Another tiny stray kitty photo

ME: Well, if it's so awful, quit purring!
KITTY: [struggling] Mew! Mew! Purrpurrpurrpurrpurrpurr!

News you've all been waiting for

Lately, I've blogged very little about teaching, or even minor happenings at my four colleges. This is for a good reason: I haven't wanted to jinx myself.

In late March, Dr. Pepper* (head of D2U English Department) announced that we would have the funding to hire three adjunct professors on one-year contracts. The positions would pay pretty well, even though they were just for one academic year, and they'd offer a manageable teaching load (four classes per semester). Most importantly, the positions would come with healthcare benefits. So I put in my application, and went through a rather long and nerve-racking interview process.

Yesterday, I was officially offered one of the positions. And, of course, I accepted!

It doesn't make any sense, I know, but the prospect of having only to work ONE full-time job for a year frightens me. After all, I've been struggling at three and four jobs for several years now. I'm accustomed to having no life, no real free time. What will I do with all that spare time? How much will I be able to improve my teaching now that I'm not run ragged all the time? Will I be able to save any extra money to put toward my long-term goals? Will the expectations for my performance—already pretty high—be raised even further now that I'm coming on as a full-timer? And will I be able to make it?

Don't get me wrong. I'm ecstatic about the job offer, and benefits, too. My hard work has started to pay off. But the contract is only for one academic year. D2U doesn't like for its full-time professors to work part-time on the side; they consider those jobs to be conflicts of interest. So in order to meet D2U's requirements for teaching full-time with benefits, I turned in my letters of resignation at two of the three places I'm currently teaching (Awesome Methodist College and Small Military College) and will assume my duties at D2U as of August 1. D2U may consider letting me continue at Tiny Technical College, since it's online only, and the two schools have zero student overlap. (I'm still waiting on word from the dean.) In June 2008, I will officially be Without a Job. This is scary beyond belief...but I feel it's a risk I have to take.


It frightens me to think of next summer, but I feel better when I remember that I'll probably have something lined up by then—and that D2U, even if it doesn't get the funding to continue my full-time position for the 2008-09 academic year, will no doubt ask me back as an adjunct.

I also feel better when I think about the words of a friend when I told him about the position offer, and my fears about finding work after next June: "Kitty, there are probably opportunities, ones that you can't even fathom right now, that are going to present themselves between now and then. So keep doing what you do best, and try not to sweat it."

This summer will still be busy, as are most of my summers. I'm teaching a section of Comp I and a Regents' Exam Essay Writing class at D2U, and the usual two sections of Comp online at Tiny Tech. SMC has me teaching a Regents' Exam Essay Writing class as well, and a Saturdays-only Introduction to Ethics class. But I'll be able to fall back a little in August, before D2U's Fall Semester gets started, and I hope to work some more on my book and begin looking for an agent in that time.

Naturally, I'll still be blogging. It—and your support—are what keep me sane.

Tiny stray kitty progress report

The newest resident of the Happy Kitten Cottage let me get 18 inches from him this morning. He's getting used to the idea of people, and equating "Miss Kitty" with "full tummy." His hideout under the little gray shed is nice and cool in this hot early-summer weather, and pretty safe, too.

Well, safe except for when Myrtle Mae decides she wants some of his cat food. My chicken has turned into a carnivore—she loves canned cat food. I have to shoo her away until the little fella is finished eating.

Regular readers have no doubt noticed the lack of teaching-related posts lately. Rest assured that there will be more very soon. While the only two schools I have right now are Small Military College and Tiny Tech, a lot has been going on at my other schools. Plenty of news to report by the end of the week, when I have a little more free time (tonight's the last night of Small Military College classes).

Kitty Break #4: Holiday Weekend Edition

The scruffy stray mama-cat gets her Memorial Day picnic on, this time on the back porch.

And DeeDee's keeping an eye out in the back yard for the tiniest little outdoor cat. Look at the base of the gray shed—you can barely see him, a little gray smudge. The indoor cats are none too thrilled about this latest interloper.

HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY, EVERYONE!

Kitty IHOP

That's what my house is—nothing more, and nothing less.

My little fella is very people-shy. He knows where the food comes from, and he acts all cute and roly-poly-Miss-Kitty-I-want-to-play, but won't let me closer to him than four feet. Currently, he's staying under my storage shed out back.

Thinking about coming around the steps...there's a bowl of food out there.

Do you mind, lady? I'm trying to eat here.

