A little fret before I do my crossword.

Well well well, no new episode of The Good Wife? Instead, the Victoria's Secret Lingerie Parade? with Wings? Boo, I say. BOO. I don't think the television people fully understand what happens to me when my shows aren't on. I need my shows, Television People! Harumph!

I am pretty sure I have some work to do but for the life of me I cannot remember what it might be.

Also, while fretting, I think I will worry just a little more about this

---------------------------->

because it's always worrisome until it is done, and then, we can debrief and discuss and decide how to do it better, take notes and whatnot of "What We Will Do Next Time,"and then we can all go home and watch the dvr'd episodes of Big Bang Theory and 30 Rock which had by golly better be on the DVR or I don't know what I NEED MY SHOWS.

Lessons for daily living.

1. Never give anything away.

Selfish? Maybe. But what about the shirt that hung in my closet for years--years!--unworn, because it was beautiful and I loved it. But still: years, and unworn, so I gave it away, and just now I had the perfect idea of how I could wear it. Is it still in my closet? or my other closet? No. And now, my perfect idea will go unexecuted. And I will not allow myself to turn the lack of this perfect shirt into a quest for another one. But that will be hard, because not allowing myself stuff? Not my particular talent.

2. Scones for breakfast.

Lesson? Maybe not. But you can't tell me that a day that begins with scones is not a good day.

3. Half a snow day is better than none.

Way, way better.

This week in baked goods.

All week long it has been bagels aplenty around here. First, I bought a bunch--cinnamon raisin for the historian, plain for running/former missionary/college son. Then, when I took said son to the store for other food, he thought we might need some more. This bagel-buying orgy started because of my bagel-in-the-morning habit, which started after my sabbatical when I foolishly agreed to be a faculty l*****. I had to be at school in the m*******, so freaking early so many days, that stopping for a bagel started to seem like my earthly reward.

I know, I know. Going to work doesn't mean earning an extra earthly reward. Your paycheck is your reward for going to work. But I am just telling you: this is how the bagel habit got started. Stop judging me.

So, my bagel place had this promotion--every time you bought something, you got a punch in your little card (shaped like a bagel--cute, but you had to fold it in half to put it in your wallet. A folded bagel, with punches in it. This I faithfully kept for twelve full punches). Once you got the full twelve punches, you got a free baker's dozen of bagels! Calloo callay, oh frabjous day. All of a sudden, having piles of bagels around seemed like the thing to do.

Anyway, now we are down to less than six plain bagels, which might be worrisome if I hadn't just recently baked

• a chocolate cake last Sunday;
• a pumpkin pie on Thursday; and
• bread today.

I already told you about the cake. There's still a little left, and it is still more than edible, that's how good the cake is.

The pie is maybe the best pumpkin pie I have ever made. Let's see if we can figure out why, shall we?

• I baked it in a tart pan, ergo more elegant and possibly also--and paradoxically--cuter.
• I roasted the pumpkin the perfect amount of time, so there was no faint redolence of scorch.
• there was cream.
• there were perfect eggs.
• there was a delightfully buttery crust.
• I baked the pie the perfect amount of time--the custard did not crack and it was perfectly creamy.
• the pie had the exact right amount of crystallized ginger. I think this factor was aided and abetted by the extra amount of flat space made possible because of the tart pan. The ginger was more evenly distributed per bite. I could draw you a diagram, but I don't have time for shenanigans like that.

Anyway: that pie was grand. It was the kind of goodness that makes you want to make another pie tout de suite. But now that pie is gone.

First of all, some of it was eaten on Thanksgiving. I kind of like the fact that my family, overall, loves the pecan pie more than the pumpkin. For myself, the pecan pie is a tad too sweet. Anyway, this demographic data means that there is usually some leftover pumpkin pie to bring home from the feast, and that means pie for breakfast, yay! Pie for breakfast leads inexorably to no more pie, however, and that's exactly where we are.

