some rambling followed by something clever

It is Friday, which is glorious, and though I have my camera on my person, I do not have the cables to upload any pictures, so you are blessed with a post that doesn't take half an hour to load (unless you have a zippy quick connection, in which case, you think I am a moron by returning to this--I'm thinking mostly of my grandmother and K's mother, who both used to read this thing, but have probably given up on me now that they could knit an entire baby blanket in the time it takes for the recent entry to pop up).

It is Friday and we have twenty minutes or so until the bell and my creative writing kids are in the lab, typing away, or rather, sneaking onto favorite websites and I have given up the, "I don't see Microsoft Word open on your desktops!" mantra and instead given them a new due date, which does wonders for productivity and quiet atmosphere (a few are still playing games, which I have to keep myself from wanting to play too, but I haven't yet been taken in by Soduko and am vigorously avoiding it because I am prone to any latest craze and am even more prone to obsessing over things at a time--this will be learned over time, the knitting phase, the quilting phase, the canonical phase, the contemporary lit phase, the embrace-it-all writing phase that is often replaced with the your-writing-is-crap phase). It is raining, and I am relieved to not have to stand in front of the room, plodding through Romeo and Juliet (which is, contrary to what my verbs and adjectives might indicate, one of the most fun units to teach, especially to puppy-eager freshmen who either are enraptured by the love-at-first-sight storyline or enjoy the slash-whack fighting scenes). Four times in a row can be a bit exhausting, especially when you are essentially introducing the lovelies to the language, a bit complex and frustrating. I feel like I've run a marathon after each class period, glad in the last ten minutes when they watch clips from the Zefferelli adaptation, trying to piece it all together.

This morning I woke up, almost-refreshed (just five more minutes, I kept telling the alarm), flying into the second bedroom / my studio to fling things into a backpack, cursing myself for convincing myself the night before packing wouldn't be so hard in the stumbling around dawn. Then I realized: can I pack shampoo if I don't want to check it? I don't even remember. I may be relying on the hotel to supply half my toiletries (a razor, shampoo, conditioner, lotion). Maybe I'll stop at Target on the way. Travel size items, closer to my brand. Does it even matter when the time there is so brief? (And another bride will distract anyway, and I will always be behind the camera anyway.)

It's always such a thrill, the adreneline of travel. I've forgotten it in bits and pieces too... then, suddenly, I wake up, and realize: did I print out the email with all the itinerary information? Do I need to charge my phone more? Is my camera battery charged? Will the dogs be OK at this boarding place, somewhere we didn't take time to research? (Are we bad "parents"?) Will the cars be OK where we park them? (Why do I have to worry so much?) Am I not worrying enough?

I wish this were truly, actually fresh and clever, but it is just something most people know. One nice thing about teaching high school: often you can introduce them to the quirks of the world of linguistics and deliciousness of language and they are surprised. It's like telling a joke you love and instead of someone ruining the punch line (that always happens to me; I'm always behind), they are in awe and wonder over my little bag of tricks:

How do you pronounce "ghoti"?

Answer: "Fish."

Gh (enough)
o (women)
ti (nation)

It is Friday and I'm thrilled at the prospects of an adventure, halfway across the country. Boston. My mother's home.