I've been eating Dove chocolates. You know, the ones with messages inside, like fortune cookies. My professor collects the wrappers, smoothing them down into flat, shiny 2 inch squares of aluminum foil. He'll only take messages he doesn't already have; maybe he's planning to cover a jewelry box with them.

The sayings are uber-cheesy, which grates on my nerves. However, they're supposed to inspire you to live a better life, so it is gratifying to see that I basically live this way already. Reading them lets me know I've got my life on track. "See a sunset." Tuesday night I enjoyed a fabulous sunset as I was driving to rehearsal. "Do something spontaneous." Yesterday Melissa called me out of the blue to go to Starbucks and then take a walk through a cemetery. "Exercise your heart today." I not only rode my bike to school (aerobic exercise) but I also forgave someone today--an exercise of the heart.

It's also cool to get affirmation throughout the day. Whenever I e-mail myself something, I always include a note . . . something to the effect of "You're wonderful, beautiful, and doing okay at life. Don't stress." Later when I open the e-mail, I'm surprised by the positive thoughts. (This confession kind of makes me sound like Dory from Finding Nemo, but I swear I have a better memory than that.)

However, I like quotes from other people better than pats on the back from myself. On my daily planner covers, I inscribe quotes that mean something to me--one side for each semester. I used to send these to Buffy, but they're such tangible witnesses to my journey that I've started keeping them for myself. It reminds me where I've been and what I've learned. My affection for good quotes even comes across in class, where I've taken a cue from Mr. Blake and have my students write down a different writing-related quote every day.

I guess manufacturers could capitalize on our need for affirmation and positivity, and start putting messages everywhere. How about a teacup that had an invisible quote at the bottom, which would become visible when activated by heat? When you're almost done with your cup of hot tea, you can read timeless wisdom from Emily Dickinson ("Beauty is not caused. It is."), or some sage advice by Mark Twain ("Never let schooling get in the way of an education.").

This quote-mania could easily get out of hand, though. What if the scrolling ads on your computer started telling you to "follow your heart" and then your burrito wrapper reminded you that "the course of true love never did run smooth"? (Actually, Taco Bell is already writing us messages--the sauce packets now come with personalities. "I'm afraid of bike tires," and "Why me? Why now?")

Before pillows are embroidered with "Early to bed, early to rise . . ." and our refrigerators chant "An apple a day . . .", Dove needs to take responsibility as the current quote-leader and tone it down with some Voltaire: "A witty saying proves nothing."

"The mere habit of learning to love is the thing." Jane Austen

I've spent the better part of today reading a novel I picked up at the Yankee Book Swap, The Jane Austen Book Club by Karen Joy Fowler. Despite my distrust of modern novelists cashing in on big names of great authors, the book was lovely, life-like, and brilliantly plotted.

It's so delicious to read a good book in silence, to be able to laugh out loud and not have anyone look at me askance. And what a day to curl under my feather comforter, looking out the window only to be surprised by an opaque white blizzard one moment, and sunlight slanting in on my page the next.

April and Melissa and Greg came over last night; we talked about the value of novels. April's very much a practical reader--enjoys spiritual books, relationship advice, and psychology. However, Melissa and Greg and I love to read fiction. What April gleans from her self-help books, we get out of novels. Family, death, pain, love, fallen and fickle human nature--it's all in there.

My friend Teresa is thinking about changing majors--she is sick of the music department and feels like getting a performance major is pointless. But when I tried to explain how studying literature isn't pointless, it came out all wrong and sermon-y. Basically, I think literature can save people's souls, and teach them how to live well. It can inspire and uplift--it can reveal God.
When I teach literature, I don't want to just teach tropes and schemes and plot charts--I want to teach about what matters in life.

