Spread

No cigar.

Alternate titles for the George Orwell classic I have seen written by high schoolers this week:

1. 1983
2. 1985

Is it me?

Besides keep a paper gradebook, here are some things I still do that nobody else seems to do anymore.

1. Turn my wheels toward the curb when I park on a hill. I grew up in Escanaba, which is flatland, so I never thought about this much when I was first learning to drive (to park). But now I live in a hilly town, and I have to think each time about which way to turn the wheel, depending on whether I'm faced up- or downhill. But then I get out and go wherever and see that every other car's wheels are straight. Once, when I was 16, I left my Mazda GLC in my friend Wendy's driveway, and we came out to find it had rolled out into the street. She lived on a dead-end road, and the car was just sitting there patiently, not having smacked into anything or anything, but still: panic. I feel like this is one of those situations where some guy would tell me that back in the day we had to do that but the technology is such that now we don't have to, for blahdeblady reasons. But still, the picture of my little brown hatchback sitting crosswise and empty in the middle of south 20^th street comes to me every single time.

2. Turn on my porchlight at night, and not just when I've ordered pizza or if someone's coming over. I feel like when I was little, you left your porchlight on not just for yourself but for the neighborhood. So kids walking around saw that people were still up. Or so they had light, or so they knew people were watching, or that there was a safe space if they needed it. I have no idea just what the light was supposed to signal, but it went on at dusk and off when you went to bed, which again was probably some sort of signal: people are in bed now. Granted, I don't even have sidewalks here in Trowbridge. But I still like the light on in the evening, and I like brushing my teeth and then turning it off.

I'm sure there's more. I'm sure there's way more.

Just wherever is fine.

I headed to school earlier today in six-degree weather, but everybody on campus had done such a ridiculous job parking that I turned around and came back home. Seriously. I know there's still some snow on the ground, but people seemed to have absolutely no memory of how the lots are organized. And forget just lining yourself up with the guy next to you to approximate a straight line. I told myself if I found a spot on the edge of a lot, I'd stay, but if I parked in the middle somewhere I knew I'd be parked in by the time I left, so I guess I'm working at home again today.

Weather Rorschach.

I was a couple days early on the blizzard preparations, but I'm glad I made them. Today's a snowday. Neighbor Kid shoveled my porch this morning ("I'm a nice kid," he said. "It doesn't take people too long to realize that"), but you'd never know it now. The season's first radar pic:

Honestly, it doesn't affect my day too much, since I just planned on grading and eating chili anyway. So back to that.

And winter begins.

It's snowing, and I'm prepared to get trapped here. I've got food and club soda and a bottle of wine, and my DVR is working again. I'm reading student revisions and doing laundry and kind of hoping this snow just keeps coming down for days. Sometimes, I really do want to get out of here and go places, but not today. If I was stuck here for a while, I'd get all my grading done, finish the lovely Elizabeth McCracken's The Giant's House (think about it for book club, Betty), and cuddle down.

What’s a pencil?

Yesterday was my last day of class proper. We had one last workshop to do, which I'd prepared for and printed out but forgotten to bring with me. And I didn't have my laptop with me either. So I pulled out my iTouch and logged onto WebCT and found I could open her story just fine on that. Couldn't believe it. This means I can read student stories at the gym or in bed? Well, not that I really want to do either of those things, but still: love love love this little thing. I've already looked around for attendance apps, so students won't make fun of my little paper gradebook anymore. Once I find a gradebook app that can handle all my little pluses and checks and scores and revised scores – I'm going totally electronic.

Don’t do the twirl.

I think I ordered the same cardigan for Little Sweet twice. I know she's all into Pam Beesley chic, but I could at least have gotten two different colors.

No chaos.

I haven't posted in so long that now I feel this pressure to say something interesting. But I got nothing. School is busy but wrapping up, Thanksgiving was super nice, I've got both a puzzle and a manuscript annotation going, my fantasy team is falling apart. I have a cat who can't stop chewing on the resistance band I left lying on the floor, the same cat who eats balloons. See – same old. I've been waiting for a moment, a student to say something silly or a checker at the grocery store to card me. I haven't even been letting neighbor kid inside, so: no luck, no stories. In fact, yesterday, I threw a handful of trash into the garbage and then tossed a spoon in after it and thought, Oh, I could blog about that.

Early to bed.

Thanksgiving vacation doesn't officially start until Wednesday, but I'm already feeling it. I didn't even open the manuscript waiting on me and started a puzzle (of a deer) tonight. Thinking about falling asleep on the couch to Monday Night Football. I can tell the cats are with me.

Announcements: Good game, Peter. Happy Birthday to my sister. And I'm ready for my rematch, Dirty Little Kitties.

Not that one.

A few years ago, I read this marvelous story called "Trompe L'Oiel" in Hayden's Ferry. Broke my heart and I never really forgot it. Then a few months ago, I was in Good Will and found a novel by the author and snatched it up, excited. It was about the Unabomber, kind of, or what the story of the daughter and step-son of the Unabomber might be, if they were in love and the daughter was a stripper. It might not have been the kind of thing I picked up without recognizing the author's name, but I read it, and it was a beautiful novel, so I l just looked her up to see what else she had written.

Turns out I had it all wrong. Liza Weiland, author of Bombshell, is not the same person and Liza Kleinman, author of the short story. Oh.

But I love when I'm lucky like that. When I'm completely off base but something good comes of it anyway. I wish I could make that kind of thing happen more often, but I suppose that's not possible. You have to be genuinely wrong in order to be sincerely surprised.