Coming to a Classroom Near You

After reading Master Fob's post of editorgirl-inspired insanity, I felt so pleased with myself that I have decided to share my own IMI (instructor moment of insanity)--although, today's will decidedly not be appearing in Master Fob's classroom anytime soon. I hope.

Today was yet another day where I went to class without a lesson plan. I'm waiting for someone to call me on it, but so far, nothing. But there is one student who I continue to suspect suspects something. Of course, this could be because he's a rather attractive male and I find myself suspicious and insecure around rather attractive males, regardless of their status as my student, my instructor, my home teacher, my neighbor, my sales clerk, my. . . I'll spare you (unless you were having fun, in which case, be my guest).

So now that editorgirl has permitted herself one awkward instructor admission (and yes, editorgirl recognizes that she has just switched from first to third person--she got bored), she is going to continue her story.

After a rushwrite, a storytelling competition, and general tomfoolery, I began my little lecture for the day about writing and imagery and writing yourself as a character. And there, in the second row of desks, is the RAM, looking very intense. At least, as intense as a person can look in a 115 class. The effect was heightened by his heavier brow--does that image even make sense? It's a kind of less pronounced Frankenstein's monster kind of thing going on--and now you will never again believe my taste in men. (And if you saw my two ex-boyfriends, plus the seven-year-crush, you never would have believed in my taste in men to begin with. Oy.)

All of my rambling here is, of course, to demonstrate today's teaching style. I tend to wind off on various storytelling tangents which endear me to my students but accomplish nothing more. But today, as I was talking and doing the scan-the-room-to-include-everyone head motion, I kept stopping at Mr. RAM. And not because he's a RAM--because he was looking at me so intently. I finally stopped and said--no, exclaimed--something to the effect of "Why are you looking at me like that?!?"

Everyone in that row stopped and looked to see who I was exclaiming at, as I continued to exclaim, "Not that it's a bad thing, it's just unnerving. You're so. . . what's the word. . . just staring and. . ." "Intense?" another student offered. "Yes. Intense. Which is a good thing."

My babbling was stopped by the student sitting behind RAM apologizing. He had been singled out by the other students. "No, not you. It's [RAM]." RAM started and began apologizing. "I'm sorry. I was just listening to what you were saying."

"Well, stop doing that."

I did apologize after class. I guess it's a good thing Master Fob loves me unconditionally, because I am doing my best to scare everyone else away.

Guilt

I have a pile of guilt on my doorstep.

Actually, it's a pile of newspapers I was conned into subcribing to, but it all amounts to the same thing. On Friday, Stellar helped me push the existing pile of papers into the window well; two more have shown up and I just know that they'll spawn and by Friday there will be a new pile of papers taunting me every time I leave my house. Actually, the guilt will overwhelm me to the point that I'll stop leaving the house completely and instead of killing the mice with D-Con, I'll have dinner parties with them and read the same books over and over again (luckily I have enough that they'll be on a yearly rotation) and I'll order breakfast, lunch, and dinner delivery and after a few years, the paper will form a wall (thanks to the non-decomposing plastic bags) around my house and my existence will become merely a legend that the school children tell.

Do you see what guilt can do to a girl?

pamplemousse, or Arty Chokes Three for a Dollar

Macey's and Mentos. I've been to Macey's a dozen times this week and every time I've bought at least three packs of pamplemousse (pink grapefruit) Mentos.

Today I went to buy eggs for brownies. And pamplemousse Mentos. But there weren't any. Licorice, Green Apple, Cinnamon, Sours. No pamplemousse. I went and grabbed a few other things, then returned to the bin of Mentos by the register. I saw a glimpse of pink at the bottom of the bin and started digging. This continued and after a few minutes I had seven packs of pamplemousse Mentos and the bin had none. I walked to the register, feeling quite pleased with myself.

