Especially my babes. Well, my step-babes, technically, but who's counting.
I've blogged about this before, and can't find the exact post right now (of course), but apparently my kids share my less than blissful view of the south. Now please don't roll your eyes and say "duh" (or if you must, do so quietly), because you have to believe that I am really careful around my kids. I realize that my views of the south are possibly slightly demented, so I try to make absolutely sure that the kids know that there are two sides to every story, and that there are good reasons for everything. Now the kids don't express their thoughts on this matter a whole lot, but when they, it's hilarious (and thus blogworthy).
The last time I dedicated a blog to them (and I will recoup this, since I can't seem to find this post), they were not only discussing how, since the south uses the word "y'all", they should really use "w'all" too, but also why there really is no reason for people to wear camo outfits to Walmart. They were talking about this when they thought husband-dear and I weren't listening, and it was hilarious. This time, it was just two small statements, but they had us in stitches (quietly, of course, as we really don't want to encourage this kind of behavior).
First, the eldest, Ozzie, while we were driving to town, noticed the sticker on a truck in front us. It was an image of Calvin urinating on the words "gun control". His exact words, if I'm not mistaken, were, "Dad? Is that really a picture of Calvin peeing on gun control?"
"Yes son, it is."
Silence.
Then, "Really? I mean, really? He's pulling out his...and...well...oh wow..wow. I mean, not that I'm all in favor of gun control. Or against it. Or whatever it is when you think people should own guns but not like really anything they want. I'm not, I mean. Whatever. You know what I mean. But sheesh. What will that guy's kids think? That you should just, well, pee on everything?"
What can I say, I love that kid.
Then the youngest, Jimmie, piped up during dinner. Completely out of the blue, and totally unrelated to anything we were talking about, he suddenly said, "Do you know that in the south you can say anything you want to anybody, you can even insult them, as long as you end it with 'Bless your heart'? Did you know that?"
And actually, I didn't know that. Never even thought about it, but realized immediately that he a had a point. As did Jimmie apparently, since he jumped in right away, "Yeah! Like you can tell people, 'your child is so wild and rambunctious, he's just insane. Oh, bless his heart."
Needless to say, the two boys spent the next few minutes coming up with the most terrible insults, and ending with "Bless his/her heart".
It was awesome. They're awesome. A little crazy, and they take after their stepmomma way too much, but bless their hearts, you know?
Friday, May 20, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Itty bitty wings
When I was asked to participate in the USMC 2010 Educators' Workshop, I have to admit I felt slightly honored. OK, I'll admit, felt like a really cool academic. Sure, as I mentioned last year, I'm well aware this entire workshop is probably going to be a textbook case of white propaganda for the marine corps, but still, being asked to do anything just makes me feel all fuzzy on the inside (and yes, that includes things that I really shouldn't do, like edit the commencement program, write a student handbook, and help someone with their subtitles). Let's just say I really need to work on a) setting boundaries, and b) disconnecting my self-worth from my actions. But none of that is relevant in this case. The workshop entails no work for me, and in fact includes an all-expenses paid week in DC. So I've been feeling pretty hot there for a while. How many people get to fly to DC on someone else's dime to watch men in uniform all week? I mean, really?
Well, you'll all be thrilled to know my bubble burst quite violently about twenty minutes ago when I received my travel confirmation. Convinced as I was that they would have me fly out of Atlanta, I was appalled to see that instead I'll be flying out of the rinky dink local airport. Now I have nothing against local airports. They're great incentives for the local economy, I'm sure. My problem is with the teeny tiny airplanes that fly out of those little bitty airports. We're not talking outdated DC10s here, or those smaller versions of the 767 that they'll fly between Dusseldorf and Amsterdam. No, people, we're talking the kinds of planes dropzones use for their skydivers. Planes that hold maybe ten people at best, and where the cockpit is separated from the rest of the plane by a curtain. If you're lucky. Planes where they have to put your carry-ons in the cargo hold because there are no overhead bins. Planes where you don't have to worry about whom you'll be sitting next to, as these planes have one row of seats on either side of the aisle. Planes, people, that go down on such a regular basis, the news barely mentions these accidents.
I'm usually not afraid of flying. As I've mentioned before, husband-dear and I used to both skydive (out of those same little planes), so it's not as though I don't have a nice set of cojones when it comes to flying. But, dear Lord, these planes are small. And accident-prone. I used to fly on them on a fairly regular basis when I lived up in New England, and without a parachute on my back, they just freak me out.
First, it's the whole turbulence thing. If you think turbulence is a large aircraft is bad, well, think again.There's bouncing, jostling, and pummeling. There's panels rattling so bad, you start worrying whether the plane will hold up or not. There's deathly silence as everyone wonders whether now would be a good time to start calling their loved ones and telling them goodbye. And while you're trying to keep yourself from repeatedly banging into the seat in front of you and soiling yourself in fear at the same time, you can see the pilots leaning back, positively unconcerned that behind them all ten passengers are trying to keep themselves from getting concussions. And worst of all, because these excuses of airplanes are so small, they don't make it up much higher than 15000 feet, which means that you can be guaranteed that if there's a storm in the area, you will be flying right through it.
