|
|
|
December 1st, 2009
09:25 pm - 12/1
The High School Not-Boyfriend was super-embarrassed when he learned his birthday was World AIDS Day. To be fair, the HSN-B was also embarrassed when he walked into the bathroom as the same time as a vo-tech kid, and we all thought he was a little oversensitive in this particular circumstance.
I don't have an AIDS story to share, which is probably situational but might also be generational. My first reference point for HIV is little boys who contracted the disease through hemophilia treatments, and I wonder how many of my generation link first to stories like Ryan White. I have many trite ideas about how this shift in the disease lead us to be accepting of many kinds of lifestyles and loves, but they are all absolute crap borne of how sheltered I am.
Stories shift over time, but I think we're too blind to the ways this one is changing. How can it be that a disease that is laying waste to swathes of a continent is often treated as a chronic illness in this country? Imbalances have a way of evening out. We need to pay attention, and soon.
|
November 30th, 2009
02:30 pm - Consequences
I'm lying when I describe that no-drama finals adventure. There was a bit, of course, courtesy of a student who has made...interesting...choices all fall. The last blast was either a bizarre lie or one of those things that would negatively impact the student for the whole year, so I felt I had to involve the adviser in the discussion.
That adviser sees failing calculus as an opportunity. Not passing is...a chance for a do-over, a chance to really learn the math and really understand how to study and what it is to learn. And it could be, perhaps even it should be. But I don't believe it will be, not for this student and not for most students. Failing calculus is a disaster that will set back the student's entire program and may cost thousands of dollars in extra tuition (not to mention lost scholarships, if the grade issues persist). The student was cautioned, early on, about the consequences of the poor choices that were made; I don't particularly feel like a disservice was done or exceptions need to be made. But. I won't be surprised if the student reads this as a dismissal, or unrealistic. Panic would have been productive much earlier, but there is still much for this student to freak out about.
Some of this urgency comes from the quarter system. We have the same "2.0 or disaster" rule as any other college, but it's a little harder to balance out a D when you're only taking three classes. One bad grade out of four or five sucks, but a hard quarter is just more likely than a hard semester. (Every year, a few of our majors are forced to take three very hard classes at once. It Sucks, even for the best students, and it sucks them dry intellectually. But that is How It Is.) An easy quarter is likelier, too, of course, but there's no reward for three Bs that allows an out when two Cs and a D result occur. And of course failing happens faster when a class runs for eleven weeks instead of sixteen. Quarters are more inherently uneven, but our expectations must remain unchanged.
Many of my colleagues feel that the quarter system is a bit player in these disasters; the question is whether intermittent prevention is worth the incredible work of changing calendars. Too, we're academics; immersion in our work is just about the only reward we get, and the joy of that is one we wish we could all share with the world. (The adviser in question also feels that overloading science classes should be seen as a gift, if the student is truly and deeply interested in subject. And on that I do call bullshit; too much of anything can do you in, and I present myself as proof.)
I wish I could believe that failing calculus was the beginning of a new approach to life. I wish I could believe that study was its own reward for everyone. Right now, what I know for sure is that I will have to avoid the colleague advising this student. Zie believes this is ultimately helpful, if temporarily uncomfortable, and my only response is, "Are you f&@king kidding me?" And yet my response will never be helpful, and goes a long way toward explaining why I see myself as a killer of dreams.
We are both right, my colleague and I, but I am so clearly in the wrong place. Some day it will be funny, possibly to everyone involved.
|
November 29th, 2009
04:59 pm - Dear Students,
Dr. Nerd spent many bus rides contemplating her Finals Grading Movie Marathon. You might not believe this, but Dr. Nerd spends so much time grading your work and dreaming up new work that she rarely gets to watch a movie. (She also belongs to a crazy religious sect that prevents her from watching movies for 25 hours of the weekend, but you knew that part.) She had pretty much settled on Mean Girls, Heathers, and Election, but the list wasn't firm and she thought she might need something a little angrier. (Is it still possible that MTV is bringing out Daria on DVD next spring?)