But today was another snowy day (not to say "snow day," alas.), so I decided to make bread. Whole wheat bread. I took the slow rise method (not a scientific slow rise like those very serious bread bakers advocate. I aspire to their scientificness, but I really wanted to eat bread today, so I just used a little less yeast.), which meant that there was a wheat-y smell in the kitchen for several hours. I used two different kinds of Montana wheat flour and a little (very little) rye. This bread tasted delicious. We had it with our dinner.

All this baking is preparatory to the orgy of baking I hope to undertake for the fun of it over the next few weeks. If there happened to be enough snow falling at the exact right times, I could even start it right now.

Little guy, big swashbuckle.

Recently, I saw a preview for the newest Narnia movie, Voyage of the Dawntreader. I have read nary a one of these books, so it's all movies to me; forgive me, then, that I don't know the name of righteous rodent who comes a-swashbuckling with his mighty (small) blade in service of all that is right and good. I'm just guessing, though, since it was just a preview. But I did think to myself Holy Yoda, what is it with tiny critters and mighty powers? You remember, when Yoda has a lightsaber fight with the Emperor Palpatine in Revenge of the Sith? It was kind of cool, but did you have a sneaking feeling that it was a little ridiculous? because Yoda was little. Super little. Agile as all hell, not to mention wise, but still: tiny.

This led me to think of Muggsy Bogues and Earl Boykins, both well under 6 ft. and credible, memorable players in the NBA. The very fact of their under-sizedness made their playing feel exciting and maybe even brave. Also--and no disrespect intended--a little comic, but in a good way.

Since this is the third paragraph, and I have a pile of examples, one might hope for a conclusion, but one will remain dissatisfied, since all my possible conclusions seem to veer for a cliche. Instead, I offer this,

Teacher's Pet - Small But Mighty | Movies & TV | SPIKE.com

and I do hope you are fully inspired.

The story of crab.

There are a lot of things to write about, not least of which is the birth of a brand new baby granddaughter. I hope to have more to say about this soon, but let us just say this, right off the bat: so very happy for the historian's son and his lovely wife, and for the darling little girl.

But for tonight, I am going to tell you the story of how I happened to have two enormous Dungeness crabs in my refrigerator.

Me, in Whole Foods, both blithe and smug, having put in my cart everything I would need for my portion of the Thanksgiving day feast . . . AND MORE . . .

Guy behind the fish counter: You look like a person who loves Dungeness crab.

Me: [thinking to myself: I do love Dungeness crab!] (aloud:) I do love Dungeness crab!

Guy behind the fish counter: Well, then come over here and have a taste.

Me: [thinking to myself: a taste! just a taste!] (aloud:) Thanks!

That crab happened to be some of the most delicious crab I have ever eaten. [Note to self: the word crab starts to sound kind of funny when you say it a whole bunch of times in a row. See if you can come up with a synonym.]

Guy behind the fish counter: . . . And it's a really good deal. You buy one of these, it's a nice meal for a person.

Me: [thinking to myself: that is a good deal!] (aloud:) That is a good deal. How many of them would make about 2 pounds?

Guy behind the fish counter: About two of them.

Me: well . . . crabs [crustaceans?] kind of scare me.

Guy behind the fish counter: Totally understandable. I can clean them for you.

Me: [to myself: did he just sing the words "I can clean them for you"?] (aloud:) Really?

Guy behind the counter: Yes! (shiny and melodic)

And that, my people, is how I ended up with 2 crabs, cleaned, wrapped in fish paper, in my refrigerator. And also how I ended up thinking, I have two crabs in my refrigerator, cleaned, yes, wrapped in fish paper, yes. And yet I am the only crab eater at my house.

Good will and thanks.

I started writing a thanksgiving post yesterday but when I started to write about my children I started to cry, so I decided to wait a minute. But it's Thanksgiving today, so I just want to say I'm grateful for

writing and

my good life,

and music and art

and the good health of my parents,

my brother and sisters,

Bruiser,

my darling my husband,

all kinds of growing things,

farmers, books, movies,

friendships old and new,

my children who fill my heart and my life,

and the beautiful grandchildren.

Today, I feel lucky and full of joy. Thanks for stopping by occasionally--I'm grateful for you, too.

Son of dog.

Or: Dog, Part 2: an FAQ.