Then, whenever I've flown on one of these little coffeemakers, the pilots seem to lose all abandon whenever they climb into the cockpit. They take off as though they just realized they left their stove on, bank like they're trying to make it into the Thunderbirds, and the landing is hard enough to make anyone's dentures come out. Perhaps it's the fact that these planes don't cost a whole lot more than my car, or the fact that the airline has so many of them, I don't know, but the pilots just don't seem to care about their passenger's comfort a whole lot. I mean, I've been on jump runs where the pilot had to dump thirty skydivers in about five minutes (quite a feat, let me tell you), and those runs were more comfortable than some of those trips up into Maine.
Finally, there's the lack of all the little amenities such as flight attendants (these planes usually only have one, and that is just to comply with FAA security regulations), food (not gonna happen), drinks (would happen if it weren't for the neverending turbulence), pilot's announcements (there's just nothing to see when you're flying through clouds), and the SkyMall magazine. Somehow all those little things on other planes make me feel as though flying is really just secondary, you know, like, oh yeah, and while you're consuming that meal and watching your favorite movie, we'll also fly you across the country, but don't you worry your pretty little head about that. None of that in these little planes. They're all about business. Which always has me wonder if flying them is so difficult/dangerous that there's no time for other diversions, that is, the pilots would love to tell you all about the cornfield you're flying over, but they're busy trying to keep you in the air.
So, yeah, the fuzzy, warm, "they like me! They really like me!" feeling is gone. Instead I think I'm going to keep an eye out on small-plane-accident statistics in the next few months. And make sure I tell everyone I love them.
Well, you'll all be thrilled to know my bubble burst quite violently about twenty minutes ago when I received my travel confirmation. Convinced as I was that they would have me fly out of Atlanta, I was appalled to see that instead I'll be flying out of the rinky dink local airport. Now I have nothing against local airports. They're great incentives for the local economy, I'm sure. My problem is with the teeny tiny airplanes that fly out of those little bitty airports. We're not talking outdated DC10s here, or those smaller versions of the 767 that they'll fly between Dusseldorf and Amsterdam. No, people, we're talking the kinds of planes dropzones use for their skydivers. Planes that hold maybe ten people at best, and where the cockpit is separated from the rest of the plane by a curtain. If you're lucky. Planes where they have to put your carry-ons in the cargo hold because there are no overhead bins. Planes where you don't have to worry about whom you'll be sitting next to, as these planes have one row of seats on either side of the aisle. Planes, people, that go down on such a regular basis, the news barely mentions these accidents.
I'm usually not afraid of flying. As I've mentioned before, husband-dear and I used to both skydive (out of those same little planes), so it's not as though I don't have a nice set of cojones when it comes to flying. But, dear Lord, these planes are small. And accident-prone. I used to fly on them on a fairly regular basis when I lived up in New England, and without a parachute on my back, they just freak me out.
First, it's the whole turbulence thing. If you think turbulence is a large aircraft is bad, well, think again.There's bouncing, jostling, and pummeling. There's panels rattling so bad, you start worrying whether the plane will hold up or not. There's deathly silence as everyone wonders whether now would be a good time to start calling their loved ones and telling them goodbye. And while you're trying to keep yourself from repeatedly banging into the seat in front of you and soiling yourself in fear at the same time, you can see the pilots leaning back, positively unconcerned that behind them all ten passengers are trying to keep themselves from getting concussions. And worst of all, because these excuses of airplanes are so small, they don't make it up much higher than 15000 feet, which means that you can be guaranteed that if there's a storm in the area, you will be flying right through it.
Then, whenever I've flown on one of these little coffeemakers, the pilots seem to lose all abandon whenever they climb into the cockpit. They take off as though they just realized they left their stove on, bank like they're trying to make it into the Thunderbirds, and the landing is hard enough to make anyone's dentures come out. Perhaps it's the fact that these planes don't cost a whole lot more than my car, or the fact that the airline has so many of them, I don't know, but the pilots just don't seem to care about their passenger's comfort a whole lot. I mean, I've been on jump runs where the pilot had to dump thirty skydivers in about five minutes (quite a feat, let me tell you), and those runs were more comfortable than some of those trips up into Maine.
Finally, there's the lack of all the little amenities such as flight attendants (these planes usually only have one, and that is just to comply with FAA security regulations), food (not gonna happen), drinks (would happen if it weren't for the neverending turbulence), pilot's announcements (there's just nothing to see when you're flying through clouds), and the SkyMall magazine. Somehow all those little things on other planes make me feel as though flying is really just secondary, you know, like, oh yeah, and while you're consuming that meal and watching your favorite movie, we'll also fly you across the country, but don't you worry your pretty little head about that. None of that in these little planes. They're all about business. Which always has me wonder if flying them is so difficult/dangerous that there's no time for other diversions, that is, the pilots would love to tell you all about the cornfield you're flying over, but they're busy trying to keep you in the air.
So, yeah, the fuzzy, warm, "they like me! They really like me!" feeling is gone. Instead I think I'm going to keep an eye out on small-plane-accident statistics in the next few months. And make sure I tell everyone I love them.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Six full water bottles
...do not necessarily mean there's something for you to drink.
