I went to the mailbox and pulled out five envelopes. The first one? A fat credit card bill from right after my card got stolen and I had to live off it. Man. I do much better at managing money when I don't use credit. Second envelope? A credit card bill five times as big, with the auto repair bill for my car. Third envelope? Rejection slip from a lit mag. Fourth? Rejection slip.

I eyed the fifth envelope suspiciously. "What are you," I thought, "ANTHRAX??"

I haven't opened it yet. I think it's junk mail. But then again... that's probably what they want me to think.

So last night I was talking to Probst about something, and somehow the topic of asses came up. I don't remember the joke anymore, but I know it was about asses. I was asleep though, because he called me in the middle of the night.

You see, the night before, I went to a Halloween party and I called him, really drunk, and woke him up. I said, "Hey Probst, you want to come to the party?" Then I held the cell phone up next to me and said, "Everyone, this is my friend Probst. He's dressed as a cell phone!"

(Hee. I'm sober, and it's still funny.)

So he called last night and returned the favor by waking me up and we talked about asses. So this morning, right before my class, he came into my classroom (MY classroom, how much do I love the sound of that) and said he had to talk to me about something, and we were talking, and suddenly he pats my ass and goes, "How's your fat ass? I mean...uuh..."

Excuse me?!

So then he tries to backpedal and says my ass isn't fat, which just sounds stupid because it's certainly not a skinny, petite ass. Then he says he likes my ass, but in a descriptive way that starts to get vaguely perverted, since we're supposed to be platonic friends and all, but his description was more "platonic" along the lines of Plato and his young Greek butt buddies.

I personally have no problem with my ass, and I'm sure he doesn't either. It's round and curvy and fun to grab onto. But he couldn't possibly convey that without sounding like he was hitting on me, and he couldn't argue that my ass isn't a plump ass, so there was really no way for him to apologize. I enjoyed making him try, though, until I had to go teach my class.

After class, we tried to figure out a place to hang out for half an hour. (I let my students out early.) "I'm going to go across the street and put this stuff in my car," I said. "Okay," he said, "Will that take half an hour?" "Well," I said, "Don't forget, it'll take me fifteen minutes just to get my ass all the way across the street."

Poor Probst. He may never live this one down.

The reason I let my students out early was that two students were missing and two didn't bring poems. So our workshop ended exactly 40 minutes early, since we spend ten minutes on each person's poem. When I pointed out the mathematics behind their early dismissal, some of my students were impressed that it was timed so well. "This class is a well-oiled machine," I said proudly.

It's true. I've gotten into the groove of lecturing (no longer does it terrify me) and the workshops seem to be consistently productive and fun.

They turned in their midterm revisions to me today. (A portfolio of five revised poems.) It's so sad-- midterms means the semester is half over. And both Joey and Laurie are guest lecturing in the second half of the semester, so that means for me, it's more than half over. Aww. Sad!

One of my students, my star student, turned in a manuscript with a cover photo and everything. It's sitting on top of this stack of manuscripts. This manuscript stack makes me so happy. It means a lot of work (since I want to do in-depth comments on their work overall) but I am excited to do it. Which is sort of my motto for the whole semester-- never been busier in my life, but it's wonderful.

Can I just take a step back here, take a moment to note that I am a professor? With control over things like homework and grades and large pieces of chalk?

That rules!

"I kept thinking of Grandma. She lived in South Africa for many years, and she always loved African animals and African art. I couldn't help listening to the South African singers, and seeing the zebras and giraffes and so forth, and hearing a song about, well, the Circle of Life, and crying. "