Television Marathon Followed by Grading Marathon Reduces a Usually Somwhat-Agile Mind

I've been watching "The Wire," right?

And, I temporarily gave it up yesterday so that I can grade exams by Friday's due date.

So, I have "The Wire," provocative, clever, astounding, on one side of my brain, and students waxing-pretty-damn-poetic (on the limitations of the early Civil Rights Movement wrt women, the urban poor, etc. or the construction of race in the U.S. in the last 140 years or why black power was so threatening beyond, "OMG, scary black men with gunz!!!" or challenges African Americans face in the 21st century and how they are linked to the myriad issues we discussed this semester) on the other. And you know what I keep thinking?

I'd really, really like a doughnut. And not just any doughnut; a warm, way-too-sweet Krispy Kreme with hot chocolate or chocolate milk. I've even gone so far as to call to find out when will the hot sign be on again. However...

the temperature is 45 degrees and falling, with an expected low of 35.

You know how this dream ends, right? No doughnuts for me. No "The Wire" for me. Only essays stretching far into this cold, dark night.

A Friday Morning, "I'm Cold!!!" Poem

The rest of my body knows
As I lay huddled
Under the covers
Trying to create
Trying to absorb
Warmth
But my fingers
(They so often get me in trouble)
Wanted to rub
my cold nose
Wanted to stretch
They felt cramped
Wanted to glide
Across the keyboard,
More curious
than my cold nose
can be
So they crept up
Past the boundary
Of the sheets
Rubbed the cold away
Stretched sinuously
Typed quickly
Warmed, despite the room's
chill
Then, as parts of me urged--
the shoulders now bared
and shivering
the arms
with hair on end
the nose
whose warmth was fleeting--
the fingers paused
compromised
slid away from the keyboard
grabbed the comforter
tugged it gently
re-created the cocoon

To Heat or Not to Heat

As noted myriad times before, I am a southern girl who thinks cold weather is defined as temperatures below 65 degrees F. I loathe the cold.

The crunch of the ground under my constricting boots.

The chilly winds that whip around with no care given to my hair or, more interestingly, my skirt.

The moments spent in agony during the dash outside to crank the car and/or remove ice from the windshield.

The fetal position assumed as a miserable, protective ball against an insufficiently warmed car or to avoid the nether regions of cold sheets.

The slick slip across ice of a certain already clumsy sistorian.

The aching, forgot-my-gloves hands.

The awkward, shivery dance done to ward off cruel temperatures while waiting outside.

I resist it as long as possible, but the time came, on Sunday night when I could resist no more.

I lay curled in bed, my feet little more than ice blocks, my nose feeling nipped by that damnable Jack Frost. I was so cold, so devoid of any modicum of real or artificial warmth that I could not sleep. It was time, part of me figured, to turn on the heater.

But the heater means warmth that dries out your nose and roughens your throat.

The heater means waking up in a restrictive jumble of bedclothes.

The heater means sweat on my neck and scalp and behind my knees.

The heater means "Good-bye, $96.11 electric bill!"

The heater is a poor substitute for autumn.

But I dragged my ice-blocks across the floor and switched it on. By the time I made it back to bed, I scented the ominous stench of heater-not-used-in-a-while. It smelled as if it were on fire. I was too peeved--and, well, too cold--to turn it off. Instead, I plotted how my son and I could land, relatively unscathed, should we have to escape fire through second floor windows.

Then, the smell subsided. And the warmth began. Glorious, defrost your feet, stretch your legs into the cold, dark regions of your sheets, lift your head from the cocoon of the comforter, warmth.

I sighed and slept.

And I remembered that nothing, not the hurried morning shower to wash away night sweat, not the half-assed flat-ironing of tangled, damp-at-the-roots hair, not the extra minute to toss Hall's honey-lemon drops into my bookbag and load sheets into the washer, lessens the satisfaction of smacking winter's creepy, icy fingers away from a newly-warmed body.

Hurricane Gustav--How to Help

BFP and Sylvia have done a wonderful job of linking to ways to help/who can use your help urgently. Kevin has them, and more, rounded up here.

Also, I've had an e-mail and a comment asking about my family. My immediate family lives a few miles south of Arkansas, so should be physically safe. I do have an aunt in Iota whose daughter lives in New Orleans and whose son attends UL-Lafayette, and two other cousins, one an undergrad, one a law student, at Southern in Baton Rouge. I'll be calling shortly, but as far as I know, we're all safe and sound. Thank you so much for asking.

Mobilization

Today, on the 3rd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina's Louisiana landfall, my friend, Coti, found out that she is to be one of the 3000 National Guard troops mobilized by Governor Bobby Jindal. She leaves for south Louisiana tomorrow. Please keep her, as well as Alex--whom I know will be worried--in your thoughts.

Should This Affect My Decision?

From my campus visit last week... I don't remember Texas being like this in March.

elle and snow...

You might be surprised. Does snow insulate or something? Cuz I swear it didn't feel all that cold after it snowed--not nearly as cold as it had been before.

Weather Lament

It's just too damned hot. I mean the kind of heat that pisses me off, that makes my body (and my hair :-) feel limp and damp and ready to renounce my (southern) residency. Almost everyone I know has air conditioners that can't cool the houses below the upper 70s--my dad had someone come out and look at ours. The poor AC is fine, just not fit for battle with successive 100 degree+ days.

And then there are the kids, who worry you from the morning onward, asking to go outside. No matter how many times you say, "You will fry," they simply wait three minutes and ask again. We can't keep any kind of drinks because they're going through them so quickly.

My friend Kendra and I are often told we are headed for hell because of the things we say/observations we make. The other night (as in after 6:30), as she was alternately wiping sweat and fanning with a bedraggled paper towel, she told me, "elle, we gotta get our shit together and get right. We're not going to be able to stand this forever."

Rain, Rain...

I looked out the window this morning, and thought,

How the hell did Noah stand this???