A short history of my weekend:
On Thursday a student called me a f*$&*ing bitch! and slammed out of my classroom, leaving me with enough adrenaline to break my bike trail record on the way home. I haven't been yelled at by a student since my very first year at Nonesuch, when take-no-shit Ariel screamed "suck my cock" after I made her leave class for antagonizing another student. But at least her insult was peppered with verve, creative license, and, dare I say it, an admirable use of metaphor.
Friday was our annual photo scavenger hunt in San Francisco, and thanks in large part to my giggly group of students, I had a blast. Highlights included dressing Maddy and Alana up in biker gear, creating a found object masterpiece on a sidewalk in Fisherman's Wharf, blowing up balloons with a spry old man, getting the paw print of an adorable black and white hound, and all of us rolling down a grassy hill together.
By Saturday I felt so wiped out that I slept through my Pilates class. In a rare show of self-forgiveness, I let myself spend a good part of the day lounging on the couch, finishing Hamlet, reading about Osama bin Laden in the New Yorker, and watching my two new favorite shows: Parks and Recreation and The Twilight Zone.
I woke up this morning to a hail storm. I love the quiet calm of Sunday. Everything feels just right: iced coffee and journal writing, a great yoga class, M still sleeping off his accumulated debt. I've been trying to keep my mornings Internet-free, but boy am I glad I checked my email this morning. Perched in my in-box, like a bright piece of candy, was an acceptance letter from Frostwriting, the online literary journal that has chosen to publish my story "The Girls." Suddenly that f*^&*ing b*&tch outburst seems so far away, and so small.
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