But Dr. Nerd never did watch any of those movies. She thinks you might be amused to learn where and when she graded your exams (please note: Not all pages are created equal)
Freshmen:
3 pages on various trains, including the Circus Train from the previous post
2 pages while watching "A Deep-Fried Korean Thanksgiving" in its annual ABC Family airing
2 pages while making bread, applesauce, cake, and crackers for Thanksgiving dinner
1 page each on the Odd Numbered and Even Numbered buses (the first of which broke down just as Dr. Nerd pulled the stop signal...thank ye, Transit gods).
2 pages while baking BFoX's birthday cake
1 page while driving to North 'Burb for the Brunch of Contention
3 pages while sitting in a bolt of sunshine on the front couch
Majors:
2 pages in aforementioned bolt of sunshine
2 pages while waiting for X to settle details and dress for BFoX's birthday party (I looked really pretty while grading those, in case you care).
3 pages during raging thunderstorm, on front couch.
1 page while X cleaned up in anticipation of BoX's visit (my favorite page of all)
While we're talking, let me thank you for sending zero--yes, that's 00--emails asking when I would post grades, what your grade was, and how you could magically improve your lot in my class now that it's over. That sealed the deal, and all pity points will be awarded. Enjoy your report cards, and may all your leftovers be right.
Tolerance, at least until the whining begins,
Dr. Nerd.
|
November 25th, 2009
05:13 pm - Inattention
The Train Gang ran to grab the midday local after the last exam period. It was fun, like being eight, even as I stumbled behind in my clunky rainboots. (I debated calling out "Ralphie! Ralphie!!! Aw, Ralphie!" but I wasn't sure anyone else would enjoy it.) We made it, just barely, onto the loudest and kookiest train I've ever ridden. (And I've ridden the train past Graduation Day at the military base. To be clear.)
We were hurrying home to make planes and trains and rental car reservations, so start baking bread and thawing turkey. (Okay, and we needed the f*&k out of Dodge, pronto.) The huge stack of exams in my bag lead to a little mishap on the bus, but I scurried away and down the street, cursing the extra seconds it took to open the mailbox in the pouring rain. I was on bread, and applesauce, and cake.
But I cut up the apples while watching a bad sitcom, putting them on to cook down while I mixed the bread. Before too long it was Gilmore time, and I picked up while going back to Stars Hollow. Suddenly I realized...thirty minutes had passed since I'd last stirred.
Can you burn applesauce?
I ran to the kitchen and pulled off the lid. The apples had finally broken up, a sauce was forming. A little inattention was just what those apples needed. I'm thinking I'll try it with more of my life.
Wonder if it would work on those finals....
|
November 23rd, 2009
07:16 pm - My class is f&@king awesome, it seems.
So, let us recap. Star Student and her Completely Suitable Boyfriend met in my calculus class. (They did not start dating until later, I believe; possibly the dating was a result of math club, possibly it was their time together in Janine's class.)
This semester, I had a recurring issue with two freshmen who regularly missed calculus class…at the same time…and showed up in my office afterward, ten minutes apart, apologizing…and a bit sweaty and flushed. It is known in the freshperson class that these two spend that time “together,” and while they spend part of that creating identical and inaccurate homework sets…well, mathematical models aren’t the only thing they’re makin’.
Two of The Majors have demanding but matching Major schedules, and started spending lots of time together out of necessity. It appears to have evolved into a preference, if their behavior at the last Department Event is any indication. (It is also one of those cases where two Nice Kids are egging one another on in Bad Behavior. Baby Brother and I have discussed trying to break them up, but I have this feeling that we can create these things but not destroy them.) We’re not sure who is most responsible for this pair, but I surely take some of the blame.
And I just downloaded a stack of files from the Other Calculus Class. I’d noticed that the girl who used to study with the first couple was now working with another guy, and was glad she’d left the Toxic Two behind. Then I grabbed the file, entitled “[Bobby] Loves [Susie].” You have got to be kidding me.
|
November 21st, 2009
06:20 pm - My proudest moment
Stu is normally a solid-B kind of kid (oh, damn, the story will give it away. Girl. Solid-B kind of girl). She's been in the big Fall Play and is proud to have a real role ("Finally!") I gave a quiz, the morning after final dress rehearsal. Predictably, Stu bombed it, bombed with dumb mistakes and distracted mistakes, as well as the B-student mistakes I expect her to make.
