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.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
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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