That is just one of the lessons I learned today. Another one would be that using the bathroom before you struggle into your wetsuit is a really good idea.
For those of you who have been reading my blog for at least a year, I'm sure you know what I'm about to tell you. Classes have ended, spring is in the air, I've been running, biking, and swimming like there's no tomorrow; yes, it's time for the first triathlon of the season.
This year, since I really didn't have enough on my plate already with a 7/6 teaching load, I decided to sign up for an Olympic distance event. Just in case you're really don't feel like clicking on the link, and to further underline the insanity of this event, an Olympic (or international) triathlon entails a 0.93 mi swim, a 25 mi bike, and a 6.2 mi run. Carried out consecutively, by the same person, on the same day, and within four hours.
To further complicate things, this event was not only held two hours away from our home, which meant we had to drive up the night before and get a hotel, but the location was also north of us, entailing cold lake water and the necessity of wetsuits. And I learned lots of new things.
One of them was the fact that when you know you're about to exercise for at least three hours, you have a carefully thought out hydration plan. Your bottles contain heed, recoverite, water, perpetuem, and are all mixed to your preferred ratio. So when it's forty minutes before race time, and you're thirsty, you know better than to mess with those carefully prepared bottles, and you suddenly become very grateful for the half-full week-old zephyrhills bottle in your husband's car.
Traveling to triathlons is possibly the most complicated thing one can do. Husband-dear and I had almost as much luggage as a friend who traveled with four kids including two newborns. You not only need your bikes, you need your wetsuits, your transition bags, your PJs, your clothes for after the race, your breakfast, your post-race snacks, your toolbox, bicycle pump, and whatever back up material your lovely wife feels you simply must take.
Another lesson I learned is that whenever the water is wetsuit legal (tri-speak for Really Cold), I better race with husband-dear or have him with me, as I there is no way I can get into the suit properly without his "caboose lift", aka a tri-sanctified wedgie. And that no matter how hard you try to remain standing when you're pulling off your wetsuit, it's just not going to happen, and you will end up on your butt in the grass.
Possible the most important lesson, however, was that it's really not very smart to schedule a major race such as this one a week after commencement. My swim was slightly erratic (although this could be attributed to low visibility and the optimist decision on my part to wear my shaded goggles); 8 miles in to the bike my behind felt as though it was on fire, and the only reason I PR-ed on the run was because Shelly ran it with me.
But I made it. And well within my personally imposed time limit. In spite of that, though, I know I could have done better. So you all know what that means...yes, I'm going to have to do it again.
Well, dang. I really should take up crocheting instead.
That is just one of the lessons I learned today. Another one would be that using the bathroom before you struggle into your wetsuit is a really good idea.
For those of you who have been reading my blog for at least a year, I'm sure you know what I'm about to tell you. Classes have ended, spring is in the air, I've been running, biking, and swimming like there's no tomorrow; yes, it's time for the first triathlon of the season.
This year, since I really didn't have enough on my plate already with a 7/6 teaching load, I decided to sign up for an Olympic distance event. Just in case you're really don't feel like clicking on the link, and to further underline the insanity of this event, an Olympic (or international) triathlon entails a 0.93 mi swim, a 25 mi bike, and a 6.2 mi run. Carried out consecutively, by the same person, on the same day, and within four hours.
To further complicate things, this event was not only held two hours away from our home, which meant we had to drive up the night before and get a hotel, but the location was also north of us, entailing cold lake water and the necessity of wetsuits. And I learned lots of new things.
One of them was the fact that when you know you're about to exercise for at least three hours, you have a carefully thought out hydration plan. Your bottles contain heed, recoverite, water, perpetuem, and are all mixed to your preferred ratio. So when it's forty minutes before race time, and you're thirsty, you know better than to mess with those carefully prepared bottles, and you suddenly become very grateful for the half-full week-old zephyrhills bottle in your husband's car.
Traveling to triathlons is possibly the most complicated thing one can do. Husband-dear and I had almost as much luggage as a friend who traveled with four kids including two newborns. You not only need your bikes, you need your wetsuits, your transition bags, your PJs, your clothes for after the race, your breakfast, your post-race snacks, your toolbox, bicycle pump, and whatever back up material your lovely wife feels you simply must take.
Another lesson I learned is that whenever the water is wetsuit legal (tri-speak for Really Cold), I better race with husband-dear or have him with me, as I there is no way I can get into the suit properly without his "caboose lift", aka a tri-sanctified wedgie. And that no matter how hard you try to remain standing when you're pulling off your wetsuit, it's just not going to happen, and you will end up on your butt in the grass.
Possible the most important lesson, however, was that it's really not very smart to schedule a major race such as this one a week after commencement. My swim was slightly erratic (although this could be attributed to low visibility and the optimist decision on my part to wear my shaded goggles); 8 miles in to the bike my behind felt as though it was on fire, and the only reason I PR-ed on the run was because Shelly ran it with me.
But I made it. And well within my personally imposed time limit. In spite of that, though, I know I could have done better. So you all know what that means...yes, I'm going to have to do it again.
Well, dang. I really should take up crocheting instead.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Ontstressen
Het mini-zwembadje moest opgezet worden.