I returned to Macey's tonight after an evening of manic fobbing. Well, it was manic on my part. I actually had the perfect plan to approach Macey's Guy. I was going to give him a flier for tomorrow night's (tonight's?) Open Mic--with my number on the back. And tell him that he should use that number.

He wasn't there. Trust me. I looked. But there was something else--pamplemousse Mentos, three for a dollar.

Tonight I would have rather had the man.

Trivia and Triumphs

editorgirl trivia question: How many times has eg bought herself an obscenely priced meal to celebrate the "completion" of the fall 2004 inscape? And for a bonus point, what did eg buy herself today to celebrate the (fingers crossed) final completion of the fall 2004 inscape? Answers at the end of this post.

Today has been one of small triumphs, although it didn't start out that way and the day is far from over.

I woke up at 7:50 a.m. to my sister telling me I had class in ten minutes. (LaLa had come upstairs to see if she could get a ride to campus). I bolted out of bed, washed my face, told LaLa that her hubby would have to play chauffeur today, grabbed the first clothes from the floor (so not instuctor-appropriate), swiped on some mascara, and headed for my car, which of course was buried under last night's pseudo-snow.

I made it to class by 8:15 a.m. and I proceeded to sit there with a slightly-more-than-blank look on my face until the connection between Wendell Berry and Levinas clicked and I got to play the scary grad student again. Great, great fun.

When class ended at 9:15 a.m. I realized that I had about twenty minutes to figure out what "paradox" was and how to teach it to my 218 students. Oh, and I needed an exercise for them to do in class. So I did what any person in this situation would do--I called my mother. We chatted for a bit and as we chatted, I came up with an exercise that I thought just might work. So I tried it and it worked and then I got to sit back and enjoy the rest of the class period. (Read: party in my head. I went out to the hall to dance for a minute. Seriously.) That, and SHowe told me my outfit was fine for a Thursday class.

That brings us to 11:00 a.m. WIM: Writers Instructors Meeting. Yuck. But today was different. Pat Madden was talking about the personal essay (even though they're getting rid of it next year). And LadyJane was there. And life was good. And then I started writing.

My creative writing theory class this semester is focusing on works that don't fit in prose or poetry--they have features that accomodate or reject both genres. Prose poems, poetic prose, short shorts, etc. And none of those titles really work. But the discussion yesterday opened up a new thought pattern in my head of writing. That, and I had a good IM session with Tolkien Boy last night. If it sounds like therapy, well, it kind of was. I finally realized what it is that I need to do (provided I get up the nerve to do it, I'll explain in the near future). But 617 combined with that realization allowed me to write a new kind of poetry--all the way through WIM.

Basically I'm just happy because this means I have something for FOB tonight. Can't go empty handed.

editorgirl trivia questions answers: You know editorgirl can't count. Who knows? Bonus point: Carl's Jr. Guacamole Bacon Six Dollar Burger. Yummy.

This is the list that doesn't end

I actually made a list of what I was going to blog about today. And lost it. So instead of entertaining/boring you with the details of my day, here is the beginning of the list that InDialect suggested: Top 100 male literary crushes. I haven't even come close to 100, but this is a start. In no particular order:

1. Benedick (Much Ado about Nothing)
2. Fitzwilliam Darcy (I'm surprised you even had to ask.)
3. Buddy Glass (Franny and Zooey; Raise High the Roofbeams, Carpenter)
4. Zooey Glass (Franny and Zooey)
5. Thomas Lane (Tam Lin)
6. Barney Snaith (The Blue Castle)
7. Gilbert Blythe (Anne of Green Gables books)
8. Roland Michell (Possession)
9. Theodore Lawrence (Little Women)
10. Dan (Little Men; Jo's Boys)
11. J. Alfred Prufrock
12. Edward Rochester (Jane Eyre)
13. Edward Ferras (Sense and Sensibility)
14. Colonel Brandon (S&S)
15. Mac (Eight Cousins; Rose in Bloom)
16. Lord Goring (An Ideal Husband)
17. Demetrius (A Midsummer Night's Dream)
18. Rob Gordon (High Fidelity)
19. The Speaker in "For Esme--with Love and Squalor"

And I'm out. For the night, at least. I know I should have italicized each of the titles, but I'm lazy. And I know there are more than nineteen. Please add your suggestions. I can't promise they'll make the list, but hey--couldn't hurt.