Q: How many messages total did you leave for the strange large friendly dog's people?

A: Three. One when we first identified the phone number from the tag; one for the second phone number on the tag, wherein we intimated that we might need to take the dog to the shelter; and a third, left by running/college/former missionary son, wherein he said, pretty much, "We're keeping the dog here, and you can call me anytime, because I'm going to be up all night. I'm young like that."

Q: Where did the strange large friendly dog sleep?

A: At first, we thought to corral his largeness and curiosity in a warm bathroom, with a cushiony bed and blanket. However, he thought dimly of this arrangement, and there was much whimpering for the 22.5 minutes he was in there. Aforementioned son thought it would be better to have the large dog downstairs and Bruiser upstairs, which would have necessitated Bruiser sleeping with us, which is in fact what he did. On our bed. With occasional jumping out of bed to whimper at the door, indicating his grave dissatisfaction about our refusal to allow him to investigate, i.e. fight with, the strange large friendly dog. But we were firm, and the new arrangement worked out fine, if by "worked out fine" you mean "we got four hours of sleep last night."

Q: What of strange large friendly dog? What became of him?

A: Taking aforementioned son up on his offer, the people of the strange large friendly dog called at about five a.m., and came to get the dog thereafter. Bruiser took notice of this exit by hopping out of bed and whining at the door. We were all Wha? and went right back to sleep. Roughly around seven a.m., son announced that the strange large friendly dog had been retrieved by his grateful human, and I thought, basically, Thank God. Because it's one thing to have a strange large friendly dog follow you home and try to romp with your leashed dog (if by "romp" you mean "hump"), and then have a doggy sleepover at your house. It's quite another to deal with that situation in the light of day. When you have to go to work, and there's a blizzard coming on.

Now that you mention a blizzard: no one could have been happier than I than when the snow-day-callers at my place of employ called a snow day starting at 2 p.m. My only complaint was that they could have just gone ahead and called it two days ago on Sunday. Everybody knew it was coming. Let's be proactive, people.

So, after provisioning (almonds, laundry detergent, whipping cream, potato chips, Izzy soda), we hunkered down to wait for the storm. As the hours passed and there was wind but no snow, and even a patch of blue sky, I found myself anxious for the snow day's credibility. What if only a paltry amount of blizzard arrived? What if, blizzard-wise, it were a pussy cat instead of a roaring beast? Would they ever call a snow day again? Thank goodness we got a little pizzazz out of the storm. Now, I'll be busy thinking proactive thoughts about how it could last until tomorrow around noon. A double-header snow day is the best.

(p.s. for all friends and beloveds who are traveling: I hope you're safe and get where you're going more or less on time.)

Two words.

Harry Potter, and "Strange Dog Adventure." If you counted five words there, I'm going to have to ask you to take that counting outside the premises, because it is bothering me.

1. Harry Potter was perhaps the most satisfying movie of them all, so far. However,

2. "Strange Dog Adventure" is not my favorite episode in this genre ("Lost Dog for Which We
Feel Responsible" is a genre, yes?). For one, when we called the numbers on this nice, unfixed, large male dog's tag, we got messages for two businesses. At which I left detailed messages, which for two, have not yet been responded to. And for three, ugh. Why is the dog roaming? why do we feel responsible? why don't I feel okay just dropping the dog off at the after-hours dog-drop-off place at the Animal Shelter? why won't the owners of the several odd phone numbers return the call? why? Anyway, the dog will be spending the night in an enclosed (undisclosed?) space in our house tonight. Bruiser, needless to say, is a wreck.

I said I would blog, and I did. That is the extent of it for tonight, the "Strange Dog Adventure" night. In homage to the Strange (nice) Dog: Grrrrrrrrrrr.

This dinner brought to you by Google.

As you well know, we had a snowpocalypse last night, which meant that there was serious doubt about whether the historian and I would make it home from our movie double-header downtown in one piece. The odds were more significantly stacked against us because we were in two separate cars. That's because I spent some artistic time at the Roasting Company. I swore to myself that I would draft the current poem I've been working on, or know the reason why. That's because I had my writing group today, at my house, and that's why the snowpocalypse had especial significance: because what if I couldn't arise at the crack of dawn to go buy special ingredients for things I had never made? because what if my writing group food were just ordinary stuff that I already had? The Horror.

