In the evenings, on my bus ride home, I am often reminded of funny things. I am that weird loner with her hood pulled up, smirking (or outright laughing) at some memory that only I am privy to. Today I was alone on the bus laughing out loud at this particular memory:
A few weeks into our relationship, Randy and I went to dinner at The Emerald, one of several pretty bad Chinese restaurants in town. He has since convinced me to eat at Ming’s, which I now prefer. I think he’s sick of it. Anyway, we don’t really go to The Emerald anymore, but not because of this story–it’s just that Ming’s has pho…really good pho.
So, we were at The Emerald and the waitress could barely speak a few English words. Mostly she just smiled and nodded vigorously, trying to be agreeable, but not really seeming to understand the exchange. Toward the end of the meal, she refilled our water glasses and said something like, “You like?” Instead of saying “yes,” I responded with a rather long answer, even though I was sure she wasn’t getting most of it. I said something like, “Yes, it was really good. Lately I’ve been craving pork fried rice and this really hit the spot.” She smiled, nodded vigorously and said, “Eat my ass.” My smile slowly faded to a furrowed brow of confusion. “Whaa?” I said. Randy and I exchanged glances. “Eat my ass,” she repeated, still smiling as she left.
I still have no idea what she was trying to say. I mean, what else sounds like “eat my ass?”

I am a very light sleeper. I have been known to wake up when the person I’m sleeping next to’s breathing changes from steady sleeping breath to a quieter, wakeful breath. If I have a snoring boyfriend, I’ve always been able to roll him or nudge him to stop snoring for the rest of the night. Isaiah stayed over all the time, and it wasn’t the purest sleep I’ve ever gotten, but it was okay on a pretty regular basis. With the new boyfriend, he snores, which wakes me up. I usually have to nudge him (sometimes hard) more than once throughout the night. He has pets that wake me up and two very fluffy cats to which I am allergic. It was okay to stay over during the summer, when I could get three hours of sleep and then sleep again during the day. Since school’s started, there haven’t been any more sleep overs. I always leave, no matter how late it is. I need my sleep to function in this program, and I need to keep my immune system strong.
I think missing sleep makes me look old and, well, tired. I prefer a full eight hours. If life allows, I’ll gladly give up some fun to get nine hours.
Since I am such a light sleeper, I just can’t imagine a marriage where I actually have to sleep next to someone for the rest of my life–a life of sleep deprivation? No thank you. Should I choose my spouse based on the quietness of their sleep? Or perhaps this is another sign that I’m not the marrying kind.

Words.
Meat.

Last week I was informed that I had three days (not even) to submit a course proposal for a creative writing workshop (my dream come true!) Naturally, I put all else aside and frantically, feverishly composed what I thought was a strong draft of a creative writing syllabus and proposal. I searched through old papers, notes and syllabus of workshops I’d taken in the past. In the end I had what I thought was a strong draft, a theoretically based creative writing workshop on power and pleasure. Pretty hot, huh? 

I submitted the proposal and was then invited to a meeting to answer any questions. It was crazy early in the morning, but I went to bed early, woke rested, and arrived bright-eyed, with a mug of decaffeinated green in hand. (I’m not drinking any form of caffeine anymore.) At the meeting, I found out that there were eight proposals for a course that would be taught only three times next year. Several of the proposals were put under different course numbers to make more room.

All that was left were course proposals from full time faculty. I didn’t have a shot in hell. They were going to look out for each other, no matter how amazing my proposal was.

I ended up getting pushed to a summer session, which is completely separate from the school year. Essentially, they can put as many creative writing courses in the summer as they want, but there is no guarantee that they’ll make. If I teach this course, I cannot teach a composition course this summer. Basically, I am risking my summer wage to teach a class that may or may not even have enough students to make.

I left the meeting completely neutral. I wanted to be excited! I was teaching a writing workshop, finally! But it wasn’t quite a win. It was just kind of…strange. I left wondering, what just happened?