Mmmm, that's good.

The scruffy mama-cat has also been coming back, sometimes three or four times a day. She has at least five kittens, and I imagine she's starving to death trying to nurse them all. I feed her every time she asks for food.

The front porch isn't just a place to eat; it's a place to relax and get away from the little ones for a time. Every busy mom needs a break now and then.

It's been a while

...since we had a Myrtle Mae feature.

She's not too sure about this butternut squash thing. "I dunno, Mom...looks kinda phallic to me."

The patio table is a great place to look for bugs. Or not. (She jumped up there on her own, and "flew" down. For those of you who've never seen a chicken "fly," I'll try to get some video of it to post.)

Plenty of kitty news to report, but I'm too lazy to write up a fitting post right now. I'll give it a try tomorrow—the Memorial Day Weekend don't-give-a-damns have really taken hold of me.

Small blessings

About 9:00 last night, I arrived home from teaching my Small Military College class. It was a nice class—remember, this is the group that was so very disappointed to watch a movie instead of discussing the finer points of the Bhagavad-Gita—and I left pretty happy. They're really taking to Don Quixote.

But I was worried about Clark and had been all afternoon and evening. When I'd filled up the food bowls before leaving the house, he actually didn't come running, and I dreaded what I'd find when I walked into the house.

On my way to Small Military College, the further down the road I got, the more concerned I became, and I was going to be wracked with worry for the next six hours if I didn't find out how Clark was. After all, he could be dead of a kitty heart attack in the middle of the hall (which happened to my late, great Cheddar-Cat). So I called my longtime friend Lois to check in on the kitties for me.

Lois called my cell phone a short while later: "Umm, Kitty, I can't get in your front door because the screen's locked, and I don't have a key to the back gate. And I ain't jumping over this gate." I called her back and told her not to sweat it; I'd be home in a few hours, and I'd just check on the cats then.

I arrived home to hear a familiar "Mew? Mew? Mew?" from the kitchen window. It was my Clarky! He was just fine—he'd probably been passed out in the top of the cat tree when I'd fed that afternoon, and was just too lazy to get up and eat right then. "Hi, big boy!" I almost shouted as I walked in the back gate.

And I heard another meow, very loud and unfamiliar, coming from the back yard. It was a "lost meow," one that cats make when they've gotten outside and can't get back in, or when they're desperately hungry. I called and called: "Kitty? Kitty-kitty? T'mere, baby! Tum see me!" And the meowing kept up, just as loud and desperate as ever.

So I got the flashlight and went into the yard...

And found this little stinker, who proceeded to eat almost an entire can of Special Kitty Tuna Dinner by himself.

The kitten's six or seven weeks old and seems to have been on his own for a while; I'm not sure whether someone threw him out, or whether he's just wandered up. He's gray tabby with white feet, belly, and chest, and a little white on his face. He doesn't like being picked up and usually runs from me, but he's slowly beginning to make the connection. Miss Kitty = food. Miss Kitty + petting = food.

There must be signs up in the neighborhood at kitty-eye level: "Nice, gullible lady THIS WAY."

These are a few of my favorite things

Saw this first on Cute Overload. A video with both kittens and a chicken? AWESOME!

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?

I think Bill Walton is awesome, but this sticker still made me laugh. So random!

And it's on the bumper of a Saturn, no less.

Post-party letdown

Mile High Pixie went home yesterday afternoon. [deep sigh] So now I'm trying to get out of my post-best-friend-sister-in-the-world-visit funk and get back to the horrendously boring and pedestrian life that I live the other 352 days of the year.

We had an awesome time—more photos to come. Pixie's lectures were a hit; Linda-Lou* and her students were delighted by Pixie's architortural knowledge. The three of us agreed that next year, Pixie will have to visit for a week, whereupon there will be many more Mudslides consumed, and many more cannonballs performed into Linda-Lou's pool. Alas, it was too chilly to swim this time.

A scene from the front porch

Afternoon at the Happy Kitten Cottage—on the front porch. KITTY and PIXIE, still in their pajamas and robes, each read a magazine.

KITTY: Listen to this.

PIXIE: What?

KITTY: [reads aloud from magazine] "Grilling gets okra crisp outside and eliminates its slime factor. For best results, choose young tender pods, about two-and-a-half inches long."

PIXIE: [farting loudly] I do believe I've spoken.

Clark is excited about Aunt Pixie's visit.