I know that was a lot of becauses, but sometimes there happens to be a long chain of causality, okay? a chain which led me to the inevitable conclusion that I should be sensible for just about the first time in my entire life, and figure out something to make out of the bountiful ingredients already in my well-stocked house.

So, the assessment of possible already-there ingredients included:

• arugula
• pears
• a soft persimmon
• a suspiciously soft blood orange
• broccoli
• potato chips
• a shocking amount of 2 liter bottles of various caffeinated soft drinks
• granola bars
• pasta of all kinds, including those pasta side dishes in a bag
• (in case you can't tell, college-running-post-missionary son and I went to the store on Friday)
• various legumes
• a bunch of cheese
• some smoked salmon
• chocolate

At first, when I thought I might run to the store at the crack of dawn, I was thinking I might make a version of this delicious Thai soup I had at Cafe Trang this week. Alas, no time for lemongrass. So I thought perhaps I would invent some kind of fancy chowder that used smoked salmon? But then I thought, I know: I will Google Orangette to see what she has to say about all of this. And that's how I ran smack into the best idea for a day when your trees are laden with snow and you feel lucky not to have spiraled off the road into a wintry death: red lentil soup.

Did I have red lentils? I did. So I made this soup and commend it to you for your wintry hours.

Then, I took the arugula and some mint I had, washed and tore it up into a bowl, then slivered up a teeny sweet orange pepper I had languishing in the fridge, and two pears for sweetness. A vinaigrette, with sherry vinegar in the vinegar slot and a little garlic and a little mustard to sharpen it up, and that was a good salad. I also put some delicious crackers on a plate with Point Reyes blue cheese and the smoked salmon.

For dessert, I made chocolate cake. While I had Orangette doing my research for me, I used Orangette and chocolate cake as search terms, and came up with this recipe. And of course I made adjustments. For the flour, I used a little bit of organic unbleached white, some white-wheat, and some delicious unbleached cake flour. Instead of canola oil, which I did not have, I melted some butter, and why not? Also, I happened to have some full-fat buttermilk which was thick and gorgeous and made this cake a champion. Finally, I did not have any cream so ganache was not possible. Instead, I had the teeniest amount of vanilla ice cream, so I put a spoonful of that and a spoonful of blackberry jam (mine) next to the little cupcake, unwrapped on a plate. And those three flavors--the dark dark of the chocolate, the milky ice cream, and the purple fruit--were divine.

So after the writing group friends left, singing son gave me a call. "Are the Jazz playing tonight?" he asked. I told him they weren't. "Well, what are you having for dinner?" Soup, I told him. And so he and his little family came over, and my writing group repast did a second stint, and it was just as good the second time.

Enough already.

Last night when I could not sleep AGAIN, I thought about this fancy fact:

NOVEMBER USED TO BE NABLOMO (is there supposed to be another syllable there? somehow it seems like there should be one. Oh well.), aka National Blogging Month, where you blog every day and win a prize, or not, but at least you blogged. (Right! NabloPOmo--National Blog Posting Month. The fact that I could not remember that says everything, absolutely everything.)

Perhaps some of you, the people, may remember when that fact used to mean something around here.

Well, I am tired of being a person who doesn't blog anymore. Not blogging is for suckers. Not blogging is symptomatic of the joy that gets sucked out of life because of The Grind, which also, and perhaps not coincidentally, happens to be for suckers. Suckers: I am going to blog again. A lot. Every day from now until the end of the year, even if it's just nothing at all. That's right, you can count on me for daily blogging, often about nothing at all, until the end of the year, December 31. And after that, maybe I will just keep right on blogging, or maybe I will have won a fabulous prize and I will be too awesome to blog anymore. We'll just have to see.