Er moest een vervanging gevonden voor voor een ontbrekend stukje van een van de aansluitingen.
Het internet hield er mee op.
Ik kreeg een aantal mails van werk met allerlei opdrachten.
De oudste bedacht zich zomaar opeens dat hij een groot project moest doen deze week, waarvoor hij allerlei materialen nodig had.
De router bleek het probleem te zijn, en deze was absoluut niet meer te repareren.
Ik werd gevraagd een review te schrijven voor een tijdschrift.
De filter van ons mini-zwembadje begon dusdanig te lekken dat we de besproeing achterin de tuin niet eens meer aan hoefde te zetten.
Er moest gekookt worden voor een zieke kennis.
U heeft hem al door: de laatste drie dagen zijn niet zo relaxt geweest als ik graag gezien had. Mijn werktempo lag eigenlijk net zo hoog als op mijn werk; van winkel naar winkel, tripjes naar mensen met pannen vol eten, om dan thuis te komen, en niet online te kunnen, of te ontdekken dat het zwembad weer lekt, niemand online kon, of de honden weer eens een gat in de achtertuin gegraven hadden. "If it rains, it pours", zoals ze hier zo mooi uitdrukken.
En wat nog erger is; mijn dagen van "flying under the radar" op het werk zijn ook voorbij. Kon ik voorgaande zomers nog wegkomen met alleen maar lesgeven, en een beetje onderzoek doen, de verschillende committees hebben mij het afgelopen jaar ontdekt, en nu heb ik zelfs gedurende zomer allerlei verantwoordelijkheden. Zo moet ik voor volgende week een verslag schrijven voor de board of regents over writing literacies. Niet dat ik dat niet kan hoor, want dat is het niet. Ik heb er gewoon heel ouderwets geen zin in. Helemaal omdat we gedurende de zomer helemaal niet betaald worden voor dit soort taken. En ja, ik hoor alle Nederlanders nu roepen, "Ja maar als je niet betaald wordt, dan doe je dat toch niet?!", maar zo werkt dat hier helaas niet. Zolang ik nog geen tenure heb in ieder geval. Dus zucht ik, en steun ik, en klaag ik (veel), maar dat rapport komt er.
Ik was dan ook, om eerlijk te zijn "less than pleased" (lees: niet te genieten). Want wat is de zin van keihard werken als je je zomer ook nog eens uit allerlei nare klusjes bestaat?
Gelukkig geloof ik dat nu alles wat meer onder controle heb. Er is een nieuwe router gekocht en geinstalleerd (en hij doet het nog steeds!), de filter is via een "doo-hickey" (lees: met veel kunst en vliegwerk) gemaakt, de maaltijd is bezorgd, de oudste is tijdens een van mijn vele errands bij Michael's afgezet om zelf zijn project materiaal te kopen, en het schrijven van mijn rapport en review heb ik gewoon lekker uitgesteld tot volgende week.
En zo zit ik vandag al de hele ochtend op de bank. En eindelijk voel ik mijn bloeddruk zakken. Natuurlijk zijn er een miljoen dingen die ik moet doen, maar voor nu doe ik gewoon even lekker niks.
Zo dan.
Er moest een vervanging gevonden voor voor een ontbrekend stukje van een van de aansluitingen.
Het internet hield er mee op.
Ik kreeg een aantal mails van werk met allerlei opdrachten.
De oudste bedacht zich zomaar opeens dat hij een groot project moest doen deze week, waarvoor hij allerlei materialen nodig had.
De router bleek het probleem te zijn, en deze was absoluut niet meer te repareren.
Ik werd gevraagd een review te schrijven voor een tijdschrift.
De filter van ons mini-zwembadje begon dusdanig te lekken dat we de besproeing achterin de tuin niet eens meer aan hoefde te zetten.
Er moest gekookt worden voor een zieke kennis.
U heeft hem al door: de laatste drie dagen zijn niet zo relaxt geweest als ik graag gezien had. Mijn werktempo lag eigenlijk net zo hoog als op mijn werk; van winkel naar winkel, tripjes naar mensen met pannen vol eten, om dan thuis te komen, en niet online te kunnen, of te ontdekken dat het zwembad weer lekt, niemand online kon, of de honden weer eens een gat in de achtertuin gegraven hadden. "If it rains, it pours", zoals ze hier zo mooi uitdrukken.
En wat nog erger is; mijn dagen van "flying under the radar" op het werk zijn ook voorbij. Kon ik voorgaande zomers nog wegkomen met alleen maar lesgeven, en een beetje onderzoek doen, de verschillende committees hebben mij het afgelopen jaar ontdekt, en nu heb ik zelfs gedurende zomer allerlei verantwoordelijkheden. Zo moet ik voor volgende week een verslag schrijven voor de board of regents over writing literacies. Niet dat ik dat niet kan hoor, want dat is het niet. Ik heb er gewoon heel ouderwets geen zin in. Helemaal omdat we gedurende de zomer helemaal niet betaald worden voor dit soort taken. En ja, ik hoor alle Nederlanders nu roepen, "Ja maar als je niet betaald wordt, dan doe je dat toch niet?!", maar zo werkt dat hier helaas niet. Zolang ik nog geen tenure heb in ieder geval. Dus zucht ik, en steun ik, en klaag ik (veel), maar dat rapport komt er.