It happens. I didn't say anything, because I wasn't concerned or disappointed. I knew about the play, and I knew where the mistakes were from. One little quiz doesn't matter, and I can't deal with mini-dramas anymore.
The play ran, a smashing success, and the Tuesday after Stu appeared in my office. We looked over the quiz, laughing off the distracted mistakes, correcting the B-student misconceptions. Satisfied, Stu packed up the quiz. "I've never failed anything before," Stu confided; I winced, internally, ready to mop up the tears--but Stu had more to say. "I saw that grade and I was like, oh my g-d, that's failing...but wait, I'm not crying. I'm okay." A little head-bopping move served as punctuation. "Now I know I can fail, and it's not a big deal. Thanks!"
I probably shouldn't have said a dang thing, but I couldn't help myself. "Well! Now you can take more risks! How cool is that?"
Stu lit up a bit. "Yeah!" she exclaimed. We exchanged pleasantries, and went about our days.
I wish I'd had more of those moments. I wish I could have taught, "how to fail."
|
November 11th, 2009
08:17 pm - Time Travel, upon leaving Mars
The girl who first played Tracy Chapman for me now rides my train. That's "Fast Car" era Tracy Chapman, and her older sister copied it onto a tape for her; she played it on the bus, her Walkman turned up all the way so we could hear the tinny sounds from the headphones. I want to say all the fifth grade girls gathered around, but that can't be; it was probably the crowd of us who grew up to be more alternative in high school. She explained the lyrics, periodically; I still remember being jealous that she had someone to introduce her to good music (because Melissa Peterson's much-older sisters only handed down dance mixes, which Melissa loved and I knew sucked), and thinking it was kind of snobby to assume that none of us were sophisticated enough to understand the song.
We were indifferent to one another in high school; I think her stepsister was a band friend but I honestly can't remember if her dad was married to Amy's mom or if that was the girl in the drama club. (I couldn't think of a way to ask.) Her sometimes high school boyfriend just had a kid, so I assume he's not still setting the chem lab on fire (like when he was my lab partner). I knew nothing about no one she would care about (I only know dirt on band kids, and well...), but she shared a little about the student-council and athletic but not overboard kids I don't think she exactly ran around with (being more artsy and alternateen, but in a clean-cut sort of way), but I think their parents would have been tight with hers. For the cream of the crop kids from a prairie wasteland, we're all doing pretty well. "We're kind of all doing what I thought we would," she commented, looking a little sad. (I'm assuming I fit that description, too.)
Can I tell you how awkward it is to meet someone, fifteen years after your last conversation, on the day your "I Quit" reaches the higher echelons? It was forty minutes of vigilance, carrying on and catching up while sharing nothing. Every word was weighed against who I was at sixteen, who I wanted to been seen as, who I wish I was. Ever tried to give the impression that you were exactly where you wanted, while the very walls around you were burning down?
I managed. The conversation turned to how out of element we can feel in this place (MM, and working in 'Burb), and how we can't go back to who we were either. I didn't think the kids who were like her would grow up to be out of whack in a place like this (MM; we're all out of whack in 'Burb). I wondered if I'd become like the kids I knew I wasn't in high school. (By that, I think I mostly mean middle-class.) I think I can fake it, in positive ways. Except for the part where I'm lost, most of the time, wandering through a world I never understood.
Can we please go back to what happened first, before I wanted to pull out my iPod and hold out my subscription to Paste Magazine as proof that I had left the 'Burg behind for something more meaningful? I quit, announcing my intention to leave this life behind, and then I slammed face-first into a part of my past I didn't even know I'd lived. I quit (well, promised I would quit, eventually), and I don't know where I'm going next. I'm also less sure about where it is I'm from. But the kids who played footsie in the back row of my biology class got married, which surprises me not a whit. Maybe the world makes sense, somewhere between what I'm not and what I don't know yet.
|
November 5th, 2009
06:46 pm - The evolution of language
The Freshmen use the word "struggle" on a daily basis. (At least in my class.) "I'm really struggling with this, Dr. Nerd," I hear all of the time. "Struggle" tends to translate as "I have no f&@king idea how to start this problem," and it bothers me to hear the word abused that way (because, kidlets, you grew up in 'Burb, and your "struggles" tend to be a little simple in the grand scheme of the world).
