Now, as I head into yet another semester of teaching from home, a renewed focus on mask wearing, and the rise of the delta variant, I feel it is time to reconsider the daily plague journal.

In this brilliant gesture of administrative generosity, I’d been allowed to come to campus to work remotely, answering emails and taking Zoom appointments from the discomfort of not home.

Today, I intend to get my shit together.

It was like having an orgasm dipped in chocolate while sipping a glass of champagne on my way to a shopping spree with someone else’s credit card.

It’s the balls-to-the-wall, smoke ‘em if you got ‘em, Independence Day, birthday, and summer vacation finale, 2020-style.

That, my friends, is a god damn bonafide all-American parenting win.

Not sure why, but for some reason, a solar eclipse on the solstice, the day the sun stands still, feels just a bit ominous.

You don’t have to believe me; I’m not applying for Professor Trelawney, but it happened.

Vocabulary pops into my head all the time--words that I don’t know I know for things that shouldn’t really have names but do. But if I don’t capture them, they escape again.

Photo by Niklas Garnholz on Unsplash

Since living in the corona has pretty much eliminated all of the social and entertainment benefits of an urban center like Chicago, I am going to down-home me up some summer, y’all.