P.S. They aren't in the right order, but Benedick had to be number one. Find eg a Benedick, and you'll find a happy eg.

Vignettes

His name is "Alex."
I had a rather brilliant idea for a poem tonight at Poetasters. Provided all goes well, it just might premiere at the Valentine's Day reading. There's just one little problem: The poem requires a love interest, or at least a crush, and I am completely without. Considering my life at present, this is not surprising: my male enrollment of my two classes this semester is composed entirely of either marrieds or uncrushables at the present time. And by uncrushable I mean peroxide blonds, pompous, snap-you-like-a-twig, etc. Students, of course, are off limits. My best guy friends are my best guy friends. And almost every other male I know exists primarily in cyberspace. So, no crush for eg, although I am taking suggestions.
I announced this tonight--that I need a crush. To finish my poem. No other reason. And LauLau announced that there's this "goldenish haired" guy on campus who she sees frequently and crushes on. "His name is 'Alex'," she said, complete with air quotes. "One day we'll meet and I'll ask if his name is Alex and it will be." "And then," continues Keller, "people will stop and start singing, 'I've seen that smile somewhere before.'" Keller pauses. "I want to be in the chorus. Can I share in your moment?"

Q-sack
I missed the chance of a lifetime. But it was a chance of a lifetime that I didn't want. Does it still count?

I want to die.
Actually, I don't. But I find myself thinking this sometimes. And then tonight I got another reminder of why I don't want to die.
We have mice at our house. I think I told the mouse-in-the-rubbish-bin story. Well, after that night, we put out D-Con, which is supposed to be a humane way of killing mice. (If humane means not having to deal with their tiny dead bodies.) It's a poison that the mice eat. It makes them thirsty, so they go outside looking for water. The water activates the poison and then they die. At least, that's what supposed to happen. Tonight I came home to find a mouse next to the short flight of stairs between the kitchen and the living room. I personally don't want to die on my side with my legs and arms sticking out in front of me and my tail curled towards my feet. I also don't want my brother-in-law to have to pick me up and carry me out to the trash can.

Metaphors
Actually, they're not metaphors. They're analogies or allegories or something. My therapist likes to tell me these metaphors to help me understand that I have no control over my life. He's told me the vacuum metaphor, the chess board metaphor, the gun metaphor, the bus metaphor, etc. I thank him, and then remind him that this is the reason I come in once a week to talk with him.

InValid
This didn't happen today or even this week. It happened many, many years ago, when editorgirl was just a little girl. She read a book and found a word that she liked: invalid. She figured out what it meant and waited for the perfect opportunity to use it. The opportunity came at dinner one night. But instead of saying invalid, she pronounced it in-valid. Which made perfect sense to her. (Still does, as a matter of fact.)
I feel inValid.

pamplemousse
I am addicted to pamplemousee (pink grapefruit) Mentos. Damn you, Macey's, and your 3/$1 deals!

a post in which eg not only imitates aa's style of titling his poetry, but also writes about the pub while watching Bride and Prejudice

I went to the Pub again tonight to finish inscape. You have to be careful when you go to the Pub on a Thursday night. If you go before 9:00 p.m. you run the risk of being attacked by the Leading Edge. So I patiently waited until 9:05 to drive to campus.

9:13 I'm at the Pub. I park my car at the curb and pull my keys out of my purse. (Naveen Andrews is hot.) I dodge the melting snow falling off the roof. Check the door. It's unlocked. Damn.

