I heart Dwight.

Not Dwight K. Nelson or Dwight K. Schrute. Dwight K. My Cat. This February 14, my cat is my valentine. Although that might make me the biggest nerd ever and might ruin my chances of ever having a human male trying to steal my heart away and giving me kisses, I'm pretty damn pleased with the way Dwight loves me.

Every morning around 6:30 he wakes up. Now, it's like that old adage, "If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy." Except it's "If Dwight ain't sleeping, ain't nobody sleeping." He usually paws at my covers for a while like he's digging a hole to China, and then walks coolly up by my head where he lays as close to my face as possible and then begins to bat at my cheek with his paw, lightly at first, then more insistent. I usually roll over to get away from him, at which point he switches sides, following whereever my face is pointed. When I open my eyes, he's staring right into them, golden eyes boring into my skull.

He's a hardy cat, lightweight and light on his feet. I feel no compunction about tossing him around. I often throw him off the bed a couple of times before he gets the message and goes into the kitchen to find his favorite toy--a ball with a bell inside. He plays with this in the living room for a minute or two before he brings the party up onto the bed, chasing the ringing ball around on top of me. I can get him to leave only if I throw the ball. But he's learned to play fetch, so he usually brings it back.

Dwight loves water. Whenever I take a bath, he poises himself on the edge of the tub, dipping his paws in the water, bringing them up and licking them, looking at me like, "What? You got a problem with me?" I have a clawfoot tub, and he delicately walks, tightrope style, around the edge of it, staring at my feet underwater (he's also obsessed with feet). When I take a bubble bath, which is often, he sniffs the bubbles and then sneezes. About one out of every four times I take a bath, he ends up falling into the tub.

Even though he can be annoying as hell, he's a good cat. He lets me clip his nails, and just purrs in my lap while I do it (I'm too poor to get him declawed right now). He's also smart--not only does he play fetch, but he also plays hide and seek. Right now he and Lady are poking their heads out of corners where they are hiding, trying to catch the other one looking, crouching to pounce.

When he wants some love, he looks up at me and makes a chirpy purring noise. When he wants to play, he makes mad dashes and skids sideways across the floor, or leaps upon me like prey. When he wants some food, he meows--a little--but mostly bears his hunger quietly. And when the litterbox needs to be cleaned, he lets me know . . . in the most gruesome manner. He's practically got ME trained.

I have never loved an animal the way I love this cat. I used to think that people who were so into their pets were dorks; pets were always just pets to me. I never got really emotional about it. The other night, I imagined how I'd feel if Dwight got run over; I honestly don't know how I'd recover.

It could just be that I'm living alone right now and have gone a little crazy. They say you're a certified cat-lady when the number of your cats exceeds the number of your ex-boyfriends. Well, then, I'm safe for a good long while from that label.

It might be that Dwight is the only cat I've raised from a kitten, so we have an extra special bond. Lady was already grown when I got her. Besides, she came with a house. That's like being the breadsticks that come with the pizza; you wouldn't have paid money for them, but you'll take them, since they're free.

Or it could just be that Dwight is the freaking coolest cat in the world, the handsomest gingerbeast ever, with the best disposition and the most personality.

That must be it.

I've been on a self-betterment kick lately: I'm giving up sugar for Lent, trying to watch less TV, checking my bank statement every day.

The rationale behind the latter is a little complex. A student of mine read an academic article which listed the benefits of weighing yourself daily. Supposedly people who weigh themselves every day are less surprised by unexpected weight gains (and therefore less hard on themselves about it) and in the end are more accountable to their goal of losing weight. I'm applying this technique to my bank account--with financial gain, instead of loss, being the goal. Sometimes I buy things that I don't later add to my mental tally of how much money I should have; looking at my statement daily keeps me "grounded in reality" and also reminds me that I want to be saving money. This also saves me anxiety; when I only look at my statement once or twice a month, as is my wont, I generally approach it with much fear and trepidation.

Probably the biggest goal I have this semester is to be more timely with grading. Students don't always have a realistic expectation of what a teacher should be able to accomplish. Just yesterday I had a student ask when her paper would be handed back. I looked at her (coldly, I fear), and said, "When I'm done grading it." Still, about 80% of my negative comments on my evaluations were about the speed with which I handed back papers (which is typical in our department, I hear, so don't go getting the idea that I'm a lackadaisical teacher, cause it ain't so).

Here's my strategy. Before I do anything else in the morning--i.e. before I turn on my computer or take a bath or eat breakfast--I grade five papers. If it's a morning when I have to be at school early and there's no time for morning grading (or "mourning grading" as I often feel), then I do it as soon as I come home, before anything else can distract me. I don't give myself a time-limit, like "I have to finish these papers in an hour." I just let myself be totally absorbed reading and commenting on the papers, giving each one its full due. (And it usually takes just over an hour anyways--not that I'm counting.)

This is working for me--when I do it. This morning, for example, I'm blogging about doing it instead of doing it. Bad Katie. But when I make myself grade this way, I feel awesome. I have the rest of the day, or the evening, to accomplish anything I want--my grading quota is filled! I don't have a dark cloud of angry inkmarks swirling over my head.

Usually I get more done this way. When I let myself do other tasks first, such as check e-mail, clean, or cook, I feel a gnawing sensation of guilt and terror in my stomach--and I drag the task out longer than I need to because I really hate grading. But this technique also has a second benefit . . . I'm enjoying the papers a lot more.

I KNOW! Impossible, right? But it's true. Again, it's mindfulness--soaking myself in the moment with the paper, consciously pushing away thoughts that would distract me, and realizing that I do this, partly as my job, but partly as a labor of love and responsibility to my students. This way, grading feels good. And getting done feels amazing.

Today I finished out my first monthly bus pass. It's been a month in Lincoln without a car, folks, the coldest month of the year, and I'm still loving it.

This whole not-having-a-car thing shouldn't be that big of a deal, but it kind of is. I mean, I lived without a car for my first two years of college--but everything I needed was right on campus. I lived without a car in Korea, but I probably would have killed myself with a car there anyways. Besides, public transportation was so cheap; I taxied most places in Ilsan, and bussed/subwayed to destinations beyond.

But to live as a working adult without a car, in a city the size of Lincoln (i.e. not big), is to voluntarily give up a safety net . . . and to realize that I didn't need it as much as I thought.

It's great. Terrifying. Strangely freeing. I'm experiencing Lincoln more by walking and riding the bus. I'm breathing fresh air and getting a feel for the city. It's interesting, seeing how much (and how little) I really needed a car. Grocery shopping, socializing after seven p.m., and Sundays are the thorns in my side, but even they don't get me down so much, because I can combine shopping trips with people who have cars, a kind director who will pick me up for Sunday rehearsals, and friends who will take me home now and then if I want to hang around College View area for longer. I'm also enjoying my time at home much more. Since getting to and fro has become such an intentional act, getting back to my apartment at the end of the day is very sweet--it feels like the proverbial "coming home."

This whole thing is like meditation--I'm much more mindful of my surroundings and of my former car-dependence. A bunch of my friends don't have cars, either--we should start a yoga group.