control freak, I want to have a say in determining which new policies and procedures I'm going to have to follow. Dr. Pepper*, chair of the English Department, put me on the Scholarship Committee as well as the 19th-Century Literature Search Committee. The Scholarship Committee has only met once since late August, which hasn't been bad at all. (We're currently short on money to give out, so our meetings will be waiting until the beginning of March, when we'll get word on how much money the department gets for 2008-2009).

But the search committee has been an incredible experience so far—I'm not only getting a say in who will be our newest tenure-track faculty member, but am learning from the candidates' mistakes. And I'm getting to know my fellow professors better.

Last week, our first job finalist came into town for interviews and a teaching demo. This person had looked fantastic on paper and had performed well during the 30-minute phone interview back in mid-December, but in person turned out not to be someone we'd want to hire. This person was flaky, easily distracted, a real conversation hog, did a somewhat "high-schoolish" lecture in the teaching demo, and during the research roundtable discussion managed to offend Dr. Who*, my mentor and friend. Oh, boy.

As a committee, we sighed and decided it was a learning experience; at least we had two more candidates to go. And at least I learned many things not to do when, one day, I'm a newly-minted Ph.D. on my own nationwide job search.

This week, the other two candidates for the 19th-Century Lit job are in town. So far, I'm impressed. And also busy as hell. Yesterday afternoon, I zoomed! out of class and across town to the shuttle-van depot to pick up the next candidate, dropped that person off at the hotel, and then zoomed! back to D2U to do more classwork until our dinner at 7:30pm. I didn't get home until almost 10pm last night; the food was excellent, and the conversation with our potential new hire was really nice. Today, I'll be watching this person do a teaching demonstration, and then listening to the candidate's research ideas during a roundtable. And all this is between teaching my three classes for today. On Wednesday, it all starts again when our third candidate arrives in town that morning, and we'll all be insanely busy until Thursday evening. Whew.

I'm also learning more about how to get along with other people. While a reader might not think, given my background, that I'd be uncomfortable in social situations, I am. Very deeply so. I never had many friends growing up—my sister is my best friend and has been since we were both very small children—and very rarely made friends in college. I have no friends from my undergraduate years (most of that time I spent on loser boyfriends, for reasons I am only now coming to understand), and only one friend from graduate school. And even though I worked as an exotic dancer for almost three years and interacted very well with hundreds of people a night, six nights a week, I still feel very awkward at gatherings, parties, even quick conversations in the hall. But being around all these colleagues for hours at a time is helping me feel better about my social skills.

For example: while driving the latest candidate to the hotel yesterday, I was very, very self-conscious. I felt as if I was making social faux pas after social faux pas talking to this person who is very sophisticated and well-read. I noticed while I was answering this person's questions that I was spitting while talking—embarrassing, but something we all do and can't help. And I kept on doing it! It seemed like every one of my answers had numerous p, b, and s sounds in its words. Dammit! Stop spitting! You're grossing this person out! I thought as I drove along and watched my spittle fly through the dusty air of the car and onto the dash. What kind of a retard are you? I was really on a roll.

But then I realized that maybe this person was just as nervous as I was; after all, I wasn't the one in town for a big interview. And maybe the candidate didn't notice my human-fountain act at all. Maybe the sights of D2U city were too enticing, and there were better things to do than look at me spit (like look out the window). And at dinner, I was also very self-conscious. I tried to forgive myself for all my real and imagined faux pas; at least I hadn't pissed anyone off like Candidate #1 did last week. Most of these colleagues on the search committee have known me for at least a year, so perhaps they remember that I'm really an okay person and if I do something rude, I'm certainly not doing it on purpose. I may not like myself too much—and believe me, that's a hard realization to come to, that you don't like yourself and put so many other people's well-being ahead of your own—but these people seem to like me just fine and accept me.

So I'm gaining both professional and personal insights while serving on this committee. If I'm full-time again next year, I'll certainly volunteer to do it. The work is so very worthwhile.