Really, he purred during and after this shot.

Off to drink and carouse. I'll post again later.

A scene from the Cracker Barrel

KITTY: [offering Pixie a piece of fried okra] Want some?
PIXIE: [pointing toward door] You know, you can flush that in the ladies' room.

Later, during dessert...

PIXIE: Do you want me to fart, to get the taste of okra out of your mouth?
KITTY: I don't have the taste of okra in my mouth.
PIXIE: You will when I fart.

Friday humor

Today, I'm busy on two fronts: 1) finishing up final grades for my Awesome Methodist College class, and 2) cleaning the Happy Kitten Cottage in anticipation of my sister's visit. So I give you a little Southern humor that was e-mailed to me by a former student.

In a trial, a Southern small-town prosecuting attorney called his first witness, a grandmotherly, elderly woman, to the stand. He approached her and asked, "Mrs. Jones, do you know me?"

She responded, "Why, yes, I do know you, Mr. Smith. I've known you since you were a young boy, and frankly, you've been a big disappointment to me. You lie, you cheat on your wife, and you manipulate people and talk about them behind their backs. You think you're a big shot when you haven't the brains to realize you never will amount to anything more than a two-bit paper pusher. Yes, I know you."

The lawyer was stunned. Not knowing what else to do, he pointed across the room and asked, "Mrs. Jones, do you know the defense attorney?"

She again replied, "Why, yes, I do. I've known Mr. Bradley since he was a youngster, too. He's lazy, bigoted, and he has a drinking problem. He can't build a normal relationship with anyone, and his law practice is one of the worst in the entire state. Not to mention he cheated on his wife with three different women. One of them was your wife. Yes, I know him." The defense attorney almost died from embarrassment.

The judge asked both counselors to approach the bench and, in a very quiet voice, said, "If either of you idiots asks her if she knows me, I'll send you to the electric chair."

The perils of teaching in a small town

Just as the term was coming to a fun and peaceful end at Awesome Methodist College, the proverbial shit hits the fan—all because of an assignment I gave out in my class.

The final project of the term was in two parts: first, students would write a persuasive essay on an issue in their hometowns. After this essay was graded and returned to them, the students would edit down their essays and shape them into well-worded, well-thought-out Letters to the Editor, and would then submit their letters to their hometown newspapers. I got the idea from Dr. Rhettencomp* at Division II University; this exercise had worked very well for his classes in the past. I knew that my adult students at AMC would really get a charge out of this activity in civic participation; they'd jump at the chance to have their voices heard in their communities. I even offered an automatic A on the assignment for any letters actually published.

Happily, three students got their letters published in their local town newspapers, and that made them very happy—especially those whose writing hadn't quite been up to par this term. I was excited for the students, so proud to see their beaming faces as they rushed into the classroom like third-graders, yelling, "Professor Kitty! My letter's gonna be in tomorrow's paper!"

My student Tina* was among the most excited. She'd always doubted her ability as a writer, especially coming back to college after almost 15 years away, and getting her letter published in the Small Town Daily Fishwrap really made her day. Her letter was about campus safety at AMC, and how she felt the college would benefit from heightened security and lighting. I looked over her letter and suggested she first send a copy of the letter to Dr. Thomas*, president of Awesome Methodist College. He would no doubt be very interested in what she had to say, and might be able to do something about her concerns even before her letter went to press. But I didn't urge her to do this; I thought overall it was a good letter, and pretty well thought out.

The term wrapped up on Monday, and I spent much of Wednesday with my cell phone on "silent" and reading up for Thursday's Small Military College class. When I checked my cell phone early Wednesday evening, though, I saw the dreaded words on the display: 6 Missed Calls. 5 New Messages.

The First two messages were from Tina, and the second sounded even more heartbroken than the first. "Professor Kitty, this is Tina. Would please call me back at 555-5555 about my letter that got published in the paper? Thanks." I heard a sniffle and a stifled sob as she hung up. The next three messages were from my AMC supervisor, Dr. McCool*: "Hi Kitty, it's Barbara McCool. Can you call me in my office? It's really important, about a letter that your student Tina wrote to the Small Town Daily Fishwrap but signed under a fake name. Things are reeeeally heating up over here at the college. Thanks."

Oh, shit.

I vaguely remembered something about Tina wanting to sign a pseudonym to the letter; her husband works for the local government, and she didn't want anyone picking on him because of her letter.

