I don’t think so. No.

I. Don’t. Think. So.

I am, personally, mad-dog in love with the potato log. I look upon its tasty goodness as a drowning man would a life raft.  (I wrote that and then had this visual of being a drowning man and seeing a life raft and then, in that life raft I saw, like,  hundreds of potato logs and my heart started beating really fast and I almost had to take half a Xanax).

So, you know…I really like a potato log. It has taken a place of supreme necessity in my life, the potato log.

It has become—a reward.

For what, you ask? Why, for driving to work each morning.

Still confused?

Here, let me explain:  See, I hit this same halfway point (of melodramatic ennui) every morning.  This halfway point is roughly next to that strange Mexican restaurant that might also be a hotel at the second four-way stop-that’s-really-a-six-way-stop between Brooksville and Macon.

For some reason, each morning when I pull up to this engineering near-failure of the MDOT, I’m tempted to call it quits, throw in the towel, or turn the car around and go back (something I never do). And each morning, I have to force myself to take a large-down-to-my-heels breath and say, “Kris, you can’t get a potato log if you don’t get to Scooba. That’s where the potato logs are, Kris. Scooba. So, get it together and drive on.”

It’s a successful piece of motivation if for this one reason only: I’ve tried the potato logs at every other available gas station between here and Scooba (even the pitiful, dilapidated one that, at first glance, would appear to be a prime locale for those in search of the White Rabbit, but is indeed a usable gas station. The sign practically yells it at you, “Yes! We are open! Yes!” They did not, however, have potato logs).

And I did not stay there after realizing that fact.

Truth is, they just seem to fry a potato log better in whatever the oil is at Gas Station #3, also known as Scooba Junction, with its little train logo on the building.

And no…I don’t want to know what’s in the oil.

I just know that if I want a potato log the way God intended, I have no choice but to go all the way to Scooba. (Well, that and also I work in Scooba).

Sigh.

Today was one of those days that nearly won out over my want of a paycheck. Today hurt. I have never wanted to get in my car less than I did this morning, and that’s counting days I’ve driven through tornado watches, fog advisories, and goats.

I wasn’t sick, I wasn’t unhappy, I was simply done. That’s what I realized this morning.

I was simply done.

I couldn’t fathom another hour and some such minutes behind the wheel of my car having to share the road…or share, period. I’m through with it, mentally. Why my body continues to go and drive to my office every day is beyond me.

I’m worn out with being a “roadie.” I’m tired of all the truck drivers; I’m tired of Miss Jesus Is My Co-Pilot who absolutely must drink her coffee while applying eye shadow at 83 MPH, and smoke. I’m tired of nose pickers, cell phone talkers, motor-mouth singers, speed demons, omni-blinkers, and the elderly.

I’m tired of all of them. All of these people who, I can only assume, wait every morning just for me, before pulling out from their respective driveways and back roads for the sole purpose of getting in my way.

As I slung my own car, Tigi, onto Highway 45, bright and early this morning, I slowed a teensy bit as I came up to the first (and last) exit that would allow me to easily wind my way back home, but I didn’t because a) I’m not independently wealthy so I have to work, and b) I was starving and I knew of only one thing that could satisfy it: potato logs.

So, I suckered myself into the drive.

Maybe I was hungrier than I thought, maybe I was eating out of anger and frustration, or maybe I’m really just a big, fat lovable porcine extra in Charlotte’s Web, but I bought six potato logs, each roughly the size of a firm banana.

I added to that order a Coke Zero, or if you prefer, Joke Zero, and three small plastic tubs of ranch dressing…and one of honey mustard.

I am not one ounce ashamed, nor do I have even a gram of guilt about it, either.

Instead, I savored each hot morsel of that salty tuber flesh, licked the tips of my mystery- greasy fingers, and for several long seconds, when I’d eaten all of them, sat back in my chair and wore the crumbs like a well-deserved Purple Heart.

Because teaching is hell, and war is hell, and if this were a valid and logical syllogism, then you could say that teaching is war.

And you have to fight a war in order to get a Purple Heart. Even if you’re wounding yourself by gorging on a sack full of what’s floating in a gas station’s back room Fry Daddy.

It’s a fitting metaphor, trust me. Around here, the battleground never flattens out; new trenches are dug every day, and the troops stay primed for ambush.

And me? I stand out like the sore thumb of a sitting duck trying desperately to teach them about Sophocles and pageant wagons.

Maybe by the end of the week we’ll at least be able to spell Sophocle.

I mean, Sophocles.

See what I’m saying?

You’d eat your way to a Purple Heart, too, I imagine.

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Do you hear what I hear?

Now, you may not believe this, but I really do try very hard to be nice, to be kind, to be a friend, to be polite, etc. It’s just that I have a great deal of trouble sometimes in doing anything even remotely nice, or kind, or friendly, or polite, etc.

And sometimes, it’s not even really my fault. It isn’t.

