"Your papers were not as good as I expected.

In fact, they were horrible," the British accent of Professor Patterson pronounced upon the heads of a room of sophomore and junior English majors. It was quite a way to start a Tuesday morning. Several worlds shook. She told us we didn't write nearly as well as we spoke, something I'd always thought I had reversed, and then no one spoke for the first fifteen minites of class today. My paper said see me. I've never gotten a see me. I get to write a whole new one for her for Thursday. Thrilling shot at redemption.

I'm playing Wonder Woman today.

It's mostly the boots. They have fringes. And the skirt. And having superpowers that aren't just streaking through my hair. In the three in the morning dark, I figured out a budget for chemicals and paper to get the Stiles darkroom running. Woke running the Hill and down past Prospect street. Came home in the chilly morning, past-seven sunlight, showered, trekked back up the hill for orgo lecture. Went to physics, grabbed a bite twelve stories over the summit of Science Hill at tip top of Kline Tower, and jumped down into lab where I slipped into my secret identity, my alter super hero alias, orgo heroine, complete with long lab coat and glasses. No, I didn't synthesize heroine, but my reaction was pretty super powerful. 82 percent yield for my Fischer Esterification. My own epic victory in a long drawn out battle where getting any resolution to the solute in solution is not guaranteed. Left lab four hours later and sailed down the hill home. Dined, dropped by the Yale Daily News, brought Veronica a slice of birthday cake with lit candles, went to the Stiles College Council, got my budget approved and got giddy, not on the chemicals, but on knowing I'll have my very own darkroom. Now one problem set almost down, one to go, and then re-reading a Knight's Tale. I think I'm even happier than if I found Heath Ledger somewhere in it.

Motherhood

The boys downstairs have adopted. It's a girl. An abandonned one-year old, they picked her out from the Humane Association of Connecticut. The cat is gray with white paws, a white Shakespearian ruff tucked under her chin, and a white curve streaking down into her little black nose. She's winsome. Nuzzling her head into your hand, she purs as loud and consistently as a car. Almost as cute as the cat are the maternal instincts of three eight-nineteen year old boys. First we went to Petco where everything for a pampered cat was purchased from the Classy Cat covered bed to a black tie collar to toy mice. Cat nip was vetoed. No drugs for their baby. They thought of everything and were concerned that this brush might be too rough for her fur or she wouldn't take to that new cat food. The final touch was an engraved tag. Kiddo. This sweet cat soul formerly known as Mittens has been renamed after Kill Bill's Deadly Viper Squad Member Beatrix Kiddo bent on bloody revenge.

Yesterday, they'd gone to the Humane Society in Bethany and picked out Mittens then a new name for her. I went with today to pick up Kiddo. On the way back at every stop light, every eye in the car was focused on the cat carrier. Goofy grins spread across their faces. They cooed and proved why it's good to have more than one parent: poor ideas will be vetoed by one of the three dads and the child will get lots of love and attention. Arriving back at Yale, cat carrier, litter box, and cat bed were brought in broad daylight through the jog walk, past stares, into the front gate of Stiles, and up to the dorm room where Kiddo carefully lodged herself under the bunk beds. A route past the Master's house was carefully avoided. Not sure about the Dean but I've been won over to keeping a cat in that dorm room formerly jungle of tangled wires sprouting opened food boxes and leaves of books. They even cleaned the suite for their new charge. But don't even think it. This does not mean Pony and Calico can come live with me.