ANYWAY. I happened to be perusing one of my new favorite blogs, hyperbole and a half. And whilst perusing, I happened upon her Twitter feed ("FOLLOW!"). And then, on her Twitter feed, I found another funny (also: salty, so feel free to beware) blog called More is Better. On More is Better's Twitter feed, she has this to say about herself:

"Always cooks with real butter"? That's a pretty good motto. How about this, which More is Better also has to say about herself:

It may have occurred to the more discerning of my readers that "Always cooks with real butter" and "deliciously vulgar" could be MY mottos (also: "More is Better"--I should probably sue More is Better, as I'm quite certain that I'm the original on that one, too). This leads me to think I should be proactive and snag the good mottos, since they seem to be being taken by More is Better at a pretty good clip. Let's get down to it:

"See the potato chips, feel the shine."

"Hand-built by movies."

"Exceedingly Good Shopping."

"Good to the last whine."

"Uh oh, better get housekeeping." or maybe:

"Housekeeping: it's everywhere you wanna be."

"Designed for shoes."

(these slogans brought to you by the Slogan Generator, courtesy of the Surrealist.)

Tomorrow: recipes for cooking what is in my house, because I'm pretty sure the roads will be too snowy to go out. That's right: recipes. Tune in.

Luckily, we have a lot of vegetables.

The historian is doing a Sunday crossword puzzle.

I am replacing one page in my manuscript with a corrected page, as I have just discovered that there is a leftover word with a strike-through in it. The strike-through is there because the word was supposed to have been deleted, which is what the strike-through meant. I am also trying not to think about the fact that I have recently sent this manuscript with its unassuming yet nefarious, possibly malicious, strike-through word to at least a dozen places. Ugh.

Son and his friends are downstairs watching an unviewed season of Scrubs. Friend of Son, who is like a son to me, comes upstairs with a dish to put in the sink.

Friend of Son, who is like a son to me: I ate some of that potato pie. It was good.

Historian: What would you call that, sweetheart? would you call it potato pie?

Me: I would call it "Tortilla Española." But it had feta on it, so it was unorthodox. (pause, to contemplate how pretentious I just sounded, what with that ñ and all.)

Friend of Son: (polite laugh:) Well, it was good.

Me: Are you a tomato eater?

Friend of Son: Yes, I am.

Me: It's good with some tomatoes by it.

Historian: It was really good.

Me: (small and invisible preening, after which I resume inserting the page at the scene of my recent strike-through humiliation.)

Friend of Son: (without a word, picks up half-eaten bag of Lays Wavy potato chips in the red bag; makes for the stairs.)

Me: . . . So that's how it is around here.

Friend of Son: (sound of laughter disappearing down the stairs.)

Sometimes you just hear what you want to hear.

This evening, walking the dog at dusk.

Kids up the street: (in chorus) Can we pet your dog?

Us: Sure!

Me: His name is Bruiser.

One kid (while petting Bruiser): We know. (pause:) I'm a monster. (one arm inside his shirt)

Another kid (also petting Bruiser): I'm a monster too.

Me: Very scary.

Yet another kid (petting Bruiser): I'm not a monster.

Me: So, the monsters are trying to catch you?

Yet another kid: (nods)

More petting. Then:

Me: (brisk as all hell) Okay!

The historian: So you think it's time to get going?

Me: Yep.

Kids: (in chorus) Bye Bruiser!

The historian: (contemplatively) When that kid said I'm a monster, at first I thought he said, I'm a Marxist.

Things I overheard myself saying to my hair care professional.

Last week:

"...In fact, I would argue that the Thursday New York Times is the best weekday Times, and you know why? Because (1) the Style section, and (2) the Home section, and also, (3) the crossword is challenging but not as hard as the Friday crossword."

Sometimes, the little things, such as the Thursday New York Times, are enough to keep you going on the days when your outfit is good, but you have 2.5 more things to do in the amount of time you have allocated to do things, such as run the contract down to the Provost, and also your travel request because the dean is supposed to sign it but you're married to the dean, but you forgot to get your chair to sign it first, so up and down the stairs you go in high heeled boots, hooray for everyday cardio!, and then the e-mail and the phone call and still there are midterms to grade, as well as the last minute preparations for class, 0.50 of which goes better than you could hope considering your colleague is there for classroom visit one of your post-tenure review, and 0.50 of which is a little bit meh.