"So what's the poop on SBCC?"

The reason I've not yet posted a follow-up to Friday's post on Small 'Bama Community College getting nailed by the Alabama Two-Year College Board is that there are so. damned. many. things wrong over at SBCC, I can't formulate a coherent post. My disbelief and rage and general "HA! I knew it!" attitude is preventing me from posting anything even halfway readable. So please bear with me for an update. Frequent commenter Ruby Redux said on the original post: "Karma sucks for them, huh?" And that basically sums up the whole thing.

On another note: should I be embarrassed at the schadenfreude I'm getting out of this whole scandal? Because it feels really, really delicious right now.

The earthquake begins at Small 'Bama Community College!

My D2U colleague Dale* e-mailed me a link to a newspaper article this afternoon. Small 'Bama Community College, the small college where I used to teach, the one that's been so shoddily run for so many years, has finally been caught with its pants down by the Alabama Two-Year College Board. Thank you, sweet Jesus! As I read the article, a huge wave of relief and delight swept over me—I'm glad to have left there when I did (December 2006).

I don't have much energy right now to write a full-length post about what's going on there, but I'll fill you in tomorrow. This evening's D2U Freshman Writing Improvement Project scoring session went until 8pm, and much of tomorrow I'll spend there working with the team again. It's excruciating work, grading hundreds of crappy essays, but the camaraderie makes it bearable.

Heads are going to roll at SBCC, and it's about damn time. The students have suffered for way too long, and it's all because of the administration's incompetence.

Somewhere, my dad is having a good laugh.

While I really love what I do, I could also use a long break, at least from on-campus teaching. I benefit from being able to be away from the classroom for a while, and the small breaks in between semesters are usually not long enough. Time away from teaching lets me reflect on what I've done, lets me gain new insights that I might not have otherwise—the time I spend not teaching helps me do it better when I return.

Sadly, I don't have the luxury of being able to take any time off. My current full-time position is only temporary, only for this academic year; I don't know whether I'll get the renewable/full-time position that's opened up at D2U. If I don't, I'll quickly be back to working four jobs again, as few colleges around here are hiring full-time. Bleh. I can do it, don't get me wrong. I'd just rather not go back to working 70-80 hours a week.

I've joked around before about a return to my exotic dancing days, but at age 34...uhh, that's not a realistic option, and more like a convenient escape fantasy. Seriously, though, I've been wondering how on earth I could take a semester off (maybe summer) to refresh myself. I don't have any summer paid research fellowships to apply for—as soon as I hear about them, I'll certainly apply—and I can't not work. Somebody's got to pay the mortgage and buy cat food.

As this new semester (which has a pretty well-balanced teaching load, thankfully) has gotten started, I've been seriously considering finding something to do during summers. Temp work, while a possibility, isn't regular enough to take seriously, and the cubicle environment makes me insane. I've considered truck driving before, and half-kid my stepfather about getting my commercial driver's license and team-driving with him. Long-haul truck drivers can make pretty good money. But I'm not yet ready to climb into the driver's seat of a Freightliner and head off on a West Coast run.

But new possibilities show up in the strangest ways.

One of my online students at Tiny Technical College this quarter is also a welding instructor at TTC's satellite campus, in my hometown of Boogerville. (He's been a professionally certified welder for years and is getting his Associates' Degree to help back up his teaching job.) Ricky* called me the other day to ask how he should send his assignments to me, and I was glad to explain about the online quizzes, that all written assignments should be turned in via e-mail, that every student does a presentation at the end of the term, and so on. As we wrapped up the conversation, Ricky* said, "Well, Professor Kitty, thanks for your time and help. You know, I'm up here at the Boogerville campus, and if there's any way I can help you out, maybe repay your kindness by teaching you how to weld, you let me know."

And I could feel a little cartoon light bulb flicker on over my head.

"It's funny, but I've always wanted to learn how to weld," I told him. "My dad learned to weld as a teenager and did it as part of his job—he made it look easy, and he made the most fascinating sculptures in his spare time. I'd like to be able to weld just to say I could."