Ik was dan ook, om eerlijk te zijn "less than pleased" (lees: niet te genieten). Want wat is de zin van keihard werken als je je zomer ook nog eens uit allerlei nare klusjes bestaat?
Gelukkig geloof ik dat nu alles wat meer onder controle heb. Er is een nieuwe router gekocht en geinstalleerd (en hij doet het nog steeds!), de filter is via een "doo-hickey" (lees: met veel kunst en vliegwerk) gemaakt, de maaltijd is bezorgd, de oudste is tijdens een van mijn vele errands bij Michael's afgezet om zelf zijn project materiaal te kopen, en het schrijven van mijn rapport en review heb ik gewoon lekker uitgesteld tot volgende week.
En zo zit ik vandag al de hele ochtend op de bank. En eindelijk voel ik mijn bloeddruk zakken. Natuurlijk zijn er een miljoen dingen die ik moet doen, maar voor nu doe ik gewoon even lekker niks.
Zo dan.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Bliss...pure bliss...
In the past hour, Zoe, our supposedly overly grateful shelter mutt, managed to sneak an entire hot dog out of my hand when I had my head turned for one second to say hi to Jimmy; Shelby, our needy rescue mutt, managed to chew up one of Jimmy's stuffed animals which she'd stolen from his room when he wasn't looking, and you know, I'm pretty sure that Gertie the guinneapig is up to no good either. There are doggie paw prints all over the kitchen floor, paw prints which I'm sure are the result of our darling mutts digging in the yard, something they're absolutely, positively not supposed to do. I need to go iron a shirt for commencement tomorrow, there is laundry that needs to be done, and I probably should go and work on an article I'm trying to get published.
But for right now, I'm not doing anything. I'm not working on a paper, I'm not going to mop the kitchen floor. I'll let Shelby have her stuffed animal, and I'll even give her a part of a hot dog since her sister had one too. I'm going to ignore the pile of bookbags and shoes by the door that mysteriously appeared when Jimmy walked in the door, and I'm not even touching that laundry. No one will know if the shirt I'm wearing under my robes tomorrow is wrinkled or not.
All I'm going to do right now is alternate my time between watching television, sitting on the back porch, and catching up on my blog reading. And why, you ask, this sudden onset of laziness?
Well, once again, the semester is -almost- over. Almost, as I still have to sit through three plus hours of commencement tomorrow, but that's really no more than an afterthought. I put my final grades in yesterday, turned in a hard copy to the office, finished prepping my online summer course, and have spent the entire day today in that blissful state of not sure what just happened to me. I keep feeling like I should be doing something useful, but then realize that there's really nothing for me to do right now. I'll sit down at my computer, and check my work email, only to find that there are no emails. I'll check my voicemail, only to be greeted by the "You have no new messages" over and over again.
So instead I've sat on the back porch and let the cool breeze mess up my hair. I've wandered around the back yard, picking up dog toys. I've sat on the front porch and soaked up the sun. I've sat on the couch and watched four episodes of That 70s Show in a row.
Life is really good right now.
But for right now, I'm not doing anything. I'm not working on a paper, I'm not going to mop the kitchen floor. I'll let Shelby have her stuffed animal, and I'll even give her a part of a hot dog since her sister had one too. I'm going to ignore the pile of bookbags and shoes by the door that mysteriously appeared when Jimmy walked in the door, and I'm not even touching that laundry. No one will know if the shirt I'm wearing under my robes tomorrow is wrinkled or not.
All I'm going to do right now is alternate my time between watching television, sitting on the back porch, and catching up on my blog reading. And why, you ask, this sudden onset of laziness?
Well, once again, the semester is -almost- over. Almost, as I still have to sit through three plus hours of commencement tomorrow, but that's really no more than an afterthought. I put my final grades in yesterday, turned in a hard copy to the office, finished prepping my online summer course, and have spent the entire day today in that blissful state of not sure what just happened to me. I keep feeling like I should be doing something useful, but then realize that there's really nothing for me to do right now. I'll sit down at my computer, and check my work email, only to find that there are no emails. I'll check my voicemail, only to be greeted by the "You have no new messages" over and over again.
So instead I've sat on the back porch and let the cool breeze mess up my hair. I've wandered around the back yard, picking up dog toys. I've sat on the front porch and soaked up the sun. I've sat on the couch and watched four episodes of That 70s Show in a row.
Life is really good right now.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
The good, the bad, and the ugly
It's the end of finals week and right before I started on this blog which was (well, is, I think) going to be about student emails, I worked up the courage/patience to check my voicemail. As we are in the middle of finals, and registration has finally, after a long, drawn-out extension, come to an end, my voicemail is usually full or urgent, panicky messages to the effect of, "I'm lazy and didn't get my crap together in time and now I need you to fix it!". Dealing with over a hundred finals, six classes, and two boxes full of papers that need grading is stressful enough already, so I generally tend to ignore any voicemail messages that involve serious bodily injury.