It’s just that I’m, every now and again, a tiny beat behind the music.  I’m not even sure I hear any music, so God bless my poor little drummer. Of course, I don’t hear very well, either, and I know that doesn’t help. And if I don’t have my glasses on, I can’t hear anything, period.

That’s not always the bother of it, though.

Most people don’t really say anything worth hearing, anyway, right. You pass by someone on the street, you ask them how they’re doing, but you do not expect them to actually answer you.

But, sometimes, they do. That’s how I missed lunch today. Me and My Big Mouth, asking how people are doing, feigning interest about your wife’s Mexican cornbread recipe. (Ok, ok, that actually did interest me, but just not at that moment). Invariably, talking about recipes always leads to politics. At that point, I excused myself and went to the bathroom. And then I realized that the bathroom was two halls away from the lounge, and so why go to the bathroom, I thought. Just leave the whole building.

So, I did.

We really don’t expect to engage in conversation when you’re just passing by. I mean, the Holy Covenant of Passer-By Conversation is that there isn’t one. It’s a nod of the head; it’s a Fine, How are you?, the typical blatant lie, and then you keep walking.  And that’s a little odd, isn’t it?  (What a sad commentary on our culture – though I’m guilty of it, myself. I just don’t always like to talk to people, I can’t help it). Now, though, I’m thinking I might spend a day next week, being That Guy.

However, my belief is unchanging: A rote thing shouldn’t be a spoken thing. (That, my friends, is an example of half rhyme. Look for it, look for it).

I much prefer (and greatly enjoy more) the Eavesdrop, or the ED. I love hearing bits and snippets of other conversations. They’re a small bit of amusement in my otherwise routine world: the world of Academia. Though, my ivory tower is more like mortar with a chaser of stucco.

But, it’s worth it, if I keep having ED weeks like this one.

I’ve heard the most wonderful and random things this past week on campus. So, let me share, re-share, or overshare, them again, with you. Oh, and forgive the skewed timeline. Once you set foot in Scooba, well — I don’t have an appropriate analogy to put here. Sorry.

I think one of my favorite, favorite ED’s was Monday afternoon.

Two girls were walking down the hall, and the one in the red shirt turned to the one in the redder shirt and asked, “What do you do with your hair, at night?” This is a classic example of what I’m terming the Downtown Dekalb Barbie Syndrome: same shades of red, same purses, same flip-flops (don’t get me started on flip-flops), same use of a Bump-It, and lots and lots of bracelets.

I'd rather not ask, to be honest.

It’s a shame I’ll never know what her response was. But, I was running a little late. (I like to think she washed it and then ironed it before going to bed. Maybe, also, she let her mother brush it for her…with a Bible).

Day before yesterday, I had to drive to my Comp. class; it’s on the other side of the campus, a.k.a. two buildings down. In the parking lot, a young man (in boots and bona fide Wranglers) was telling his buddy (in camo, John Deere cap included) that this weekend they were “going to the river, so don’t be late and this time bring an extra roll of toilet paper and the good skillet.”

I choose not to imagine the correlation between the two, though I feel pretty sure it’s Downtown Dekalb Barbie Syndrome-free.

This morning, I passed by two adults rehashing some apparent budget meeting in which this comment was made (though I’m not sure to what reference): “And I said, Well, excuse me, I didn’t know you had a copyright on the bow tie.”

I’ve decided that probably the only thing left for me to do is to continue to record these delicious bits of dialogue and turn them into a full-fledged play. It won’t make sense, and that’ll be the point. I think I’ll call it Learning How To Scooba Dive.

See what I did there? I used a pun. (Don’t worry the numbness goes away after a few minutes).

Kidding, aside (like, just put it on the desk, by the scissors), I came back from my Comp. I class, with a different pep in my step, and an untied shoelace which almost created an awkward run-in, literally, with the College Algebra professor who was coming in the door, not looking where she was going. Fortunately, the Coke machine caught my stumble and saved the day. Go Coke.

An A+ paper is just a text away.

I’d, at the last minute, decided to embrace this changing culture, and the evolving language issues specifically (because, I have to be honest, I can’t understand what half of my Comp. I students are saying to me. I do try, though, but what can I say? I have van Gogh’s ear for hearing), and so, I assigned my students’ first writing assignment: a brief mini-narrative “Essay, Yousay, We All Say, Essay.”

The catch is that the entire paper must be written in SMS-Texting code. Straight off the cell phone’s keypad.

I’m intrigued to see what they come up with. They certainly got interested, though. Which kinda scares me a little.

Am I giving in? Giving up? Or, am I cutting edge?

I’ll let you know.

I’m sure blood is to be had, either way. If not for the assignment, in and of itself, or from the random tidbits of ED-ing I do…I’m sure my luck has been pressed…and so…

…first thing on Tuesday, I’m bound to get a papercut.

Just you watch.

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