There are a few people upstairs. Okay. I don't want to be upstairs. I cross my fingers that my room is empty and head down the stairs, ignoring every stray look I get. Two of the rooms at the bottom of the stairs are open with peoples. The door to my room is closed. I knock. No answer. I assume I got my way--and open the door to find three people. No, not just three people. Three smelly people. Here's a word of advice: If you're in a hot room for a long period of time, no amount of ventilation is too much. (I want random musical numbers when I go shopping. And Naveen Andrews. Or the guy playing Darcy. What's his name? Martin something?)

"They look sizzling, no?"

So the stinky people. And my room. And the only computer in the whole place that will open the TIFF files I downloaded last night. I (nicely) kick the girl sitting in front of my computer out of the chair and the room and begin to count the minutes until they leave. All of them. I'm guessing ten minutes.

Would I be writing this if they were only there for ten minutes? Of course not. They were there nearly as long as I was--more than an hour. (I want an arranged marriage.) And they weren't working on a publication, Leading Edge or otherwise. They were doing math. (Henderson. Martin Henderson.) Since when is the math lab in the Pub? It's not. And will someone explain why they had to be in my room? Grrr.

That out of my system, I'd like to invite you to visit me tomorrow in the Garden Court. 11:00 to 2:00. It's the student journal fair. It would have been nice to know it was tomorrow before this week, but whatever. I made up wristbands, I have submission forms, and lots of candy. (Mmm mmm good. Not the candy. Mr. Henderson.)

Agony of Soul 2

Earlier this evening, Duchess documented the conversation as she hung out with Uffish and me. Every time she published, we became wittier (i.e., I screamed at the computer more and Uffish attempted to console me with Duchess egging us both on). The grand finale occurred after Duchess had published for the last time, so I get the privilege of reporting it.

Ahem.

Uffish: So now "Valentine's Day poem" is code for "Merciful heavens, that sucks!"

And with that excellent segue, I would like to remind everyone of the two major poetry readings coming up. The first is a week from Friday at my house. The second is the annual Poetaster Valentines Day reading. Not sure what day--probably right before the day of love commences.

I'm trying to decide how I feel about Valentine's Day. For the longest time, I had this idea in my head that there were a few special days of the year: Valentine's Day, New Year's Eve, my birthday, and Columbus Day. (Just kidding about my birthday.) And then I met this little man named reality. We first ran into each other when my boyfriend informed me that he had a blind date. On New Year's Eve. Then we bumped into each other--not at Macey's, as you'd expect, but actually over the phone--when my second boyfriend broke up with me two days before Valentine's Day. Since then I've lived those two days like every other day.

But I'm still holding out for Columbus Day.

Back to basics

After too many hours, I've discovered that it is much easier to give a check plus to a rushwrite than it is to give a grade out of 5 for a poem. And so I'm doing what I always do when things get rough--running away. But since it's late and I have no desire to get dressed to go out (I was going to say I have no desire to put a bra on and then realized that was way too much information), I'm running through my head. It's exhausting. Not much in the way of scenery. But it's an interesting trip.

Scene one: His office. Not "his" as in a romantic-y "his," but "his" in a respectful-therapist-I-want-him-to-solve-all-my-problems-even-though-I-know-it-doesn't-and-won't-work-that-way. Usually I sit on the ugly and uncomfortable couch, somehow ignoring the large, deep, cushy, leather recliner to my right, but now I'm sitting in the armchair so that I can "relax" (this is why I don't sit there in the first place). Deep breaths, eyes closed, that type of thing. My legs are crossed and my arms are folded. I wonder if the notes he takes down are about what I've said or about my posture. I really just want the answers, but instead I'm given myself.

Scene two: This summer. I choose the day of my uncle's funeral, although he's my great-uncle and I once asked him in front of my friends if he was my Uncle Don or my Uncle Dan. He was Don. I always felt a little guilty for that moment. It's also the day that my brother is going into the MTC. I'm sitting with my immediate family--somehow we wound up very close to the front--and everyone is watching us cry. My dad is speaking, even though it's my mother's uncle, and asking Uncle Don to help Sven on his mission. I want that, I do, but everyone is watching me cry and I feel guilty because it's not for Uncle Don or Sven. It's for Trent, who I still don't feel I've had a chance to mourn. I'm imagining his funeral, wishing I had been there, instead of this funeral for a man I liked but never really knew.