There was another word they were using strangely, and I couldn't wrap my head around why it resonated wrong. I'd hear it a few times a day, and wonder, "Is that what you really mean to say?" but I couldn't quite explain what sounded off.
Today I was sitting in my office, grading exams (pray for them, please). A student I'd never met stuck her head in the door and demanded, "Where is room C12!"
Now, our building has a slightly idiosyncratic system for its floors (and stairs). I direct people up or down a level several times a week. At the beginning of the year, I often have to explain how to take the stairs; by now, I can usually say, "One more floor up."
"But then what!?!" the student wailed.
Well, that depended on which stairs she went up, and which door she used. "Honestly? Just walk around the hall. The rooms are in numerical order." She gritted her teeth. "Are you sure I'll find it? Because I already couldn't find the floor and I'm challenged."
There was that word, and finally it hit me. In usage, in crudity, and in intention, their "challenge" is my generation's "retarded." (No wonder they get so pissed when I reassure them that math classes are "challenging." ) It's so hard to keep up with kids these days.
|
November 2nd, 2009
10:53 pm
There's a fancy outpost of Big Grocery Chain 1 on my bus line. After a day without lunch (because there was no time, and because there was no single-bite food in the house), I decided to make a pit stop on the way home for some frozen pizzas that were on sale, and a few other items that we needed.
I don't like shopping at BGC1 but I do it, at least occasionally, because there's one a few blocks away and you can't buy everything at Aldi. "Our" BGC1 has usually ghastly produce and runs out of popular items on Friday afternoons and Sunday evenings; the shelves are a tumbled mess and the hot dog buns move every couple of weeks. And yet the Urban Tribe exclaims over the improvements to BGC1; apparently it was the Hood Grocer to end all Hood Grocers a few years back (rather like our KMart, which is completely 1974).
The fancy outpost is what would have been called a yuppie enclave, back in the 80s. There are multiple salad bars, including one filled with lovely olives (helllllloooo, Nurse!) Two long aisles stock international groceries and organic foods; I know where to find Soy Nog next month, I bet. But, mostly, I was shocked that the shelves contained a full complement of goods, all neatly lined up and corresponding to their labels. (I don't want to discuss the number of times I've wrestled free a frozen entree--only to discover it's really the chicken-based number that's supposed to live a shelf below.
Early evening, the store was filled with nice people my age, nice women in slightly impractical shoes and the male accompaniments in suit pants and sneakers. We used baskets rather than carts, choosing apartment-appropriate containers whenever possible. We tapped and shuffled our way up to the cashiers (multiple lanes empty! In my Hood, the lines stretch halfway down the aisles).
The cashiers and bag boys we shuffled up to were all black. You can read between my lines to deduce that the shoppers were all white, right? I actually stared as I looked down that line of registers, noting the orderly march of faces. I don't know what the moral of the story is, but it made me very uncomfortable. But we were out of eggs, and bread. I needed to go through that odd little dividing line. Don't worry, I did it (and I'll do it again, at least for that olive bar. But I'm guessing it will feal even stranger then.
|
November 1st, 2009
04:30 pm - November
I'm not doing NaBloPoMo, or whatever it's called, like last year. If I could post on the train, perhaps I would (I have these fantasies of reserving some train rides for writing time, but there are many, many freshmen and their homework exercises are...how do we say?...le crap).
I need space to say stuff. There's a lot going on (I guess that much is obvious) and I need to blog somewhere besides my head. I'm not sure why I feel guilty for not signing up, but I wish I could.
It's another thing I'm missing, another bit of that "blight man [was] born for." (Dear GSC PC Patrol: If I'm quoting literature, is it okay to use gendered language? I changed my calculus problems to read "people-holes" and "person-made lakes." It breaks my heart that the first-years did not find this the slightest bit funny, too.)