I called Dr. McCool back. Poor woman—she sounded dead-tired, as if she'd been stomping out fires all day long. "Dr. Thomas* saw your student's letter in yesterday's paper, and both he and Dr. McShane* [vice-president of the college] hit the roof. They were upset that Tina didn't first come to them about her concerns, and now I'm worried that her talking about safety here in the evenings at AMC will directly affect my ability to recruit students for our Adult Program." She continued telling me all the crazy stuff that had been happening as a result of Tina's letter, and how the admin folks had spent the greater part of a day trying to track down the "Jane X. Doe" who had signed the Letter to the Editor. Finally, they figured out that it was Tina after they called the newspaper and asked for the phone number of the submitter.

"Dr. McCool, I am so sorry," I sighed. "I had no idea that Tina's letter was going to cause such an uproar—I should've taken that into consideration. Do I need to call Dr. McShane and Dr. Thomas?"

"No," she replied, "I think everything's okay there, and I don't think they're upset with you. I spoke with them both, and with Tina, and Tina knows we don't hate her and aren't going to throw her out of school. I explained to Dr. Thomas that it was simply an assignment for your class, and that all the students were trying to write the most publishable and earnest letters possible in order to get an A on the assignment. Had Tina just put her real name with the letter, I think things would've been all right. Dr. McShane at first thought it was someone purposefully trying to make the college look bad."

I felt only a little better. Why hadn't I foreseen something like this with Tina's letter? I'd briefly mentioned her showing the letter to Dr. Thomas, but I hadn't pressed her to do so. Now I felt like crap because Awesome Methodist College might lose potential students.

Fourteen hours later, I still don't feel too thrilled about the situation. After all, I'm the professor, and am responsible for what gets written in my classroom. I helped students trim and edit these letters; even though they're adults, I'm a professor in a small town and should've been more aware of any repercussions the letter might cause.

Perhaps it's a good thing that I'd already told Awesome Methodist College that I wouldn't be back in the fall. (And I'll write much more about that later.)

"Sorry" doesn't even begin to describe these two.

The Undynamic Duo: Clark and Little Guy—who's now almost as big as his 17-pound pillow.

Makes me tired just looking at the picture.

How's that for a complaint?

Monday afternoon, I got an e-mail from my supervisor at Small Military College. She asked if she could speak with me briefly before my class began on Tuesday—there were "a few things" she wanted to talk with me about.

I began to worry. I'd just started at SMC, and things seemed to be going pretty well; had the students not liked something I'd done or said in the classroom, and just not felt comfortable enough to tell me? Oh, boy.

So I arrived at Jane's* office Tuesday afternoon, and she was happy to see me—that made me feel tons better. We talked for about 15 minutes, and I was getting ready to leave, when she stopped me. "Oh, and one more thing I wanted to mention before you go—"

The knot of dread tightened in my throat.

"Well," she began, and she chuckled. "One of your World Lit I students came to me in strictest confidence, and talked about last Thursday's class..."

Oh, God, I thought. We watched O Brother, Where Art Thou? last Thursday and compared it to The Odyssey! What could be wrong with that?

"And this student said that he and the other class members were really disappointed that they watched a movie. They'd already read ahead in the book and were all psyched up to discuss the readings, and they felt the movie was a letdown."

I was confused. "Really? Hmmm, that's funny."

Jane continued, "And he—well, now I guess I've kind of blown his confidentiality—stressed that he doesn't have any complaints about you. He loves the class, he thinks you're a great teacher, he says he's learning a lot. It's just that he was really disappointed about watching the movie instead of discussing the readings."

"Wow," I replied. "Wonder why he didn't just tell me?"

"I don't know," Jane said. "Funny what students will or won't tell us."

I began laughing. "That's funny. I bet it was the same student who said aloud, after the movie was done, 'That was the worst excuse for The Odyssey I've ever seen!'"

"Maybe it was," Jane chuckled. "Anyhow, I just thought I'd pass that concern along to you, and let you deal with it in the classroom as you see fit."

So in last evening's class, we discussed the readings the entire time, except for our 15-minute break midway through class. And all were happy campers.

They were disappointed—not overjoyed, but disappointed!—to see a movie! These Small Military College students may not be the best writers, but by golly, they're motivated students almost to a person.

And God bless them for it.

Student Essay Insanity #13!

While cleaning up my den/office this weekend, I stumbled upon a group of crazy Georgia Regents' Exam bloopers that I thought I'd lost. As always, these are actual bloopers written by actual college students; I have changed nothing from the originals.