And right now, what matters to me is learning how to love. Why is "the habit of learning to love" so difficult? Falling in love is easy, especially with Mr. Darcy, but being loving is not, even when you have a Mr. Darcy. There aren't many novels about real love, where you see the cogs and wheels of the relationship turning and people forgiving and meeting the other's needs. Grace, basically, is what we need more stories about--grace that changes people's hearts and lives and allows the impossible to happen.

I guess I better get started writing. And/Or living.

Uh huh, I know what Eminem's daughter's name is . . . Hailie. Yes, in fact, I do know whose legs those are--they're Jessica Simpson's. And that famous singer is not Britney, it's Shakira. A free IPod, a free phone, and some free Internet service should be coming my way, because I answered all of those online ad questions correctly.

Is it not sad that our society values knowledge about these famous nobodies more than knowledge about stuff that actually matters? When have you seen an online quiz-ad asking if you know what the numerical value of pi is, down to the fourth decimal? Or asking you to differentiate between Ionic, Doric, and Corinthian columns?

Well, who decided that stuff makes you smart, anyhow? I guess it's just about as meaningful as being able to tell Jessica Simpson's legs from J-Lo's, unless you can put it to good use.

It's good I'm asking these epistemological questions before a long weekend, 'cause I'll have a lot of time to think about it. John went to Pennsylvania for the weekend, and even though I'm uber-independent and totally don't base my life or self-worth around my boyfriend and in fact have many other friends and a calendar full of social engagements, I'm sure I'll be bored.

If only there were more Internet quizzes to ace. . .

These Are a Few of my Favorite Things

Riding in Trains with Boys: Well, boys are optional (though appreciated). I love traveling by train, though. John and I went to Chicago yesterday by AmTrak, and it was fabulous. There's nothing better than sitting by a wide window, book in lap, watching the countryside flash by, and NOT having to drive or stop to use the bathroom. On a train you see different sights than you'd see by car, anyways; yesterday we saw a lot of the backs of factories, closer than a car could get to the huge cranes and tall smokestacks . . . all evidences of Walt Whitman's amazing industrial America. We also saw the lake spread out like an ocean, with snow barely crusting the sand.

Bright Lights, Big City: It makes me happy to be in the press and swell of a city, as much as it pleases me to live in a nowhere-town surrounded by fields and trees. There's nothing like crossing gulfs of traffic, surrounded by skyscrapers (what a lovely word: skyscraper--so meaningful and alliterative) and pushed forward by an icy wind. Chicago is laid out like a grid, which makes for very effective wind tunnels at each intersection. But to just walk around, literally bumping into the Sears Tower, the Art Institute, Buckingham Fountain (covered over for the winter with chicken wire), and a Starbucks on every corner, was heavenly. John and I looked like such tourists, running across the street afraid of cars, staring glassy-eyed at the tops of buildings, exclaiming at the beautiful marble facade of the Board of Trade.

People there were so friendly, too. We went down to the Gallery District where, alas, most were closed, but met this fascinating gallery owner who collects World War II jewelry made in the South Pacific and sent by young soldiers to their ladyloves or mothers back home. Oh, and the art was good, too. :) We also met this girl who wants to create movie costumes at a little boutique called Clever Alice. Such adorable clothing, such a lot of money.

Speaking of Adorable Clothing . . . Urban Outfitters: I spent a cool $60 on clothing yesterday, but I got two pairs of shoes, two tank tops, a tee, and a charming sweater. While this store is expensive, their sales were jaw-dropping. And looking at the non-sale items gave me ideas of what to thrift for. Ah, dressing well--one of life's little pleasures.

Wild America: At the Museum of Natural History, we saw all kinds of animals (stuffed, of course). Some of the funniest names were the Mongolian Wild Ass, the Sap Sucking Sea Slug, the Dik-Dik, and (my personal favorite) the Fatmucker, which is a kind of fresh-water mussel. We also saw amazing gems, Tibetan treasures, and a handsome display of shoes around the world before we rushed out to catch a cab.