I don't know who I want to be, but I want to be something with time for words, and for books. I'd like to have conversations, again, and have something to converse about. (And, fer f&cksakes, I want to be someone who employs a person's expressed gender identity in descriptions. Only when necessary, but still.)
I hear there's a world out there; I'm thinking I'd like to join in.
|
October 31st, 2009
06:52 pm - Dear Chair
I will be resigning at the end of this academic year. Actually, I'd like to resign at the end of this term, but I'm aware of the responsibilities I accepted when I signed my contract. Also, you're at least one section short of coverage, and adjuncts can't teach The Class For the Grad School Bound. (Hmm. Better delete that last sentence.)
I wish I had a good answer for why I'm leaving. I'm curious if you'll phrase it, "why leave now?", because there are various items that suggest you don't expect me to stay. All of which could be completely unintentional. (Um, cut that one.) "Why now" I can answer: because you overloaded me in the application period of my second year; because all the jobs disappeared during my third year; and because I have zero desire to go through pre-tenure evaluations for tenure I don't want, wasting my time and yours and roughly ten other folks' too. (I can say that, in cleaned-up language of course).
I'm hoping to leave the area in the next eighteen months, so committing to the additional year that you're likely to suggest to me would be ineffective at best. And, frankly, I don't want to come back in January...so I'm thinking it's best not to sign up for a year as a truly shackled lame duck.(ooooh, no.) I actually have no plan short of leaving academia, or at any rate no real and approved plan. I'm studying for the actuarial exams but don't want to take the accounting coursework (or, well, I don't want to pay for school right now--oop, leave those last two points out). I do plan to leave academia, and I will always wonder if that's the choice I would have made had I left sooner. (Uh, that's probably too emotional for you.)
I want to do what's best for the department and the College, but I have to look out for what's best for me. (Really, the nice chair of the Being Faculty Committee told me so.) The chair of the BFC has explained that I need to resign in a letter, and abort myself from the tenure process in a letter. (Apparently these are separate letters, which strikes me as vaguely bizarre because if I'm quitting, how do I not exit the tenure process? And if I exit the tenure process, I've violated the terms of my contract and therefore fired myself.)(Damn. Overshared again.) I understand the practical deadline for exiting tenure (I just typed "death", which is even better than the time I compared tenure to prison), but I'd like to resign on the best timetable for the department that fits within those guidelines. How can I make scheduling and so on easier for you, preferably without making my resignation public?
Honestly, it's all of us. I don't belong here, and y'all are frickin' crazy. (Um, that last sentence, not so much). See, I know this is a really friendly campus, but I perceive all of you as distant and cold. I know I'm witty and funny and have all sorts of interests, but I haven't read a book in months and sometimes go a week without saying or hearing anything social (and, dude, I actually can talk Iowa football this year--hey! I can leave this in!). I'm miserable, and I don't see how you all can be wildly happy with me. I think you'd be happier with someone else, and I think I'd be happier in something else. We can all be happy, and that happiness could come with the smoothest possible of breakups. (So long as Eeyore doesn't find out for As Long As Possible. Oh, dear.) Can we try?
Not GSC love, perhaps, but a faint feeling of fondness for what once was,
MathNerd.
|
October 25th, 2009
04:46 pm - Who Do You Think You Are?
The latest Oprah arrived in my mailbox, asking me that important question: Who are you meant to be? Damned if I know, I answered, thrilled as always to have a quick solution to all of my dilemmas courtesy Hearst Publications.
Lest I sound like a total jerk, there is some inspired writing in this issue. I truly enjoy some of O's regular contributors, and am at least provoked by those I don't love(Anne Lamott, I'm lookin' at you). But nothing could be as thrilling as what I found about three-quarters of the way into the magazine--A QUIZ!
Back before Facebook, I loved those girl-magazine quizzes. MusicNerd and I used to trade off purchasing an all-quiz magazine for sale at the 'Burg Wal-mart, eagerly administering the quizzes to one another. A tiny bit of me hoped that this quiz really would give me insight into what I wanted to be, how to use all of my quirks to finally find my thing.
