Second Quote of the Day: Chancelucky on the Bank Bailout

From chancelucky on the Bank Bailout (cut and paste from a comment he left this morning):

Sixty years later, they removed those restrictions and lo and behold a stock market crash and a sudden financial collapse with ominous talk of a depression. It’s like they got bitten by a dog then stuck their hand in the cage again.

Oh, chancelucky, you’re killing me!  Self loves the comparison to the person sticking his or her hand in the dog cage, absolutely loves it!  Ha ha ha!

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

Quote of the Day: Last Friday of September 2008

Self is finally able to catch her breath today (Self, you are so lame:  isn’t this the same beginning you used for a post yesterday?  Has your brain become so dessicated from teaching overload that you cannot think of another way to begin a post?  But, once again, I digress)

Okey-dokey, self has just finished wrapping up a morning of mega-lesson-plan preparation for the coming week’s classes.  She had a veritable diarrhea of ideas and devised two quizzes, two assignments (the hardest she could possibly make them) and three hand-outs.  Then, since she was feeling so fulfilled, so very self-satisfied, she decided to e-mail Marc Fitten of The Chattahoochee Review to see in which issue her story “Dumpster” would be appearing.  And she received an immediate reply, which went:

That’s been out for a couple of months!  Didn’t you get your copies?  I’ll send to you when i get back to the office.  The city is out of gas and my cars are both empty.

So, self e-mailed back:

Are you serious?  How does a city run out of gas???

And, thus far, Read the rest of this entry »

Memories of Russian Gardens

Today, self is finally able to slow down. The whole week was crazed: two classes on Monday, the second ending at 9 p.m. Two more (back to back) classes on Tuesday, which meant she was on her feet for five hours straight. Only one class on Wednesday, but self had to spend the whole afternoon grading papers and reading up on the texts she had to teach in two classes today, Thursday. Her neck ached something fierce, and she couldn’t even scrounge the time to douse her weary plants with so much as a bucket of water. She did, however, make vermicelli with clam sauce, and when hubby came home and showed more interest in the latest Sports Illustrated than in what self had cooked for dinner, self lay into him in a very uncharacteristic manner.

For the last few days, self’s been snatching moments to read Vladimir Nabokov’s Speak, Memory. The writer seems to miss two things acutely: butterflies and snow. While self is reading, she sometimes feels as if she has entered a hallucination. The Russia self knows is the Russia of Martin Cruz Smith novels and the Bourne movies (!!##) So: gray buildings, dour people.

But Nabokov’s Russia is a profoundly emotional and beautiful place, a Russia that seems to exist now only in a few old people’s imaginations, and in the stories of Chekhov. Here is Nabokov’s description of the landscape around one of his family’s homes:
Read the rest of this entry »

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