However, one of my least favorite things is having a great day be ruined by the stomach flu. Boo. If anyone knows how to make my stomach stop feeling like I'm Jonah fleeing God on turbulent seas, let me know. Right now even brushing my teeth nauseates me.

"In spring the wish to wander is partly composed of an unnameable irritation, born of long inactivity; in fall the impulse is more pure, more inexplicable, and more urgent." Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.

I feel sick and squirmy, filled with the need to rush off somewhere, get in a car and not stop driving until I hit Nevada, bounce out of my car and into the sky like a rocket, trailing steam over Las Vegas like the Wicked Witch of the West. "Surrender Dorothy."

I have the stomach flu, or something like it. Food won't stay down, but I feel weak and shaky for not having eaten. This semi-hallucinogenic state, brought on consciously by mystics and madmen after fasting, is making me crazy. I have cabin fever and want to go run a mile, or ten, to leave it behind. My hands shake and my heart pounds.

Dillard writes about Eskimos and their "northings"; I want to travel into a wilderness, see the Aurora Borealis, eat baked beans by a fire, and basically get the hell out of Dodge (or B.S.). Or take a "southing" of my own, and burn the flu out with sun, sand, umbrella-ed drinks, and Dickens on the Gulf coast in some nameless Mexican town.

Good thing I'm going to Chicago on Sunday. Maybe that will calm my nerves and still my beating heart.

I've been doing nothing but grading essay for two days straight, and I'm only half-done. This sucks. Everytime I pick up a new essay, I get a headache and feel like blowing my brains out. This is worse than writing comments on a hundred monthly report cards in Korea, because I have to write something meaningful on these. Which means I have to think. Ouch.

I guess I could give them grades based on how many letters there are in their names. I could stop writing page-long comments, thinking that my puny advice will actually HELP them become better writers. I could fake a mental breakdown. I could have an actual mental breakdown.

No, really. The essays aren't that bad. My students have interesting things to say and in every paper, I can find some gem of good writing.

However, grading (and commenting on) them is sucking the life out of me and making my days torturous, mostly because I know that next Friday another batch comes in, and unless I am very disciplined, I will take one of two options:

Ignoring the papers for a week, just to try to grade them all in one day (impossible) and feeling like I feel right now.

Actually working on them right away, and ignoring my homework. Boo.

Why can't I find a happy medium? Get the papers, grade three or four a day, hand them back next week, while still managing to get some homework done?

I'm a time-management loser.

You ever see those commercials where people are all excited about something like Serta Sleeper mattresses or Yoplait yoghurt, and you wonder, "Is this realistic? Do people really get this excited about a product this mundane?"

The answer is, Yes. I do.

I love Wells Fargo Bank. I could gladly and honestly do a commercial for them, and mean every glowing word of praise I uttered. The only problem with Wells Fargos is that there aren't more of them . . . say, in Chattanooga, or in Berrien Springs. Every Wells Fargo I've stepped into (and those would be several in the states of Nebraska, Indiana, Missouri, and Washington) has had the friendliest, happiest people I have ever met.

I frequented two in Lincoln, Nebraska, and at each branch I expected the employees to burst out into song and dance, ala Ally McBeal. They were jovial, direct, and helpful, treating me like a neighbor and each other like best friends, like they all had some giant inside joke and couldn't wait to tell me about it.

In Washington State, in Seattle, the bank was gleaming and the service efficient. Even though I forgot to write my account number on the check I deposited, everything went fine. No hassle. The lady in Yakima opened the doors five minutes before their 9:00 opening time so I could go inside, and she even laughed at my joke.

Here in South Bend, Indiana, the girl who helped me set up my IRA talked to me all about the area, seeing as I'd just moved there; and the next time I came in, the teller and I had a conversation about which cell phone provider we prefer. She likes Cingular; I'm a NexTel customer.

The point is, there are truly great products out there. And although they might be mundane (banking, car tire manufacturers, insurance companies), I still appreciate excellence when I experience it. Go Wells Fargo.