While I was waiting for the elevator this morning, I was looking at the emergency plan for the building. They've posted it in Spanish and English, because this is Texas. And just looking at that, a lot of bad things that can happen to you sound a lot better in Spanish. (This is probably the time to tell you that despite the state in which I live, I don't speak Spanish. In fact, one of my favorite TV games is "Try To Figure Out What's Going On In the Telenovela," in which I watch a telenovela and just make up my own plot as I go along. It's very entertaining.)
For instance: fire. On the emergency plan, it's listed as "incendio." That sounds like something sparked by a particularly heated political debate. "I'm a Democrat, and he's a Republican, and when we talk about the issues, sometimes it makes for a real incendio." It might also soften the blow of losing all your worldly possessions if you don't think of it as a "fire" but as an "incendio." As in: "We lost a lot of stuff in the incendio." That sort of sounds like you just misplaced your stuff in a Spanish hole or something. It should be noted that a fire in a hearth, according to spanishdict.com, is a "fuego." I like that word, too, because it sounds like a spicy food. I like spicy foods.
Also: severe weather. That one is more awesome on several different levels, because the Spanish words are "mal tiempo." It sounds like the entire atmosphere is just in a very bad mood. See? Not so bad. It's not going to take the roof off your house or anything. It's just going to storm around, saying bad words also in Spanish.
My favorite is "gunman." On the emergency plan, it says "hombre armado." This sounds, to me, like an armored man. Like maybe Iron Man. I'm pretty sure I would not hide under the desk until a voice that is known to me tells me it's safe to come out if Iron Man was here. I'd probably try to get a picture with him to show my kids. And demand that he say something pithy.
There are other words that don't sound so great when you change them from Spanish to English. For instance: pregnant. In Spanish, pregnant is "embarazada." Which sounds like you're just really embarrassed. I don't think I was ever embarrassed to be pregnant. But that word makes it sound like you're walking around perpetually beet-red and apologetic. Which may actually be how some people spend their pregnancies, I don't know.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
US History Liveblog #4: 23 Mar 2011
Here we are, kiddies, in the class that makes my skin crawl almost as much as lizard toenails.
There are just a handful of people here today. Like maybe 13 or 14.
The syllabus, optimistically, says we’re going to talk about the Age of Jackson today. Given that we haven’t actually covered the American Revolution, I’m thinking that’s doubtful.
He just told us that humor is related to human sexuality. All jokes are evidently sexual in nature. Or maybe just his. I’m assuming he’s building up to something really crass about either Japan or Libya. Just a guess. He’s been sidetracked from his sidetrack by the beauty of ethnic slurs. Yay. Oh, goody. He just taught us a new one. I won’t share it with you because it’s truly, truly horrible. Ooh, and another new one, even worse than the other one. I learned something today, and I don’t like it.
Apparently, he skipped the American Revolution outright and went straight to the Constitution on Monday. Seriously?
HE JUST ASKED IF ANYBODY IN THE CLASS WAS HOLDING.
Nobody answered. Hee.
Now he’s pointing at a Hispanic guy and telling him that when the Constitution was being drafted “YOU PEOPLE were left out of it.” (Emphasis his.)
Did you know that in French, canaille means “masses?” I thought it meant “duck.” As in quack-quack. In fact, I’m almost positive it means duck. I think maybe his French girlfriend is onto the lies he tells her about US History and is telling him lies of her own.
So, can I add two things about the lizard story? My grandmother, God rest her soul, believed that all lizards were chameleons, whether they were actually chameleons or not. And she pronounced this “sha-MEE-lee-yuns.” She was also convinced that they all bit people. This may or may not have contributed to my reptile hysteria. When M1 asked me why I was freaking out about a lizard in the front yard, I explained to her that shameeleeyuns bite people. Spike, who knows that this notion comes from my late grandmother (who, to be fair, suffered from senile dementia in her final years), piped up from down the hall: “THAT’S why you’re scared of lizards?!” He then proceeded to look it up on Google (using his iPod Touch, standing in the middle of M1’s room). He got as far as typing in D-O-SPACE-C-H-A and Google suggested “Do chameleons bite?” The answer is, yes. Yes, some of them do. I’m pretty sure that one would have, if I’d given him the chance. He looked like a bitey sort. So that’s the first thing. Then, we were still worked up about the lizard but trying to get M2 to take a damn nap, because he was really tired and really, really cranky. So, I decided it would be a great idea to tell him that if he doesn’t sleep, I’ll go find the lizard and put it in his underwear, thinking he would totally get the joke. Turns out, he was too tired to get the joke and started sobbing that I was going to put a lizard in his pants. No matter that I’ve never even spanked the child, or put anything living in his bed or in his clothes or even up to his face for examination before – apparently seven years of good parenting fly out the window and I became a person who is capable of shoving a lizard down my son’s pants. I’m not sure if that makes me sad or amused.
He’s still talking about white men with property. I would think he has a chip on his shoulder, but he’s white. Maybe it’s liberal guilt.
So, I went to Bingo today on the break between classes. I didn’t win. Again. I wonder if there’s a world record for number of bingo games that a person has played but NEVER EVER WON. I might could snag that world record.
There’s a runner that works at that bingo hall, and he speaks with a British accent that I’m fairly sure is fake. I have no idea why he would fake a British accent, but I’m almost positive he does. I have thought about asking him questions about Britain that might trip him up, but I’m not sure I care that much about it. Although it is irritating. Also, there’s a guy who works there as a runner and every time I look at him, I hope to God he has another job. He just seems really normal and capable. I just can’t believe that the only thing he’s fit for is bingo running. Maybe he has a raging meth habit. But he has all his teeth. It’s a mystery.
I think this guy is a Libertarian. He just told us to read the Constitution all the way through when we’re on the toilet. I don’t think he should make suggestions about my bathroom time.
He’s asking questions that I know the answer to, but I answered two things already and every time I talk I have to make certain that it’s not coming out the way it sounds in my head. That is, dripping with honey-coated sarcasm.
Written on the board: SEDITION ACT and SEDITIOUS LIBEL. I thought “seditious” was misspelled, but Microsoft Word says it’s right. Well done, sir! However, he forgot a pretty important word: ALIEN. And also, he forgot the whole reasoning behind the Alien and Sedition Act.
I probably would have done better to actually go eat something instead of doing that second session of Bingo. Especially given that I didn’t win. I’m hungry now. I just ate a Twix bar, but it’s not helping. I think I hear my friend Sue yelling at me all the way from Connecticut. Simmer down, Sue. I’ll go get something to eat for reals after this class is done. The little café does a pretty great chicken salad sandwich.
Now the board reads: SEDITION ACT, SEDITIOUS LIBEL and WHISKEY. Sounds like a good afternoon to me.
He really, really likes sweeping generalizations. Now he’s sweepingly generalizing people from Appalachia.
Oh Lord. We’re digressing again. He did manage to address the Whiskey Rebellion. So well done him. But he has warned us never to have sons named Plough Jobber. I’m pretty sure that won’t ever happen to me.
Sorry about that. I was looking at PostSecret for a minute because I haven’t had a minute to do that yet this week. I completely zoned out. Now he’s talking about an area of town that he likes a lot. Because that’s relevant.
I am really, really hungry.
Now the board says SEDITION ACT, SEDITIOUS LIBEL, WHISKEY, DANIEL SHAYS, PLOUGH JOBBER, REPUBLIC and LAWYERS.
It’s like a class for lunatics. Also, he really, really hates lawyers. Hope nobody in here wants to be one or anything.
A republican government is based on the low-ah? WTF? Oh, the law.
Heyyyy… I just realized that Xavier the Spaniard isn’t here. He’s supposed to be in Business Computing tonight. He’s in my group. I will be royally ticked if I end up being the only group member that shows up tonight.
Newsflash: the Civil War was absolutely not about slavery. That’s news to me.
Ohhhhh. Now we’re getting to Libya. Because that’s relevant.
This class ends so freakin’ abruptly. Susan, I am off to find something to eat. I promise.
The Story of the Sneaky Lizard, Part 2
Fast forward more than a week. To this past Sunday.
I ran out of Diet Dr. Pepper on Sunday morning. This is a huge tragedy for me. Especially because I had spent four hours working on algebra homework and did not feel like going to the corner store to get more. But too bad for me. If I wanted my caffeine high, I had to go.
The corner store is less than a mile from my house. If I were a less lazy person, I would walk there. Instead, I'm a more lazy person, so I drive there.
So, off I go. I go inside, get what I'm there for (and more besides, because it's the corner store, man, and they have Star Crunch!), and I come back to my car.
When I get in, I see something that's vaguely the same color as my car on my hood. I squint to see it better, when suddenly it turns and fixes me with an evil, malevolent eye.
It's that sneaky fucking lizard.
It is a damn good thing that I didn't see it before I got in the car, because I would still be standing on the sidewalk in front of the corner store, doing my best impression of Jay and/or Silent Bob. Probably Silent Bob because I'm fat like that, and also I'm pretty sure that seeing that lizard on the hood of my car and trying to make itself blend in with fire-engine-red paint would have short-circuited my brain, making speech impossible for the rest of my life.
I decide to drive on. In the hopes that I could get up to a good speed and the lizard would fly off my car entirely, possibly to be crushed under the wheels of whoever might be behind me.
This does not work. Instead, the lizard gets pissed off and starts leaping at my face. Thank God there was a windshield in between me and him because if he had succeeded in leaping on my face, I would have driven my car through the nearest house and the tragedy would have been horrific and in the newspaper.
Rationally, I know that there's a windshield between myself and this trespassing little bastard, but I'm not thinking rationally. So I start screaming. I'm driving down the road and I'm screaming at the top of my lungs. People who live on my street and know who I am are witnessing me driving down the street, screaming at something they probably can't see, considering that he's still trying to blend in with my paint. Sneaky motherfucker.
I pull into the driveway and decide that obviously I can't just get out - he's going to leap on me! And his toenails will scrabble on my skin! And then I can never go inside ever, because I'll have a lizard on me! So I did what any forward-thinking woman would do. I called my husband.
And he did not answer.
By this time, my next-door neighbor stopped raking his yard and started watching me because he realized that I had been in the driveway for probably a minute at that point, with absolutely no intention of getting out of my car.
The lizard is still there. Eyeballing me. Probably trying to figure out how to get into the car itself so that it could put its toenails on me.
I realize suddenly that I'm still screaming obscenities at the hood of my car. More specifically, at the lizard, but I'm pretty sure my neighbor can't see him, now that I think about it.
I start honking the horn so that my husband will come out. He comes out pretty quickly, all things considered, but my two kids come out with him, so that they can witness the abject hysteria that is their mother.
My husband comes out and says: "Oh, hey! It's that lizard!"
It's that lizard? You *knew* about this?
"Oh yeah, he rode on the hood of the car to Subway and back when the kids and I went to get lunch."
He sidles over to my side of the car, making the international signal for rolling down the window.
"NO!" I scream. "IF I ROLL DOWN THE WINDOW, HE'LL PUT HIS TOENAILS ON ME!"
Understandably, this befuddles Spike.
"GET HIM OFF MY CAR!"
Spike sort of waves a hand at the lizard, and the lizard obligingly hops down and finds refuge in the wheel of Spike's car. Which happens to be right next to where I have to walk if I get out of the car.
I decide right then that I'm going to become a car hobo. I've slept in my car before. It's not that bad. I am never getting out again until somebody can show me the lifeless body of the reptile.
I scream this through my rolled-up window. My children begin to cry. I have to get out of the car. I grab the bag from the corner store and sprint to the front door. I try to explain to my husband that that is the self-same lizard that menaced me a week earlier.
He says: "The exact one? Nah. Probably it's a different one."
There are two of them?
You know, I like my house. Maybe I'll stay in here. Forever. With all the doors and windows shut. And maybe locked in case lizards can learn how to open windows.
I ran out of Diet Dr. Pepper on Sunday morning. This is a huge tragedy for me. Especially because I had spent four hours working on algebra homework and did not feel like going to the corner store to get more. But too bad for me. If I wanted my caffeine high, I had to go.
The corner store is less than a mile from my house. If I were a less lazy person, I would walk there. Instead, I'm a more lazy person, so I drive there.
So, off I go. I go inside, get what I'm there for (and more besides, because it's the corner store, man, and they have Star Crunch!), and I come back to my car.
When I get in, I see something that's vaguely the same color as my car on my hood. I squint to see it better, when suddenly it turns and fixes me with an evil, malevolent eye.
It's that sneaky fucking lizard.
It is a damn good thing that I didn't see it before I got in the car, because I would still be standing on the sidewalk in front of the corner store, doing my best impression of Jay and/or Silent Bob. Probably Silent Bob because I'm fat like that, and also I'm pretty sure that seeing that lizard on the hood of my car and trying to make itself blend in with fire-engine-red paint would have short-circuited my brain, making speech impossible for the rest of my life.
I decide to drive on. In the hopes that I could get up to a good speed and the lizard would fly off my car entirely, possibly to be crushed under the wheels of whoever might be behind me.
This does not work. Instead, the lizard gets pissed off and starts leaping at my face. Thank God there was a windshield in between me and him because if he had succeeded in leaping on my face, I would have driven my car through the nearest house and the tragedy would have been horrific and in the newspaper.
Rationally, I know that there's a windshield between myself and this trespassing little bastard, but I'm not thinking rationally. So I start screaming. I'm driving down the road and I'm screaming at the top of my lungs. People who live on my street and know who I am are witnessing me driving down the street, screaming at something they probably can't see, considering that he's still trying to blend in with my paint. Sneaky motherfucker.
I pull into the driveway and decide that obviously I can't just get out - he's going to leap on me! And his toenails will scrabble on my skin! And then I can never go inside ever, because I'll have a lizard on me! So I did what any forward-thinking woman would do. I called my husband.
