Briefly, I am not behind

Dulles airport shuttle

It's funny how a week's worth of canceled classes can give you just a little edge. But only a little edge. I'm prepping for Tuesday morning's class right now, and that's as far ahead as I expect to get.

Of course, I'm punishing myself (and my students) for my conference by having assignments due in every one of my classes. Yep, I'll be collecting upwards of 100 papers and other miscellaneous thingamabobs over the next two days. This now seems like an appallingly terrible idea. What was I thinking?

But the conference was good. Coming home was good. The house inspector's report was good. Life, in general, is good. Mmmm.

--I am in fact terrifically excited about moving to our new house, even though that won't happen for at least two months. It is so cute! A little 1300-square-foot bungalow built around 1900, with a front porch and a back deck and a separate garage. Hardwood floors in every room (except for the finished basement room, but I can live with that). A working fireplace. Built-ins in the living room and the hall. A breakfast nook (tentatively renamed the Annex) with skylights. A retractable clothesline! Oh wonders. And it's a--yes, I timed it--2.5-minute walk to the office. Hurrah! And it'll be quiet, unlike our current Main Street address!

What's nice is that every time we tell a Field Townian which house it is that we bought, he or she says, "Oh, that one? The one on the corner, with the porch? That's such a cute house!" A few of them even remarked that, when they saw that it was for sale, they were tempted to take a look. It's all very affirming.

What's funny about Field Town is that it's--well, it's a small town. I guess this isn't funny if you're used to it. But to us East Coastal urbanites, it's quite strange how every single person volunteers some history of the house. "The college librarian lived there in the 90s." "That house held a grocery store when I was a little girl" (this from one of the oldest people we know here). "Didn't so-and-so do some work on that place a while back?" "You mean the old Whosits' place, right?"

It's all very charming. And exciting. And kind of scary, for this means that, lo, we're committing--to some extent--to Field Town and Field College. Yikes.

Where's Heu?

Tucked away in a remote corner of Europe, in an austere but comfortable hotel room. Knitting.

Conference is going well. Paper went well. I actually got questions and discussion, which doesn't usually seem to happen for me; people even came up to me afterwards with further questions and comments. But the mark of true success? When a fancy person had a question, and I answered it, but sensed that he wasn't convinced--so, at the coffee hour, I went up to him (a first for me--success 1) and started talking. I think he's still not convinced, but I am perfectly fine with that (confidence, of a sort--success 2), and we had a perfectly lovely conversation about this and that (comfortable collegiality with a person who just might intimidate me--success 3). I'm pleased.

And tired. I've convinced myself that I'm not jetlagged, but that's probably false. Off I go to bed.

Whiny whiny whine whine

Denver airport.

I know that I can't complain too much of fatigue, not having twin babies or anything, but dude, I am tired, for reals.

This semester is unusually...involved. That fifth class, despite being only one credit-hour, is awfully time-consuming. Plus I've made all my courses really complicated (response papers! daily quizzes! words/concepts of the day! collecting homework! blah blah blah!), so there's a lot of paper shifting in and out of my hands on a regular basis. Plus we have a record number of Honors students, which means a record number of individual appointments and advisee management and whatnot.

And there's, you know, this unexpected house thing, which it turns out will take some time. We don't close until November, but early Thursday morning we need to meet with the banker to get our loan approved, and then there's the inspection, etc. So, you know. Tired.

And I'm leaving for Scandinavia on Friday, so there's that.

Anyway, I don't really have much to write about here--well, I do, about a minor course-related puzzle, but I'm too tired to do it and it's hardly urgent. So this post is primarily intended to provide an excuse for the carpet picture above. Enjoy the little rectangles of colorful wonderment!

Nothing in my life is realistic

Country club in Doylestown, PA.

Last Friday, my book came out.

On Saturday, we square danced all over our colleague's deck. (It was a blast.) Then we drank Tennessee moonshine and swam in her lap pool till late.

This Friday, I fly to a remote Scandinavian country for a conference. I'll be gone for a week.

And today? Today we apparently bought a house. Or at least had an offer for a house accepted.

It was a bit of a lark, in fact, to look at the house on Saturday morning. The realtor told us that an offer had already been made. We liked the house--a lot--and it was priced really well (details in a later post; we've got time, here). So we made an offer on Sunday night. And today, it was accepted.

This is all quite strange. What's going on?

On the other hand, all of this stuff is really really good.

Announcement

Readers of Maude:

Her new blog can be found here.

Enjoy!

(Posted by request of Dr. Maude.)

Today

Las Vegas airport (5).

I held my very own, first published book in my hands.

I smelled it.

And it was good.




(And I think that I'm now done with the Vegas pictures, which is also good.)

(OH! And as we speak, TM is being addressed by two young missionaries out in the driveway. Hee hee! I shall hide indoors, watch through the window with the cat, and anticipate his account of it. A good day all around.)

How Times Change

Las Vegas airport (4).

Tomorrow night my husband and I will be dining at our minister's home.

No part of that sentence would have made sense three years ago.

I do sometimes enjoy imagining what my fourteen-year-old self would make of my current life--and have imagined this since I was eighteen or so, so that younger me has had a lot of shocks over the years. Now, of course, I have dozens of younger selves onto which I could project an impression of my present life, but for some reason fourteen remains the magic number. It probably has something to do with puberty, no? That terribly awkward switch between childhood and existing as some new kind of creature, a "woman"?

Oh, them were tricky years, them were.