Scene three: Teenager. As soon as he says the word, I know where I'm about to go. Sitting at my desk in my basement room, no windows. Doing homework with the radio on loud enough to ignore my mother but quiet enough to hear the doorbell ring. It's dance-asking time and I know that I'm going to be asked this time around as I do my homework. I can see the lined notebook paper, see the pencil (I must be doing math), see the end of my ponytail hanging down over my shoulder. The doorbell doesn't ring.

Scene four: I'm told to find an image of me in my childhood. I look and find a few, but they are inconsistent, rather blurry. Blonde hair, glasses. Books. Always books. And as I write this, I remember an argument on the playground about the pronunciation of my favorite characters in my favorite series, which shall remain nameless.

All these girls are connected. They are all me. And somehow this idea of me is connected to the images they know and are resurrected by, not the depression or the anxiety or the fear. I can't let it best me. I can't and I won't, even though some days I want to.

inferior

Confession: I'm typing this during Poetasters. Because I am a brilliant multitasker and if I don't blog now, it's not going to happen. And because I didn't bring anything. Again.

I am in a foul mood tonight. Big fat surprise. And I have a roast waiting at home. That's right, ladies and gentlemen. Domestic Editorgirl. Careful--she's copyrighted.

Question (because I don't dare cut off Will): Can the amateur poet honestly feel justified in disappointing the expectations of his audience without supplying something equally brilliant?

Was I allowed to speak then?

Home from Poetasters. I give up. But at least I missed speed sk-dating. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The World's First Manned Flying Desk Set: A Diatribe (of sorts) in Three Acts

Act I. The Grandmother
Scene: LaLa and Jeremiah's Wedding Luncheon. I'm sitting where I belong--the siblings table--when a woman sits down next to me who does not belong there. She's Sherlene, Jeremiah's grandmother. I greet her, then turn my attention to Marzipan, who is sitting on my left and making the difficult decision between chicken parmesan and stuffed shells. That crisis resovled, I turn to my water glass and find myself cornered by the Grandmother. We exchange pleasantries, and then she pulls out the big guns: her grandsons, several of whom are still (surprisingly) single. There's Sean, who's going to business school. Nathan, who just got off his mission, but he's so mature. (Yeah right, lady.) The catch: all of these boys are outdoorsmen who need high-energy women in their lives. Oh, and did I mention they look nothing like my comparably handsome brother-in-law?

Act II. Moonlighting on the Palace Steps
"So I told him, every girl is a princess and she needs to be treated like one," my (former) roommate explains as she tells me about the boy she's dating. I listen attentively, as I always do--with one ear on the conversation and one brain cell trying to figure out how I can someday be the one telling the story. And another brain cell beating the first brain cell senseless, reminding it that I'm not interested. I'm happy. I like teaching, research, grad school. To hell with men. Off with their heads. And all that good stuff.
And then I come home and Cinderella and I list of our top five turn-on/turn-offs. (Kind of like the clapper.)

Act III. Forthcoming and Fortnightly
This weekend is LaLa and Jeremiah's open house. I'm supposed to go and smile and interact with people I've never met and never wanted to meet. The Grandmother will be there, this time with the Grandsons in tow, not just verbal descriptions. And somewhere between Act I and Act II, I've spent more time than I'd like to admit telling people--home ward, student ward, classmates, professors, relatives--that I'm single. Single, single, single, and thank you for asking. I'm getting tired. You know how when you write a word over and over again or look at it too long, you can't tell if it's spelled correctly? Well, I've said "I'm single" so many times, that I'm starting to wonder if that's the right answer. So here's my solution: I'm going to pay a guy to date me in name only. I'd prefer that he not be at BYU or live in Utah for that matter, but that won't necessarily be a deal breaker. I've consulted my finances and, provided that I cut out all late night runs to Wendy's, I figure I can pay him about $37.50 fortnightly. And then, this weekend, when the Grandmother attacks, I'll be ready.