• There are many methods to doing well in chollege.
• I consider my mother to be a modern heroin.

This one will particularly delight Mile High Pixie:

• Intelligence is the building in the foundation of a good college student.

Another essay was relatively uneventful, but I was struck by two words the writer kept using throughout the three-page monstrosity:

• terrorfyed
• to plurge (I assume meaning "to splurge")

This last one is a bit involved, but it has to be in order for readers to get the full effect of the awfulness.

ESSAY PROMPT: What is the difference between courage and recklessness? Explain.

I consider recklessness as the continuos seeking of harmful situations, the repitition of causing stress to/on loved ones with no regards to their emotions, and having no pride in yourself to not seek harmful situations. People that I would catagorize in this situations would be rapist, murderers, bull riders, Robby and Evil Conevil, and drug attics. These people to me lack what is considered couragous and continually seek a reckless way of life.

All you fellas on the PBR circuit, and all you legendary stuntmen: you're grouped right up there with rapist (but just one!), murderers, and people who do drugs in the topmost level of a home.

Kitty Break #3: Look Who's Back

Chowing down atop Boo-Boo the Wonder Truck. Had to take all the junk off the front porch in order to paint the ceiling, so I couldn't very well feed her up there with paint splattering her already-matted fur.

I'm still not sure where her kittens are, but I'm hoping she'll move them over here once they're old enough.

Really. They all get along just fine.

As long as the cats remember which side their bread's buttered on.

Naturally, Myrtle Mae just had to walk off as I snapped the picture. Crazy bird.

Today is Cleaning Day—God knows the Happy Kitten Cottage could use it. My sister will be here next Friday for her lecture-weekend visit, and it would be nice if she didn't trip over piles of books and papers when she walks in the door.

The laziness kicks in

The fact that the semester is over at Division II University is finally hitting me. Whew.

I've received seven e-mails from students asking why they got a lower grade than they thought they'd get. Six of them I'll be happy to review to see whether I made a mistake (though I doubt I did). The other one can kiss my ass.

I e-mailed Dr. Pepper, the English Department chair, to let her know my students might be e-mailing or calling her soon about their grades. Her reply:

Thanks for the heads-up. I haven't heard from anyone yet, but the day is still young.

But I haven't even looked in my D2U e-mail account today. I replied to all my students' e-mails and let them know I'd take another look at their grades, and change them if need be.

But I didn't say when I was going to do that.

I'm ignoring almost all my professorial duties today, taking it easy and enjoying myself while I can. I'll spend much of this weekend either catching up on Tiny Tech and Awesome Methodist College grading, or cleaning the Happy Kitten Cottage in preparation for my sister's visit next weekend.

Meanwhile, here's the legendary Elmo (1992-1995), may he rest in peace.

A very fine cat—a very fine cat, indeed.
—Samuel Johnson

Ladies and gentlemen, start your gnashing of teeth

The post-semester flood of why-oh-why-did-you-give-me-this-grade e-mails has begun.

The slacker young woman about whom I posted in "Crash and burn" (Sat 5 May 2007) sent me this e-mail last night:
Dear Prof. Kitty:
I'm confused about my grade (C) because I know that I've been making A's and B+'s on most of my assignments. I was told that I was in good standing, in the A range, and I was wondering what the grade distribution was for my final grade.

You'll remember that this student's research paper fell one-and-a-half pages short of the minimum length—it also fell far short in the "being a good, respectable paper" category, too.

But guess what? The student doubly hosed herself. In her last-minute flurry of activity on the research paper, she forgot to write and include the semester's last short essay, which she had two weeks to write. So in addition to having turned in a shoddy research paper, she also had a zero for one-third of her essay grade.

Yes, she was on track to get an A. Before she screwed up.

My reply:
Research paper: D (fell FAR short of required length; dealt very little with text as a whole).
Essay #3: You forgot to include it. This counts as a zero, and is much of what sunk you.
Portfolio: C-. Could have been really exceptional, but left out Essay #3 and didn't really show your writing potential.

The saddest thing? She did it to herself.

Student Essay Insanity #12!

From a research paper on Flannery O'Connor:

Flannery is not an ideal southern bell.

But she is a particularly good AT&T, especially since the merger!

In other Student Essay Insanity news: a student who has had perfect attendance this semester has just earned an F. She attended faithfully, rain or shine, and took copious notes, yet she never submitted a single paper or assignment.

