Something up with Which I Will Not Put

Ok, proud of myself for not smoking for 66 days!!
On the other hand, not so pleased with the extra 10 pounds. This is not what I meant when I said I loved the hippy life.
So, new resolution – I’m going to get back into the pilates, and the walking – I haven’t walked Maggie the Poodle since before Christmas – and stop rewarding the non-smoking with the “occasional” maple-walnut muffin.
I miss smoking. I’m going to miss the muffins, too. Being thin and healthy better be worth it, is all I can say.

Last semester, I found myself running around like the cliched chicken, but without the sweet release of death to look forward to. So, I vowed, this semester I would be prepared.
Ha.
I had it all planned – oral presentations throughout the term, rather than all at once at the end; staggered due dates to ensure smaller heaps of essays to correct; class reading schedules so we’re all on the same page (pun intended), etc. I was a veritable goddess of anticipatory scheduling.
You can tell I’m tired. I’m using words like ‘anticipatory’ with no veiled undertones. Sigh.
Of course, orals get postponed because students get the flu, or the plague, or whatever, or simply decide that their mid-term chem test is waaaaay more important than Mordecai Richler’s contribution to the literary face of Montreal; essays are late or rescheduled because everyone’s (and I mean everyone’s) computer eats documents randomly and no one’s printer works; and books arrive three friggin’ weeks late at the bookstore.
Needless to say (so I’ll say it), I am once again facing the end of the semester with trepidation. Or I would be if I could remember what ‘trepidation’ meant, along with the other few thousand words that have abandoned me of late. This morning I told a class that Sebastian “beat the shit out of” Sir Toby in Twelfth Night. While true, still not the eloquent professorial note one wants to strike with students.
And now, let’s face it, I’m just babbling.
The good news is that all my colleagues seem to wandering the halls with the same frightened deer look, so I am not alone in my trepidation, whatever that means.
Four weeks from now, it will all be behind me (save the heaps of essays), and I’ll be able to think about my summer course – which, since it’s only three weeks long, will be over before the panic can begin.

A newsletter description that could have benefited from a copy editor:
Get the straight answers on how to protect yourself, your children and your assets from expert Jim Gross.
Via Bill, who is linkless and commentless, but still loveable.

My subconscious is really getting around. Last night’s dream featured Brad Pitt.
Unlike Ben, Brad did not insist on discussing literature. He did, however, think I was truly gifted comedically – at one point, he lifted his shirt, pointed to his six-pack abs, and said “I have never laughed so much. What a workout!”
Interestingly, his wife was in the next room, having a shower. So what did we do? We cuddled on the couch. Fully clothed, down to the thick wool socks, cuddling. And Ms Aniston did not, at any point, emerge toweled and dripping from the other room.
Once again, my mind created an ideal scenario but chickened out on the follow-through. This is despite assurances from Dr. T that I can have dream sex with celebrities, as long as I’m willing to share the details.
Well, these are the details: he’s got great abs, Jennifer was in the shower actually getting clean, and I had on nice warm socks.