In which Piers takes stock

• Papers to grade:  meh.
• Conference presentation to write:  uhhhhh...laterrr....
• Prepare for class tomorrow:  nah...I'll just wing it.
• Catch up on reading:  ooh! Facebook!
• Committee work:  ye gods, no.
• Call Sodexho for banquet arrangements:  I HATE THE PHONE.
• Find and roust out the beastie that is marauding in our garage at night:  aw hell, really??
• Write blog entry:  okaaaay, fiiiine.

Shakespeare only gets better with age

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,

Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

(Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;

       For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings

       That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

In which Piers bites his truant pen

I am seriously incapable of sustained concentration these days. To the left is the bulk of what I did today. Aside from teaching, that is.
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She stole my heart, and losing her broke it.

Fluffernutter got hit by a car tonight. The injuries were severe; we had to have her put to sleep. Rest In Peace, little kitty.





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Among the poems I will be reading tonight

SONNET 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
   If this be error and upon me proved,
   I never writ, nor no man ever loved.  (Shakespeare)

In which Piers gets confused

"My wit is naught: I cannot learn the way."

Based on a couple of recent conversations:

1.  I cannot understand a man who comes home to his wife and children and basically wants to leave his roles as father and husband at the door.  It seems to me that whereas there may be a short term gain in slouching in the recliner with a beer or two or three and watching the ball game, does that help in the long run when the wife is harried and resentful and the children are either scared or indifferent?  Can this help the sex life, or the sense of peace and relaxation?  Does it make for a fun weekend?  I am willing to admit that there have been times--some more severe and long-term than others--that I've been pretty rough to live with (generally when I'm beset by the Black Dog).  These, however, are men who do this as a matter of policy.  By design.  I'll also grant that there are plenty of sides to each story...I just can't get my mind around it.

2.  I cannot understand men who wish to cram their girlfriends/spouses/partners into itty bitty boxes so as better to control them.  This happens in all sorts of ways aside from the obvious abuse:  emotional manipulation; belittling and questioning; constantly pointing out the others' faults; financial or sexual coercion; and so on.  Why would you want to crush the spirit of a person you love, or profess to love?  If you're this insecure/jealous, the problem isn't your partner...it's YOU.  Still, I don't understand how anyone could live with themselves and be like this.

Adventures in Parenting, Vol. 35

It starts every evening at about 6:00, and does not stop until 8:30 at the earliest. I speak, of course, of The Bedtime Routine. It is truly the most exhausting part of any given day. Guess who makes it that way.


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Monday Update, Shoop Bow Edition

The Youngest really enjoyed the Super Bowl last night . . . for a couple of hours he shouted "SHOOP BOW" and pointed at the TV.  The others enjoyed it as well, and at the end of the game The Runner was on her knees in the middle of the floor shouting at the TV for the Giants to HOLD THEM!!!

Speaking of Sunday, my second day of teaching Sunday school has come and gone without incident.  I did utter a phrase never before heard in that Sunday school room:  "I know when I drink too much I start talking in Latin!"  I guess I should start memorizing some names in there.

Number One Son had a big event on Friday and Saturday . . . he got to have his first sleepover at a friend's house.  And what's more, they did it as they should have:  they stayed up way too late, didn't give a second thought to their parents, and apparently slept in a tent in the attic rather than in the bedroom.  His first comment, after asking me if mommy had missed him, was:  "I forgot about you and mommy!"  I told him that was a good thing.

To rephrase that Matthew Broderick commercial from last night, if you let your guard down a little, something's gonna jump out and grab you.

The Imp of the Perverse

Please.  Tell me more.

1.  If you're sitting there telling me that you're blessed with a "silver tongue," may I suggest a more sober self-assessment?

2.  Is there a worse curse than to be a Nice Guy?  I mean, a curse for the Nice Guy himself.  Everyone else finds it awfully convenient.

3.  Please don't try to assure people that they can avoid later regret.  No one gets to live without regret.  If any choice is open to a person, it's which kind of regret to live with.

4.  It's like the implicit promise in so much evangelical preaching:  that by making the "right" choices, we're keeping a bargain with God that will result in our being "blessed."  That's a promise no one can (or should) ever make. 

5.  But, as is the case with so many things, what we assert is sometimes what we wish were true.