And he did not answer.
By this time, my next-door neighbor stopped raking his yard and started watching me because he realized that I had been in the driveway for probably a minute at that point, with absolutely no intention of getting out of my car.
The lizard is still there. Eyeballing me. Probably trying to figure out how to get into the car itself so that it could put its toenails on me.
I realize suddenly that I'm still screaming obscenities at the hood of my car. More specifically, at the lizard, but I'm pretty sure my neighbor can't see him, now that I think about it.
I start honking the horn so that my husband will come out. He comes out pretty quickly, all things considered, but my two kids come out with him, so that they can witness the abject hysteria that is their mother.
My husband comes out and says: "Oh, hey! It's that lizard!"
It's that lizard? You *knew* about this?
"Oh yeah, he rode on the hood of the car to Subway and back when the kids and I went to get lunch."
He sidles over to my side of the car, making the international signal for rolling down the window.
"NO!" I scream. "IF I ROLL DOWN THE WINDOW, HE'LL PUT HIS TOENAILS ON ME!"
Understandably, this befuddles Spike.
"GET HIM OFF MY CAR!"
Spike sort of waves a hand at the lizard, and the lizard obligingly hops down and finds refuge in the wheel of Spike's car. Which happens to be right next to where I have to walk if I get out of the car.
I decide right then that I'm going to become a car hobo. I've slept in my car before. It's not that bad. I am never getting out again until somebody can show me the lifeless body of the reptile.
I scream this through my rolled-up window. My children begin to cry. I have to get out of the car. I grab the bag from the corner store and sprint to the front door. I try to explain to my husband that that is the self-same lizard that menaced me a week earlier.
He says: "The exact one? Nah. Probably it's a different one."
There are two of them?
You know, I like my house. Maybe I'll stay in here. Forever. With all the doors and windows shut. And maybe locked in case lizards can learn how to open windows.
The Story of the Sneaky Lizard, Part 1
Spring Break week had some really, really lovely weather. I opened all the windows in my house almost every day, including the big sliding glass door that leads to the patio.
On the first Friday, I worked half a day(ish) and came home to wait for my brother and nephew to arrive. I opened up the sliding glass door and slid the screen door shut to keep the cats in. Something fell at my feet.
It was a lizard.
Now, I don't like reptiles. I have deep-rooted reasons for my hatred of snakes, and less rational reasons for the hatred of lizards and such. (Except, I will say this: toenails. Little, scrabbling toenails. Possibly on my skin. See? You hate them too.) I don't mind frogs and toads (no toenails that I know of), but I hate reptiles. I hate even going into the reptile house at the Zoo, but I do it because that's how much I love my children.
This lizard was a skinny little thing, probably eight or nine inches from nose to tail. He was dark green and he had evil, malevolent eyes. He was such a surprise that I screamed. He jumped. At me. I screamed again.
I don't think I have mentioned: I have a giant cat. I have a cat who is half-black, half-Siamese. He can put his back feet on the floor and reach his front feet all the way up on the kitchen cabinet. He has to weigh at least twenty pounds. And he loves me irrationally and devotedly.
When I screamed, he came running.
At that point, I realized that if I didn't get this reptile out of the house now, I was going to have lizard guts all over the floor and also probably puke from when my cat's pampered little stomach tried to process lizard. So instead of screaming hysterically at the cosmos as I had been, I started screaming at the lizard.
"RUN!! IF YOU VALUE YOUR LIFE!!"
I shoved the screen door open and kept screaming at him till he finally decided that going out the open door was probably the best way to get away from my ear-splitting screeches (assuming lizards have ears), and he left. I slammed the screen door after him. My cat was pissed. This asshole little lizard decided to show the cat who was boss and sat on my back porch in plain view for a full fifteen minutes. The next time I went to look for him, he was gone.
That should have been the last I saw of the lizard.
On the first Friday, I worked half a day(ish) and came home to wait for my brother and nephew to arrive. I opened up the sliding glass door and slid the screen door shut to keep the cats in. Something fell at my feet.
It was a lizard.
Now, I don't like reptiles. I have deep-rooted reasons for my hatred of snakes, and less rational reasons for the hatred of lizards and such. (Except, I will say this: toenails. Little, scrabbling toenails. Possibly on my skin. See? You hate them too.) I don't mind frogs and toads (no toenails that I know of), but I hate reptiles. I hate even going into the reptile house at the Zoo, but I do it because that's how much I love my children.
This lizard was a skinny little thing, probably eight or nine inches from nose to tail. He was dark green and he had evil, malevolent eyes. He was such a surprise that I screamed. He jumped. At me. I screamed again.
I don't think I have mentioned: I have a giant cat. I have a cat who is half-black, half-Siamese. He can put his back feet on the floor and reach his front feet all the way up on the kitchen cabinet. He has to weigh at least twenty pounds. And he loves me irrationally and devotedly.
When I screamed, he came running.
At that point, I realized that if I didn't get this reptile out of the house now, I was going to have lizard guts all over the floor and also probably puke from when my cat's pampered little stomach tried to process lizard. So instead of screaming hysterically at the cosmos as I had been, I started screaming at the lizard.
"RUN!! IF YOU VALUE YOUR LIFE!!"
I shoved the screen door open and kept screaming at him till he finally decided that going out the open door was probably the best way to get away from my ear-splitting screeches (assuming lizards have ears), and he left. I slammed the screen door after him. My cat was pissed. This asshole little lizard decided to show the cat who was boss and sat on my back porch in plain view for a full fifteen minutes. The next time I went to look for him, he was gone.
That should have been the last I saw of the lizard.
Spring Break Was Last Week
Did you like what I did there? A little symmetry for the post that was titled "Spring Break is Next Week?"
It's not awesome when I have to explain it, I know.
Spring Break went by really, really fast. I did get to immerse myself in basketball, which was awesome. I had a varying number of kids in my house all week - sometimes the requisite number (two), sometimes more (three for one day and night and for a memorable thirty minutes, four), sometimes less (I had one kid or the other depending on the day, and for one beautiful afternoon, zero). By Thursday night, we had forgotten what M1 looked like, because she had gone and spent pretty much the entire week with her friend E. Thursday night was when we finally pried them apart.
We learned valuable lessons on Spring Break this year. Such as: if you think the Zoo would be an awesome way to pass a day, so does the entire population of the metropolis you live near. And also, that metropolis's park rangers have figured out to close down all the free parking and funnel the one bajillion hopeful zoo-goers into pay-only lots. So, note to self. Get up early and do the members-only hour before the zoo opens up to everybody else. Or stay home. Those are your choices.
I also learned that my children don't love baskeball nearly as much as I do, but can be suckered into watching if the game is close at the end. And, like most other sports, M2 can get invested heart-and-soul into a game he's been watching for approximately two minutes, and then howl like someone killed his dog (he doesn't even have a dog) when the team he randomly chose to root for based on uniform color/school name/school mascot/irrational hatred of Jimmer Fredette loses.
So, that's my post about Spring Break. We did get to spend some time with my brother, sister-in-law and nephew, which was pretty awesome. And I have a couple of other awesome stories. Including one with a lizard which I will post next. Stay tuned.
I have a great story about a lizard, but it really deserves its own post.
It's not awesome when I have to explain it, I know.
Spring Break went by really, really fast. I did get to immerse myself in basketball, which was awesome. I had a varying number of kids in my house all week - sometimes the requisite number (two), sometimes more (three for one day and night and for a memorable thirty minutes, four), sometimes less (I had one kid or the other depending on the day, and for one beautiful afternoon, zero). By Thursday night, we had forgotten what M1 looked like, because she had gone and spent pretty much the entire week with her friend E. Thursday night was when we finally pried them apart.
We learned valuable lessons on Spring Break this year. Such as: if you think the Zoo would be an awesome way to pass a day, so does the entire population of the metropolis you live near. And also, that metropolis's park rangers have figured out to close down all the free parking and funnel the one bajillion hopeful zoo-goers into pay-only lots. So, note to self. Get up early and do the members-only hour before the zoo opens up to everybody else. Or stay home. Those are your choices.
I also learned that my children don't love baskeball nearly as much as I do, but can be suckered into watching if the game is close at the end. And, like most other sports, M2 can get invested heart-and-soul into a game he's been watching for approximately two minutes, and then howl like someone killed his dog (he doesn't even have a dog) when the team he randomly chose to root for based on uniform color/school name/school mascot/irrational hatred of Jimmer Fredette loses.
So, that's my post about Spring Break. We did get to spend some time with my brother, sister-in-law and nephew, which was pretty awesome. And I have a couple of other awesome stories. Including one with a lizard which I will post next. Stay tuned.
I have a great story about a lizard, but it really deserves its own post.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Got My Test Back.
I've been so mad about this that I couldn't even speak of it for the last day or so. It's my own personal hurt locker right now. Except instead of "hurt" that should say "RAGE."
I got an A-/B+. He can't even grade correctly.
What this means, apparently, is that my actual grade on this test depends on the rest of my body of work. If it's crap, I get the B+. If the rest of it is good, I get an A-.
Is that even legal? I have never heard of this in my life.
Here's what I ended up getting dinged for: he wanted me to cite more historical references on the second essay question, despite my detailed explanation of the triangle trade. And also, use conclusions. On a question that says "DESCRIBE." There is no conclusion - it's a fucking description!
I could use about a thousand exclamation points after that last sentence, but since I am not a hack, I won't.
I am sucking it up. I am moving on. Despite my clearly superior essay writing skills and the pretentious little note he left at the bottom of the page.
Oh yeah, and the first page of short answers? Not a mark on them. I'm not even sure he read them. Bastard.
I got an A-/B+. He can't even grade correctly.
What this means, apparently, is that my actual grade on this test depends on the rest of my body of work. If it's crap, I get the B+. If the rest of it is good, I get an A-.
Is that even legal? I have never heard of this in my life.
Here's what I ended up getting dinged for: he wanted me to cite more historical references on the second essay question, despite my detailed explanation of the triangle trade. And also, use conclusions. On a question that says "DESCRIBE." There is no conclusion - it's a fucking description!
I could use about a thousand exclamation points after that last sentence, but since I am not a hack, I won't.
I am sucking it up. I am moving on. Despite my clearly superior essay writing skills and the pretentious little note he left at the bottom of the page.
Oh yeah, and the first page of short answers? Not a mark on them. I'm not even sure he read them. Bastard.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
US History Liveblog #3: 9 Mar 2011
2:49pm - I'm starting to suspect that this dude reads my blog. He started the class with "Here I am again, in this damn history class. But hey - you bought the ticket."
Uh-oh.
I should note that I saw him today in the non-CCC affiliated cafe on the golf course next to the campus. He was watching the History Channel. Hey, friend: it's not helping.
First digression! 2:50pm - he's reminiscing about walking into a British courtroom and seeing the barristers, etc., with the wigs. Insert Monty Python-esque Ministry of Silly Walks across the front of the classroom.
He says that one of the quintessential Enlightenment documents in existence is the United States Constitution. Hmmmm, maybe. I could see that, maybe. And then he called the drafters of the Constitution "those boys." Sigh.
We're revisiting the whole Benjamin Franklin deal that we talked about last week. He just warned us not to put a key on the end of a kite in a lightning storm. Thanks for your concern for our safety, sir. Also don't try putting a metal rod on top of your house. He doesn't suggest you should hire a professional to do that for you (hey, I've seen Dirty Jobs), just don't do it. Ever.
And now, here's a story that happened earlier today. I should preface this story by saying that I went to high school in the ghetto back in the day. But today I was privy to the most interesting conversation I've listened to since I got to CCC. One girl was talking to another girl - apparently they went to junior high together. They were catching up on how some people from junior high were doing. And then the whole thing devolved into a litany of people that each of them had fought with over some boy up until the present day. Holy crap. One of them said "If I've placed with you, I don't wanna be your friend." Well, I shouldn't think so. If I've had your fist slam into my face, I don't wanna be your friend, either. The other one said "Well, I was gonna hit her, but I was boxing at the time, and my fists was registered. So if I hit her, I'd have to go to jail. I did go to jail for two weeks, though. Because I fought the teacher that was trying to hold me back." Awesome. Unintentionally awesome. I want to register my fists. I want a certificate and everything. It should have a picture of my fists and gold lettering and I will hang it on my wall. Then if anybody pisses me off, I won't even say anything to them. I'll just point silently to my certificate of registration for my fists.
Still talking about Ben Franklin.
So here's another story that happened earlier today. We were talking about Napster in Radio and TV and the teacher asked the guy a question about it. His response: "I don't know. I was, like, eight at the time." I have no words.
Oh, he does have our tests! Redemption! But he won't give them to us until the end of class. Redemption, again, revoked. I don't think he's ever been redeemed without revocation. He remains unredeemed.
I really wish I had bought a Diet Dr. Pepper before this class. I'm thirsty.
You know, sometimes, I think maybe he has weird little strokes. He says two or three words that don't appear to have any connection to each other at all. Like "lay exhorting." What?
Second digression: televangelists. He just impressed upon us his own personal diversity by claiming that he's been to synagogues, temples, White Christian Churches and Black Christian Churches. Upon which he did his best impression of a "black church." I'm sure the one black guy in our class loves that. It was complete with "OH JAYSUS." That wasn't racist at all.
Speaking of racist, he once told us that the origin of the word "honky" was the white boys that would date black girls and wouldn't go up to the house and ring the doorbell: they'd honk the car horn for them. For the actual origin of the word "honky": http://www.straightdope.com/columns/read/756/whats-the-origin-of-honky
By the way, did you know that you don't see a lot of white Baptists around these days? Only black ones. Somebody better tell my entire white Baptist family.
