This first sojourn was two weekends ago's trip, and I apologize for the delay.

I tried shopping at Hy-Vee, which is the central midwest equivalent of Kroger, etc. See, I've been reading Barbara Kingsolver's "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle" and I was inspired to shop for local produce and goods. Well, Hy-Vee seemed to be the logical choice, as opposed to corporate giant WalMart.

I disappointedly missed out on my beloved flatbreads, alfalfa sprouts, and the brand of hummus I liked. However, on the flip side, Hy-Vee carries frozen loaves of wheat bread that WalMart does not.

In the end, my bill was higher and my bags were not laden with all types of wonderfully local, organic produce which would have warranted in a higher grocery total. The sensual, provocative lure of Honeycrisp apples swindled me out of nearly eighteen dollars. I know! Ridiculous. But, I admit, I cannot resist the siren song of a firm, supple Honeycrisp apple. Ashamedly, I confess that I left them in the reach of my children, who then demonstrated the ultimate meaning of waste. They took two, three bites of several of the bag and disposed of the rest. It pains me still to think of it. I also spent a disturbing amount on red grapes. For some reason, I cannot quite let the addiction go.

Overall: Disappointing, but I think I need to give it another go before scrapping Hy-Vee totally. Maybe I need to do a smaller trip for a better feel of what's available. On a positive note, I did stick with five out of five grocery bags.

WEEK SIX: I decided to head back to the old standard, WalMart, where cheap prices and good deals awaited. This time I was accompanied by that ye olde timeless paragon of thriftiness, my mom.

And I laugh in her face. Hahaha. I spent less than she did. Of course, I should note that she was purchasing all the trimmings and fixings for Thanksgiving dinner, to which I was not invited (another story for later). In addition, I was riding the wave of "leftover meal ideas from last week." I guess my planning went awry this week, or we had leftovers or something. Anyway, my bill was a mere quarter over the hundred dollar bill mark. I only purchased four Honeycrisp apples for my husband (who covets them like Angelina Jolie wanted Brad Pitt when he was still married to Jennifer Aniston). The Honeycrisp were then socked away in a dark cave of the fridge from sticky youngster's paws. One lone apple remained this past Friday, and then became my afternoon snack.

Week One of the new grading period, that is.

My schedule is MUCH better than last tri. I still have my three freshmen classes, but they've been mixed up a little, so it's a nice change. Also, we're doing "The Odyssey" up until Christmas, and I love mythology - I've got that to look forward to.

I still have my Publications class, which has its usual burdens and chores...but still manageable. I know what to expect there.

BUT, the piece de resistance. I also have an Individualized Reading class. I still can't believe my good fortune. Every fourth period every day, 24 students come into my room, sit down, and proceed to quietly read a book for about 40 minutes. I give them a grade based on how many books they read and the conferences they do with me. Every time they finish a book, they complete some paperwork and then they conference with me about it. I should mention that this is an elective, as in THE STUDENTS CONSCIOUSLY MAKE THE CHOICE TO TAKE IT. They know what it's about.

This is unarguably the English Department's best-kept secret. Does the Superintendent know I'm getting paid to supervise students reading? To sit down and talk with them about books? To be a good role model for them by reading quietly myself?

I'll admit, though, I am waiting for the shoe to drop. They've been quietly reading for four days now and there's a small part of me that's wondering when they're going to revolt, screaming, "Enough of this! We can't take it anymore!"

Hopefully not on my watch. I'm in Book Lover Heaven.

On a brisk, but soggy, November night, three women gathered together, wrapped in various blankets and coats. Thin wisps of dark clouds scudded past the shadowy orb of the full moon. The point of the evening: to pay homage to a fourth woman.

November's full moon goes by many different names, including: Beaver Moon, White Moon, Trading Moon, Sassafras Moon, Moon When Horns Are Broken Off, Snow Moon, and Tree Moon. My favorite is the Celtic name for November - Dark Moon.

This is the turn in the Wheel of the Year that takes us to the dark, reflective side of nature. A time to stay inside, complete indoor projects, ponder the Earth at rest, and plan for her awakening.

I can't say I always welcome airing out the down-filled coats and locating lost mittens, but I do look forward to the upcoming winter weather. Without it, I could not fully appreciate the balmy warmth of spring or humid sunshine of summer.

As those three women huddled around a tiny fire composed of dry, fallen leaves and paper trash from their vehicles, they exclaimed with joy every time the fourth one peeked her head around those clouds. Full moon is the best time to work magic or begin a project, letting it come to fruition in the next twenty-eight days. So, these three women wrote down their most pressing desires or wishes and placed them in a cauldron to await the coming of the next full moon. The fourth one blessed them all safely with her light as they drove home.