On such a day, the prospect of the Thursday New York Times is the earthly reward for getting 88% of the available items on the "I must get this done TODAY" list. And now, I will turn my attention to it.

Grading.

Or, procrastinating?

Last night at the Sufjan Stevens concert, I persisted in believing that I would get up so early! this morning to read midterms. Also, I believed somehow that we might be home at around 10:30 p.m., from a concert that began at 8.

On the way home from the concert:

Me: I think it's hilarious how, after all this time, I still chronically underestimate how much time things actually take.

The historian: Like what?

Me: Like, I thought we might get home from the concert by about 10:30.

Historian: (snickers)

An actual snicker, the people.

Anyway, the Sufjan Stevens concert was amazing. Epic. I wouldn't say that SS's every aesthetic decision was perfect. But I would say that I felt at almost every turn that I was witnessing an artist--not "artist" the way people talk about a pop star as "the artist," but "artist" as in, a person who's making art. The whole thing was immersive--textured and layered with sound, visuals, movement, joy. I could discern antecedents (the Talking Heads of the Stop Making Sense era) and peers (the chameleonic, ever-inventive Beck), but no exact equivalents, and it really was pretty intense--revelatory--to be there.

I also loved that pretty much the whole show was new music, and most of it from the more bracing The Age of Adz rather than the prettier All Delighted People EP--bold, not at all ingratiating. I had previous listened to this music, or at least some of it--it was kind of great to experience it, really, for something like the first time in this way. The music that wasn't from The Age of Adz--"Seven Swans" from Seven Swans, and a four-song set from Illinois ("Chicago," "Concerning the UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois," "Decatur," and "John Wayne Gacy, Jr.") that concluded the show were a kind of gift--but I felt that the new material really put these songs in a bigger picture--they're great songs, without doubt, but they're not the best SS will ever do.

Well! having thus discharged my responsibility with regard to the review of the concert, and having confessed how yet again I have lied to myself about getting up early, the duration of things, and how much I will realistically accomplish on any given morning, I must do something: read some midterms? grade some online discussions? record a video response to a class discussion? go home and nurse this little cold that is now stalking me? Who can say?

The best movies of 2010 so far.

I have been working on remembering the movies I saw in 2010. Luckily, I keep a kind of a running list. I've seen a lot of movies, as it turns out. Why do I feel there haven't been so many good ones?

Even so, I was able to fill out the following categories for movies that were

Craptastic: Step Up 3D. I am in love with the entire Step Up franchise, although, for me personally, nothing will ever beat the joy of going up to the ticket booth and saying, "I'd like two tickets for Step Up 2 colon The Streets, please." Those, my friends, were happier days. Still, this one was especially wonderful, in that no one felt obligated, really, to create a character or whatever. Characters are for actors who can't dance. Seriously, if there were more than, like, a dozen lines of dialogue, it was totally time for a dance. And this time, the dancers reached out to grab you by the throat or smack you upside the head, i.e., because there was 3D. Good times!

Animated. I could also include in this category Howl, but the animations were not the most wonderful part of that movie. This year, I loved How to Train Your Dragon, Despicable Me, and Toy Story 3. All of these were quite wonderful, and even though I think Toy Story 3 wins on points, I loved Despicable Me more. It just cracked me up.

Starring Michael Cera. We saw both Youth in Revolt and Scott Pilgrim vs. the World this year. You know what? I have had the same conversation with several people in which the question is posed to me: are we sick of Michael Cera yet? For me, the evidence is in: No. I found Youth in Revolt to be charming, and the bad boy Michael Cera was hilarious. But Scott Pilgrim vs. the World was as funny as hell, so amazingly inventive, with MC sending up his own MC persona so beautifully that it kind of seemed like we were at a whole new MetaMichael level. Bring it on, I say.

Featuring mind-blowing visuals, both good and bad. Let's start with the bad: The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus. Blah. That is all. Good: Inception. Whatever else you might say about it, it looked cool as all get out, including some truly inspired stuff when the sleepers in the van were falling in slow motion and it looked like they were doing a super-soporific underwater ballet. Magical. Killer. Also, Joseph Gordon Leavitt is kind of a mind-blowing visual all on his own.