Now he's calling us all "brothers and sisters" like this is a church service. AGONY. TORTURE. I AM DOING THIS FOR YOU, PEOPLE.
Not to be overly academic or to mince words: "Why was the American Revolution a revolution at all?"
That's not overly academic or mincing words. That's just a stupid question. Anytime a band of rebels fights against an established government or regime, that's a revolution. That's an actual definition. Look it up.
He claims that the French Revolution and the Russian Revolution are actual revolutions. But the American Revolution, not so much, because there were "no fundamental changes" after the war was over. Because the slaves weren't free, women weren't un-oppressed, and still only landowners could vote. So a better term would be "rebellion." Noooooo, a rebellion is a failed revolution. Doesn't the whole change from monarchy to democracy count as a fundamental change? He says we should interpret it how we want. Good. I will. Your ideas are prime examples of asshat fuckery.
Oh my Jesus. He just said that British soldiers were called "lobster butts." Lobsterbacks, you absolute assface.
There is a really long metal pole in this room for no discernible reason. I want to hit him with it.
And now it's time for a dance break. Just select your own music and boogie down right where you are, because you would be really bored if we all have to go through a description of 1700s British Society AGAIN. He doesn't know much about this, either, but he thinks he does and he likes to talk about it. A lot.
Here are some other oft-repeated phrases:
Now he's threatening imaginary penguins with an imaginary gun. He wants them to fish for him.
If I don't have an A on this test, I'm going to flip a trashcan or something on my way out. OK, not really, but I'll think about doing that. And maybe if I think about it hard enough, I could do it telekinetically. I'll probably be pissed off enough. Kind of like the Firestarter.
First student walked out right now: 3:24pm.
I think maybe he lived in Australia for awhile and somebody lied to him and told him it was Britain. Because whenever he lapses into stories about Britain, he uses an Australian accent.
Oh, mercy. He just used the word "dudettes."
Sorry, I blanked again. I think I was singing "Skip to My Lou" in my head. 3:30pm. I'm really hoping he'll run out of steam soon, but I think that's a futile hope.
I have to say, the little restaurant on the golf course makes really great fries. They were fresh and crispy.
I think I actually see my test in the stack. It's calling to me. "Help me! Liberate me!" I'm coming, test paper! I just have to sit here until he finally runs out of words!
We're missing about half of the students today. It's been that way all day. People are just starting Spring Break early, I guess. We're also missing The Amazing Spider-Man, but he might have just missed the bus.
3:35 - for the last two minutes, he's been reading a "quote" from Ethan Allen. It said nothing about furniture. In the same way, quotes from Sam Adams seem never to mention beer.
You know, I'm starting to think that we might just breeze right through the American Revolution without ever talking about a single event. Just ideas. It's really irritating. I love the events. And if the "ideas" are that it's not actually a revolution but more like a rebellion, he can take his ideas and shove them right where the sun doesn't shine.
He just claimed that the poor people of Boston never got married: they just cohabitated. I may have to get a tattoo that says "I'm pretty sure that's not how it went." I'll just point to it when my bullshit-meter goes off in this class. I should probably get it done in neon, actual neon. Save myself a shitload of pointing.
I'm not certain, but I think he might be trying to foment revolution here in this class. I'm not sure if this is symbolic for the discussion or what. He might be trying to overthrow something. Or maybe he just likes rallies.
He claims that the people of Boston rioted (which they did) and knocked over Stamp Act kiosks with people in them and that was pretty much it. I'm pretty sure that's not how it went.
You know, this class would probably be tolerable with a beer. Or six. I'd certainly be happier.
Actually said just now: "How do you focus that energy? BOOM." Is that the answer? Boom? Is that a verb? Is that the solution to the energy focus problem?
And then he just stopped. This is the weirdest fucking class. He's passing out the tests now, so I'm posting. I'll let you know how I do.
Uh-oh.
I should note that I saw him today in the non-CCC affiliated cafe on the golf course next to the campus. He was watching the History Channel. Hey, friend: it's not helping.
First digression! 2:50pm - he's reminiscing about walking into a British courtroom and seeing the barristers, etc., with the wigs. Insert Monty Python-esque Ministry of Silly Walks across the front of the classroom.
He says that one of the quintessential Enlightenment documents in existence is the United States Constitution. Hmmmm, maybe. I could see that, maybe. And then he called the drafters of the Constitution "those boys." Sigh.
We're revisiting the whole Benjamin Franklin deal that we talked about last week. He just warned us not to put a key on the end of a kite in a lightning storm. Thanks for your concern for our safety, sir. Also don't try putting a metal rod on top of your house. He doesn't suggest you should hire a professional to do that for you (hey, I've seen Dirty Jobs), just don't do it. Ever.
And now, here's a story that happened earlier today. I should preface this story by saying that I went to high school in the ghetto back in the day. But today I was privy to the most interesting conversation I've listened to since I got to CCC. One girl was talking to another girl - apparently they went to junior high together. They were catching up on how some people from junior high were doing. And then the whole thing devolved into a litany of people that each of them had fought with over some boy up until the present day. Holy crap. One of them said "If I've placed with you, I don't wanna be your friend." Well, I shouldn't think so. If I've had your fist slam into my face, I don't wanna be your friend, either. The other one said "Well, I was gonna hit her, but I was boxing at the time, and my fists was registered. So if I hit her, I'd have to go to jail. I did go to jail for two weeks, though. Because I fought the teacher that was trying to hold me back." Awesome. Unintentionally awesome. I want to register my fists. I want a certificate and everything. It should have a picture of my fists and gold lettering and I will hang it on my wall. Then if anybody pisses me off, I won't even say anything to them. I'll just point silently to my certificate of registration for my fists.
Still talking about Ben Franklin.
So here's another story that happened earlier today. We were talking about Napster in Radio and TV and the teacher asked the guy a question about it. His response: "I don't know. I was, like, eight at the time." I have no words.
Oh, he does have our tests! Redemption! But he won't give them to us until the end of class. Redemption, again, revoked. I don't think he's ever been redeemed without revocation. He remains unredeemed.
I really wish I had bought a Diet Dr. Pepper before this class. I'm thirsty.
You know, sometimes, I think maybe he has weird little strokes. He says two or three words that don't appear to have any connection to each other at all. Like "lay exhorting." What?
Second digression: televangelists. He just impressed upon us his own personal diversity by claiming that he's been to synagogues, temples, White Christian Churches and Black Christian Churches. Upon which he did his best impression of a "black church." I'm sure the one black guy in our class loves that. It was complete with "OH JAYSUS." That wasn't racist at all.
Speaking of racist, he once told us that the origin of the word "honky" was the white boys that would date black girls and wouldn't go up to the house and ring the doorbell: they'd honk the car horn for them. For the actual origin of the word "honky": http://www.straightdope.com/columns/read/756/whats-the-origin-of-honky
By the way, did you know that you don't see a lot of white Baptists around these days? Only black ones. Somebody better tell my entire white Baptist family.
Now he's calling us all "brothers and sisters" like this is a church service. AGONY. TORTURE. I AM DOING THIS FOR YOU, PEOPLE.
Not to be overly academic or to mince words: "Why was the American Revolution a revolution at all?"
That's not overly academic or mincing words. That's just a stupid question. Anytime a band of rebels fights against an established government or regime, that's a revolution. That's an actual definition. Look it up.
He claims that the French Revolution and the Russian Revolution are actual revolutions. But the American Revolution, not so much, because there were "no fundamental changes" after the war was over. Because the slaves weren't free, women weren't un-oppressed, and still only landowners could vote. So a better term would be "rebellion." Noooooo, a rebellion is a failed revolution. Doesn't the whole change from monarchy to democracy count as a fundamental change? He says we should interpret it how we want. Good. I will. Your ideas are prime examples of asshat fuckery.
Oh my Jesus. He just said that British soldiers were called "lobster butts." Lobsterbacks, you absolute assface.
There is a really long metal pole in this room for no discernible reason. I want to hit him with it.
And now it's time for a dance break. Just select your own music and boogie down right where you are, because you would be really bored if we all have to go through a description of 1700s British Society AGAIN. He doesn't know much about this, either, but he thinks he does and he likes to talk about it. A lot.
Here are some other oft-repeated phrases:
- In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue. (We know.)
- A hungry man is an angry man.
Now he's threatening imaginary penguins with an imaginary gun. He wants them to fish for him.
If I don't have an A on this test, I'm going to flip a trashcan or something on my way out. OK, not really, but I'll think about doing that. And maybe if I think about it hard enough, I could do it telekinetically. I'll probably be pissed off enough. Kind of like the Firestarter.
First student walked out right now: 3:24pm.
I think maybe he lived in Australia for awhile and somebody lied to him and told him it was Britain. Because whenever he lapses into stories about Britain, he uses an Australian accent.
Oh, mercy. He just used the word "dudettes."
Sorry, I blanked again. I think I was singing "Skip to My Lou" in my head. 3:30pm. I'm really hoping he'll run out of steam soon, but I think that's a futile hope.
I have to say, the little restaurant on the golf course makes really great fries. They were fresh and crispy.
I think I actually see my test in the stack. It's calling to me. "Help me! Liberate me!" I'm coming, test paper! I just have to sit here until he finally runs out of words!
We're missing about half of the students today. It's been that way all day. People are just starting Spring Break early, I guess. We're also missing The Amazing Spider-Man, but he might have just missed the bus.
3:35 - for the last two minutes, he's been reading a "quote" from Ethan Allen. It said nothing about furniture. In the same way, quotes from Sam Adams seem never to mention beer.
You know, I'm starting to think that we might just breeze right through the American Revolution without ever talking about a single event. Just ideas. It's really irritating. I love the events. And if the "ideas" are that it's not actually a revolution but more like a rebellion, he can take his ideas and shove them right where the sun doesn't shine.
He just claimed that the poor people of Boston never got married: they just cohabitated. I may have to get a tattoo that says "I'm pretty sure that's not how it went." I'll just point to it when my bullshit-meter goes off in this class. I should probably get it done in neon, actual neon. Save myself a shitload of pointing.
I'm not certain, but I think he might be trying to foment revolution here in this class. I'm not sure if this is symbolic for the discussion or what. He might be trying to overthrow something. Or maybe he just likes rallies.
He claims that the people of Boston rioted (which they did) and knocked over Stamp Act kiosks with people in them and that was pretty much it. I'm pretty sure that's not how it went.
You know, this class would probably be tolerable with a beer. Or six. I'd certainly be happier.
Actually said just now: "How do you focus that energy? BOOM." Is that the answer? Boom? Is that a verb? Is that the solution to the energy focus problem?
And then he just stopped. This is the weirdest fucking class. He's passing out the tests now, so I'm posting. I'll let you know how I do.
SP: War Is Easier Than College (Mike the Iraq War Vet)
One of the first people I met at CCC was a guy named Mike. Mike is a former Marine who is going to school on the GI Bill. He had had two tours in Iraq and was done up with his service, so he decided to go to school.
A couple of weeks ago, Mike sat down at the picnic table and said to me "This schoolwork is so hard. I think I'm going to re-enlist and go to Afghanistan."
I stared and him, absolutely aghast, and said, "War is easier than college?"
Completely straight-faced, he replied: "For me it is."
That made me really sad for him. I wanted to encourage him to stick with it and for God's sake, don't re-enlist to go get blown up by an IED, but he changed the subject after I said just a couple of sentences to that effect, so I let it go.
Nobody has seen him since that day. I wonder every week if he'll turn up at the picnic table and he hasn't. The Tall Skinny Kid Whose Name I Don't Know But Who Jumps Right In to Conversations hasn't seen him either, and they were classmates. I really hope he's safe and everything.
I asked him that day what his major was, thinking that might have been the problem.
His answer? "Early Childhood Education."
See there? Your kids make soldiers want to go back to war.
A couple of weeks ago, Mike sat down at the picnic table and said to me "This schoolwork is so hard. I think I'm going to re-enlist and go to Afghanistan."
I stared and him, absolutely aghast, and said, "War is easier than college?"
Completely straight-faced, he replied: "For me it is."
That made me really sad for him. I wanted to encourage him to stick with it and for God's sake, don't re-enlist to go get blown up by an IED, but he changed the subject after I said just a couple of sentences to that effect, so I let it go.
Nobody has seen him since that day. I wonder every week if he'll turn up at the picnic table and he hasn't. The Tall Skinny Kid Whose Name I Don't Know But Who Jumps Right In to Conversations hasn't seen him either, and they were classmates. I really hope he's safe and everything.
I asked him that day what his major was, thinking that might have been the problem.
His answer? "Early Childhood Education."
See there? Your kids make soldiers want to go back to war.
An Open Letter to CCC Students
(BTW - this is written after I went ahead and trudged the hundred miles to get breakfast tacos. I'm fed, but I'm not any less cranky.)
Dear CCC Students,
I have to share this educational space with you little bastards, so let's discuss some issues I have with you.
Stop getting behind me on the stairs and then sighing when I'm not walking fast enough. Fucking go around me. I am a reasonably in-shape person, but I'm still a gigantic, mountain of a woman carrying a fifty-pound backpack on my back. And yes, I wear it with two straps, because if I don't, the sheer weight of the knowledge yet to be imparted to me would cause it to fall on the ground and break my damn laptop (which probably accounts for at least half the weight anyway). Also, wearing it with two straps causes me to throw my shoulders back in a weird sort of upright posture that I'm not accustomed to, thereby causing me to feel like I'm having a heart attack at any moment. You would be wise just to STFU and go around me.
When you tell me that I look older than 32 and then ask me for a favor? It's highly unlikely that you will get said favor. It's far more likely that I will follow you to your car and then have a Kathy Bates moment, whereupon I ram the everlovin' shit out of your car with my car and then speed away, cackling and yelling "I'm older and have more insurance."