"Well, come on up!" Ricky* laughed. "I have 30 students this quarter, and four are women. You'll fit right in. One of these women has an art degree from Cow-Tipping University, and she's learning to weld so she can add that stuff to her portfolio." I explained to Ricky* that my being temporary full-time at D2U prevented me from joining a class now, but that I could possibly fit in a couple evenings a week this summer. "No problem! You let me know, and I'll keep an extra spot open for you in the course."

I was reminded of how my dad always said he could find a welding job just about anywhere, if need be; good welders are in short supply. Two of my former SBCC students were in the Welding & Joining Technology program, and as they neared the end of their Welding Certification Diploma program, they were each hired at jobs starting at $70,000 a year. Starting.

If I got good at it, perhaps part-time or freelance welding would pay decently. Who knows? It would be a handy skill to have, in any case, and I'd be mighty proud to earn that diploma. Hell, I'd tack it up right next to my Master's diploma. How many college English professors can weld? Yeah, that's what I thought.

So I might be taking Intro to Welding this summer at Tiny Tech. I've always wanted to learn, and who knows where it might lead? When I told my sister my idea, she laughed and said, "You know, Daddy would think that's funny as hell." She paused. "And he'd be proud, too."

Crazy local signs

Wii is? Is Wii?

[Mom looks at sign while I take picture]

MOM: This was put together by someone whose second language is English, right?

ME: Hmmm...probably a native speaker.

MOM: You're kidding.

ME: Nope. You'd be surprised at the disconnect between brain and paper.

MOM: Good God.

ME: Does putting this sign on E&P count as trespassing?

Found some energy!

Today was the first day of classes at Division II University, and it went pretty well. You'll remember how I had very little energy a few days ago and wasn't sure what to do to take advantage of the first day of class. After lolling around and sitting on my ass for a couple more days, I took a suggestion from Anonymous "E" and tried to dig up some energy—even just a little—to do something theatrical and different during my Comp II classes' first meeting.

Then I was reminded of Taylor Mali's poetry slam monologue "What Do Teachers Make?" Upon viewing it again, I knew it'd be perfect. I played around with it, adapted it for my own classroom, performed it as a monologue at the very start of class today (a la Aaron Levy's article) and it went very well. Hooray! Thanks to everyone for your support and help. I appreciate all your kind comments.

I'm still kind of "bleh," but will slowly get back into the swing of the semester, especially since this coming week is so crazy. I'm doing the Freshman Writing Improvement Project thing again this weekend (and probably the next two as well). Starting this week and going well into the next, the candidates for the 19th-Century Lit position are in town; since that's my committee, there will be much running around and staying on campus late for interviews, teaching demos, and dinner. Stay tuned.

Mooakura is OUT!

Mom and I were getting ready to make a trip to D2U this afternoon; she wanted to go to a couple of stores near campus, and I had to do a ton of copying for tomorrow, so we made the trip together. As I was getting my things ready to go, I heard loud, obnoxious meowing on the back porch—kitty whining, even. "Who's that?" Mom asked.

It was MOOAKURA! Who had somehow gotten out from under the neighbors' house! HOORAY!!!

"Ohhh, it's my purrty girl!" I shouted, and ran outside to feed and pet. Kamakura, her birth mother, sniffed her and tried to figure out who she was. "Those people across the street must've let her out!" I said to Mom.

"Or Moo finally got bored and got her own little butt out from under there," Mom replied.

Mooakura stuck her head into the pile of food and didn't come up for ten minutes. Kamakura did the obligatory butt-sniff, and Moo paid her no heed. She was hungry, thirsty, and very happy to be out from under the neighbors' house.

Twattery

On defying South Africa's new so-called kissing law—

"'We're young. We need to experiment,' Natalie Winston, 12, said before the protest here. 'When you're 21, you're old already, and ugly.'"

Now 21 is the new old? I'd rather be old and ugly at 34 than young and stupid at 12. Dumb little twat.

