I think I accomplished nothing of note over the weekend. I got together everything I'll need to teach today, made them copies of a couple pieces of literary nonfiction and lamented the fact that I had to do it on paper because I don't have the blackboard/e-reserve account thingy set up yet.
My mother came to visit on Saturday, which was lovely. The weather was good but mostly we just talked and cleaned. I was in the process of finishing the dishes when she arrived so she used those minutes to start cleaning other things. See, my mother loves to clean. She likes making things shine. She likes the look of carpet right after it's been vacuumed. And she loves how little effort it takes to get a place as small (and as new) as my apartment clean so she dusted and vacuumed a little and then we went out to lunch.
The rest of the weekend has been spent by me being driven mad by the ice cream truck.
Neighborhoods of college kids in late summer must be a money making demographic for the ice cream industry because the truck has been haunting these streets. Maybe more than one truck because occasionally I'll hear a new song. The first day it was some tuneless melody that I couldn't make out and thought it rather pleasant. But yesterday I was serenaded by 60 minutes worth of "pop goes the weasel" played by a ghost truck that circled incessantly but never turned down my street.
The phantom truck has shown itself once in the two weeks I have lived here. Adding to the feeling that I'm in a cartoon is the fact that it is not a truck at all and instead looks very much like the mystery machine from Scooby Doo.
Up Next: My first MFA workshop class!