Stop taking up all the study carrols that have plugs for laptops if you did not even bring your laptop. See the red tags? Those carrols are for people who have technology to plug in. They are for people who have blog posts to write. Find one without a red tag and sit your happy ass down.
Also, we must address the screaming and beatings in the common areas. I realize that for some of you, it's some sort of courting ritual, but I haven't actually seen a boy beat a girl with a belt since I was in high school. Besides the whole feminist angle where I point out that having this as part of your romance thereby tacitly makes it okay for domestic violence further down the line, it's fucking annoying. Stop it. If you want to scream at each other and beat each other with fashion accessories, do it somewhere else.
In class, please just assume that you are an idiot and keep your goddamn mouth shut. I don't really want or need your commentary considering its contents probably won't be on the test, but if you want to see me turn all Ghostbusters-ghostly-librarian on your ass, keep going. I promise you I will shush you and then my face will turn into a version of hell only brought to you previously by really bad special effects houses in really bad movies. (Disclaimer: Ghostbusters is not a really bad movie. But the special effects are dated.)
On that same note, it is not cute when you wander in late to class. I can totally understand it once in awhile, but when it's you, twice weekly, wandering in with a shit-eating grin on your face, I begin to hate you really hard.
Even more of the same, quit your fucking whining. It's cute when my nine-year-old says "it's hard" because she does it as a joke with a cute little voice. It's not cute when you do it. Tell it to your mommy. Some of it is hard, but sack up and figure it out.
Hey, non-traditional students. Where the hell do you all go? I see you walking around out there and in the little cafe and whatnot, but where do you go after that? You're not in any of my classes except Elementary Algebra. Did I just pick the wrong classes?
I do not want to see your underwear. And I'm not talking about the boys. I could give a rat's ass about them. If I can see the top of your thong and know that the rest of it is firmly wedged up your ass at this very moment, that is far too much for me to think about. Eighteen-year-old tart on the commons, I'm talking to you. (Also, didn't that particular fashion go out around the time of Monica Lewinsky? Or am I just out of date yet again?)
On the flip side of that, what's with that one Amish-looking girl? Seriously, this is Texas. Do we even have Amish people here? And if so, how is she allowed to go to CCC? We have computers and crap here. I think we might be full of the devil. I may have to talk to that girl the next time I see her walking around and find out exactly what's going on, because that one's keeping me up nights.
Okay, I think I've covered it all for today. But I have to tell you, you're working my last good nerve, and unless Spring Break gets here really soon, I cannot be responsible for my actions when it finally snaps.
Dear CCC Students,
I have to share this educational space with you little bastards, so let's discuss some issues I have with you.
Stop getting behind me on the stairs and then sighing when I'm not walking fast enough. Fucking go around me. I am a reasonably in-shape person, but I'm still a gigantic, mountain of a woman carrying a fifty-pound backpack on my back. And yes, I wear it with two straps, because if I don't, the sheer weight of the knowledge yet to be imparted to me would cause it to fall on the ground and break my damn laptop (which probably accounts for at least half the weight anyway). Also, wearing it with two straps causes me to throw my shoulders back in a weird sort of upright posture that I'm not accustomed to, thereby causing me to feel like I'm having a heart attack at any moment. You would be wise just to STFU and go around me.
When you tell me that I look older than 32 and then ask me for a favor? It's highly unlikely that you will get said favor. It's far more likely that I will follow you to your car and then have a Kathy Bates moment, whereupon I ram the everlovin' shit out of your car with my car and then speed away, cackling and yelling "I'm older and have more insurance."
Stop taking up all the study carrols that have plugs for laptops if you did not even bring your laptop. See the red tags? Those carrols are for people who have technology to plug in. They are for people who have blog posts to write. Find one without a red tag and sit your happy ass down.
Also, we must address the screaming and beatings in the common areas. I realize that for some of you, it's some sort of courting ritual, but I haven't actually seen a boy beat a girl with a belt since I was in high school. Besides the whole feminist angle where I point out that having this as part of your romance thereby tacitly makes it okay for domestic violence further down the line, it's fucking annoying. Stop it. If you want to scream at each other and beat each other with fashion accessories, do it somewhere else.
In class, please just assume that you are an idiot and keep your goddamn mouth shut. I don't really want or need your commentary considering its contents probably won't be on the test, but if you want to see me turn all Ghostbusters-ghostly-librarian on your ass, keep going. I promise you I will shush you and then my face will turn into a version of hell only brought to you previously by really bad special effects houses in really bad movies. (Disclaimer: Ghostbusters is not a really bad movie. But the special effects are dated.)
On that same note, it is not cute when you wander in late to class. I can totally understand it once in awhile, but when it's you, twice weekly, wandering in with a shit-eating grin on your face, I begin to hate you really hard.
Even more of the same, quit your fucking whining. It's cute when my nine-year-old says "it's hard" because she does it as a joke with a cute little voice. It's not cute when you do it. Tell it to your mommy. Some of it is hard, but sack up and figure it out.
Hey, non-traditional students. Where the hell do you all go? I see you walking around out there and in the little cafe and whatnot, but where do you go after that? You're not in any of my classes except Elementary Algebra. Did I just pick the wrong classes?
I do not want to see your underwear. And I'm not talking about the boys. I could give a rat's ass about them. If I can see the top of your thong and know that the rest of it is firmly wedged up your ass at this very moment, that is far too much for me to think about. Eighteen-year-old tart on the commons, I'm talking to you. (Also, didn't that particular fashion go out around the time of Monica Lewinsky? Or am I just out of date yet again?)
On the flip side of that, what's with that one Amish-looking girl? Seriously, this is Texas. Do we even have Amish people here? And if so, how is she allowed to go to CCC? We have computers and crap here. I think we might be full of the devil. I may have to talk to that girl the next time I see her walking around and find out exactly what's going on, because that one's keeping me up nights.
Okay, I think I've covered it all for today. But I have to tell you, you're working my last good nerve, and unless Spring Break gets here really soon, I cannot be responsible for my actions when it finally snaps.
Agony + Torture = US History Class
I'm out of sorts today.
My hair is frizzy. My hands are dry. I've broken two fingernails since I got up this morning. It's cold...ish, so I keep having to take off my jacket when I get a bit too hot and put it back on when I get a bit too cold. I could really use a pedicure. I'm so tired and so ready for Spring Break that I'm already considering doing the hobo thing and sleeping in my car during the break before afternoon classes. I'm hungry but the little cafe that does awesome breakfast tacos seems like it's a hundred miles away, and now the choice is do I trudge those hundred miles or do I just suffer? (You know I'm going to trudge. Just as soon as I quit being so goddamn lazy.)
And to top it all off, today, I have to go to US History.
Now that I know he can focus, it's a split kind of torture. Either the class can be the most boring class known to mankind, or it can be a bewildering mass of contradictions that just might send me into a coma of absolute befuddlement. Either way, I don't wanna go.
But this is what you sign up for, right? It's a crapshoot. Some classes are going to be crap, and you're going to hate them. And some classes you're going to love. Irrationally, I really like my algebra class, despite the fact that algebra makes me want to punch a baby. I like the teacher, I like the people, and he makes the subject matter a lot less mystifying and a lot less terrifying. It's a good class. I like Introduction to Radio and TV okay, despite the fact that it's not what I wanted and there's this annoying bastard that sits behind me and mutters the entire time in a really deep voice that I can't really decipher but is so constant that it makes me want to be Hermione Granger and turn around and shush him. I really, really like Business Computing, which is tonight. (And I realize that I haven't written a word about Business Computing yet, but that's just because I have not yet obtained the vocabulary required to describe the awesome feelings of love I have for the teacher of that class.)
Update: The jacket is back on and is getting stuffy again. And I've lost the third fingernail of the morning. I think maybe I need vitamins of some sort.
I just cannot get over my utter hatred of US History. Well, not the subject matter - I love US history. I love history of all sorts. I just hate this class. I hate even more that I inflicted it on myself. It's becoming very difficult not to walk to the front of the class, shove the dude to the side and start teaching the class myself. I would say "I have no prepared remarks, or a degree of any kind, but I figure I can't do any worse than this joker." And then I would be arrested for impersonating a history professor. Then I'd go to jail or something. Maybe nerd jail. Do they have jailhouse bitches in nerd jail? Would I just have to deal with getting pwnd at video games all the time and that's the worst it could be? I might have to do algebra in there. This is a bad idea.
Maybe I should just look into having him arrested for the same thing. Then he can go get pwnd at Call of Duty or whatever and have to do algebra. Maybe they give you swirlies in there. He deserves a swirly. Maybe I should give him one. Or maybe not. He might be stronger than he looks, and I'm already tired with frizzy hair, dry heels and hands and three broken fingernails.
Probably I'm just going to have to settle for sitting in the back of the class and liveblogging him while trying to keep my eyes in my head and looking at pictures of babies on the internet. Goddammit.
My hair is frizzy. My hands are dry. I've broken two fingernails since I got up this morning. It's cold...ish, so I keep having to take off my jacket when I get a bit too hot and put it back on when I get a bit too cold. I could really use a pedicure. I'm so tired and so ready for Spring Break that I'm already considering doing the hobo thing and sleeping in my car during the break before afternoon classes. I'm hungry but the little cafe that does awesome breakfast tacos seems like it's a hundred miles away, and now the choice is do I trudge those hundred miles or do I just suffer? (You know I'm going to trudge. Just as soon as I quit being so goddamn lazy.)
And to top it all off, today, I have to go to US History.
Now that I know he can focus, it's a split kind of torture. Either the class can be the most boring class known to mankind, or it can be a bewildering mass of contradictions that just might send me into a coma of absolute befuddlement. Either way, I don't wanna go.
But this is what you sign up for, right? It's a crapshoot. Some classes are going to be crap, and you're going to hate them. And some classes you're going to love. Irrationally, I really like my algebra class, despite the fact that algebra makes me want to punch a baby. I like the teacher, I like the people, and he makes the subject matter a lot less mystifying and a lot less terrifying. It's a good class. I like Introduction to Radio and TV okay, despite the fact that it's not what I wanted and there's this annoying bastard that sits behind me and mutters the entire time in a really deep voice that I can't really decipher but is so constant that it makes me want to be Hermione Granger and turn around and shush him. I really, really like Business Computing, which is tonight. (And I realize that I haven't written a word about Business Computing yet, but that's just because I have not yet obtained the vocabulary required to describe the awesome feelings of love I have for the teacher of that class.)
Update: The jacket is back on and is getting stuffy again. And I've lost the third fingernail of the morning. I think maybe I need vitamins of some sort.
I just cannot get over my utter hatred of US History. Well, not the subject matter - I love US history. I love history of all sorts. I just hate this class. I hate even more that I inflicted it on myself. It's becoming very difficult not to walk to the front of the class, shove the dude to the side and start teaching the class myself. I would say "I have no prepared remarks, or a degree of any kind, but I figure I can't do any worse than this joker." And then I would be arrested for impersonating a history professor. Then I'd go to jail or something. Maybe nerd jail. Do they have jailhouse bitches in nerd jail? Would I just have to deal with getting pwnd at video games all the time and that's the worst it could be? I might have to do algebra in there. This is a bad idea.
Maybe I should just look into having him arrested for the same thing. Then he can go get pwnd at Call of Duty or whatever and have to do algebra. Maybe they give you swirlies in there. He deserves a swirly. Maybe I should give him one. Or maybe not. He might be stronger than he looks, and I'm already tired with frizzy hair, dry heels and hands and three broken fingernails.
Probably I'm just going to have to settle for sitting in the back of the class and liveblogging him while trying to keep my eyes in my head and looking at pictures of babies on the internet. Goddammit.
Monday, March 7, 2011
This Class is Not What I Expected.
I had to take a Visual Arts at some point in this, my freshman year.
I can't draw for shit, and I've already done a lot of Art History (Thanks, Ms. Russell!), so I didn't really want to retread there. So I browsed through the courses that The University of the State and The State University would accept as substitutions for an actual Visual Arts course. Introduction to Radio and Television was on there.
What I expected: to listen to some radio and watch some TV, then talk about it.
What actually occurs: lectures on the history of TV, radio, the internet and video games. No actual observing involved.
Here's where I'm kind of torn: it's a pretty good class. It's just not what I expected. And, as I believe I've mentioned, I don't expect the unexpected very well. It's not on the level of, say, a zombie shambling towards me. Unless the zombie was made of boredom. Because once you get past the history of radio and TV, it's kinda boring.
There's also some sort of unwritten dress code in this class. And I think I violate it just by existing. If you're a girl, you have to be turned out in your very best clothes - up to and including like a prom dress thing that was worn with proper foundation garments a couple of weeks ago. (It sparkled. I am not making this up. It had a little shoulder shrug thing and everything. Very incongruous with her giant backpack.) Or you have to dress like a lesbian in your early twenties. (I suspect that girl actually is a lesbian in her early twenties, so she's forgiven.)
If you're a guy, the options are a bit wider. You have to think that you're wearing things ironically, but really you're not, because you're fucking wearing them. This includes newsboy caps, emo haircuts, skinny jeans, skinny jeans with tears in them, skinny jeans paired with workboots, skinny jeans more conventionally paired with Vans, and my very favorite: the dude who came in last week wearing a longsleeved plaid workshirt thing upon which every single possible button was buttoned, khaki pants that were rolled up to the knee, making some sort of bizarre makeshift man-pris and white socks pulled all the way up to his knee. So there was absolutely no skin showing, but there was a lot of sock showing. It was apparently warm enough for man-pris, but not warm enough for shortsleeves. I tried not to look at him for too long because I could feel the mechanisms in my brain start going too fast, and I was pretty sure we were going to suffer a huge mechanical breakdown from which there is no recovery except some quiet time in a padded room while I scream "WHY??? WHY, GOD, WHY??!!!" and roll around on the floor.
