I bought a Registry Sweeper and ran it, and now my CD burner is working again. Go figure. The screen still blanks out at unpredictable intervals, but I can make music for people again. SOMETHING got fixed, anyway.

All electronics are magic, as far as I’m concerned. Flicking a switch is like waving a wand.

Special-order mixes will be in the mail tomorrow afternoon.

It’s still raining. My house is on a small rise, and the driveway goes down and then up again to the road. Where the driveway goes down, is an ever-widening river. From the window it doesn’t look like the water is going that fast, but I just saw a bird try to drink from it and the water sucked it in and sent it spinning. Plus, it’s getting cold now and I fear ice.

Not ice CUBES. I savor those.

I fear ice on the roads. I have no skidding confidence. When I feel that horrible sensation that tells me I’ve lost control and my car is now in the hands of the Evil Ice Fairy, something in my brain begins to prepare for death.

If only King Stefan had thought to invite ALL the fairies to the christening, there would be no need to fear the ice.

We had our first quiz in class today. Oh, I know, only a really mean instructor would give a quiz on the second class meeting, but, well, I think the words “really mean instructor” might be a dead giveaway as to my true personality.

I graded the quiz during the class break, and when the lovely elderly gentleman about whom I was the most worried made an A, I stood up and let out a very unprofessional and joyous whoop.

A few startled eyes met mine, and I covered by saying that I was having a delayed reaction to some potent medication made specifically for old chicks who had opted not to go to Geriatric Fat Camp.

They believed me. Well, why shouldn’t they? I’m a college professor, for crying out loud.

We are an old, jaded bunch of ivory tower prigs. We’re not imaginative enough to lie about such things.

Besides, if they’d asked, I might have given them graphic mental images of Geriatric Fat Camp which would have scarred them for life. And they knew it.

They’ve only met with me twice, and yet somehow they know. College kids are sure smart these days.

Back in my day (Oh no, here she goes again; old chicks sure ramble a lot. . . .) I thought all teachers were some kind of non-human species. I still remember the shock when I saw my second-grade teacher in the grocery store. It was just WRONG. The context was wrong. What was she doing outside of the school? She lived there, didn’t she? Besides, what did she need with food? Teachers didn’t eat. And the toilet paper in her cart must have been for someone else, because I KNEW that teachers didn’t, um, go potty. Although I’ve known plenty of them who were full of shit.

I once saw one of my college professors and his wife, dining in a Chinese restaurant, and I was astounded to see him doing something so normal. And when he spoke to me, I actually stuttered. (I was 29 YEARS OLD at the time.)

Times have changed. Times always change. One person’s good ol’ days are another person’s end times, and someone else’s beginning. It’s always been so, and always will be. And aren’t we all glad?

The caterpillar is beautiful. The butterfly, more so. So it is with change. (I forget the author of that quotation.)

Change. Beautiful change. I keep mine loose on the bottom of my purse. I’m too lazy to put it in a wallet or anything. And when it gets to be ridiculous down there, I dump it out and put it in a big empty popcorn tin that I keep by the side of my desk. Nobody but me knows about the treasure in that tin. Why, there must be nearly twelve dollars in change by now. A veritible fortune.

Hey. Sometimes it is. Times change, yes, but times are also hard right now. Twelve dollars buys a lot of diet coke.

I do wish the vending machines didn’t make such a loud noise when they’re fed a zillion nickels, though. It tends to draw a crowd.

But who cares, really. Not me. I control their social lives with my red pen. I’m almost as magic as an electrician.