We bought an electric lawnmower this last weekend and mowed the lawn for the first time. “It’s like a vacuum cleaner for your lawn,” the online reviews said, repeatedly, as if channeling Don Draper after a drink or two. Advertising or not, it’s true enough. It is very much like a vacuum cleaner for the lawn, cord troubles and all, though vacuum cleaners can’t cut your fingers off. So it is an edgier vacuum cleaner, if I may say so.
The first week of classes is over and a new one is beginning. I have been amazingly well prepared for every class, considering I’ve never taught a three-prep, four-course teaching load before. I have not yet reached a point where I have to grade very much, however, so the real test is going to be 3-4 weeks in, when all these new responsibilities start to pile on top of one another.
The lack of updates has been due to my moving to the Houston area to take my new position at UHD. Now that H and I are mostly settled down, and even my office is looking reasonably organized this morning, I can afford to start posting again. I can even start writing once more, now that all my books are in one place and not hidden away in boxes. Imagine that!
Texas is a big place, and Houston is a huge city. There are almost no hills worth talking about; the sky is always gigantic and everywhere. The heat in August is intense – intense enough that keeping my reliable but decade-old and AC-free car is rapidly becoming a bad idea. We have a yard now, which is blasted with the fire from a billion suns every day at noon; I will have to fully submit my membership in the cult of suburbia and cut it next weekend, with a fantastic grass-cutting contraption yet to be acquired.
My position entails, among other responsibilities, teaching professional writing to juniors and seniors. This fall semester, I’ll teach two sections of the introductory TC course, as well as a course in grammar and a course in editing. At a later date, I’ll also be teaching a graduate course, yet to be determined, in the MSPWTC program, possibly in the summer. Within reasonable ethical bounds, such travails will be documented here.
Upon talking to my wife earlier today, my neighbor referred to me as “the professor,” which I found alarming, as if I had inadvertently stepped into the set of Gilligan’s Island and would be required momentarily to built a radio out of coconuts and bamboo. I never liked that guy; he should have been able to fix the boat.