Also, if you're a guy, you have to have a full-on beard, carry one of those messenger bags with a retro thing on it that you couldn't possibly be old enough to remember, and use a Mac. Srsly. I figured out recently that these are the people for whom this class is not a Visual Arts elective credit. These are the people who plan to make radio, television and/or film their actual jobs, ensuring that I will spend many, many frustrated years flipping through the channel guide saying "There's nothing good on!" because they have conquered the industry with their completely straight-faced hipsterness.
Damn them in advance.
In the meantime, I take some small satisfaction in the fact that there is absolutely nothing in this class (yet) for them to pour their hipsterness on. (I say that like they have a bottle in their pocket that resembles a Mrs. Butterworth's bottle, except it's a dude with nerdy glasses, a full beard and skinny jeans and they can just use that bottle to pour the syrup of their hipsterness on everybody. Well, I do not want your hipstery syrup. It's sticky and gross, so keep it to yourself, douchebag.) But I figure the douchebag forum will open up quite abruptly when we start talking about FCC policies and shit. If it does, I'll be sure to tell you about it.
I can't draw for shit, and I've already done a lot of Art History (Thanks, Ms. Russell!), so I didn't really want to retread there. So I browsed through the courses that The University of the State and The State University would accept as substitutions for an actual Visual Arts course. Introduction to Radio and Television was on there.
What I expected: to listen to some radio and watch some TV, then talk about it.
What actually occurs: lectures on the history of TV, radio, the internet and video games. No actual observing involved.
Here's where I'm kind of torn: it's a pretty good class. It's just not what I expected. And, as I believe I've mentioned, I don't expect the unexpected very well. It's not on the level of, say, a zombie shambling towards me. Unless the zombie was made of boredom. Because once you get past the history of radio and TV, it's kinda boring.
There's also some sort of unwritten dress code in this class. And I think I violate it just by existing. If you're a girl, you have to be turned out in your very best clothes - up to and including like a prom dress thing that was worn with proper foundation garments a couple of weeks ago. (It sparkled. I am not making this up. It had a little shoulder shrug thing and everything. Very incongruous with her giant backpack.) Or you have to dress like a lesbian in your early twenties. (I suspect that girl actually is a lesbian in her early twenties, so she's forgiven.)
If you're a guy, the options are a bit wider. You have to think that you're wearing things ironically, but really you're not, because you're fucking wearing them. This includes newsboy caps, emo haircuts, skinny jeans, skinny jeans with tears in them, skinny jeans paired with workboots, skinny jeans more conventionally paired with Vans, and my very favorite: the dude who came in last week wearing a longsleeved plaid workshirt thing upon which every single possible button was buttoned, khaki pants that were rolled up to the knee, making some sort of bizarre makeshift man-pris and white socks pulled all the way up to his knee. So there was absolutely no skin showing, but there was a lot of sock showing. It was apparently warm enough for man-pris, but not warm enough for shortsleeves. I tried not to look at him for too long because I could feel the mechanisms in my brain start going too fast, and I was pretty sure we were going to suffer a huge mechanical breakdown from which there is no recovery except some quiet time in a padded room while I scream "WHY??? WHY, GOD, WHY??!!!" and roll around on the floor.
Also, if you're a guy, you have to have a full-on beard, carry one of those messenger bags with a retro thing on it that you couldn't possibly be old enough to remember, and use a Mac. Srsly. I figured out recently that these are the people for whom this class is not a Visual Arts elective credit. These are the people who plan to make radio, television and/or film their actual jobs, ensuring that I will spend many, many frustrated years flipping through the channel guide saying "There's nothing good on!" because they have conquered the industry with their completely straight-faced hipsterness.
Damn them in advance.
In the meantime, I take some small satisfaction in the fact that there is absolutely nothing in this class (yet) for them to pour their hipsterness on. (I say that like they have a bottle in their pocket that resembles a Mrs. Butterworth's bottle, except it's a dude with nerdy glasses, a full beard and skinny jeans and they can just use that bottle to pour the syrup of their hipsterness on everybody. Well, I do not want your hipstery syrup. It's sticky and gross, so keep it to yourself, douchebag.) But I figure the douchebag forum will open up quite abruptly when we start talking about FCC policies and shit. If it does, I'll be sure to tell you about it.
Spring Break is Next Week.
That bears repeating: SPRING BREAK IS NEXT WEEK!!! WOOOO!!!
What am I doing for Spring Break? Well, I took the week off work because I didn't have anywhere for the kids to go. So I'll be home with them.
And my beloved March Madness.
Just me and my darling March Madness, curled up on the couch for hours at a time starting Tuesday night. I plan to eat, drink and sleep basketball. And then rub some basketball into my skin for good measure every night before I sleep some more basketball. And then I will probably snort/smoke and/or mainline some basketball.
Don't let Capital One fool you. This is actually the mooost wonderful tiiiiiiime of the yeeeeeear. I like Bowl Season a lot, but really, it doesn't hold a candle to something like 127 solid hours of college basketball. If my arm was stuck in a boulder, I would not cut it off no matter how much it hurt, as long as I could watch basketball.
I once managed to get pregnant at exactly the right time to ensure that my maternity leave coincided with the Tournament. That was my second child. It wasn't on purpose, but it was so incredibly fortuitous that I like to pretend that it was completely deliberate. Despite the fact that M2 had terrible reflux, I remember that maternity leave with a slightly orangey glow of love and adoration and blurry, romantic edges, as though I had been hit in the face with a basketball of happiness. Metaphorically, I was. I didn't even mind the sleep deprivation, because that meant more time for basketball. If I remember correctly (and I do), I spent a week solid in my recliner, holding either a sleeping baby or a nursing baby and watching basketball. I'm pretty sure I forgot that I actually had another child. Maybe Mike took care of her. Whatever happened to her, she's fine now, so I guess whatever neglect occurred, it wasn't life-threatening. I may have taught her to cook her own food or something. She was two. It was about time.
Probably, I will still post next week. Maybe during commercial breaks. The posts might just be one line. I expect at least one will say something like: "Can't talk. Basketball." Because in the immortal words of Cheech and Chong: "Basketball Jones. I gotta Basketball Jones. I got a Basketball Jones, oh baby, oooo."
What am I doing for Spring Break? Well, I took the week off work because I didn't have anywhere for the kids to go. So I'll be home with them.
And my beloved March Madness.
Just me and my darling March Madness, curled up on the couch for hours at a time starting Tuesday night. I plan to eat, drink and sleep basketball. And then rub some basketball into my skin for good measure every night before I sleep some more basketball. And then I will probably snort/smoke and/or mainline some basketball.
Don't let Capital One fool you. This is actually the mooost wonderful tiiiiiiime of the yeeeeeear. I like Bowl Season a lot, but really, it doesn't hold a candle to something like 127 solid hours of college basketball. If my arm was stuck in a boulder, I would not cut it off no matter how much it hurt, as long as I could watch basketball.
I once managed to get pregnant at exactly the right time to ensure that my maternity leave coincided with the Tournament. That was my second child. It wasn't on purpose, but it was so incredibly fortuitous that I like to pretend that it was completely deliberate. Despite the fact that M2 had terrible reflux, I remember that maternity leave with a slightly orangey glow of love and adoration and blurry, romantic edges, as though I had been hit in the face with a basketball of happiness. Metaphorically, I was. I didn't even mind the sleep deprivation, because that meant more time for basketball. If I remember correctly (and I do), I spent a week solid in my recliner, holding either a sleeping baby or a nursing baby and watching basketball. I'm pretty sure I forgot that I actually had another child. Maybe Mike took care of her. Whatever happened to her, she's fine now, so I guess whatever neglect occurred, it wasn't life-threatening. I may have taught her to cook her own food or something. She was two. It was about time.
Probably, I will still post next week. Maybe during commercial breaks. The posts might just be one line. I expect at least one will say something like: "Can't talk. Basketball." Because in the immortal words of Cheech and Chong: "Basketball Jones. I gotta Basketball Jones. I got a Basketball Jones, oh baby, oooo."
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Your Student Activity Fees at Work!
I felt sort of like a jerk for mocking the US History guy yesterday since his dad died, so I'm skipping yesterday's "What Did We Learn Today" segment so I can feel a little better about myself.
So I'm going to tell you about the diligent workers at the Student Life Center instead.
The very first day of classes, I wandered in to the main building in search of a campus map. I had spent about thirty minutes walking around campus trying to look purposeful while covertly searching for the building where my US History class would be held. (As it turns out, the building is a lot like Platform 9-3/4. It's tucked into a miniature forest. It looks like a warehouse and you would never go there unless you absolutely had to. The map was essential. Otherwise, I'd probably still be roaming around campus, trying to bump into it magically using my luggage cart.) Practicality prevailed, so I elbowed my way into the incredibly crowded main building to find that map.
When I got inside, the noise was absolutely overwhelming. And it wasn't the usual noise of people talking and horsing around - it was drums. BIG drums. I'm no stranger to drums (Spike is an accomplished and professional drummer in his spare time), but these were large, ethnic, LOUD drums and somebody was beating on them. Somebody else was singing and playing a ukelele. Ladies clearly drafted from the business and counseling offices were all wearing leis, floral garland crowns in their hair and grass skirts tied on over their usual business attire. They were randomly grabbing people and trying to get them to hula with them. I sensed the danger and edged around the whole thing, frantically looking for something that looked like it might hold a map. I actually had to shake off the grip of a lady from the testing center. It was terrifying. Crepe paper pineapples hung from anything that would stand still, and little cardboard tiki gods were on every table. It was Hawaiian-laced insanity.
I managed to escape unscathed (if you count having to go to my US History class twice a week unscathed) and I didn't really think of it again until signs started popping up all over campus this last week.
"UNITY JAM!" the signs declared. And then under that, there was a glossary definition of the terms "emceeing" which apparently equals rapping, thanks to the slanted graphic underneath the definition, and "graffiti." According to the sign, graffiti appears to be Italian for "the world is our canvas." Keep your Sharpies and spray paint away from me, you Italian freaks.
Next to all of that helpful information was the date and time this "UNITY JAM" would be held. (It was yesterday, and I missed it because it's M2's birthday on Saturday and I had to go to Toys 'R Us in between blocks of classes.)
What the hell is a Unity Jam? I wondered. Will there be indiscriminate rapping and drawing upon the world, since it's our canvas? Curiosity killed the cat, so I should probably be really glad I missed it. I didn't want to be tagged as some gang's turf for the rest of the semester. Who knows where that would lead. (Drug muling, that's where.)
At the very bottom of the poster, it said "YOUR STUDENT ACTIVITY FEES AT WORK."
Wait a minute.
We paid for this? We paid for the Unity Jam? How can we pay for it when it's so fucking nebulous we don't even know what it is? What about the Hawaiian Invasion? Did we pay for that too? Did the poor ladies from the business office pay for it with their souls?
Can I specify how I want my part of the Student Activity Fees to be spent? (For the record, I'd like someone to bring me a barbecue lunch everyday for my fees.)
I can't wait to see what the intrepid Student Life Center has next for us. I'm hoping it's a mime who acts out the entire movie of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. Just because that might be better than the actual movie. And if it is, I can get behind paying for that.
So I'm going to tell you about the diligent workers at the Student Life Center instead.
The very first day of classes, I wandered in to the main building in search of a campus map. I had spent about thirty minutes walking around campus trying to look purposeful while covertly searching for the building where my US History class would be held. (As it turns out, the building is a lot like Platform 9-3/4. It's tucked into a miniature forest. It looks like a warehouse and you would never go there unless you absolutely had to. The map was essential. Otherwise, I'd probably still be roaming around campus, trying to bump into it magically using my luggage cart.) Practicality prevailed, so I elbowed my way into the incredibly crowded main building to find that map.
When I got inside, the noise was absolutely overwhelming. And it wasn't the usual noise of people talking and horsing around - it was drums. BIG drums. I'm no stranger to drums (Spike is an accomplished and professional drummer in his spare time), but these were large, ethnic, LOUD drums and somebody was beating on them. Somebody else was singing and playing a ukelele. Ladies clearly drafted from the business and counseling offices were all wearing leis, floral garland crowns in their hair and grass skirts tied on over their usual business attire. They were randomly grabbing people and trying to get them to hula with them. I sensed the danger and edged around the whole thing, frantically looking for something that looked like it might hold a map. I actually had to shake off the grip of a lady from the testing center. It was terrifying. Crepe paper pineapples hung from anything that would stand still, and little cardboard tiki gods were on every table. It was Hawaiian-laced insanity.
I managed to escape unscathed (if you count having to go to my US History class twice a week unscathed) and I didn't really think of it again until signs started popping up all over campus this last week.
"UNITY JAM!" the signs declared. And then under that, there was a glossary definition of the terms "emceeing" which apparently equals rapping, thanks to the slanted graphic underneath the definition, and "graffiti." According to the sign, graffiti appears to be Italian for "the world is our canvas." Keep your Sharpies and spray paint away from me, you Italian freaks.
Next to all of that helpful information was the date and time this "UNITY JAM" would be held. (It was yesterday, and I missed it because it's M2's birthday on Saturday and I had to go to Toys 'R Us in between blocks of classes.)
What the hell is a Unity Jam? I wondered. Will there be indiscriminate rapping and drawing upon the world, since it's our canvas? Curiosity killed the cat, so I should probably be really glad I missed it. I didn't want to be tagged as some gang's turf for the rest of the semester. Who knows where that would lead. (Drug muling, that's where.)
At the very bottom of the poster, it said "YOUR STUDENT ACTIVITY FEES AT WORK."