Threatening your (my) reality

I was reading through old blue-beta threads this week. I do that when I want to create a new thread, so that I don't drag up a topic that has been done to death. In November, Katya created a thread simply titled "reality." The idea was to list what your current/future significant other has/will have to put up with from you. I made my list almost immediately. Then Tolkien Boy created a complementary thread--"optimistic reality," listing what you would bring to the relationship. That list wasn't so easy to create; in fact, I never posted it. But (thank heavens) perceptions change and so do lists. I'm going to continue on this thought, but first, my reality list and my optimistic reality list.

1. My alarm goes off multiple times in the morning--the norm is about two hours.
1. I can and will wake up when something is important.

2. I watch movies to unwind or rewind.
2. This means I own a lot of movies. Renting is rarely necessary.

3. I will spend money on 1) books, 2) movies, 3) music, 4) food, and 5) you.
3. Let me rephrase that: I will spend money on you. You and food. You, food, and music. You, food, music, and movies. You, food, music, movies, and books. But you will always come first--and not just when it comes to spending money.

4. I cannot/will not balance a checkbook. Nasty things.
4. I will, however, be aware and respectful of our financial situation.

5. I will not ask you after a movie what you thought. I will, however, tell you what I thought and expect you to jump in.
5. I will go see pretty much any movie, provided your arm is available if it's scary.

6. Same goes for plays/dance concerts.
6. I don't expect you to see every play/dance concert with me.

7. If you don't like movies/plays/dance concerts, you may leave.
7. Um, yeah. What she said.

8. I come with family and family issues.
8. My family is pretty much awesome. If you and I get along, you'll be fine with my family.

9. I will not look like my mother when I get older. I'm sorry.
9. That being said, I'm already attractive and women in my family do age well.

10. I am a mess, but an organized mess. Touch and die.
10. I will respect your messes--or organization--or both.

11. I will occasionally write about past relationships. This is not a reflection on you, it's just good triggering towns.
11. I never stay true to reality in my poetry, so don't worry.

12. I'm going to get a PhD. If this bothers you, you may leave.
12. I don't expect you to get a PhD. This has changed from a year or two ago. For years, I just assumed that I would marry a lawyer. And then it morphed to "professional degree seeking men only." And now all I care is that you are passionate about something, regardless of your degree. Oh, and that you respect my passions and education.

13. I can't count. This may explain number 4.
13. You will always be able to tease me about this, if nothing else.

14. I strongly dislike nicknames. (LadyLondon and editorgirl are exceptions, but unless you were in on those before we became "we," ne touche pas.)
14. I'll never call you "babe" or "sweetheart" either. "Hon" will occasionally happen.

15. There are more. A lot more. In fact, I am going to write a book. Which reminds me--don't bother me when I'm writing. Don't hover, don't think I'm going to pause to acknowledge you. Just let me write, dammit.
15. I swear. And I don't mind if you do. In fact, I'll probably like you all the more.

She cleaned the mirror.

Be a good nerd

Of course I shouldn't be posting. I should be in bed, asleep. Perhaps I can calm at least 57% of your motherly instincts by telling you that I am in bed, posting. Yeah--whoever decided a laptop was a good idea for me wasn't too smart.

But now that you're all here, I'd like to begin the meeting. Hey! Over here! QUIET! Look everyone: this is Quiet Coyote. His mouth is shut and his ears are listening. I'm not kidding, Kapka. Quit smiling. Now for the agenda.

1. Where the hell is Sarah?
2. Give me the damn pants.
3. It's a tradition; I've been rejected traditionally for the past 23 years.
4. Enough drama.
5. Take K out and you take out the fun.

