Seriously, What is the Rule on Socks Now?

I'm probably WAY behind on this, but the other day when I worked out at the gym, I saw one of the personal trainers there, a guy in his twenties, wearing black socks with his athletic shoes. Black.

This is unacceptable. People wear white socks with their tennis shoes, right? I was baffled. His black socks were Nike brand, and the white swoosh mark on the ankle displayed to the world that they were not black dress socks. Not even close to the fuzzy black orlon socks worn by great uncle Ned, along with the plaid shorts that rode up into his jackhammer region.

My thin slice of fashion knowledge curled up like a flauta and shot out the window, never to be seen again.

Scott's theory about all this: WE wore white socks with tennis shoes because our dads wore black socks with theirs. And probably their parents wore white socks, etc.

Is this it? Is it all a do-the-opposite-of-that-lame-generation-above-us? I am so lost.

The New Semester Breathes Down Candy's Neck

I started working on my syllabusses last night. I hate the word "syllabi" because it sounds so idiotic. Like "rhinoceri." I choose the bigger, clunkier SYLLABUSSES with the extra "S" to make it even more lumbering. This word is like a big sweaty girl on a pogo stick. Boing boing boing. Ungainly, awkward, about to come into peril. In other words, it is exactly how I feel right now, hearing Fall Semester hurrying up behind me to push me over.

This is my twice a year gripe about starting school again. As always, I am grateful for the job, but detest the teaching. Not the teaching itself, but the ever-present nerves/stage-fright/gut-twist that I have each and every frakkin' time I step into a classroom. This is now year 15 teaching college. You'd think it would settle down by now. It doesn't.

There I will be, in the bathroom nearest the classroom, in a stall, trying to take deep breaths (not always the keenest idea in a bathroom), and telling myself "They can't stab you. Stop whining, you big pansy."

And then I walk into the room and they all stab me with big knives. Or they look at me when I walk in, which is just as bad.

Life Can Be Scary

Scott took these pictures today as he watched a squirrel run for its life.

Apparently one hawk came sniffing around and tried to find it, then left and came back with two of his hawk pals.
They swooped down and tried to carry off the squirrel as it high-tailed it up the tree. Finally he went high enough that they gave up and went to bully someone else.

I can imagine how hard the squirrel-heart was beating.

Beer and Boots and Word Counts

The book. The book. The book.

I have worked my brains out on this book and am about, hmmm, maybe 33% of the way to having a completed first draft. It is definitely the toughest thing I've ever worked on. I know I keep saying that, but I guess I'm a little stunned that I'm actually doing it. It may never find a publisher, but I'll feel several steps closer to the person I want to be if I can just finish it.

All my initial reasons for writing it? All my noble and/or ambitious inspirations? Far, far down the line from the first place now.

My big motivation: When I finally get this book done I CAN STOP WORKING ON THIS BOOK!!!

38 more days until classes begin, and I have yet to start throwing together my plans for three revamped classes I'm teaching. Panic level setting in.

Scott and I took a break tonight and went to a new-ish Mexican restaurant we hadn't yet tried. It looked very beachy, painted bright yellow with white trim. He ordered the carne asada and was delighted with it. I got the enchiladas mole and they were gaggerific. The sauce was so violently bitter that I had to send them back. Yes, I'm one of those people. Even Scott said, after taking a bite, that he couldn't eat it either. Our waiter was mega-cool about it and brought me some regular cheese enchiladas. We left him a whopping tip.

The best part: Scott's beer arrived in a glass mug shaped like a cowboy boot, and every time he took a drink I could not stop laughing. This intruded severely on his beer drinking experience. But seriously, it had a stubby little foot and was so hard for me to cope with that I had to shade my eyes with one hand and look down at my food when he took a drink. I've already tried to find some mugs like that online. How could I have not known these existed?

Back to the writing, and then I reward myself with half an hour of Facebook, my new dominatrix.

Word count thus far: 25,000. Probably going to 50,000. Also probably going insane.

Happy 4th of July!!!

Taking a day off here. No writing. Just time with Scott.

Hope you're all relaxing, too.

Have a magnifique day. Eww. I spoke French. And on the 4th of JULY!

If I had a horse and a big flag with a sparkler, I'd ride around around and let out a big American YEE-HAW!

Backyard Visitor

The picture isn't very clear since Scott was shooting through our kitchen window. But still, we had to scramble for our cameras when we saw the hawks. There were three of them. I couldn't hold my video camera still because I was laughing at the fashion sense: they looked like they were wearing spotted leggings. Very 1970s British punk band.