Wait a minute.
We paid for this? We paid for the Unity Jam? How can we pay for it when it's so fucking nebulous we don't even know what it is? What about the Hawaiian Invasion? Did we pay for that too? Did the poor ladies from the business office pay for it with their souls?
Can I specify how I want my part of the Student Activity Fees to be spent? (For the record, I'd like someone to bring me a barbecue lunch everyday for my fees.)
I can't wait to see what the intrepid Student Life Center has next for us. I'm hoping it's a mime who acts out the entire movie of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. Just because that might be better than the actual movie. And if it is, I can get behind paying for that.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Credit where credit is due
In honor of the Oscars, I've decided to do a Speech of Gratitude.
I have absolutely no idea how single moms go to work, take care of kids and go to school. I absolutely could not do it.
So, first I'd like to thank my husband. I met him when I was 14, married him when I was 20 and alllll this time, he has supported me in just about every harebrained idea I've come up with. Including starting my business. He is absolutely making this academic venture possible. He makes sure that I have time to do my work. He cooks meals for all of us when I can't get my shit together. He's the main breadwinner while all this is going on. He takes care of the kids when I can't, including staying home from work with them when they're sick and I have class. In short, he is awesome. And I totally know that after I get my degree and my high-paying job, he's going to quit his job and stay home playing video games all day. Which he can. For approximately a year. Then it's back into the workforce, pal.
I also need to mention my in-laws. They pick up the kids every Wednesday at school and keep them until their dad gets off work. Then they take my whole family out to dinner every week, so that Spike doesn't have to cook. They are awesome also. I also fully credit them with raising a dude who turned out to be a great husband.
So, that's my Speech of Gratitude for now. And now I have to go to class.
I have absolutely no idea how single moms go to work, take care of kids and go to school. I absolutely could not do it.
So, first I'd like to thank my husband. I met him when I was 14, married him when I was 20 and alllll this time, he has supported me in just about every harebrained idea I've come up with. Including starting my business. He is absolutely making this academic venture possible. He makes sure that I have time to do my work. He cooks meals for all of us when I can't get my shit together. He's the main breadwinner while all this is going on. He takes care of the kids when I can't, including staying home from work with them when they're sick and I have class. In short, he is awesome. And I totally know that after I get my degree and my high-paying job, he's going to quit his job and stay home playing video games all day. Which he can. For approximately a year. Then it's back into the workforce, pal.
I also need to mention my in-laws. They pick up the kids every Wednesday at school and keep them until their dad gets off work. Then they take my whole family out to dinner every week, so that Spike doesn't have to cook. They are awesome also. I also fully credit them with raising a dude who turned out to be a great husband.
So, that's my Speech of Gratitude for now. And now I have to go to class.
US History Liveblog #2: 2 Mar 2011
2:52pm - Only two minutes late today. He just walked in.
I don't think he has our tests today, either. I am trying really hard not to lose my mind right now. He's being incredibly secretive about it.
Apparently, we didn't finish talking about Moral Economy, etc. I cannot imagine what's left to say about that.
Oh, maybe we did. We're going to talk about The History of Ideas. I'm not certain that's part of the curriculum for a US History class. Oh, Lord. He's begging our pardon in advance for "waxing philosophical." This is going to be painful for me, and hilarious for you. Enjoy your time in CCC's US History I class today.
He just said "Is the pen mightier than the sword?" Is that what we're talking about today? For reals?
Your feelings on the world will be influenced by your beliefs on the world. Just so's you know.
Wait a minute. If Plato, Aristotle and Friends are "the Ancients," how the hell is American History "Ancient History" as he asserted on Monday? Does he not see the disparity of years there?
Oh, apparently Atlantis is sunk off the eastern coast of South America. It'll be found one day, he says. So not only do scholars of ancient literature owe him for the Homer declaration on Monday, but archaeologists, too.
He is pointing directly into some poor girl's face, accusing her of eating the proverbial Apple in Eden. I just don't think she looks old enough for that.
Thank you, Wiki, for clarifying the Chain of Being. Not only for myself, but apparently for this professor, too, because he's giving us a watered-down version of it.
This table is still making my laptop crooked.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus. He's singing "If I Were the King of the Forest" from The Wizard of Oz.
3:05pm - 13 minutes in, and no digression so far. He is, however, cracking himself up, so that may be why we're not digressing.
He is following the outline of the Great Chain of Being article from Wiki almost exactly. I'm sort of following along.
3:07 - First story of the day about British people. He says that they currently - in current day Britain - spend time arguing around the dinner table about whether or not a marquis is higher than an earl. He guarantees it. This is surprising to me, because that issue isn't an opinion. There's a very clear set of rules there, and I bet you could Google it right at the dinner table, even if you were a savage.
3:13pm - He's singing "You Sexy Thing." But he still hasn't digressed, technically. He's just using it for some sort of emphasis. We're at 21 minutes now without digression. This has got to be a record.
There is a TV in this classroom. I would like it a lot better if he just let us watch the History Channel or something twice a week.
I see. We're talking about the Enlightenment, not so much The History of Ideas. It took him 24 minutes to mention that.
Do you have an intellectual sword? This man does.
Oh, Lord. He just said "I don't want to be offensive here, but..." So far, every time he has said that, he has been horribly offensive. Oh, not too bad. He used it to justify questioning the Immaculate Conception. Well, that was very conscientious of him.
This class is making a lot more sense than most of his other classes. Which leads me to believe that maybe this is what he did his thesis on.
3:21pm - Still on topic! This is bound to be a record!
Even if he doesn't have our tests today and promises them on Monday, I'm still not coming here on Monday. My brain can't take it. I love you all, but I can't throw myself on that particular pyre more than once a week.
He's still talking about Isaac Newton in a rambling sort of way, so I'm going to take this moment to tell you that I ran someone off the road in between my classes today. It was really the fault of a rogue ambulance that tried to kill us all. I was trying to get out of its way when I ran into someone else's lane that I didn't see and they ran up on the curb and tore up the lawn of an office building. Then we all met up at a parking lot down the road and assessed the damage. There was none, other than a bunch of people (myself included) who thought they were having heart attacks. But the dude who came out of the car in question had a full-on grill in his mouth, top and bottom. I thought I was going to get my ass kicked. Which just goes to show that you can't judge a book by its cover, because the first thing he said was "Hey, are you okay?" To which I said, "Yes, are you okay?" And then I apologized, and they accepted, and everybody drove off. Weirdest effing thing.
I really should probably buy a little bottle of lotion and keep it in my bag. My hands are really dry.
The girl next to me mumbled something at me before she left. I think she does not care for the liveblog. Too bad for her that I don't care what she thinks.
I don't think he has our tests today, either. I am trying really hard not to lose my mind right now. He's being incredibly secretive about it.
Apparently, we didn't finish talking about Moral Economy, etc. I cannot imagine what's left to say about that.
Oh, maybe we did. We're going to talk about The History of Ideas. I'm not certain that's part of the curriculum for a US History class. Oh, Lord. He's begging our pardon in advance for "waxing philosophical." This is going to be painful for me, and hilarious for you. Enjoy your time in CCC's US History I class today.
He just said "Is the pen mightier than the sword?" Is that what we're talking about today? For reals?
Your feelings on the world will be influenced by your beliefs on the world. Just so's you know.
Wait a minute. If Plato, Aristotle and Friends are "the Ancients," how the hell is American History "Ancient History" as he asserted on Monday? Does he not see the disparity of years there?
Oh, apparently Atlantis is sunk off the eastern coast of South America. It'll be found one day, he says. So not only do scholars of ancient literature owe him for the Homer declaration on Monday, but archaeologists, too.
He is pointing directly into some poor girl's face, accusing her of eating the proverbial Apple in Eden. I just don't think she looks old enough for that.
Thank you, Wiki, for clarifying the Chain of Being. Not only for myself, but apparently for this professor, too, because he's giving us a watered-down version of it.
This table is still making my laptop crooked.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus. He's singing "If I Were the King of the Forest" from The Wizard of Oz.
3:05pm - 13 minutes in, and no digression so far. He is, however, cracking himself up, so that may be why we're not digressing.
He is following the outline of the Great Chain of Being article from Wiki almost exactly. I'm sort of following along.
3:07 - First story of the day about British people. He says that they currently - in current day Britain - spend time arguing around the dinner table about whether or not a marquis is higher than an earl. He guarantees it. This is surprising to me, because that issue isn't an opinion. There's a very clear set of rules there, and I bet you could Google it right at the dinner table, even if you were a savage.
3:13pm - He's singing "You Sexy Thing." But he still hasn't digressed, technically. He's just using it for some sort of emphasis. We're at 21 minutes now without digression. This has got to be a record.
There is a TV in this classroom. I would like it a lot better if he just let us watch the History Channel or something twice a week.
I see. We're talking about the Enlightenment, not so much The History of Ideas. It took him 24 minutes to mention that.
Do you have an intellectual sword? This man does.
Oh, Lord. He just said "I don't want to be offensive here, but..." So far, every time he has said that, he has been horribly offensive. Oh, not too bad. He used it to justify questioning the Immaculate Conception. Well, that was very conscientious of him.
This class is making a lot more sense than most of his other classes. Which leads me to believe that maybe this is what he did his thesis on.
3:21pm - Still on topic! This is bound to be a record!
Even if he doesn't have our tests today and promises them on Monday, I'm still not coming here on Monday. My brain can't take it. I love you all, but I can't throw myself on that particular pyre more than once a week.
He's still talking about Isaac Newton in a rambling sort of way, so I'm going to take this moment to tell you that I ran someone off the road in between my classes today. It was really the fault of a rogue ambulance that tried to kill us all. I was trying to get out of its way when I ran into someone else's lane that I didn't see and they ran up on the curb and tore up the lawn of an office building. Then we all met up at a parking lot down the road and assessed the damage. There was none, other than a bunch of people (myself included) who thought they were having heart attacks. But the dude who came out of the car in question had a full-on grill in his mouth, top and bottom. I thought I was going to get my ass kicked. Which just goes to show that you can't judge a book by its cover, because the first thing he said was "Hey, are you okay?" To which I said, "Yes, are you okay?" And then I apologized, and they accepted, and everybody drove off. Weirdest effing thing.
I really should probably buy a little bottle of lotion and keep it in my bag. My hands are really dry.
3:37pm. Oh, sorry. I started looking at pictures of babies on the interwebs. He’s still talking about John Locke. And Libya. What?
I guess checking out for a little bit was okay, because just now, we’ve circled back to his original point: John Locke and Sir Isaac Newton were “philosophes” that helped to foment the Enlightenment. And also wielded their pens about indiscriminately. And their intellectual swords.
This has got to be part of his thesis when he got his master’s, because this is the most focused I have ever seen him on a topic. Too bad it results in a lot of repetitive crap, but yay him for being mostly unmockable!
I could be doing a crossword puzzle right now.
He very nearly spelled Voltaire “Voltair,” but saved himself at the end. Redemption! And then he said “Hey, did the Virgin really get screwed by a bird?” Aw. Redemption revoked.
You people realize that nobody can sit behind me in this class, right? I have to sit in the very. back.
He just said “En francais, ecrasez l’infame.” Sigh. Pretention. He either ruined or enhanced the pretentious effect by writing “E.L.I.” like it’s a well-known acronym right after. I can’t decide.
He just suggested that we all read L’Encyclopedie by Denis Diderot. He refrained from suggesting that we do it in French. He’s describing what one might find in L’Encyclopedie, and I’m pretty sure he’s just making this shit up because he knows that not a single soul in this room is going to test him on it. I’d test him just to be perverse, but I think it might be boring.
I just want my test back I just want my test back I just want my test back.
3:50pm – Still no digression. But we’re also still talking about Voltaire. And now he’s working Benjamin Franklin into it. If only he didn’t take twenty minutes to make a single point, and his classes were like this one everyday, there would be nothing to make fun of. It would just be a regular old class. And you would miss out on all this.
I think he thinks “waxing philosophical” means “talking about religion.” He’s not even talking about the mechanics of religion – any religion. He’s saying things like “They believed in God, or in a Supreme Being. Sorry for waxing philosophical.”
Wow, crazy – he’s been this focused all day and his dad passed away this morning. Bless his heart.
Aaaaaand, that's it! He'll be at his dad's funeral on Monday, so he'll see us Wednesday.The girl next to me mumbled something at me before she left. I think she does not care for the liveblog. Too bad for her that I don't care what she thinks.
The Great Algebra Debacle of Last Week, Pt. 2
Tutoring starts at noon on Sundays. Spike has suggested that perhaps I should go get something to eat and then go to tutoring. I, being convinced that the early bird gets the worm, agree to do that (in theory) and then ignore him entirely (in practice). This was a mistake.
I get to the Learning Lab at 11:45. I wait patiently for the doors to open. Once they do, I sign in like I know I'm supposed to, and then I stand there awkwardly for a moment because I don't know the protocol. Then I realize that the tables are sort of sectioned off by subject matter. I find a "MATH" table and sit, waiting patiently because I still have no idea what to do. After a few minutes, a guy who looks exactly like an Asian Harry Potter comes and sits down next to me. He says "Are you waiting for a tutor?" I nod. He says "You have to raise your hand and one will come to you." I start to raise my hand, but he says, "I'm a tutor."
Of course you are. And you better use your fucking wizard magic to make me understand this motherfucking algebra, because I am a woman on the edge.
He sits down next to me, and the weirdest goddamn thing happens. You know how, when your car starts making a funny noise and you take it to a mechanic and then suddenly it's working fine? That's what happened with my brain. I sat down with Asian Harry Potter and I could suddenly do it again. So, because I felt dumb for coming to tutoring when there's obviously nothing wrong my comprehension, I blurt out the entire story: Drunky, the kolaches, the weeping, everything. He gives me the side-eye and then says "Well, maybe you shouldn't have drunk friends over when you're trying to do homework. In fact, maybe you shouldn't do your homework at home. Ever."
