This Monday deserves my ire.

We had a lovely weekend in Vermont. Started our drive home a bit later than we should have, but the day was beautiful and the company swell. This happens. Stopped for gas and a sandwich in Connecticut and got trapped in conversation with a yokel. When I told him where we'd spent our weekend, he said, "Vermont? All they do there is make maple syrup and f*ck their cousins." I told him that I was from Georgia, so I felt right at home.

Then, in our sleepiness, we went the wrong way on the 87 and ended up in a part of New York that makes Baltimore look like Disney World. Say what you will about my city, but I've never seen a gaggle of ginormous, suited men selling drugs openly from a limo parked in the middle of the street. But maybe I don't get out enough.

So, we got home after one, and we had to get up before six. I'm not sure if I've mentioned this, but n.o.c. and I are not terribly hearty people. Still, we managed.

And I actually thought I was doing fairly well, until about five minutes ago when I had nearly finished with a half-hour lecture on Daoism. One of my students raised her hand and asked, "Aren't we supposed to be talking about Mozi?" Yes, Liza. Yes, we are. That's what's on the schedule, and that's what I said at the beginning of the lecture - hell, that's even what I wrote on the board - but here I am, yammering away about Laozi and the Daodejing.

Luckily, I have an 75-minute faculty meeting to look forward to this afternoon, so I'll have plenty of time to reflect on my failures. And put the finishing touches on meeting BINGO.