To hell with love

. . . and Valentine's Day.

I've got much bigger problems.

Last week felt like a pretty heavy load, and now that I think about it, it makes sense. In addition to teaching and prepping my usual two college writing courses, prepping and attending the three grad classes I take every week, supervising 25 student workers, working out at the gym four times, I: prepped for and did a public reading of my very personal writing, attended two plays and wrote reviews of them for the newspaper, defended and proposed reconfiguring my administrative job to a select group of senior faculty members, came down from the mad buzz that was Chicago. I also got a massage and bought myself some nice things for my trip to Dublin. Minus stress points for that last bit.

This week, it's more of the same, except bigger stakes. Think: almost all of the above, plus write a screenplay, produce another chapter of memoir, throw a dinner party, teach a new book, write a profile and another stinkin' review for the newspaper, shop and pack for trip to Dublin.

Now do you understand why I listened to the theme songs from Mission Impossible and Wonder Woman, on repeat, all the way home from work today?

Don't get me wrong, I ain't complaining. No use complainin' 'bout what you bring on your own damn self. Right?