A pre-Easter resurrection

I'm happy to say that the season with a reason has begun and the Jesus sandals are back in action. For those of you that haven't met (or smelled) them, they are a pair of leather sandals I've been wearing for about three years. At the moment they are being held together with duct tape that needs to be replaced; the bottoms of my feet are tacky with residual glue from tape that's fallen off. Anyways, my mother has been trying to get rid of them for quite a while but as Biblical history has already shown, the Jesus sandals will always resurrect themselves. I don't think I need to explain the name--suffice it to say that one may very well have worn them while walking down the road to Damascus.

Other than that, I'm just bracing myself for a busy few weeks . . . registration begins soon and I have to decide which classes to take next semester and which class to take this summer at Stony Brook. It's all quite exciting until I remember the work that comes along with it.

Ha ha happy Tuesday

I'm glad that my protestations that productivity will certainly increase when the weather gets warmer are true: the weather is beautiful and I have gotten so much work done today! Things are good.

I read the entirety of Roddy Doyle's Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha in about two days; I finished it this morning. It was the first time in a while that I felt emotionally invested in a book and it was wonderful. Whenever I read something really good, I'll find that my thoughts are narrated in the same tone as the book for a few days--longevity usually indicating how much I loved it. Right now everything is still tinged with the observational quality of a ten-year-old boy. Regardless, I can say with confidence that I still don't find poop jokes funny--the book was really good, but not that good.

Don't ever change

Whenever I come home now, I feel like it's an exercise in either archiving or uncovering. Sometimes I'll be struck with the grand idea of blazing a trail through my closet or the boxes under my bed with the intent of cleaning and organizing and throwing away, and on other occasions all I want to do is just flip through old notebooks or photo albums.

This is a digging week; I've already found my sixth and ninth grade yearbooks and spent the past few hours leafing through them. What I find most amusing is the fact that nobody ever writes anything substantial to one another--maybe it's because in each of these books, everyone knows they'll see each other again in a too-short two months--but nine times out of ten the notes from classmates have something to do with the teacher picked on most during the school year. My sixth grade French teacher was referred to as Martian, the Thing from Mars, and You-Know-Who by several different classmates. The worst part is that this teacher signed the same pages serving as her burn book . . . .we were terrible!

I think my favorite entry in the sixth grade yearbook is from a girl named Jenny that I haven't talked to in at least eight years:

Meghan-
Have a great summer hope you have a great time with your grandparents without your sister for a week.
Your friend,
*Jenny*

It all gets summed up pretty succinctly by Amy on the last page:

Queen of Ugabuga. Haha. Now everyone thinks I'm nuts. Oh well, I am.

The to-do list: spring break edition

• Sing loudly in the shower with bare feet
• Sit at the beach with a cup of coffee and one of several Irish Lit books I need to catch up on
• Eat pie . . . pizza pie, that is
• Register for a summer class at Stony Brook
• Find my camera charger
  
• Sing Hey, Jude with Keira in the car with the windows down
• Vacillate between extremes in an attempt to catch up on my love/hate relationship with Ginny
• Drink chai with CiCi
• Find something to write about for my next creative nonfiction draft
• Speak in tongues: get cawfee with my dawgs, etc. etc.
• Be disproportionately thrilled about a week of fifty degree weather
  

Going down that road feelin' bad

So yesterday I woke up feeling as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to the back of my neck and rather than wearing off as the day went on, it got worse. Anyways, by the end of the day I was convinced I was on my deathbed and sent an email to my professor about the midterm assignment due Friday at midnight. I told him I fully intended to have the midterm in by the deadline but wanted to let him know that I was not feeling well and didn't really know what to expect in the next few days.

His response:

Hi Meghan, I do hope you feel better soon, if you feel
very bad you should go to health services.

I would throw back my head and laugh if it didn't involve the necessary range of motion.

Side note: the post title is a Woody Guthrie song; they were playing some of his recordings in Muddy Waters yesterday and I had a pang of nostalgia for Kimball's class. Oh, morning singalongs and endearing old gentlemen with musical genius . . . I miss you.