A fairly frequent conversation

Kyle: "Have you been eating lately?"

Me: "What do you mean? Yeah, I'm eating."

Kyle: "Did you eat lunch today?"

Me: "Yeah! I ate a whole box of Macaroni and Cheese by myself. Why?"

Kyle: "I am just checking. A healthy Rebecca is a happy Rebecca. And a happy Rebecca is a happy Kyle."

Pub-lick Spee-king

Something horrible is going on in the world.

It’s called public speaking.

When I had to give a talk a couple weeks ago, I spent hours stressing over what I would say and how I would say it. When I had to teach class on Monday to 42 sophomores about Coleridge’s poems “Kubla Khan” and “Pantisocracy,” I barely slept the night before.

Since when has this been the case?

Did those years of vocal performance, acting, and giving school presentations have absolutely no payoff? What about last semester when I taught a class of college freshmen, or my Sunday school class from the book of Isaiah? What about that speech and debate festival I went to in high school where I dramatically read Sylvia Plath poems to a panel of judges? No? Nothing?!

In place of the smooth confidence I donned in a previous life, I have this nervous imagination. The night or even the hour before I have to speak in public, I fantasize about running away. I throw my notes on the ground, get in the car, and simply drive away. Whoever is depending on me will just have to scramble around because I am on my way out of the state with no luggage and no guilt for leaving. Only an open can of coke in the cup holder. I look ahead to a new destination where nobody asks me about the meter of cryptic English poetry. Usually it’s Disneyland.

But what really happens is this:

I stand up with my notes in hand and just start talking, eying the clock.

Aren't They Magnificent?

It's been an interesting week living in my new apartment. I am not used to having a heated bedroom or a shower that has real, not imagined, water pressure.

But it's been great!

My roommate loves yoga and photography and making salsa in restaurant-size quantities, which is all very good. I love talking with her under our ceiling that is covered with glow-in-the-dark stars when we are supposed to be sleeping.

My other roommates are fun-loving sisters-- twins. Did I mention my lifetime obsession with the Olsen twins? I completely understand how Dwight feels.

I went home today for lunch, dinner, laundry, and games. I got schooled in speed Scrabble and Wacky 6 and contributed to setting off the fire alarm while helping with dinner. I left with happiness, washed clothes, and my hair smelling like smoky steak. Oh my goodness, I want to eat my hair now.

Why, I Oughta...

I have been wanting that as a blog post title for a while now.

Now on to something relevant. A new semester is starting! I am taking British poetry, American lit, and helping to teach a transatlantic lit class as part of a mentorship. I have never been more excited for a semester! I feel like I got the dream schedule.

I am only a little sad to not have time to teach Writing 150 again this semester, mostly just because I miss the individual students I've already taught this year.

I miss the kid that would jokingly call me SISTER Peterson almost every class just because it annoyed me. He even wrote it in his comments on the student ratings.

I miss the girl that stayed after class to ask my opinion about study abroad programs.

I miss the guy who asked if he could wear a pirate costume to the early morning written final (Answer: Yes. As long as it's modest; we are at BYU for goodness Lady Gaga's sakes).

I miss the girl that asked if I canceled class (when I was sick) so that I could go to the new Harry Potter movie. Then she asked if I canceled class because I didn't want students to have to choose between school and their social lives.

I miss the guy who wrote brilliant essays with the world's wurste speling and punctushun.;':!/". (In my behalf, I am a first-year writing teacher, not a miracle worker).

But hopefully I will get to teach/mentor some new, just-as-amusing students this coming semester in the transatlantic lit class. If they are not as cool, why, I oughta go back to teaching Writing 150.

See what I did right there? C'mon, I had to try to work it in somehow.