But anyway, I felt magnanimous just now, and dialed my voicemail service. And believe it or not, I do believe I got my first drunk message ever. Yes, people, ever. And it's from a student too. It's not offensive by any means, in fact, it's really no more than someone slurring my name while playing loud music and, by the sound of it, hosting a party in the background, but still. A drunk voicemail. And here I was thinking I would never be able to strike that one off my bucketlist, or share with my blog readers.
Anyway, student emails. For the past week or so, I have been inundated with emails regarding grades, extra credit, the fairness of grading (or lack thereof), the need to graduate, the need to take the final early, and other concerns that make the weeks around finals so particularly enjoyable.
Most emails fall into one of three categories: Good, bad, and ugly. Good emails are the easy emails. The ones that involve the need for an appointment (can do!), the link to the extra credit assignment (coming up!), or a genuine excuse for a missed class (why, thank you!). The bad emails are the ones that badger for extra assignments in an online class (if 9 quizzes, 9 discussion assignments, 9 graded assignments, 1 final, and 1 paper aren't enough to get that coveted C, I don't know what is), the ones that whine about a passing grade that is not within the sender's acceptable range (study harder! don't procrastinate! man up, a B is fine!), or the ones that try to get an extension without any sort of excuse (sorry, "I started late" just isn't acceptable). The ugly emails, are well, just that.
Some days consist of nothing but bad emails. Some days are worse, when you get one or two ugly ones, but yesterday was a perfect mixture of all three.
It started with an email from Unfair Ursula. Ursula had written a 20-page paper in a 14 sized font, which effectively reduced the paper to 16 pages, which made it below the required minimum. On top of that, Ursula's paper struggled with a whole host of issues, including but not limited to, a lack of sources, a lack of a clear central argument, and a lack of proper paragraphing. Because I did see some potential, and all wasn't lost completely, Unfair Ursula earned a C. Shortly after receiving her paper, Ursula then proceeded to send me the following email, which I would classify as bad:
"I looked over the comments you wrote on my paper, and I really don't feel I got the grade it should have. It seems as if the only reason I almost received a failing grade is because my font wasn't the correct size. The paper itself is actually good, I think. I'm also not happy that I almost failed the class when I know for a fact that you let another student turn their work in late, while you told everyone that if they turned their work in late, they would receive an F. Neither one of us followed the guidelines in the syllabus, and I almost failed while the student passed with an A? Not to say I deserve an A, but my paper was worth at least a B."
The email I wanted to send, but didn't:
"Dear Ursula,
I'm delighted that you feel your paper is worth a B. In fact, it seems as though you have managed to skip undergrad and graduate school completely, and are pretty much tenured faculty. Your acute ability to assign grades is truly unsurpassed, and you really are a shoe-in for chair, in fact. In addition, you're absolutely right that it's completely and utterly unfair that the rules are bent for other people. The fact that other people might have genuine excuses, real-life emergencies, or other sincere issues really doesn't matter. The fact is, he broke the rules, and so he should fail. And we'll just ignore the logical conclusion that you should then fail as well, won't we?"
Don't worry, you will all be delighted to know that I sent Ursula a professional, but brief email, outlining my reasoning behind her C, and wished her all the best.
Then there was the ugly. The ugly email came from Financial Frances. Frances had blatantly copied half a page of her final paper from Wikipedia. Yes, Wikipedia. Not only did she blatantly ignore my rule (clearly outlined in the syllabus) that students may not use Wikipedia, about.com, or answers.com in their papers, but she also failed to provide a source for the half page. Subsequently, Frances received a zero for the final paper, which, incidentally, was worth 30% of her final grade. As Frances' performance in class had not been swell at any rate, Frances knew she was going to fail the class. Thus she had begged me, in an earlier email, to allow her to redo her work. When I politely declined, I received the following email:
"If I am not allowed to resubmit my paper, can you please just take points off of my grade instead of giving me a zero. I cannot afford to fail this class as I will lose my scholarship and will not able to return to school. I beg you to reconsider your decision; my future depends on it"
And the email I actually did send back:
"Dear Frances,
Thank you for your email. I'm very sorry to hear about the possible consequences of your zero, however, I cannot change classroom, or for that matter, university, policy. The rules regarding plagiarism are very clear and it's up to each student to make sure they adhere to those rules, especially if they have this much riding on their final grade"
Seriously, people.
Fortunately, the day ended with a good email. Apologetic Annie had also plagiarized on her final paper, and tried to see me during the day, but left when she saw how busy I was. An hour later I received the following email:
"I came by your office today but you were drowning in papers because grades are due, so I decided to contact you by email. I am emailing you to discuss my final paper, for which I received a zero. I am fully aware that I received the zero because I plagiarized. I just wanted to make sure you knew I didn't do it on purpose, or out of laziness. I'm not trying to appeal my grade or anything like that.
I know that I am one of your good students and I hate that I disappointed you. I just wanted to contact you to inform you that I never wrote an APA paper and I misinterpreted how to cite sources. Another mistake that I made was not actually reading through the notes that you had posted on writing a research paper. It's all still my fault, and I fully accept the consequences."
I'm telling you, there's hope. There is.