Thank you, Asian Harry Potter, for your wisdom.
So, there I sit. I work on algebra until it's all done. Four and a half hours later, I get in the car to go home. By this time, I'm starving. I still haven't eaten anything. I go to a nearby gas station to get gas and some caffeine and decide to eat a gas station hotdog. You'd think I would have learned something from the stomach bug, but apparently not. However, God or my guardian angel or whatever was looking out for me, because they were out of hotdogs.
My brain completely jellified by lack of food and four and a half hours of algebra, it's all I can do to drive myself home. The soundtrack for the drive was Coldplay, accented by shuddering, weepy sighs, because piano and Chris Martin's voice is about all I can handle at the moment.
When I walk in the door, Spike takes one look at me and says "Go to bed. I'll get you up at seven."
So I do. And then the next day, it's test day.
The snakes are fully back in my belly, because I haven't been this haphazard about my algebra all semester long. I sit down at my little table in the classroom with my test. I look down at it and realize:
I was so worried about getting the homework and quizzes done that I forgot to review the older stuff for the test.
Amazingly, I hold it together. I do the test-prep thing of answering all the questions I think I know and then going back to the ones I don't know quite as well. I turn in the test and trudge slowly outside, feet heavy with the weight of knowing that I have completely fucked myself in the ass.
And then I start this blog. I've been so wrapped up in picking out the stories to tell for this blog that I completely forgot to obsess over the test result.
I got my test back this morning.
I got an 87.
I don't care if I have Ebola. I am never missing a class again.
I get to the Learning Lab at 11:45. I wait patiently for the doors to open. Once they do, I sign in like I know I'm supposed to, and then I stand there awkwardly for a moment because I don't know the protocol. Then I realize that the tables are sort of sectioned off by subject matter. I find a "MATH" table and sit, waiting patiently because I still have no idea what to do. After a few minutes, a guy who looks exactly like an Asian Harry Potter comes and sits down next to me. He says "Are you waiting for a tutor?" I nod. He says "You have to raise your hand and one will come to you." I start to raise my hand, but he says, "I'm a tutor."
Of course you are. And you better use your fucking wizard magic to make me understand this motherfucking algebra, because I am a woman on the edge.
He sits down next to me, and the weirdest goddamn thing happens. You know how, when your car starts making a funny noise and you take it to a mechanic and then suddenly it's working fine? That's what happened with my brain. I sat down with Asian Harry Potter and I could suddenly do it again. So, because I felt dumb for coming to tutoring when there's obviously nothing wrong my comprehension, I blurt out the entire story: Drunky, the kolaches, the weeping, everything. He gives me the side-eye and then says "Well, maybe you shouldn't have drunk friends over when you're trying to do homework. In fact, maybe you shouldn't do your homework at home. Ever."
Thank you, Asian Harry Potter, for your wisdom.
So, there I sit. I work on algebra until it's all done. Four and a half hours later, I get in the car to go home. By this time, I'm starving. I still haven't eaten anything. I go to a nearby gas station to get gas and some caffeine and decide to eat a gas station hotdog. You'd think I would have learned something from the stomach bug, but apparently not. However, God or my guardian angel or whatever was looking out for me, because they were out of hotdogs.
My brain completely jellified by lack of food and four and a half hours of algebra, it's all I can do to drive myself home. The soundtrack for the drive was Coldplay, accented by shuddering, weepy sighs, because piano and Chris Martin's voice is about all I can handle at the moment.
When I walk in the door, Spike takes one look at me and says "Go to bed. I'll get you up at seven."
So I do. And then the next day, it's test day.
The snakes are fully back in my belly, because I haven't been this haphazard about my algebra all semester long. I sit down at my little table in the classroom with my test. I look down at it and realize:
I was so worried about getting the homework and quizzes done that I forgot to review the older stuff for the test.
Amazingly, I hold it together. I do the test-prep thing of answering all the questions I think I know and then going back to the ones I don't know quite as well. I turn in the test and trudge slowly outside, feet heavy with the weight of knowing that I have completely fucked myself in the ass.
And then I start this blog. I've been so wrapped up in picking out the stories to tell for this blog that I completely forgot to obsess over the test result.
I got my test back this morning.
I got an 87.
I don't care if I have Ebola. I am never missing a class again.
The Great Algebra Debacle of Last Week, Pt. 1
So, since the stomach bug hit on Tuesday evening, I was in no shape to go to my morning classes on Wednesday. I absolutely had to haul my vomiting ass out of bed for the afternoon (US History) and evening (Business Computing) ones, because there were tests in both of those classes. I had to miss the field trip to the TV station in Intro to Radio and TV. It was very sad.
Mr. Amazing Algebra Professor does an awesome thing on test weeks. If you get your homework and quizzes done before midnight on Saturday, he gives you five extra points on the upcoming test. This saved my bacon on the first test, raising my grade from an 85 to a 90. I absolutely refuse to get anything less than an A the second time through this course. I did it once, by Jesus I WILL DO IT AGAIN. Maybe.
I had to go to work on Thursday, but I was determined to do my homework and quizzes that night to get my goddamn Sunday Bonus. I needed those points. The test was going to be on slope, and I felt confident, but you never look a Gift Sunday Bonus in the mouth. You just don't. So I set up my computer after the kids had gone to bed and started to log in to the math lab site. Except I couldn't. It kept telling me that my course had ended. Except it hadn't. Because if it had, I wouldn't have to get up at the crack of dawn on Monday and take a damn test. So after many, many tries, I finally e-mailed customer support to figure out how to fix it.
They didn't get back to me until the next day.
Fine, fine. It was only Friday. I still had Friday night to do it, and because of my nephew's first birthday party in Houston on Saturday, I absolutely had to do it on Friday night. I could do this. Friday night, after the kids went to bed, I set up the laptop again and successfully logged in.
Then a good friend of ours called, already a little drunk, and wanted to come over.
My husband let him.
So I'm sitting there while Drunky and my husband (hereafter: Spike) watch Intervention (nope, no irony there, none at all), trying to work on my algebra. The only problem is, all of those things I thought I knew? I didn't actually know them. I couldn't figure anything out. Nothing at all. So occasionally I would let out a frustrated little scream. Which would earn me this:
Drunky: What are you doing?
Me: My algebra homework.
Drunky: Can I help?
Me: No, I think I need to learn how to do it for the test.
First, I have pretty much figured out, without actually having the experience, that it's probably not a good idea to let a drunk person help you with your algebra. Second, I really do need to learn how to do it for the test. So I soldier on. Five minutes later, another scream of frustration and then:
Drunky: What are you doing?
Me: My algebra homework.
Drunky: Can I help?
Me: No, I think I need to learn how to do it for the test.
At that point, Spike interjects and suggests I take a break. I retort "And do what? Watch Intervention?"
Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking: why didn't she just pick up her stuff and go into another room to do it unmolested? The answer to this is simple: we've downsized our housing situation so I can go to school. There was nowhere else to go that wasn't the bedroom, and it's really hard to do your algebra in bed.
Finally, after about nine attempts at one single problem, I decide it's the computer's fault. I'm probably doing it just fine and the computer has some sort of personal problem with me. Fine, fucking computer. You have your snit. I'm going to give up my goddamn Sunday Bonus and just DO IT ON SUNDAY. But remember that this is ALL YOUR FAULT and I WILL HOLD IT AGAINST YOU.
Drunky leaves, ostensibly because he sees that I am losing my everloving mind. I give up entirely and go to bed, because we're leaving at 6:30am the next day.
Saturday comes and we go to Houston. I manage to mostly forget about The Algebra Problem. We have a wonderful time except for my sister-in-law's horrific best friend and then we go home.
And then Sunday comes. It's the absolutely last possible day for me to do four sections of homework and two quizzes. I have never left it this late before. The snakes in my belly are back. I sit down, boot up, log in, all that crap. The problem is, my children are awake. I can't exactly make them go to sleep at nine in the morning while I slog through systems of equations, so we're just going to have to deal. And M2, who is six, does not seem to understand the Cardinal Rule about Mom Doing Her Homework: DO NOT SPEAK TO ME WHILE I AM DOING IT. So, after "Mom, what are we having for breakfast?" (Answer: Get yourself and your sister a kolache out of the box from yesterday.) and "Mom, what are you doing?" (Answer [through gritted teeth]: My algebra homework. Fortunately it was not followed by "Can I help?" so points for him) and then "Mom, will you give me my birthday presents on the 5th, because that's my actual birthday, or the 6th at my party?" (Answer: Son, I JUST TOLD YOU I'M DOING MY ALGEBRA HOMEWORK LEAVE ME ALONE!!!)
After approximately nine tries at the same problem I was failing miserably at on Friday night and all of the interruptions from my garrulous offspring, I finally start to weep hysterically. Spike is up at that point, so I go in and lay on the bed and weep and wail about algebra and what was I THINKING I can't possibly DO this, we are just going to be poor and destitute UNTIL WE DIE because I CANNOT DO THIS (I was really tired, what can I say). He very calmly suggests that I go to tutoring before the test on Monday. I look at him like he's an idiot and say sarcastically "Oh yes. There will be a tutor just waiting there for me at seven o'clock in the morning." Which was really mean of me, but I was sort of losing my shit at that point.
But then I started thinking. Is there tutoring on Sundays? I go look it up and there is. I inform my family that I'm going to tutoring, and if I never see them again, please know that I love them. And I head in to school.
To be continued in the next post....
Mr. Amazing Algebra Professor does an awesome thing on test weeks. If you get your homework and quizzes done before midnight on Saturday, he gives you five extra points on the upcoming test. This saved my bacon on the first test, raising my grade from an 85 to a 90. I absolutely refuse to get anything less than an A the second time through this course. I did it once, by Jesus I WILL DO IT AGAIN. Maybe.
I had to go to work on Thursday, but I was determined to do my homework and quizzes that night to get my goddamn Sunday Bonus. I needed those points. The test was going to be on slope, and I felt confident, but you never look a Gift Sunday Bonus in the mouth. You just don't. So I set up my computer after the kids had gone to bed and started to log in to the math lab site. Except I couldn't. It kept telling me that my course had ended. Except it hadn't. Because if it had, I wouldn't have to get up at the crack of dawn on Monday and take a damn test. So after many, many tries, I finally e-mailed customer support to figure out how to fix it.
They didn't get back to me until the next day.
Fine, fine. It was only Friday. I still had Friday night to do it, and because of my nephew's first birthday party in Houston on Saturday, I absolutely had to do it on Friday night. I could do this. Friday night, after the kids went to bed, I set up the laptop again and successfully logged in.
Then a good friend of ours called, already a little drunk, and wanted to come over.
My husband let him.
So I'm sitting there while Drunky and my husband (hereafter: Spike) watch Intervention (nope, no irony there, none at all), trying to work on my algebra. The only problem is, all of those things I thought I knew? I didn't actually know them. I couldn't figure anything out. Nothing at all. So occasionally I would let out a frustrated little scream. Which would earn me this:
Drunky: What are you doing?
Me: My algebra homework.
Drunky: Can I help?
Me: No, I think I need to learn how to do it for the test.
First, I have pretty much figured out, without actually having the experience, that it's probably not a good idea to let a drunk person help you with your algebra. Second, I really do need to learn how to do it for the test. So I soldier on. Five minutes later, another scream of frustration and then:
Drunky: What are you doing?
Me: My algebra homework.
Drunky: Can I help?
Me: No, I think I need to learn how to do it for the test.
At that point, Spike interjects and suggests I take a break. I retort "And do what? Watch Intervention?"
Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking: why didn't she just pick up her stuff and go into another room to do it unmolested? The answer to this is simple: we've downsized our housing situation so I can go to school. There was nowhere else to go that wasn't the bedroom, and it's really hard to do your algebra in bed.
Finally, after about nine attempts at one single problem, I decide it's the computer's fault. I'm probably doing it just fine and the computer has some sort of personal problem with me. Fine, fucking computer. You have your snit. I'm going to give up my goddamn Sunday Bonus and just DO IT ON SUNDAY. But remember that this is ALL YOUR FAULT and I WILL HOLD IT AGAINST YOU.
Drunky leaves, ostensibly because he sees that I am losing my everloving mind. I give up entirely and go to bed, because we're leaving at 6:30am the next day.
Saturday comes and we go to Houston. I manage to mostly forget about The Algebra Problem. We have a wonderful time except for my sister-in-law's horrific best friend and then we go home.
And then Sunday comes. It's the absolutely last possible day for me to do four sections of homework and two quizzes. I have never left it this late before. The snakes in my belly are back. I sit down, boot up, log in, all that crap. The problem is, my children are awake. I can't exactly make them go to sleep at nine in the morning while I slog through systems of equations, so we're just going to have to deal. And M2, who is six, does not seem to understand the Cardinal Rule about Mom Doing Her Homework: DO NOT SPEAK TO ME WHILE I AM DOING IT. So, after "Mom, what are we having for breakfast?" (Answer: Get yourself and your sister a kolache out of the box from yesterday.) and "Mom, what are you doing?" (Answer [through gritted teeth]: My algebra homework. Fortunately it was not followed by "Can I help?" so points for him) and then "Mom, will you give me my birthday presents on the 5th, because that's my actual birthday, or the 6th at my party?" (Answer: Son, I JUST TOLD YOU I'M DOING MY ALGEBRA HOMEWORK LEAVE ME ALONE!!!)
