Ahh, one of the GOOD days!

I know, I know -- I rave about my Brit Lit class. I do. But it's only because they're so damned wonderful.

There's only one week of regular classes left in the semester, and given that, things are winding down a bit. I have to start making up the final exams (I'm giving 2) and get back the last bit of grading that I have in my possession. It's... an annoying time of year. But it's not as bad as it has been, because I'm more on top of my grading than I've been in the past.

So, we're talking about a few things in the BL class, and somehow the discussion turned to what classes I'm teaching in the fall. Now, I know I'm teaching another Brit Lit 2 course online (oy, stupid workshops), a Comp II class, and I'm slated for a Comp I class, but it's one of those heinous 9:00-11:45 Friday classes. The department chair of online studies wants me to teach another Comp I class, but I'm reeeeally resisting.

Anyway, the class asks me why I'm not doing another lit class. I explained that I wasn't sure whether I'd be around in the fall, what with PhD apps and all, and if they wanted to complain, they had to take it to the department chair -- my boss.

Long story short -- after class, half the class went down to the Dept. Chair's office with me, and begged him (with pouting and puppy eyes -- and bribery) to let me teach another literature class in the fall. It looks like I might get a Brit Lit 1 survey, which is a bit earlier than I like (Beowulf, Canterbury Tales, etc), but also includes Shakespeare, who makes me smile a lot.

I love those kids. I really do. Okay, some of them are my age, and not really "kids." I still love them to pieces.

I can see my future...

Yeah, I know -- two-post day. How 'bout that? But, really, the annoyance was too great to ignore.

It'll be a miracle if I ever actually decide to have kids. Why, you ask? Because I can see right now that my mother is going to be the type of grandmother who'll undermine absolutely everything I say and do whatever the hell she wants anyway.

And how do I know this? Easy. Our pets.

We have, much to my chagrin, two cockatiels (and a dog -- but the dog is the Good Child). I'm not a fan of birds, but I somehow manage to find new extents of my patience with these two little rats.

At any rate, the birds, they screech. A noise that, if it doesn't make your ears bleed, will drive you quickly and efficiently out of your mind until you're completely insane and concocting elaborate schemes that involve plucking, skewering, and grilling.

I put them outside, as punishment. (In their cage, of course.)

When I do this, my mother brings them back in. She felt bad for them.

Then when the screeching starts up again, I cover their cage. Sometimes I cover it because it's late and time for the evil things to go to bed anyway. When I do this, she uncovers them.

Recently, she let them play with a box. They were quite thrilled to have the box; however, there was one small problem -- they became very territorial over the box, and I nearly lost a good chunk out of my fingers a few times just trying to change their food.

I've told her at least once a day that letting them have this box was a bad idea -- it's made them both vicious little bastards. Well, one of them has pretty much always been a vicious little bastard. The other one had always been as sweet as could be. And now he's lunging for me when I walk past the cage. I tell her, and tell her, and tell her, and tell her -- does she listen? Never.

No, no. No, I can never have children, because if I do, she's going to become the overbearing, interfering, domineering grandmother. I can feel it in my bones. And then my children will be rotten and spoiled, and then I would have to SELL THEM. *rolls eyes*

I swear, give me fish any day. Or mammals. Cats... dogs... give me pets that actually SHOW affection. Hell, my goldfish shows more affection than those damned birds.

Shish-kebab. Seriously.