...always get me down.

Yes, it's one of those days in the southeastern corner of Iowa. Gray, dreary, rainy, blustery. The quintessential weather of gothic novels the world over.

I awoke way too early this morning. I groggily attempted to understand why when I realized that I was breathing out of only one nostril. The other one was encrusted with green mucus. Let me say, friends, it has been a long time since I've had the oft-feared Outer Nostril Crust. At that point, I flipped over onto my back and felt the slight oozy feeling of my sinuses draining. No sweat, though, I rose later, popped a Echinacea along with my multivitamin, and cleared my passages in a steam-filled shower. That got me through the day...and I think the miasma of disease is seeping back into my bloodstream.

November welcomes me into her contagious, upper respiratory-infected arms. With my first cold of the season.

OK, I'm not really serious. At least, I don't think. It depends.

Kirby and I had a special girls' night out tonight, and we went to see High School Musical 3. For those of you who are blissfully unaware, HSM3 is Disney's attempt to corner the pre-teen movie market, and is, I might add here, doing a good job of it. Good enough that they've been able to make mountains out of molehills in the merchandise market (how's that for alliteration).

But really, Walt the Third, enough is enough.

About twenty minutes in, I wanted to beat my brains out on the row of seats in front of me. I wanted to drown myself in the eight inches of diet soda in the paper cup I was holding. I wanted strangle myself by my purse strap. I'm usually not given over to such fits of passion, but tonight, I was feeling it.

It's too bad, really, because I honestly enjoyed the first HSM. It was a cute plot with a few fun songs thrown in. HSM 2 was OK. The plot was still clever, the songs were OK, but the scene where Troy and Gabriella were breaking up and singing their goodbyes to each other gagged me like a plate of overcooked liver. HSM 3, however, was above and beyond. My gag reflex worked overtime. The plot was lame and trite (seniors contemplate final year's big decisions - whoa). Despite that, the plot *might have* worked had the director let the actors ACT instead of breaking out into song every ten minutes.

The songs! Oh, the songs. I think a drunken college student in a stupor slapped together some lyrics and pounded them out on his eight-year-old sister's Casio keyboard's demo track.

Zac Efron managed to look pissed throughout most of his singing numbers.

And while I'm thinking about it, here are a few other minor things that bugged me about this movie:

1. What's up with the big graduation scene (the play within the movie) where Troy announces he's going to Berkeley. His best friend, Chad, totally leaves the stage (in the middle of a show!), all pissed at Troy for not going to University of Albuquerque. Troy chases him to the basketball court, makes a few limp "friend-type" comments, then they run back to the play, friendship fixed. WTH? Chad has been living under the assumption the both of them are going to college together, and now Troy's just dropped the biggest, stinkiest turd of a bombshell on Chad's head...and Chad is angry enough to storm out in the middle of a theatrical production. Chad is a idiot. Troy is an idiot. So is Ms. Darbus. So is Troy's dad.

2. In one scene where Troy is torn because he's doesn't know what to do with his life, he drives to the high school, somehow entering the building, where he proceeds to run and dance around the entire school grounds trying to "find his way." WTH? In any other American high school, the cops would have arrested him, no holds barred.

3. Every scene Gabriella is in, she's wearing some gauzy spring dress number. And high heels. WTH? I know it's the Southwest US, but where are the more realistic sweatpants and flip-flops for god's sake? Everyone at my high school would want to kick her little fashionista ass.

4. We were duped by Sharpay. Again. WTH? In the end of every HSM, it seemed the bitch was going to change for the better and maybe act human. But, nooooooo. She went off her meds or something and suddenly became the East High Bitch Troll Queen once more. I just don't get why she's so popular.

5. Huh. As it turns out, all 1200 seniors at East High can dance, and hey, they all know the same dance routine. They also somehow know to break out into said routine at the end of Troy's graduation speech. Quelle surprise. Who knew? Maybe if my graduation had been intricately choreographed like that, my class reunion attendee turnout would be higher.

God, I'm exhausted. I haven't ranted like THAT for a long time. Of course, I don't think I've had ammo like that for a long time. God bless Disney...but seriously, please stop the HSM train now. Quit riding trying to ride on its coattails and let it go to college to become productive young adults. Please. Do it for all of us who parent an impressionable young girl.

If my daughter gets older and wants to relocate to New Mexico and become a "Wildcat", I will mercilessly persue you, Walt Jr., to the ends of the earth. For your blood.