And now, for your reading pleasure, we have yet another monstrously long and self-indulgent post in which the author rambles hither and yon.

The Bradford Pears bloomed overnight! Yesterday they Weren't, and today they Are-- a lovely surprise this morning, driving to school with my windows down. It reminded me of the year my family went to Scotland. We were gone for three weeks, from mid-March till early April. Spring was late that year, and sudden apparently, because when we left it was winter, and when we returned spring was well underway. I remember driving home from the airport and realizing that the row of Bradfords outside my parents' neighborhood had already bloomed and gone, that I'd missed that week or two when the world's at the tipping point, when winter melts. That's where we are this week here in Dallas, and I'm so glad I'm here to watch. It's like a happy secret that's just become known, and you can see in people's faces that they know and they're wondering if you do too.

I've settled on a theme song for my junior year: 'wake me up when it's over,' Norah Jones. Though, having said that, I will also say that my acute Junioritis is actually more under control lately. Of course, spring break being on the horizon doesn't hurt any. The past four weeks have been one scholastic emergency after another, largely owing to two major creative writing assignments due the same week and then catching the flu and getting behind in everything else. After today things calm down substantially, so I'm going to clean my house and start feeding us again. I'm not sure what Dan and I have been living on, seeing how long it's been since I cooked a good meal. I keep trying to apologize for being a horrible wife, but Dan seems to still think I'm a good one. Because he's just like that. (I like him.)

In related news, I'm happy (and rather surprised/relieved) to report that my first portfolio of poetry for this semester got really good reviews and that my first short story ever was also met with a pleasant balance of praise and criticism. As in, my teacher had as many criticisms as with my peers' stories, but had a surprising amount of praise as well. Dr. Bondurant is a very frank critic-- a little intimidatingly so, actually. I was nervous about my table reading and review, but he actually seemed pretty pleased with my work, in as much as he ever seems pleased.

Oh dear. I don't mean to make him sound like an ogre. He's just very. . . to the point. If you see what I mean. Doesn't hem and haw much, or squiffle about the bush. He goes straight for it with the pruning shears.

Actually, technically speaking, it wasn't my first story. I wrote several as a child, and a couple as an adolescent. They were unfortunate. My last was written at fourteen. It was entitled "Bella," and it chronicled a young girl's Self-Absorbed Attitude and Subsequent Awakening of the Soul to New Depths of Tenderness and Love and Awareness of Beauty. As I recall, the catalyst for this transformation was a tumble off a garden wall whilst Bella was walking by the light of the full moon, which resulted in a broken ankle, weeks in bed, and much Time for Reflection. I was monstrously proud of this piece, which Claire and I subsequently staged, with myself in the title role. Being a very subtle, internal-monologue type story, it was impossible to reproduce without a narrator, so I recorded all the necessary bits of exposition onto a tape recorder, which was artfully concealed on the set. We choreographed it so that one of us would be near the recorder any time it was called for so's to turn it on discretely. It was all very artsy. We were most impressed with ourselves for how artsy it was.

And that's quite enough rambling. I should go to bed. I hope to dream of Edie, our newest friend, and a delightful friend she promises to be. Goodnight, all.