I worked through the boxes, rating myself on various personality traits. I can take risks or ignore them (I don't mind 'em, but don't need 'em to be happy). I don't like being in charge of people. I'm self-directed and can handle ambiguous projects. Being left alone for hours doesn't bother me (oh, hell, it's my dream). I was clearly a type five, in this quiz, which startled me; usually I can see through the vagueness of these quizzes and get no results at all. Only types 1-4 appeared on the page following the quiz; I flipped impatiently through the magazine, desperate to discover my destiny. There it was, type 5: I'm an Intellectual. I should consider academia or science.
Well, I'll get right on that. Thanks.
|
October 24th, 2009
09:49 pm - Dear Facebook,
Please stop recommending that I "reconnect" with people.
Please make it clear how I can change to my real email address without anyone on my friends list finding out.
Please prevent my third-degree relatives from posting about how much they love J35u5. Although please make sure that the bass clarinetist from high school band keeps it up, because somehow she's funny.
Please bore X as soon as possible.
love, MathNerd
|
October 21st, 2009
09:45 pm - The World Is Mad
1. It appears many of the freshmen think my first name is Mattie. I don't know if this is some sort of 18-year-old joke, or if an innocent error went viral.
2.The difference between folks in the humanities and folks in the sciences? Folks in the humanities respond to group emails even if the only logical response is "wow, it's so awesome that you sent an email!" In the sciences, we just assume that the recipient has taken care of whatever needs to be done...even if that includes a few million dollars' worth of grant proposals or something.
3. That Landon Pigg song, "Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop"? I quite like it, and hum it frequently. Only, somehow, I think the words as "falling in love in a parking lot." Seriously, "this parking lot I love so much"? The suburbs have ruined me in myriad and highly embarrassing ways.
|
October 19th, 2009
08:02 pm - More Halloween Posting
Okay, so I think the Illegal Alien Costume is pretty juvenile, and rude, and insensitive.
For the record, I feel the same way about sexy firefighters, sexy nuns, sexy lumberjacks, and whatever else gets worn to R&A's party.
But...if someone showed up in a homemade "Illegal Alien" costume...I'd laugh my ass off. (Unless it was a "Sexy Illegal Alien" costume, of course.) Is it wrong to think that people who buy the costume are assholes...because they could put the same thing together from a thrift store for half the price?
|
October 18th, 2009
09:59 pm - Two Letters
I have a BA. In the parlance of the institution where I currently work, that means I'm dumb (or possibly double-majoring, in something incompatible). It means I'm not serious about mathematics, or lazy, or a transfer student who just barely made it out in two years. It could mean I was preparing to be a teacher, and my load was lightened to allow for the ever-changing state requirements and the teacher-prep courses. But, well, read between those lines...and sneaking beneath those possibilities is a likelihood that I'm not exactly who we'd like to see gracing the halls of GSC.
(Hmmm. Well, isn't that ironic? Or maybe it's just a bummer--I can never keep those straight. Y'know, BA. I'm not that bright.)
We've been in a debate, for a while now, about what it means for science departments to offer a BA. Of what it means for a once liberal-arts college to offer a BS (properly, GSC is a comprehensive college these days). We don't have a good answer. Being scientific academics, we can't even come up with an answer that's not too harsh.
There are catalog things that it means, of course: language requirements versus computer science, depth versus breadth, all the rest. Personally, I value breadth and life experiences (I have that BA because I wanted to be an English major, too, and they didn't offer a BS). At GSC, students avoid opportunities because they're encouraged toward depth, and depth classes come but once every two years (if those classes fill). I understand why the scientists value depth. There's grad school to prep them for, and our own immersion/absorption/obsession in something we can't explain over a family meal. The best parts of science are the passion and the all-consuming interest. The best part of science is the lack of other stuff, the separation from culture and time. (I understand that. I'm not sure I always agree.)
(I still remember Undergraduate Advisor asking me if I wanted the BS or the BA. I explained about the English major idea, and wanting to take extra German classes. I wanted a BA. She replied, "I always think that's the better degree." I came from a different place, a place proud of the liberal arts.)