This happens every semester—it just boggles my mind every time, even though it shouldn't anymore.

Good food and big assholes

If you came to this site looking for gastronomical porn, I'm sorry to disappoint you.

As I've mentioned before, the students in my 8pm class at Awesome Methodist College are a great bunch. Since the class meets at such an insanely late hour and doesn't get out until 10pm, each of us (students and professor) each signed up for an evening on which to bring a meal for the class. Most brought casseroles or soup—all the meals have been fantastic. It's wonderful to arrive home late at night without our stomachs thinking our throats have been cut.

But one student, who had signed up to bring dessert this evening, topped all offerings to date:


That's right. Krispy Kreme donuts. There were a dozen more where these came from.

We sent the student home with one measly donut—but she thanked us. "I didn't want to have eat all those extra donuts by myself!" she laughed.

Sadly, there are two AMC students who have officially placed themselves on my Permanent Shit List. Each soldified his/her Golden Turd Status during this evening's class. I guess the donut goodwill didn't last.

Allison* and Tommy* got into the AMC Evening/Adult Program by the skin of their teeth. Usually, a student must be age 25 or older and have completed coursework at a junior or vo-tech college. Allison and Tommy, however, are 23 and 19, respectively. They made it into the Evening/Adult Program because they both hold full-time jobs and work more than 40 hours a week.

You'd think that working 40 hours a week would put some common sense, manners, a serious work ethic, and decency into a person. With these two, though...no such luck.

They both still act as if they're in junior high school. There's a lot of giggling and passing notes to one another, and rolling of eyes when they don't think the coursework, a classmate's question/comment, or the reading material doesn't fit their hipster standards. This behavior generally rolls off of me like water off a duck's back—they're the ones not taking college seriously, so it's their problem.

Of course, they're both making poor grades in my class.

I wanted to drop Tommy from my class a few weeks ago, when he missed an entire week of class for "job training." (A student can only miss three days of class before I drop them with a WF.) He'd already missed two days of class, and he was such a little Twinkiehead that I was ready for him to get the hell out of my class. But another student had been out in Wyoming for almost two weeks attending to her dying brother (cancer, age 37), and I'd let her stay in the class despite her being absent for more than three days. So I felt I had to let Tommy stay on the roll, as much as I hated the thought of it.

I e-mailed Dr. McCool, my AMC supervisor, with the situation. She replied (and I paraphrase):
Kitty, there are a dozen other instructors here who've expressed those exact sentiments. Tommy (and Allison, too) is really not cut out to be in college. He's barely passed my class, and that was only due to extra-credit turned in at the last possible minute. He & Allison have been rather difficult to deal with, and are in desperate need of a wake-up call.

The eye-rolling reached a new level tonight—Tommy and Allison couldn't understand why on earth they'd be required to run their six-page-minimum research papers through TurnItIn.com before inclusion in their final writing portfolios. They also thought that my deadline for their papers next week was outrageous. I was ready to step to the back of the room and poke out both sets of eyes with my red Pilot V7 pen.

I can usually handle asshole students pretty well without showing any signs of my temper flaring. But tonight, I stared at both directly and said rather loudly:

"Well, for Christ's sake, if you don't like the deadline, TURN IN YOUR ESSAYS EARLY."

Silence from the back of the room.

That's right, you little fuckers, I thought.

Both are now looking at solid C's in my class. My D2U colleague Linda-Lou* had Tommy in her class once upon a time, and gave him a D. His work was sloppy, poorly thought out...half-ass, even. And I hope he shows his underachieving talents this time on the research paper and portfolio—sad as it is for me to say this, this asshole and his little friend need a wake-up call.

College doesn't work for you. YOU have to work for IT.

Class dismissed.

Kitty Break #2!

The grading goes on, of course, with a slight detour—I've got some miscellaneous grading to do this afternoon before I head over to Awesome Methodist College. I've already taken my daily walk to clear my head and get the endorphins flowing; lunch is coming up as soon as Mom drops by.

Before I get back to grading, though, it's time for another Kitty Break!


Hobo Kitty (also known as Reese, Not-Cuppy, and Sprocket) loves sitting in the kitchen window first thing in the morning. It was 58 degrees when I awoke this morning, so Hobo was cooling it in her morning sunny spot.

When Myrtle Mae started her Mama-I-didn't-lay-an-egg-but-just-wanted-to-psych-you-out racket, Hobo took notice.

