Hi, August. Welcome.

A year ago, I was half-packing, starting my second day at Graywolf, sitting in that St. Paul loft-like office in the dog day heat, addressing hundreds of envelopes to famous author's addresses across the country, mostly to East coast cities, exploring new books from the "Hurt Books" shelf, shoving them in my bag before walking the couple of blocks to my car, thinking of writing websites the next day, wishing I could write a poem, thinking of how I'd handle the call at work, the criticism, the time managed with the publishing house versus the job. I was listening to MPR all day, still listening for updates on the bridge collapse. I wasn't thinking of lesson plans or books to read, I wasn't thinking of checking my grades, or financial aid, or painting a room blue and an adjacent room some sort of cream coffee color, I wasn't thinking of finding cats under my porch, or appreciating thunderstorms because there are no sounds in the country, and I wasn't sure where I was going, I wasn't in love with anybody, and I wasn't having such vivid nightmares every night, and I was thinner, and I was just finding out about a Graywolf editing job I was qualified for and wouldn't get because so many people were qualified for it, and I was wondering, if offered, whether I'd take it because it paid only 20K a year.

He keeps his socks on.

I'm at Caribou, in Albertville, sort of waiting for the day to end so I can go to bed and wake up and drive over to the Jenny in Green Bay tomorrow, embark on another summer, another August adventure, which we embrace because soon school is starting. I wasn't going to blog today, but then I read X's post about home, and I'm not thinking of home, persay, but I'm thinking of school and I'm thinking of last year, and I'm thinking of where I am, was, whatever. And now I'm next to two girls at the coffee shop, and they're reminding me of the students I don't have yet. There is drama, drama, drama. Dra-ma.

In almost exactly a month, I'll be listening to girls like these telling stories, I'll be eyeing them as they walk through the hallways in their "booty shorts," with their young-girl asses hanging out of them, which are against school policy, and I'll be an adult authority. I will be the boss. I will be in charge of establishing my rules of authority of gaining the respect someone in my place of authority deserves. I'll be listening to a girl who just got played by her boyfriend, that he cheated on her, and I'll be listening to them in the hallways as they call the new girlfriend to inform her that he keeps his socks on. Tell her he keeps his socks on! She says to her friend, on the phone. She jumps up and almost spills her coffee, jumps in front of her friend as she is such a bitch! on the phone. I'll be wondering how different I feel in my teacher clothes, in my classroom, in my teacher role, I'll be trying to remember how I thought of my high school teachers when I was that age. And already, I'm thinking as I walk around in public--I am not a civilian, I am a teacher. If these girls knew I was a high school teacher, would they act differently right now? Would they say sorry, Miss P, as I gave them disapproving looks from up here on my high heels and my tiny pedastal that they try to knock down everyday? These girls don't stop talking, talking, talking. Imagine homecoming week. Imagine once prom comes. I am an adult, and I am old, and they are just talking, talking, talking.

In a month, I'll be on bus duty, lunch duty, hallway duty. I'll supervise field trips, and say things like your brain is a muscle. We're starting from the beginning in this class, and you need to know that the more you work your brain, the stronger it will become and this class is meant to prepare you and don't be afraid of Shakespeare/poetry/novels/essay tests. My students will worry about AP tests, but only when their cell phones aren't ringing in class and their booty shorts aren't going up their asses and someone in the hallway is talking about them, from behind them. They'll use the words drama and whatever and phrases like bitch, let's step outside, and they will light up cigarettes to their post-school jobs. They will get coffee on the way to school, just because they've discovered coffee as 16 and 18-year-olds, and they will rush out when the bell rings in order to savor as much daylight as possible. They will have after-school sports and won't get their assignments done. They will still be talking about each other. There will still be drama. I will be their teacher. They will be the first thing on my mind, I'll be the last on theirs. I sort of can't wait. I have an impulse to buy little positive stickers and aggressive red pens.

We've got a month before it goes down. Two weeks before then I'm in new-teacher training, learning how to break up student fights, handle threats from otherwise quiet students, manage parent/teacher conferences. Until then, I've got too much time, and then, when I'm there, I'll be wondering where all of the time went.