Well how did I let a week go by without writing anything over here? I hate that. I’ve certainly had plenty of things to say over the last week, but the things that weren’t about television would have either bored or disgusted you, I’m sure. Aren’t you glad you didn’t have to read five entries about the endless cold and cough and lung chowder with which I am currently afflicted? Aren’t you glad I didn’t recount in detail my annual visit to the Lady Doctor (who, it would have been revealed in RAGING ALL CAPS, turned out to be A MAN*)? Or how about the gripping tale in which I finally ask a doctor about my migraines only to be told, yes, they are in fact migraines and wouldn’t I like some of that new migraine medicine everyone is on about? Sorry you missed that one? Didn’t think so.
[*Not in a The Crying Game sort of way, but in a The Clinic Didn’t Ask if I had a Preference and I Forgot to Mention that I’d Prefer a Lady way.]
Indeed, it has been all boring health issues taking up my time and energy since the start of the semester. Nonetheless, I did not think you would be particularly entertained by tales of Lung Chowder, (Male) Lady Doctors, or Migraine Pills. But what to tell you?
Can I tell you that my writing students are turning in their first rough drafts today and I feel this slow simmering worry that it’s too early and that I haven’t taught them enough and that they just aren’t ready to be writing this stuff yet?
Can I tell you that, similarly, it is time for me to think about conference papers and publishable papers and spring semester job applications and, similarly, I feel this slow simmering worry that it’s too early and that I haven’t done enough and that I’m just not ready to be writing this stuff yet?
Even though being sick lately hasn’t given me adequate excuse to play hooky from teaching (I just haven’t been quite sick enough for that), it certainly has given me what I felt was adequate excuse to play hooky from my other scholarly duties, and thus I have been spending large blocks of time lying on the couch in my pajamas with a dog on top of me and a tissue crammed up one nostril or the other, watching television and reading trashy books and drinking tea and not writing — not even writing here. And now it is Monday all over again already and when I get done with the hours of writing conferences I imagine I will find myself right back on that couch with pajamas and dog and tissue and book and tea all over again already.
Please to send help, or at least some decongestants with extra meth.