Can you tell from the pic that Myrtle's standing on one leg? Crazy bird.

Kitty Break!

I'm grading like a madwoman, trying to get these final grades posted ahead of the noon Wednesday deadline. But right now, it's time for a Kitty Break!

Look who stopped in at the Happy Kitten Cottage: a stray calico kitty. She was very friendly and didn't run away from the smorgasbord when I opened the front door this morning. She meowed sweetly and let me pet her. And then she showed how photogenic she is:

Pretty girl!

Of course, as luck would have it...she's either about to have a litter, or just had one. I felt her underside, and her teats were working. She was skin and bones around her spine and pelvis, but very round and full further toward her head and between her ribs.

I let her eat as much as she wanted, then went back in the house. A short while later, I saw her calmly walking across the street and down my neighbors' driveway, and she turned to go underneath their storage shed. I don't know if this pretty girl belongs to those people, but I'm going to ask. Someone needs a spaying...and help with her little ones.

A new level of sorriness

Here in the Deep South, "sorry" isn't just an apology—it's an adjective. "That Lamar sure is sorry" means "Lamar is incredibly lazy."

Here, ladies and gentlemen, is a new level of sorriness:



Won't even stand up to eat! Pathetic! Clarky, you are sorry as hell.

Crash and burn

A student who does borderline "B" work, and who has been VERY pushy about getting an A in my class—even though her work doesn't merit an A, and her brown-nosing gets on my last good nerve—ran into my office at 3:02 Friday afternoon, breathless after rushing through her research paper over the last two days.

"Oh, Professor Kitty!" she panted, "I cancelled my physical therapy appointment in Atlanta just so I could stay here and finish my paper!"

"Wow," I said, not even looking away from the paper I was grading. "You must be thrilled to be done. The stapler's on the corner of the desk—just put your paper in the first cardboard box on the floor there."

"Well," she continued, "I was wondering—my paper's only three-and-a-half pages..."

"Yes?"

"And I know the minimum was five pages..."

"Right."

"That's really going to hurt my chances of getting an A in here, right?"

"Yes, it is." Not that you had a snowball's chance in hell of getting one, anyway, and you're sure as shit not going to bully me into one, I thought. I put down my pen and looked her in the eye. It was now 3:04, and I was past ready to pack up the papers and go home.

She paused to catch her breath. "Well..." (I knew what was coming.) "I was wondering...I really, really wanted an A in this class, and I was wondering if I could have until tomorrow to turn it in?"

"If I do it for you, that cheats all the people who busted their butts to get theirs done on time," I told her. "You've done all you can, and the deadline's here."

"But—but, I—"

"Listen," I said firmly. "The semester's over, and right now is the due date. Call your physical therapist, reschedule your appointment, and get some sleep. I know you're exhausted."

She left, visibly crestfallen.

A few minutes later, my colleague Dale*, who was in the Air Force for 20 years before he became an English prof, helped me carry my boxes of portfolios to the truck. He had heard our entire conversation from his office across the hall. As he lifted the box of folders into the passenger seat, he chuckled, "Don't ya just love a good research paper crash-and-burn?"

"Yeah," I replied. "I guess her emergency common sense chute failed to deploy."

Never trust a monkey. The End.

I received this frantic e-mail yesterday from a student in my Comp II class:

hi prof. kitty.

i submitted my paper on turnitin.com and it said it was 98% plagiarized. i gave it to a friend to help me out with and he ended up changing most of the paper himself. he screwed me over. i don't know what else to say except i'm going to rewrite the WHOLE thing. i cannot believe this is happening. please give me a chance to fix his and my mistake. i'm sorry!

Ummm...hello? You just admitted to cheating on your paper. WTF?

My reply:

98% plagiarized? That's what you get for letting someone else "fix" your paper.

The student wrote back to say she was going to start all over and choose a new research paper topic...24 hours before it was due. Okey-dokey.

For the moral of our story, here's Brak from Space Ghost Coast to Coast:

A note to my students

Dear Students:

You have known since January 8 about the research paper that is the final requirement for this class. You have had 16 weeks to plan it and prepare to do the research, and you have known for eight weeks that it is due in my office by 3pm this Friday.

Starting this paper, which is worth 20% of your final grade, 27 hours before it is due will not help you in the least.

