In which I am conspired against

I'm pretty sure the Chicago Transit Authority is trying to kill, or at least maim, me. Last week, I slipped on a rainy train platform and went down hard. Result: Two days of a very achy flank (Achy Flank--either an awesome imaginary band or the saddest burlesque performer ever). This week, I was on a bus with a driver trying really hard to play human dominoes with us poor bastards standing in the center aisle. Result: Becoming new best friends with the young man whose lap I ended up in, and a rather wrenched left arm.

On a more positive note, the two days of 60-degree weather is making me forget that it freaking snowed last weekend.

Classes: Good, chatty, interested. I'm a little suspicious of my Big Willie class, as they keep asking questions about precisely the things I have planned to talk about for the day. I wonder if they have insider knowledge from friends who have already taken this class with me. Which, on the one hand, makes me feel boring and predictable. But, on the other, I'm just happy they're asking things, even if they're set-ups. And, really, if they're doing that kind of research outside of class, at least they're thinking about the texts, right?

In which I am addled

You know, without the little thing on my phone that not only tells me the date, but the day of the week, I would be utterly lost. Apparently today is Thursday--quelle shock!

Also, the left side of my head is trying to secede from my skull and we're experiencing a very rare midwestern monsoon. In five hours, I will be able to nap and then watch baseball while recording 30 Rock. All will be well, soon.

In which the prophecy fulfils itself

I wound up forgetting my text yesterday. I was so exasperated with myself that I came clean to the class, told them about my stupid dream, and relied heavily on them for specific quotations. They came through like champs and we were able to move quickly along to Ovid, which I did have with me.

Which reminds me that I want to write up my thoughts on my new How the Sausage Is Made theory of pedagogy. Anon.

In which we are back at it

Week one, in the books. Week two, just now dawning. I'm feeling ok about my classes (despite an anxiety dream this morning which involved me losing control of the class entirely, neither bringing my text nor having read it--Frankenstein, for some reason--and, most mortifyingly, wearing a scrunchie in public). The UChaos class is talkative and interested (or at least faking it convincingly), and the St. Happy class contains students who are willing to disagree with me, which I lovelovelove because it gives me a chance either to be ostentatiously right or to model ways of researching and testing claims. Be still my nerd heart!

Nothing going on the dissertation front, though. I haven't yet figured out where best to shoehorn in the work, before class or after. A crucial book just came into the library, though, so maybe that'll jump-start my brain.

The very best thing about this week, though? Sun. Our weather is finally at least entertaining the possibility of spring. I was out with bare knees on Saturday, and it felt marvelously decadent after four months of wool tights.