I love how young people decide what's "old." Then they get there themselves, and backpedal like hell. When I was 12, I thought 21-year-olds were so mature and cool, not at all old.

The law itself? I think it's a waste of time trying to keep teenagers from messing around, but I do hope it helps South African authorities prosecute more sex crimes committed against teen girls. Read the article for yourself and see what it says.

"Kitties Gone Stupid," Vol. 1—Coming Soon to DVD

The last few days have been very, very cold here in Small Town. The high on Wednesday was 35 degrees, with a 20mph wind blowing all day long. Sheesh. Thursday and today haven't been much better; lows each night have been in the teens and low 20s. Before you start laughing, remember that this is pretty cold weather for Georgia. Usually, the little tourist-y mountain towns are the only places in the state that see winter temps that low.

Animals need more calories to stay warm in winter, and especially when there's a cold snap, so I feed my outdoor cats kitten-formula dry food, and occasionally a can of 9 Lives, from the first frost until it gets warm again. Kitten formula food is tastier than their usual store-brand cat food, with a lot more protein, and outdoor cats need all the calories they can get. So I walked out onto the front porch Wednesday afternoon in the freezing, windy cold to feed the outdoor gang, who usually crawl under my house or the shed out back when the weather's cold. The usual suspects showed up: Prue, Elvis, Kigi, Kamakura. They were happy to have some extra food, especially with wind chills hovering in the teens. Sure, having a thick fur coat helps, but when the wind's blowing like that, I'm sure cats feel it, too.

As I was calling "Kitty-kitty-kitty!" and pouring food into the front-porch bowls, I heard pathetic yowling and yelping from across the street—the Mama-I'm-lost-hurt-or-sick meow. This is the noise for which my ears are always on alert; a kitty in need is my kitty, indeed. Rescue, feed, adopt: that's my motto.

So I walked across the street, looking into the shrubs around the neighbors' houses for injured or abandoned cats. I didn't see anything, but followed the lost meows...


...to here, in the crawl space under my neighbors' house.

It was Mooakura, whom I hadn't seen in a couple days. So this was where the little turdknocker had been.

"How'd you get under there, fweet girl?" I asked her.

"Mrroooowww!" she replied.

"Did you really fit in that teensy little hole, kitty? Hmm?"

"Mrroooowww!" she said again.

I walked around the perimeter of the yard—no open spaces bigger than what you see in these pictures, the short end of a standard brick. Hmmm.

Meanwhile, Mooakura yowled even louder. I went back across the street to get the jug of outdoor cat food...

...and put seven or eight handfuls in there with her. I could hear the crunching and purring start up immedately.

I reached in to pet her, and then went and knocked on the neighbors' door to let them know I wasn't trying to burglarize their home. "I wondered what that noise was under the house last night," Lula* said. In the freezing-ass cold, she and her eight-year-old daughter did a lap of the house with me, trying to figure out how the hell Mooakura had gotten stuck under the house. Lula* pointed to a two-foot-square plywood door at the back of the house. "I bet she got in Sunday afternoon, when Floyd* was putting some tools under there," she said.

"Well," I said, turning up the collar of my fleece pullover, "under your house isn't a bad place for her to be in this cold weather." The low that night was going to be 14 degrees in Small Town. "Why don't we wait a day or two 'til it warms up, when we can stand to be out here, and then y'all can let me under the back of the house?" Lula* and her daughter agreed, and went back into their warm house and out of the cutting wind. I went back to the Happy Kitten Cottage and sat in front of the roaring fire in the woodstove.

So, today is Friday, and that crazy Mooakura is still under my neighbors' house. She has plenty of food, is fairly warm, and isn't injured, but I know she's bored. Tomorrow's forecast high is 57 degrees, and Lula* and her family will be at home, so we'll try then to get Mooakura out and back to the Happy Kitten Cottage.

A new semester approaches

Spring Semester begins on Monday, January 7, and I have no energy.