Coming to my office and telling me that you have waited until now to begin writing it also will not help you in the least. Why do you do this? Are you bragging about your procrastination? About the shitty job you're doing on this paper? Take my advice: don't. It will only make me grade your paper that much harder.

Do you really think that I can't tell when you've written something right before it's due?

The only people to blame for the C's, D's, and F's you'll be getting are yourselves.

Now go home.

Student Essay Insanity #11!

While sitting here in my D2U office, awaiting frantic visits from students who've waited until two days before the due date to begin writing their research papers, I stumbled upon the notebook in which I scribbled down hilarious sentences while grading the Georgia Regents' Exam back in March. I know you'll love these.

Yes, Virginia—they're all from actual college students' essays. I could not make these up. Even if I tried.

• In today's day, "knowing the right people" and interact with them brings many benefits to both.
• My mother was basically dead.
• Crime is a subject that has been around since man began.
• This problem is worsing in the United States.
• Instead of going to school in Florida, I had to settle for something closer and in my price rage.

David Halberstam: 1934-2007

I was deeply saddened to hear of author David Halberstam’s untimely death last Monday—he was killed in a car accident at the age of 73. At an age when many Americans would be well into retirement, Halberstam was still writing. He was on his way to interview someone for the book he was working on.

Former ABC anchor Ted Koppel, now a senior news analyst at NPR, made some very heartfelt comments on Tuesday’s "Morning Edition," especially when he mentioned that many of Halberstam’s book titles have become part of the American political vocabulary: The Making of a Quagmire, The Best and the Brightest, The Powers That Be.

But he got one thing wrong about Halberstam. “The lighter stuff, the books on sports” was not so light. As senior Sports Illustrated columnist Frank Deford mentioned in his NPR piece, "Halberstam brought truth to sports, too."

A shining example of Halberstam's reporting candor and eye for the nuances of a moment is The Breaks of the Game, his 1981 book that follows the Portland Trailblazers during their 1979-1980 season—in the aftermath of the team’s acrimonious breakup following Bill Walton’s departure to San Diego. Halberstam’s deft characterizations of Walton, Jack Ramsay, Maurice Lucas, Kermit Washington, and many others in the insular world of professional basketball are among the finest sports writing to date.

An excerpt from early in the book:
Basketball had come to Portland in 1970, and the franchise soon developed into one of the league’s strongest. Opening home game at the Memorial Coliseum was a major social occasion, for in Portland it was the ticket. There was nothing else competing with it during those long winter months, except of course the rain. Joe Gushue, the referee, once asked by a fan the toughest city to referee in, had immediately answered, “Portland—they’re got nothing else to do all winter.” It was classically the Green Bay syndrome, the bigtime sport in a very small city that had become the focal point of much of community life. Seattle had a professional football team and baseball team as well, but Portland had only basketball. In the summer the Portland newspapers chronicled the doings of Oregon natives playing minor league baseball. If, during the season, one sportswriter new to the scene seemed too critical of the Blazers’ performance, another older sportswriter might caution him in print that this was not Seattle, where there were other teams. The Blazers were all that Portland had and a Portland writer’s job was to be supportive. In the personal columns of the Willamette Week, the counterculture’s weekly newspaper, where lonely men and women sought other lonely men and women, a man was sure to list all his principal assets:

50-year-old very, very well-to-do, tall, divorced male seeks “Dolly Parton-type” to share Trail Blazer season tickets, theater, music, dinners, travel, etc. Would like to meet lady 35-50, that’s not tied down in any way and is free to have fun with a fun-loving, sincere person that’s no phony. Reply to Box 175 c/o Willamette Week.

Anything to be part of the 12,666. That was the magic figure. Against the Utah Jazz, despite their own weaknesses, despite the frailty of the Jazz, the Blazers had their 102nd consecutive sellout, and automatically now, after every home game, in the box score the management listed the paid attendance, the magic figure 12,666. (100-101)

I bought this paperback copy of the book in 1986; I happened on it purely by chance in the Small Town bookstore. I have read it from cover to cover several dozen times—the pages are now falling away from the spine, I’ve turned to so many particularly well-worded passages.

The Breaks of the Game, more than any of Halberstam’s other, better-known works, has had a profound influence on how I write—I can sense it in the book I’m writing now.

We will miss you sorely, David. Thank you.

Student Essay Insanity #10!

I've just returned from a faculty meeting, where a fellow professor shared this jewel (no pun intended) from a student essay:

I love the way my boyfriend brushes my hair away from my face. I love his genital touch.