Policiers. In this category, the items to beat are the three films in the Red Riding trilogy, and for my money, none of the following beat RR, even though they were all pretty good: Police, Adjective, The Girl with (tattoo, etc.) movies, and The Secret in Their Eyes. The Police, Adjective movie is Romanian, and is one of those movies that you're not sure is actually a movie, because it is so still and therefore so much like the kind of tedious parts of life. It rewards you if you stick with it, I swear. The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo/Who Played With Fire was just like the books: lurid, violent, dark, gripping. I suppose there were police in these movies. But they're full of mysteries that need to be solved, so they belong in this category (she argues). The last, The Secret in Their Eyes, features the soulful Ricardo Darin, also of The Aura. He is splendid and so is everyone else, and its setting in post-Peronist (and ff) Argentina is of great interest, the more so because it's not hammered upon. But the Red Riding movies: now those get under your skin and don't fade. Seeing the three films over the course of less than a week added up to an extremely rewarding movie-going experience. Violent, violent, violent. Dark, very dark.

Thrillers of the non-police variety. (artificial category distinction) Both The Ghost Writer and Animal Kingdom were very good. Of the two, I liked Animal Kingdom better, though The Ghost Writer was an extremely suave and polished accomplishment. I liked the rawness of Animal Kingdom, and seeing Guy Pearce, even for a few minutes, is a real treasure.

Documentary. Huh, apparently, I saw only one: The Beaches of Agnes, Agnes Varda's retrospective on her own career. Lovely in all the ways that she is lovely. Sharp, witty, beautiful. A must-see.

Notable for a great performance. The Maid which was, I believe, Chilean, featuring a muscular and startling performance by Catalina Saavedra; Shutter Island, with Leonardo DiCaprio giving a great performance, I thought, though plenty of people didn't like the film (I did); The Yellow Handkerchief, indie and possibly full of indie cheese, but with the always-excellent Maria Bello and the seldom-seen William Hurt--why? why so seldom, William Hurt?; Ben Stiller showing us why God made him that way in Greenberg, also with Greta Gerwig, not too shabby; Jonah Hill creeping us out and also making us a little sad in Cyrus; and Russell Brand not ever to be forgotten as a fully persuasive narcissist, reprising his role as Aldous Snow, both hilariously and chillingly, in Get Him to the Greek. Also, and most recently: James Franco in Howl. Beautiful and moving.

Comic. I saw a lot of movies that were nominally comedies, but they are not coming to mind at the moment. On the other hand: I laughed at The Other Guys (I have been admonished for this, but I did--I laughed), Scott Pilgrim (both Kieran Culkin and Jason Schwartzman were beyond hilarious, and that's not all--the funny keeps on going in that movie), and Get him to the Greek (the afore-mentioned R. Brand, in a towering performance). Why weren't there more funny movies? Did anyone see something that I missed? Surely the apocalypse must be nigh.

Freaking odd. I like to see the odd French movie now and then. This year, Wild Grass was that movie, but whoa, weird. And with one of those stupid non-ending endings. It wasn't ambiguous, it was just . . . not an ending. I object. Also, j'accuse.

Dramatic. Ben Affleck gets my vote for Boy Makes Good because of Gone Baby Gone and now this, The Town. It isn't quite what GBG was, but it was very good. Sharply directed and well-performed. The chase scenes, for instance, made sense visually, and also were integral to the plot: no tearing around town for the sake of a tear around town. Jeremy Renner proves that he's the real deal in this movie. The REAL DEAL, the people. I would add Winter's Bone to this category. Sharp and unhappy and dark. Very good.

Underwhelming. Some critic, trying to be provocative, said that the Coen brothers (of their Blood Simple era) ought to see the Australian The Square as giving them a run for their money. Not even. Not remotely. Also, and it doesn't make me happy to say this, Drew Barrymore's latest (Going the Distance) was kind of wan. Maybe it's her or maybe it's that Justin whatsisname, her once-boyfriend? Not super compelling. Not really worth our Drew, whom I love and only wish that she be paired with an excellent leading man so that she can make the romantic comedies that are a part of God's great plan for our happiness. PLEASE.