But anyway, I felt magnanimous just now, and dialed my voicemail service. And believe it or not, I do believe I got my first drunk message ever. Yes, people, ever. And it's from a student too. It's not offensive by any means, in fact, it's really no more than someone slurring my name while playing loud music and, by the sound of it, hosting a party in the background, but still. A drunk voicemail. And here I was thinking I would never be able to strike that one off my bucketlist, or share with my blog readers.
Anyway, student emails. For the past week or so, I have been inundated with emails regarding grades, extra credit, the fairness of grading (or lack thereof), the need to graduate, the need to take the final early, and other concerns that make the weeks around finals so particularly enjoyable.
Most emails fall into one of three categories: Good, bad, and ugly. Good emails are the easy emails. The ones that involve the need for an appointment (can do!), the link to the extra credit assignment (coming up!), or a genuine excuse for a missed class (why, thank you!). The bad emails are the ones that badger for extra assignments in an online class (if 9 quizzes, 9 discussion assignments, 9 graded assignments, 1 final, and 1 paper aren't enough to get that coveted C, I don't know what is), the ones that whine about a passing grade that is not within the sender's acceptable range (study harder! don't procrastinate! man up, a B is fine!), or the ones that try to get an extension without any sort of excuse (sorry, "I started late" just isn't acceptable). The ugly emails, are well, just that.
Some days consist of nothing but bad emails. Some days are worse, when you get one or two ugly ones, but yesterday was a perfect mixture of all three.
It started with an email from Unfair Ursula. Ursula had written a 20-page paper in a 14 sized font, which effectively reduced the paper to 16 pages, which made it below the required minimum. On top of that, Ursula's paper struggled with a whole host of issues, including but not limited to, a lack of sources, a lack of a clear central argument, and a lack of proper paragraphing. Because I did see some potential, and all wasn't lost completely, Unfair Ursula earned a C. Shortly after receiving her paper, Ursula then proceeded to send me the following email, which I would classify as bad:
"I looked over the comments you wrote on my paper, and I really don't feel I got the grade it should have. It seems as if the only reason I almost received a failing grade is because my font wasn't the correct size. The paper itself is actually good, I think. I'm also not happy that I almost failed the class when I know for a fact that you let another student turn their work in late, while you told everyone that if they turned their work in late, they would receive an F. Neither one of us followed the guidelines in the syllabus, and I almost failed while the student passed with an A? Not to say I deserve an A, but my paper was worth at least a B."
The email I wanted to send, but didn't:
"Dear Ursula,
I'm delighted that you feel your paper is worth a B. In fact, it seems as though you have managed to skip undergrad and graduate school completely, and are pretty much tenured faculty. Your acute ability to assign grades is truly unsurpassed, and you really are a shoe-in for chair, in fact. In addition, you're absolutely right that it's completely and utterly unfair that the rules are bent for other people. The fact that other people might have genuine excuses, real-life emergencies, or other sincere issues really doesn't matter. The fact is, he broke the rules, and so he should fail. And we'll just ignore the logical conclusion that you should then fail as well, won't we?"
Don't worry, you will all be delighted to know that I sent Ursula a professional, but brief email, outlining my reasoning behind her C, and wished her all the best.
Then there was the ugly. The ugly email came from Financial Frances. Frances had blatantly copied half a page of her final paper from Wikipedia. Yes, Wikipedia. Not only did she blatantly ignore my rule (clearly outlined in the syllabus) that students may not use Wikipedia, about.com, or answers.com in their papers, but she also failed to provide a source for the half page. Subsequently, Frances received a zero for the final paper, which, incidentally, was worth 30% of her final grade. As Frances' performance in class had not been swell at any rate, Frances knew she was going to fail the class. Thus she had begged me, in an earlier email, to allow her to redo her work. When I politely declined, I received the following email:
"If I am not allowed to resubmit my paper, can you please just take points off of my grade instead of giving me a zero. I cannot afford to fail this class as I will lose my scholarship and will not able to return to school. I beg you to reconsider your decision; my future depends on it"
And the email I actually did send back:
"Dear Frances,
Thank you for your email. I'm very sorry to hear about the possible consequences of your zero, however, I cannot change classroom, or for that matter, university, policy. The rules regarding plagiarism are very clear and it's up to each student to make sure they adhere to those rules, especially if they have this much riding on their final grade"
Seriously, people.
Fortunately, the day ended with a good email. Apologetic Annie had also plagiarized on her final paper, and tried to see me during the day, but left when she saw how busy I was. An hour later I received the following email:
"I came by your office today but you were drowning in papers because grades are due, so I decided to contact you by email. I am emailing you to discuss my final paper, for which I received a zero. I am fully aware that I received the zero because I plagiarized. I just wanted to make sure you knew I didn't do it on purpose, or out of laziness. I'm not trying to appeal my grade or anything like that.
I know that I am one of your good students and I hate that I disappointed you. I just wanted to contact you to inform you that I never wrote an APA paper and I misinterpreted how to cite sources. Another mistake that I made was not actually reading through the notes that you had posted on writing a research paper. It's all still my fault, and I fully accept the consequences."