Depth=smarts, in these minds; I wonder if that's our wider culture or just our institutional one. Our students are nervous and uncertain (otherwise, they'd go somewhere else); our students need a strong, deep foundation to make it through that first grad school year of doubt and proving. I like to think a searching mind that looks to many sources would be an equal (if different) resource, but it probably isn't for these kids.
We had the degree conversation on a local level, and I argued our BA to a sort of breadth. (BabyBrother backed me up on this, and Janine liked it once she heard our rationale.) I had to use the argument that not all BAs could handle the depth, and it was true but to say it felt like stabbing myself. I'm happier with the breadth but wish it was broader (I'm counting Geometry and Differential equations as breadth. In my head, math history is the minimum definition. You do what you can, where you are).
I haven't said as much in the broader arena. I'm ignorant of some things, of course, and this recurrent trope that suggests the BS should make sure our bright students are "really challenged," while saving the BA for "the others." I am Other, of course, and I could have enjoyed that distinction in a different place or with perhaps a different life. But there's something about being "Other" that suggests being cast away, and I wonder why anyone would stay if a bottom tier is all they are offered.
I'm not saying much because it's not my future. I'm not saying much because I can't separate what I believe from what I am, or was. I'm not saying much because I have a BA, and that means I'm a fraud to have made it this far. I used to think I'd had lots of good luck but my own skills let me make the most of my opportunities. I used to blame GSC for that change of heart. Now I just shake my head, silent.
|
October 12th, 2009
06:43 pm - Seeking Input
I'm debating dressing up as the "big-haired lady in the circus" for Halloween. (Theme party.) I've got the hair down, no problem, but what would the big-haired lady wear?
|
October 11th, 2009
10:22 pm - Diagnosis
I'm having trouble leaving the house, on the weekends at least. Some weekend days I don't get dressed at all, spending the whole day with a pile of grading on the couch. It goes without saying that I don't shower; sometimes at the end of a Saturday I realize that I never actually did take the bandana off my head and do something to my hair. (To be fair, I always avoid brushing my hair, but on weekdays I employ fingers and serum.)
Sometimes at the end of a Saturday I realize that I've eaten a bowl of oatmeal and a piece of fruit, maybe a can of soup or half a sandwich. On the weekends, I tend not to answer my phone, even when HaShem gives me the okay. I find myself avoiding things I love, like Coen Brothers movies and the Sunday paper.
I kind of started to think that maybe I was depressed. But then I figured out that I'd be depressed seven days a week, no matter how many freshmen I had to face. On the upside, this means I'll get better in June. On the downside, I haven't seen any vaguely veiled commercials for the pharmaceuticals to treat "math professor."
|
October 6th, 2009
10:21 pm - Signs that you work in the suburbs, WTF? edition
"Is that Tutee's mother? Ooop, nope, that's a slate Lexus crossover wagon, not a black Mercedes station wagon."
I used to think Hondas and Volkswagens were classy.
Actually, I still do.
|
October 5th, 2009
08:19 pm - Umm.
I logged on to my Home page a couple of weeks ago, and discovered that I was up to 999 posts. I'm sure no one but me is keeping a count (and even if you were...go away, crazy stalker...there are a few private, locked posts in there that you can't count), but it felt like I was supposed to honor the occasion in some momentous way. And there are a few ideas rumbling around, trapped behind the mumblety-mumble-million calculus assignments that I must grade and the pointless, yet poignant, crises of coeds. (Well, mostly they're f'ing annoying. But there you go.)
And there are excuses, ranging from the whole gamut of high-hellidays (there were stories, I'm sorry) and the usual pile. Nothing was big enough for #1000. Train conversations were passing me by, and yet I had nothing to say. (Seriously, there were some good ones that I wish I'd reported. But bonus points for anyone who gets the reference.) With the big one hanging over my head...it's not that nothing was worth writing, because I had ideas that would come after that mythical 1000th post...if I couldn't get over the big thing, there was nothing worth getting down.
And, as ever, I'm trying to say something that I can't really say out loud. But I'm working out the big thing now, because the silence is driving me deaf.
I've been preaching from the Third Book of Dar, chapter five, stanza three. I turn your attention to chapter seven, final verse (ironically skipping-over "Teenagers Kick Our Butts"). It feels right, and I thank you all.
|
|
|