Flannel's revenge.

All that talk of comfy pajamas has apparently landed me in the land of nothing but. I had to miss the reading last night due to a wicked, nasty cold and terrible cough. Drat!

I guess it's the overachiever in me that gets all agitated when under the weather. Yesterday I cackled through my two morning classes, then went home for the rest of the day, allegedly to rest. But apparently sending emails about various administrative matters isn't actually restful. In the meantime I am freaking out about my book manuscript, which I got a lot of comments on recently (though the gist from this particular person with an aesthetic very different from my own was that it's not good enough to be published as is). I'm not sure if that feedback is useful or not.

I'm also in the midst of writing my Modern American Poetry course syllabus for next semester, so between sneezes and sips of diet 7UP Plus I am reading through a bunch of potential texts. It's funny how easily I can remember my own 400 level Mod Po class from undergrad, and I am very tempted to put at least one of my beloved David Perkins books on the syllabus. Am I the only one nostalgic for certain textbooks?

If those books were here at home right now, maybe I'd put them in the bed with me as I embark on a day of nonstop student poem annotation. I used to think it was nutty having a bed in my studio/office, but on days like this it makes perfect sense.

This morning Gabi determined that I didn't have a cold, but that my finger hurt, and that's why I felt so crappy. If only it were that easy. I suppose a Care Bear band-aid wouldn't hurt, though I'm not sure it would cover my entire head.