After approximately nine tries at the same problem I was failing miserably at on Friday night and all of the interruptions from my garrulous offspring, I finally start to weep hysterically. Spike is up at that point, so I go in and lay on the bed and weep and wail about algebra and what was I THINKING I can't possibly DO this, we are just going to be poor and destitute UNTIL WE DIE because I CANNOT DO THIS (I was really tired, what can I say). He very calmly suggests that I go to tutoring before the test on Monday. I look at him like he's an idiot and say sarcastically "Oh yes. There will be a tutor just waiting there for me at seven o'clock in the morning." Which was really mean of me, but I was sort of losing my shit at that point.
But then I started thinking. Is there tutoring on Sundays? I go look it up and there is. I inform my family that I'm going to tutoring, and if I never see them again, please know that I love them. And I head in to school.
To be continued in the next post....
Elementary, my dear Algebra
I'm taking Elementary Algebra. Again.
My first trip through CCC, I took Elementary Algebra and got a big fat A. I was so proud. That was ten years ago.
When I met with my advisor at the beginning of this current (and last! I swear it will be the last!) try, she looked through my grades from before and said "You can go straight in to Intermediate Algebra, and when you're done with that, you'll be math-ready." I was pretty sure she was crazy because I haven't done any algebra whatsoever in the intervening ten years, but she was the expert, so I said okay.
Then I got my textbook and leafed through it. Upon looking at all the Intermediate Algebra stretched ahead of me, I felt panic like I have seldom felt panic before. This panic was worse than the panic you feel when you have unexpected guests call and say "I'm fifteen minutes away, can I drop in?" and you look around and realize that you have dirty underwear hanging from the ceiling fans and ten days' worth of dirty dishes in the sink and only fifteen minutes to hide it all in a closet. This was like snakes-in-the-belly panic. I could have gone to school in my underwear and felt better about myself than I did the first day of Intermediate Algebra.
It was a Saturday morning class, and I got there early hoping to talk to the instructor. When she came in, she was my age. Or maybe a little younger. More snakes in the belly. I explained briefly my situation, and she told me, very kindly, that I could take the pretest if I wanted to, but she would recommend revisiting Elementary Algebra. I agreed and fled that class faster than I have ever fled anything in my life. I couldn't have run from a ticking time-bomb faster than I ran from that classroom. I ran to my truck as if chased by rabid linear equations.
The following Monday, I went back to the advisor and very politely refrained from telling her that she was not very good at her job. I told her what had happened and then proceeded to spend the following three hours getting Special Dispensation from the Pope to transfer to Elementary Algebra. The only section still admitting students was one at 7:30am, but at least it was at a campus that was easy to get to, and, in fact, in the very room where my Introduction to Radio and Television class was held just a couple hours later.
The professor for this class also teaches Basic Math Skills. Our homework and quizzes are completely online with examples and animations and help solving problems (except not on the quizzes). This is exactly where I need to be. Even better, after almost twenty years of not understanding slope, this amazing man and his newfangled machinery finally helped me figure it out. My homework grades are fantastic, my quiz grades are fantastic, there are opportunities for extra points on tests.... it's good. I'm not the dumbest person in the class. My self-esteem is fantastic.
Then, I caught a stomach bug. And not just any old stomach bug. It came upon me with very little warning. I bought a box of Girl Scout Cookies and before I could even open them, I was throwing up in the parking lot of my local convenience store, right in front of the intrepid Girl Scout who had sold me the cookies in the first place. Sorry, Girl Scout. I hope she didn't have nightmares.
That was on a Tuesday evening. I managed to take the kids to the Book Fair, but their dad had to take them to Math and Science Night, while I laid in bed, periodically running to the bathroom and trying my hardest not to die. It was a lot harder than it sounds.
This moment, however innocuous, was the first step in the Great Algebra Debacle of Last Week.
My first trip through CCC, I took Elementary Algebra and got a big fat A. I was so proud. That was ten years ago.
When I met with my advisor at the beginning of this current (and last! I swear it will be the last!) try, she looked through my grades from before and said "You can go straight in to Intermediate Algebra, and when you're done with that, you'll be math-ready." I was pretty sure she was crazy because I haven't done any algebra whatsoever in the intervening ten years, but she was the expert, so I said okay.
Then I got my textbook and leafed through it. Upon looking at all the Intermediate Algebra stretched ahead of me, I felt panic like I have seldom felt panic before. This panic was worse than the panic you feel when you have unexpected guests call and say "I'm fifteen minutes away, can I drop in?" and you look around and realize that you have dirty underwear hanging from the ceiling fans and ten days' worth of dirty dishes in the sink and only fifteen minutes to hide it all in a closet. This was like snakes-in-the-belly panic. I could have gone to school in my underwear and felt better about myself than I did the first day of Intermediate Algebra.
It was a Saturday morning class, and I got there early hoping to talk to the instructor. When she came in, she was my age. Or maybe a little younger. More snakes in the belly. I explained briefly my situation, and she told me, very kindly, that I could take the pretest if I wanted to, but she would recommend revisiting Elementary Algebra. I agreed and fled that class faster than I have ever fled anything in my life. I couldn't have run from a ticking time-bomb faster than I ran from that classroom. I ran to my truck as if chased by rabid linear equations.
The following Monday, I went back to the advisor and very politely refrained from telling her that she was not very good at her job. I told her what had happened and then proceeded to spend the following three hours getting Special Dispensation from the Pope to transfer to Elementary Algebra. The only section still admitting students was one at 7:30am, but at least it was at a campus that was easy to get to, and, in fact, in the very room where my Introduction to Radio and Television class was held just a couple hours later.
The professor for this class also teaches Basic Math Skills. Our homework and quizzes are completely online with examples and animations and help solving problems (except not on the quizzes). This is exactly where I need to be. Even better, after almost twenty years of not understanding slope, this amazing man and his newfangled machinery finally helped me figure it out. My homework grades are fantastic, my quiz grades are fantastic, there are opportunities for extra points on tests.... it's good. I'm not the dumbest person in the class. My self-esteem is fantastic.
Then, I caught a stomach bug. And not just any old stomach bug. It came upon me with very little warning. I bought a box of Girl Scout Cookies and before I could even open them, I was throwing up in the parking lot of my local convenience store, right in front of the intrepid Girl Scout who had sold me the cookies in the first place. Sorry, Girl Scout. I hope she didn't have nightmares.
That was on a Tuesday evening. I managed to take the kids to the Book Fair, but their dad had to take them to Math and Science Night, while I laid in bed, periodically running to the bathroom and trying my hardest not to die. It was a lot harder than it sounds.
This moment, however innocuous, was the first step in the Great Algebra Debacle of Last Week.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
The Picnic Table Phenomenon
I am socially inept. As a friend once told me, I have no social filter on my mouth. I'm not nearly as "abrasive" as I used to be ("abrasive" was a former teacher's favorite adjective for me in high school); it seems like time has worn some of my rough edges away. But I have absolutely no idea how to behave in social situations. I'm a blurter and sometimes an oversharer and I think I make people uncomfortable because I have a huge laugh that sort of unleashes itself whenever it wants to. (My brother once found me in a crowded car show by following the sound of my laugh. I was all the way across the Convention Center and he used it like some sort of mirthful homing beacon.)
(Not really relevant to this story, but a good aside: I'm a great drunk. I'm a very happy drunk and my natural propensity to talk to people I don't know sort of pushes to the forefront when lubricated with beer. If you drink with me in cities where we are both visitors, we'll make friends with all sorts of people, sometimes from different countries, before the night is over. I think it's the Irish in me. In one single trip to Chicago a couple of years ago, I made friends with homeless people, giant black dudes, two guys from Honduras whom I sort of offensively referred to as Marco and Polo because I never caught their names and a lightbox named Dan. That is all absolutely true. And I don't get hung over, so I won't snap at you the next day. In short, take me to cities around the country and drink with me. You won't regret it.)
I tell you all of this now so that you'll understand why I'm utterly bewildered by what I refer to as The Picnic Table Phenomenon. By and large, the weather this semester has been beautiful. So, in between classes, I can frequently be found at picnic tables. That's usually where I end up drinking my massive amounts of caffeine and reading romance novels. That's also where random people end up sitting down (maybe because of a general lack of seating on the CCC campus?) and then, instead of pulling out their own caffeine and romance novel, they inevitably start to talk.
I'm not one to grunt monosyllabic answers and let it go if somebody talks to me first. Oh no. If you sit next to me and talk to me first, you'll probably know all sorts of random stories about me by the time you extricate yourself from my loquacious grip, and I'll know far more about you than you intended to tell me.
I know allll the signs of people trying to uncomfortably get away from my diarrhea of the mouth, so I generally keep a very sharp eye out for them and if I spot one, I let the poor person go. They didn't know what they were getting into when they spoke to me, so it's not fair to keep them in some sort of polite prison while they listen to the story of how I got my second tattoo and what it means. By that time, they've started to realize what they've said about themselves and that sort of compounds the uncomfortableness. I get that. You may go.
These people, though, don't seem to notice that I'm ridiculous to talk to. They chatter on happily and listen to my idiotic stories and they laugh. And then they come back and find me again the next time I'm at that picnic table and we do it again.
This is how I met Spidey the Comic Book Fan, Brian the Handyman, Xavier the Spaniard, Mike the Iraq War Vet, The Tall, Skinny Guy Who Never Said His Name But Jumps Right In To Conversations, The Guy with the Giggly Girlfriend and the Giggly Girlfriend herself. That's to say nothing of all the nice people I've met somewhere other than the picnic tables. They have actual names and stuff, and I met most of them in my Business Computing class.
I've been wracking my brain trying to think of why I seem to attract people to random conversation. I have another inexplicable phenomenon in my life, which I call The College-Age Boy Phenomenon, in which I seem to collect college-age boys who then come to my house and mooch food (hi, Matt and Marcus!). I have a system of complicated theories about the loyalty of these two guys in my life, but my husband has a single sentence theory: You have big boobs. Yes, I do, but I don't think my boobs are why they keep coming over. I'm old and married, after all. I think it might be my cooking.
But I'm not cooking for these picnic table people. They don't care about my boobs. We talk about things other than school. And they talked to me first.
It's a mystery.
I'm profoundly glad for it, though, because without them, I would have to lie when my kids ask me "How many friends did you make at school today, Mama?" I'd then have to make up names and personal details and then keep all that shit straight in my head every week, because those kids are sharp. So these people are keeping me honest with my kids, while providing me with sometimes stimulating adult conversation and making me feel that while maybe I'm not cool and hip, I'm not a complete loss, either.
(Not really relevant to this story, but a good aside: I'm a great drunk. I'm a very happy drunk and my natural propensity to talk to people I don't know sort of pushes to the forefront when lubricated with beer. If you drink with me in cities where we are both visitors, we'll make friends with all sorts of people, sometimes from different countries, before the night is over. I think it's the Irish in me. In one single trip to Chicago a couple of years ago, I made friends with homeless people, giant black dudes, two guys from Honduras whom I sort of offensively referred to as Marco and Polo because I never caught their names and a lightbox named Dan. That is all absolutely true. And I don't get hung over, so I won't snap at you the next day. In short, take me to cities around the country and drink with me. You won't regret it.)
I tell you all of this now so that you'll understand why I'm utterly bewildered by what I refer to as The Picnic Table Phenomenon. By and large, the weather this semester has been beautiful. So, in between classes, I can frequently be found at picnic tables. That's usually where I end up drinking my massive amounts of caffeine and reading romance novels. That's also where random people end up sitting down (maybe because of a general lack of seating on the CCC campus?) and then, instead of pulling out their own caffeine and romance novel, they inevitably start to talk.
I'm not one to grunt monosyllabic answers and let it go if somebody talks to me first. Oh no. If you sit next to me and talk to me first, you'll probably know all sorts of random stories about me by the time you extricate yourself from my loquacious grip, and I'll know far more about you than you intended to tell me.
I know allll the signs of people trying to uncomfortably get away from my diarrhea of the mouth, so I generally keep a very sharp eye out for them and if I spot one, I let the poor person go. They didn't know what they were getting into when they spoke to me, so it's not fair to keep them in some sort of polite prison while they listen to the story of how I got my second tattoo and what it means. By that time, they've started to realize what they've said about themselves and that sort of compounds the uncomfortableness. I get that. You may go.
These people, though, don't seem to notice that I'm ridiculous to talk to. They chatter on happily and listen to my idiotic stories and they laugh. And then they come back and find me again the next time I'm at that picnic table and we do it again.
This is how I met Spidey the Comic Book Fan, Brian the Handyman, Xavier the Spaniard, Mike the Iraq War Vet, The Tall, Skinny Guy Who Never Said His Name But Jumps Right In To Conversations, The Guy with the Giggly Girlfriend and the Giggly Girlfriend herself. That's to say nothing of all the nice people I've met somewhere other than the picnic tables. They have actual names and stuff, and I met most of them in my Business Computing class.
I've been wracking my brain trying to think of why I seem to attract people to random conversation. I have another inexplicable phenomenon in my life, which I call The College-Age Boy Phenomenon, in which I seem to collect college-age boys who then come to my house and mooch food (hi, Matt and Marcus!). I have a system of complicated theories about the loyalty of these two guys in my life, but my husband has a single sentence theory: You have big boobs. Yes, I do, but I don't think my boobs are why they keep coming over. I'm old and married, after all. I think it might be my cooking.
But I'm not cooking for these picnic table people. They don't care about my boobs. We talk about things other than school. And they talked to me first.
It's a mystery.
I'm profoundly glad for it, though, because without them, I would have to lie when my kids ask me "How many friends did you make at school today, Mama?" I'd then have to make up names and personal details and then keep all that shit straight in my head every week, because those kids are sharp. So these people are keeping me honest with my kids, while providing me with sometimes stimulating adult conversation and making me feel that while maybe I'm not cool and hip, I'm not a complete loss, either.
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