I'm telling you, there's hope. There is.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Now trending: The prayer circle
Remember that final I gave two years ago? The one where one of my students called out to Jesus minutes before the final started, and then was terrified I had jinxed them by responding that He wasn't here right now, but I would gladly answer their questions? Well, up until last week it had been very quiet on the religious front during finals. Students still insisted on professing their faith during class, especially in philosophy and ethics where they refused to take seriously any philosopher who claimed to be an atheist (and, folks, let me tell you, there are a lot of those), but there haven't been any cries to God during tests or finals. Well, until last week.
At first I thought it was just a bunch of seniors finally caving into the pressures of the final semester in college. Right before about ten seniors were to take their very last final, one of them got up, and said, "We need a prayer circle. Guys, come on, let's pray."
As an afterthought, they turned to me and said, "You don't mind, do you?"
Uhm.
I guess not?
As an employee of a public university, I know the rules about professing your faith or your political preference (we'd rather you didn't), about showing preference for students of similar faith or political background (absolutely not), but I wasn't sure if there were any bylaws about permitting or forbidding a prayer circle. However, as soon as I surmised that all of the students were actually volunteering to be in the circle, I realized no one would care. So I let them. And shrugged it off.
But I don't know what happened, whether word got out about how well all these seniors did, or whether my students simply had a revival in their faith, but today, right before I was about to ask everyone to take a seat, one of my students announced she was going to have a prayer circle outside the classroom for anyone who wanted to join in.
Everyone did.
What do they pray for, you ask? Well, interestingly, the seniors explicitly asked for a nice grade, "Now Jesus we know we can't all get a 100", one of the seniors said, and I smiled at their humbleness, only to be taken aback by the next statement, "But you know, a 99 would be really nice."
The students who took their final today didn't ask for a specific grade. They asked for a good memory and a calm mind. And there were lots of "Amen's" and "Praise Jesus's".
As I professed two years ago, I am a Christian. A tree-hugging, hippie-liberal, can-unfortunately-cuss-like-a-sailor one, but a Christian nonetheless. Having said that, and having spent another two years down here in the bible belt, I'm really still not sure what to think, or do with myself, when students pray before a final. I mean, this is not exactly something they teach you in graduate school, "Proper conduct during student prayer" was, unfortunately, not on my course list.
Now if I knew for sure that these kids had spent days, weeks, preparing for the final, it might be different. But people, I see their tweets, I know what they've been up to, and cracking the books didn't come into most of their minds until early this morning. Can you pray for a good memory and a clear mind when you've barely spent the necessary time studying?
And then there is the very practical question of what I do with myself. Do I smile? Or does that look like I'm smirking at them? Do I stop what I'm doing out of respect? Or do I continue pushing chairs apart? And what on earth would I do if an administrator walked by? (although chances are they would join in). This whole prayer circle thing just presents a whole level of dilemmas that my brain just can't process during final week.
So I think I'm just going to do something I do know how to handle: grade finals. And let me see if Someone really came through, or if their procrastination caught up with them.
At first I thought it was just a bunch of seniors finally caving into the pressures of the final semester in college. Right before about ten seniors were to take their very last final, one of them got up, and said, "We need a prayer circle. Guys, come on, let's pray."
As an afterthought, they turned to me and said, "You don't mind, do you?"
Uhm.
I guess not?
As an employee of a public university, I know the rules about professing your faith or your political preference (we'd rather you didn't), about showing preference for students of similar faith or political background (absolutely not), but I wasn't sure if there were any bylaws about permitting or forbidding a prayer circle. However, as soon as I surmised that all of the students were actually volunteering to be in the circle, I realized no one would care. So I let them. And shrugged it off.
But I don't know what happened, whether word got out about how well all these seniors did, or whether my students simply had a revival in their faith, but today, right before I was about to ask everyone to take a seat, one of my students announced she was going to have a prayer circle outside the classroom for anyone who wanted to join in.
Everyone did.
What do they pray for, you ask? Well, interestingly, the seniors explicitly asked for a nice grade, "Now Jesus we know we can't all get a 100", one of the seniors said, and I smiled at their humbleness, only to be taken aback by the next statement, "But you know, a 99 would be really nice."
The students who took their final today didn't ask for a specific grade. They asked for a good memory and a calm mind. And there were lots of "Amen's" and "Praise Jesus's".
As I professed two years ago, I am a Christian. A tree-hugging, hippie-liberal, can-unfortunately-cuss-like-a-sailor one, but a Christian nonetheless. Having said that, and having spent another two years down here in the bible belt, I'm really still not sure what to think, or do with myself, when students pray before a final. I mean, this is not exactly something they teach you in graduate school, "Proper conduct during student prayer" was, unfortunately, not on my course list.
Now if I knew for sure that these kids had spent days, weeks, preparing for the final, it might be different. But people, I see their tweets, I know what they've been up to, and cracking the books didn't come into most of their minds until early this morning. Can you pray for a good memory and a clear mind when you've barely spent the necessary time studying?
And then there is the very practical question of what I do with myself. Do I smile? Or does that look like I'm smirking at them? Do I stop what I'm doing out of respect? Or do I continue pushing chairs apart? And what on earth would I do if an administrator walked by? (although chances are they would join in). This whole prayer circle thing just presents a whole level of dilemmas that my brain just can't process during final week.
So I think I'm just going to do something I do know how to handle: grade finals. And let me see if Someone really came through, or if their procrastination caught up with them.
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