This is not supposed to be a weepy post. In fact, I suspect that I will circumlocute all possible topics of weepiness. Or not.

The trinity met for the last time for the next nineteen months. I suppose it's blasphemous to think of us that way, but there isn't another word that matches what we are. Triumverate? And that's as much as my brain can handle.

I feel responsible for many things tonight. Things that aren't my responsibility. TB would point me to my corner of the triangle to sit and consider what I've not done if he were here, but he's not. Instead it's just me and this funny feeling in my stomach that feels like guilt. Or it could be that I didn't eat much today.

I don't know what to do. And I wish that someone would just tell me. TB and Master Fob came very very close to telling me last night and I obeyed, to a certain extent. I know how to handle most situations, at least most situations that I can logically assume I'll find myself in (watching Lost tonight with Uffish causes me to question that statement). I don't have the answer for this situation. Is it to become someone else? Is it to ignore whatever it is I feel? Am I overdramatizing this? Am I overanalyzing? Should I even give a damn?

Played True Colors tonight. It's amusing to find out what people think of you. Even more amusing to find out what you think of yourself.

1238

Class is over. Has been over for over an hour.

I took dancingqueen (my laptop) to class today, hoping to teach them the joys of BlackBoard 6. I set it up early, to make sure that it would connect to the internet. It did and in my crazed dance of victory, I turned on some music.

The class stopped talking and stared.

"What kind of music do you listen to?" one of the young men asked.

"Um, indie, classic rock, whatever," I answered, reaching over to forward the CD to something a little more conventional. Or I thought it was conventional. It was Postal Service. More blank stares.

"Okay," I said (a bit confrontationally, I'm afraid). "Come up to the board and write what you'd rather be listening to." Blank stares, blank stares, and oh, blank stares. "I'm serious. Get up here. There's three pieces of chalk."

Finally a few started moving to the front of the room. "This is your rushwrite for the day. If you want credit for being in class, come write on the board." Finally I had all 21 music preferences up on the board. I used them to put together the brochure groups. Clever? Maybe not. But definitely (or defiantly) entertaining.

0950

I am about to go teach 115. I should be working on my lesson plan. I should figure out what I'm going to teach today, preferrably before I get to the classroom. From where I'm sitting in the TNRB atrium, I can see at least five of my students, also waiting for class, all assuming that I have something to say.

And no, I haven't called him. Yet.

(End of post. Cliffhanger. Crappy one, but still a cliffhanger. I'm the next Stephen King, I am.)

stupid movie

My life would be a stupid movie simply because I'd be a crummy main character. You're at least supposed to feel something for the main character, right? I wouldn't be likeable. I'd be irritating. Take tonight for example:

Editorgirl drives up to a house in her car, Muffy. We don't know why the car is named Muffy, but that's its name and we except such monikers in this world. Editorgirl turns off the car, but stays inside for a moment. Is she collecting her purse? Herself? Or just waiting for a song on the radio to end? She climbs out of the car, at first gracefully, but her purse catches and she ends up in an off-balance tug-of-war with the car to extract the beige vinyl bag. She regains balance, adjusts her coat, buttoning the last button, and closes the car door, locking the car as she walks to the house.

Once inside, editorgirl is greeted by TB, Master Fob, FoxyJ, SBoogie, Bawb, Duchess, and Ambrosia. It's Ambrosia's house and Ambrosia is preparing curry and rice. There is a fondue pot on the table, with slightly bubbling chocolate inside and a stack of various dippable foods outside. Editorgirl joins the group, greeting everyone in return, and takes a seat next to Duchess on the loveseat. Don't get too excited by that name, because nothing happens. Our main character sits still so long that we begin to wonder if the tape is broken, repeating itself as she nods and laughs at the conversation. The only convincing proof that the tape is, in fact, intact, is when editorgirl gets up to serve herself curry (which is heavenly) and to dip squares of cream cheese into the chocolate (which is a different but no less valid type of heavenly).