Long. Justin Long.

Too dark. I love a dark comedy, I really do. But I do not love a movie that kind of makes me feel a little sick inside because I laughed. Into this category falls Terribly Happy. Tis sharp, tis passing sharp, and well written and well acted. But a significant part of the plot falls upon whether a wife is being beaten by her husband, and whether their little daughter will be better off with the dad when the mom is gone. Material for a comedy? I say: NO.

Just plain good. This year I admired Please Give from Nicole Holofcener, featuring the always amazing Catherine Keener; the Red Riding movies; Scott Pilgrim vs. The World; The Kids Are All Right--it only looks formulaic; Robert Duvall, Sissy Spacek, and Bill Murray impeccable in Get Low; and what has, so far, been maybe the movie event of the year, the absorbing, intelligent, not-at-all-like-anything-else The Social Network. Really, really, really good.

I am hoping that there will be a pile of movies that make me laugh before Christmas, because, the people, I love/need to laugh. A lot. Let us all pray for that.

Early to rise.

Monday night, I was sorting the set of writing assignments from my grammar/style class (Editing Assignment #2). The sorting meant putting the papers for Tuesday's student conferences into one pile, those for Wednesday in another, those for Thursday and those for Friday into two more piles. Then I carefully lay the piles atop one another crosswise.

This process is what I call "grading." Or more precisely, "pre-grading." It was too exhausting to actually "grade." So I said to the historian (say it with me now): "I'm going to get up early tomorrow morning to grade."

And then I said (wait for it:): "So I'm going to go to bed early."

Cue me at midnight, having been in bed for nearly an hour. Am I asleep? No.

Note to self: "go to bed early" is a meaningless phrase (clause? you tell me, Grammar Police, similar to the Karma Police, but with a less beautiful melody to their theme song). Any "go to bed" before midnight is pointless.

Anyhow. Cut now to 5:45 a.m. I am dreaming some beautiful/lousy dream (which? you tell me, Dream Police, I can't remember). I hit the snooze button on my cell phone. Five minutes later, I hit it again, then say these immortal words: "Oh right. I want to get up."

At 7 a.m. I am at work. I am sitting in the student center with my stack of nine papers (that's today's crop). I am listening to Rostropovich playing the Bach Cello Suites and I am reading papers and I am--get this--enjoying myself. Quite a bit. At 7 a.m. Grading.

As of this moment, which is 11:24--that means it's 36 minutes to "go to bed"--I am feeling it, this long day preceded by not enough sleep. But it was a pretty good day. Okay, a full-on good day.

West.

Things I am enjoying right about now.

1. The first-thing-in-the-morning sun, and the last-thing-at-the-end-of-the-day sun.

2. The moon in a nest of clouds.

3. The last tomatoes.

4. The last peaches.

5. Walking the dog in the late evening.

6. My adult children, with their full beautiful lives and the little connections I have with them almost every day.

7. A bagel in the morning.

8. Re-acquainting myself with how sentences work (the subject matter of one of my classes).

9. Choosing clothes to wear every day.

10. Looking forward to a movie tomorrow night. What movie? Who cares?

Wait for it . . . the annual Best Movies So Far post, coming up this weekend.

Music & lyrics.

If my life of late were put to music, these would be the lyrics:

blah blah blah blah stress blah blah

blah blah blah blah whine blah blah

blah blah stress

blah blah whine

I think I'll find something to buy.

The second verse, similarly, would go something like this:

blah blah blah blah I can't take it anymore

blah blah blah blah I am still on the internet!

blah blah no more

blah blah internet!

now I think I'll bake a cake.

However, in case you are worried that I might run out of rhymes, I discovered this weekend that shopping is a placeholder for other forms of self-care. Also, that I manage my anxiety better when I am writing. I'm still anxious, but I linger there less. So I am currently working on two poems, if by "working on" we mean "thinking about and taking occasional notes." Actually, that is what we mean, and it's acceptable, qua writing.

Also, I am rediscovering, as we speak, the curative powers of cake. Cake still works.