Regular readers will remember how pumped up and enthusiastic I was about the first day of fall semester—how I used a new approach to the first day of classes and how it completely rocked. But I just don't seem to have it in me right now to do the same monologue thing with my lit classes. It really got the semester off to a good start. But somehow I can't seem to find the energy to quickly re-learn my monologue before Monday morning.

And I'm also strangely...shy. I've just kind of withdrawn into myself over the last six or so weeks, which is weird. I'm generally a homebody during the cold winter months, but this is bizarre. It's as if I've returned to my exotic dancing days. Back then, when I dealt with all kinds of strange people for eight or 12 hours at a time, five or six nights a week, I stayed home a lot on my days off. The only people I would visit with were Mom and Steve; I'd wait until 4:00am on off nights to go grocery shopping, just because I didn't want to have to deal with people. It made me way too tired. I'd take a lot of long walks outdoors, or in the woods behind Mom's house, trying to refresh my tired spirit so I could face the club patrons on my next shift. And I sort of feel that way right now, except it's students I'm facing (and they're generally easier to deal with than leering drunks). I'm still dealing with a lot of baggage from the very difficult situation I told you about in August and September. Maybe that could be what's draining my reserves of personal energy and kick-assedness.

Can anyone suggest ways to get re-motivated? I was hoping to come back to campus all revved up and renewed, but that doesn't seem to be happening so far. I really want to do a good job and take advantage of the first day of class by doing something out of the ordinary. Any suggestions you might have about ways to get re-energized and enthusiastic are very, very welcome.

New Year's Resolutions for 2008 at the Happy Kitten Cottage

Here at Educated & Poor HQ, also known as the Happy Kitten Cottage, people and kitties alike make New Year's resolutions—ways to improve ourselves, make our lives or those of others better, or help make the world a better place. So here we share with you ours for 2008.

Prue, the HKC's senior outdoor kitty, plans to keep kicking ass and taking names in 2008. It was she who taught the late, great Lewis how an outdoor cat rolls.

Kamakura plans to enter a few beauty contests. And how could she not win, with a face like that?

Mooakura, Kamakura's oldest kitten, resolves to let her human Mama snuggle her more. She diesel-purred the whole time I was getting ready to take this picture.

Squirrel (aka Martha Ann) resolves to be just as disappointed with 2008 as she was with 2007.

Fred resolves to let himself be snuggled more by his foster mama—and to keep reminding Miss Kitty that, as much as he likes living at the Happy Kitten Cottage, he wants to try and find his family.

Davy (aka Shithook) resolves to be more snuggly and less combative, especially when it comes to Fred.

Which should last about five minutes.

Clark resolves to help more with household projects—here, on New Year's Eve, he helps Steve/Seeben/El Seebeno replace the valve in Mama's toilet...

...and, along with Ernest, to eat less fried food.

(Both of these garbage guts meow like crazy when I bring home Krystal fries.)

But I don't know how Ernesto's plan is going to work out. Bran Flakes, yes. Moon Pies, no.

Myrtle Mae resolves to—oh, who am I kidding? Egg-eating backyard hooligans don't make New Year's Resolutions.

Graya resolves to get in touch with her spiritual side, and to help Mama clean this place up a little. Here, she has a snack under St. Francis' watchful eye, with a jug of Get Serious cleaner behind her.

Hobo Kitty resolves to keep looking gorgeous, and being the HKC's most gregarious cat.

Joy resolves to stop looking back to the past so much...

...and instead into the future, where she sees love, happiness, and lots of snuggling with Mama.

My resolutions? They're deceptively simple. I resolve to:
--brush and floss every day;
--get at least 30 minutes of cardiovascular exercise three days a week;

--keep going to therapy so I can get my act together;

--keep loving what I do, and teaching my fool head off;

--by December 31, 2008, have three chapters of my book and a proposal to send off to agents.

Happy New Year, E&P readers! I wish you a 2008 filled with love, prosperity, happiness, fulfillment, peace, and laughter.