Editorgirl bids farewell to Ambrosia, Duchess, Bawb, and Asmond (who showed up late and therefore gets mentioned late) and walks to her car with TB in tow. They drive to Master Fob's house, with editorgirl taking the longest route possible. Music plays on the radio and the conversation is entertaining, but generic.

As the Fobbing begins, the Fobs (writing group, not the family) welcome a new individual--who has yet to earn his online moniker. Because there is a new member, the Fobs introduce each other, interrupted by goodnight hugs and kisses from SBoogie. Cuteness ensues, courtesy of our guest star.

Fobbing comes in short bursts, as editorgirl is in turn apathetic, intense, cruel, and hesitant. She, of course, feels guilt for all these emotions, but still enjoys the evening's Fobtacular Fobtacular. As the evening winds down and the risk of "Fernando" blaring from her cell phone decreases, she turns on her cell and hears the ascending tone that indicates she has a message. Master Fob and TB watch as her face registers disbelief and then panic.

Stay tuned for the sequel, crappy movie 2, in which eg agonizes to the point of giving herself a headache. There is no rest for the pathetic.

And that's why no man will ever love me.

Happy Friday the 13th.

Let it be known

I am a wimp.

What we are not

I seem to have spent today defining things by what they are not. I'm going to go in reverse chronological order, because I just returned from inscape where we came up a plan to take over the world . . . I mean, advertise for this semester.

inscape is not a professional wrestler.
inscape is not a broadway musical.
inscape is not a goat.
inscape is not a hair gel.
inscape is not your mom.
inscape is not an online dating service.
inscape is not a jamba juice flavor.
inscape is not a ____________.

inscape is BYU's creative writing journal.

Don't worry--we only used one of the "is not" phrases for each poster, followed up by what inscape is. And for those of you wondering and too lazy to hunt out a poster, the deadline is February 7.

On a more serious note, my creative writing theory class spent the hour (and fifteen minutes) defining poetry and prose, primarily by what they are not. And of course, you find that the definitions have blurred--while there are polarized works that are obviously prose or poetry, there are more and more works that occupy the space between prose and poetry--prose poems, short shorts, poetic prose, narrative poetry, etc.

I started playing with this idea in my head. I don't know how it will develop--poem or maybe I'll get crazy and try creative nonfiction (which apparently and unfortunately not hyphenated). It's always easier to define something by what it is not--it's easy to define yourself by what you're not. Which leads to the more important question: why is it so easy to see what we're not and so difficult to see what we are? I'm tempted to start a list, but I think it would distract me from what is important. And by me, I mean you. You, who I am not.

Would you erase me?

I finally saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Sven was right--I loved it. I would watch it again right now but I'm so tired. Why am I always so tired lately? I don't understand. But bed is coming sooner than I'd like it to.

I thought about creating a thread on blue beta about what memories you'd erase if you could. But the whole point of the movie is that memories are important--I'm not so tired as to miss that. Part of me desparately wants to be Clementine or Joel or a combination. Part of me desparately wants to be myself. I wonder how much of myself I've put away this past semester, along with memories that I thought were about pain and disappointment and embarrassment. I don't like to appear foolish or wrong or whatever. I can't imagine that anyone does. But would I discard those experiences, those memories? No. Because, as someone pointed out to me today, I have been successful because I look at both the past and the future. I have been successful, but I have also been lonely and, well, paranoid. I don't think that's too strong a word.

Things are going well right now. Too well. I'm waiting for everything to fall apart. Waiting to realize that everyone hates me or my hair is falling out or my car is wrecked or something has gone terribly wrong. I anticipate these things so that I know how to handle them when they happen. They never do--life manages to find things that I haven't thought of before to throw in my way.

This thread isn't going the direction I planned. I wanted to write about those memories that define me, those memories that put me together. And that, given the chance, I might be tempted to erase.