Dan and I are headed to Santa Fe tomorrow. He has some work to do, and I’ll be devoting myself to lounging. Lounging and also digging the chilled-out Southwestern Vibe.

There will be some river rafting, a Wild West night, and a bit of gallery hopping. Plus a book club meeting on Death Comes for the Archbishop, which isn’t as bad as I feared.

Instead of joining us in The Land of Enchantment, Shef will run his grandparents ragged at the cabin in Wisconsin. I’ll miss him a little; although I won’t miss his defiant streak:

“We had a rough morning,” he explained to me on the way to school, after the worst was over.

“Um hmm,” I said. “And why was that?”

“Because,” he said nodding, “I was not cooperating with you.”

I’ll be cooperating with myself until Sunday.

This summer, so far, has been too busy. There has been party-planning, house-cleaning, sitting in the f’ing Department of Motor Vehicles and attempting unsuccessfully to be seen in the urgent care clinic.

Tomorrow, I do have a few jobs to do; but I plan to carve out a chunk of time to devote to watching Entourage. I’ve never seen it and I’ve been told it’s entertaining.

Death Comes For the Archbishop by Willa Cather.

Yeah. I know.

It's just that I couldn't see any way out of the Book Club meeting at Dan's law firm retreat next weekend, seeing as I'm an English teacher and all.

I'll let you know how it is. I'm sure I'll like it at least as much as I liked My Antonia.

Which was not at all.

It was a year of ups and downs, all of which were more manageable because of my teaching pals, Rachel and Tim, whose rooms conveniently flank mine and who cheerfully tolerate my mercurial disposition and all-too-frequent use of the f-word.

Today, Tim came into Rach’s room, where I was wiling away the moments until the goodbye luncheon, to hand over her summer viewing assignments. She’s teaching a couple of sections of Art of Film next year, and I guess she should be familiar with the ins and outs of the western, film noir, and screwball comedy.

“This one,” Tim said, holding up Bringing Up Baby, “I show out of spite.”

We laughed.

“I mean, the kids hate it, but it’s kind of funny,” he continued. “Katharine Hepburn is kind of annoying, but Cary Grant? Seriously. Even I think he’s hot.”

Shef: I’m going to need some new sunglasses.

Me: Aren’t they still in your kayak?

Shef: No.

Me: Where are they?

Shef: They’re in the deep water.

Me: They fell in the water?

Shef: Yes.

Me: While you were kayaking?

Shef: Yes.

Me: It was an accident?

Shef: No.

I said adios to two classes today. They took their final exams and will be swiftly on their way to junior year. Some shook hands or hugged. Others just gave a shout or wave from the door. Some slunk out without acknowledging the end. Dylan, who had an unfortunate plagiarism episode a week-and-a-half ago after a year of small steps forward and the slow and painful realization that "fuck" is not an appropriate word for the classroom, wrote me a heartfelt note in the back of his Blue Book: “I want you know I love you as a teacher,” he said. “I have a ton of respect for you as a person and as a teacher. I’m sorry I cheated, and I’ll never do it again.”

Good enough for me.

I’m not sure what to say as I’m coming down the homestretch. I’m actually going to miss most some of these sophs. They’re cute and kind of earnest. We’ve gotten along for the most part. Still, there’s a lot to grade, and a lot of it is half-assed and crappy. The sophs, it seems, are readier for summer than their teacher, who becomes depressed when sitting idle, but remains happily distracted from her woes while trucking along at a breakneck pace.

In this trying time I’ve reverted to Aaron Sorkin. Dan and Rachel have been aiding and abetting my addiction. At home, we’ve been watching Sports Night, a show on which the two lead characters are named Dan and Casey. Dan and Casey! Like us, only I’m an initial KC who prefers to be pronounced as a real Casey.

And at home and abroad (at Rach’s house), I’ve been re-living season one of The West Wing, a show I loved so much I thought my heart would burst if I wasn’t home on Wednesdays at eight o’clock from 1999-2004.

I’ll let you know if anything exciting happens between now and Friday.

There’s bound to be at least one thing, I suppose.