In My Shoes

Recovering from another marathon Monday--seven hours on North Campus, and slowly letting a touch of bourbon ease the vise-like tension on my brain. The sea of my students' faces was particularly inscrutable today as they demonstrated their manifest lack of enthusiasm for Richard Wright and Nella Larsen. So, as in other days when class doesn't go as brilliantly and smoothly as I'd like, I'm feeling sort of slumped. Mostly, I hope to Yog-soggoth that yesterday doesn't prove any sort of indication of the way the rest of the week is likely to go. You know how people joke about doing ridiculous things, like putting on an article inside out or accidentally wearing different socks (though some of us [me] worry about this particular incident considerably less than others [queercat], occasionally even doing so on purpose when a pair of appealing and matching socks simply doesn't present itself)? Well, yesterday I got up at 6:15, walked the half mile to work, and went about my day for a solid hour before I realized that, yes, I was wearing two different shoes. Yes. Yes, I did. Luckily, they were sufficiently similar in color and material that nobody else noticed without having it pointed out. When Q showed up several hours later, my samaritan with a matching shoe discretely wrapped in a canvas shopping bag, this was the subject of general mirth (for my co-workers) and pinkness (for my gingery self). Ah well. Does this mean a need a day off?
Fucking wah, right?

My good news is that I was granted permission by our neighbors, the lucky owners of a monstrous squash plant that has taken over their front yard, to harvest the squash blossoms than have been growing in more or less abundance. Just to piss you all off, here's what we're having for dinner tonight: our beloved and ubiquitous kale, barbecued seitan ribs, herbed cream cheese stuffed squash blossoms, and baked sweet potatoes with cardamom butter. Suck it.