Faculty Restroom Etiquette; or, What I Think about When I Don't Think about My Paper

(My apologies to the late, great Raymond Carver for this post title.)

So I'm working on this piece-of-shit paper for next week's conference, and the work has been much harder than I'd expected. I'm up against a very busy schedule and a little bit of writer's block, so what could be more freeing than to think about something other than this clusterfuck of a presentation? (Angry Professor, you're not the only one frustrated with her paper.)

Lately, I've become much more attentive to what goes on in the faculty-only ladies' room. Maybe it's because I'm now at D2U five days a week and see my colleagues so much more often; when I was a part-timer, I was only on campus on my appointed class days (usually 2-3 days a week) and saw the full-timers only once in a while. These days, I'm in close proximity to almost all of the full-time faculty. Sometimes too close.


Are there certain unwritten social "rules" one follows when using the bathroom that all your colleagues who share your gender use? I would think so. I'm just not sure what they are. And it got me wondering, and ranting, and I took a page from ADW's book.

---When I catch the harpy who keeps pissing on toilet seats, I am going to kick. her. ass. Why on earth do women feel the need to balance themselves precariously over a toilet seat while taking a pee? "Oh, like, it's nasty!" No, honey, women who sprinkle when they tinkle are NASTY.

Listen to your Peer Sexuality Educator: no virus or pubic louse can live long enough on a toilet seat to latch onto you, unless you have either a) a really hairy ass, or b) have a gaping, oozing open sore on your gluteus maximus.

I say it again: Women, STOP PISSING ON PUBLIC TOILET SEATS. I can hear you already: "Ohhh, but, like, it's SO GROSS to, like, sit where everyone else, like, sits!" Your pissing on the seat MAKES IT THAT WAY. You swim in public pools, don't you? You've made out in hot tubs, where certainly other people have made out, haven't you? You go out to eat at restaurants and didn't actually watch the dishwashers clean your utensils, right? Who knows how nasty any of those things/places are? Oh, but the gross factor didn't stop you then. Why should it now? If public toilets gross you out THAT MUCH, then either wait until you get home to pee, or carry a little pack of Lysol Disinfecting Wipes in your purse/pocket, or do like the guys and find an outdoor place to do your business. Whatever you do, JUST FUCKING STOP PISSING ALL OVER THE PLACE AND MAKING IT NASTY FOR THE REST OF US.

Thank you. I feel better now.

On with the countdown.

---What is the protocol for reading material in the faculty-only ladies' room? One female professor is unabashed about this—she simply brushes past the rest of us with a copy of the Chronicle in her hand, not giving a damn that everyone knows she's going in there to take a really big dump. At least I know, when I see the CHE under her arm, not to go in there for a while.

---I walked into my usual stall the other day to pee—and don't we all have a "usual stall?"—and as I did my business, I noticed a student in the stall next door. (I can tell who's faculty and who's not by the choice of footwear I see under the partition; flip-flops, toe jewelry, and foot tattoos are verboten in our department.) There was quite a bit of gaseous action going on over there in the poor student's stall, and I could tell she was trying to save it for when all the other people were well out of harm's way. I guess she was thinking that once I left, she could let rip. And what if that had been one of my own students, who was in a bad way gastrointestinally and sneaked into the faculty-only bathroom becasue she HAD to? I imagine she wouldn't want to see my shoes under the partition, know it's me, let loose like an ass faucet, and then have to face me in class. Or, maybe she would.

Does anyone else do this when there are others in the restroom and you're in intestinal distress? I finished up as quickly as I could and left the poor thing to spray-poop to her heart's content.

---What are the rules for talking while peeing in the ladies' faculty restroom? Do you need to know someone pretty well to do that? I usually just say "hello" if I see a colleague walk in, but stay quiet the rest of the time we're both in there. (For the record, the only three people I've really ever been able to talk to mid-stream are my mom, my sister, and The Colonel.)

---What does one do if one reaaaally has to go, but a well-meaning yet clueless student or colleague is following one to the can? With a student, I nod toward the door of the restroom and say, "Gotta GO, ya know? See ya tomorrow!" but I'm never sure about what to say to my co-workers.

---What does one do if one leaves a particularly funky green cloud behind in the faculty restroom? Is it a sign of goodwill to buy a big can of Oust and leave it on the counter? Or would nobody use it for fear of being seen fumigating the place, forever tagged as "the one who shits Christmas trees and licorice but thinks a little citrus is going to cover it up?"

---How do you say "hi" to a colleague who's very clearly headed into the restroom on an urgent mission? Do you nod and say, "How's it going?" knowing full well that they probably have the stomach flu and are about to go endure painful cramps and gas? Or do you ignore that person until you next see him/her?

I look forward to your output...errrr, input.

What to Wear: College Professor Edition

Next week, I'm off to a conference to present a paper. While I plan to wear a dressy professional suit for my presentation (which is on the first full day), I have no idea what else to wear the rest of the time I'm at the conference.

On the days when I'm not the one presenting—while I'm listening to other people's papers and attending various functions—is it acceptable to wear clean blue jeans with a dressy top and blazer? Or should I play it safe and maintain my work wardrobe the entire conference, saving the jeans and blazer for the trip home?

My initiation into the Full-Time Professors' Club is now complete.

Every 56 days, I give blood. It's one of the easiest ways to help other people. Even though I'm terrified of needles and hate the feeling of one in my arm, I do it anyway—my donation can save someone's life.

Today, the Red Cross had its first blood drive of the semester in the Student Center, and of course I'd signed up to make my donation between classes. Everything went really well; I'd made an appointment, and therefore was one of the first ones in and out. It was a festive atmosphere, with the Blood Drop mascot on hand to cheer students on, and a stereo blaring soul and R&B music from the 1970s and '80s: The Commodores, Chaka Khan, Levert, Luther Vandross, and so on. Harold*, a tall, slender black man originally from Brooklyn, was the Red Cross person in charge of my donation. As I was lying there squeezing the small, firm piece of foam in my hand to keep my blood flowing, Kool & the Gang's "Get Down on It" came over the speakers. Several of us who were giving blood began to sing along, as did a few Red Cross workers. I overheard Harold* say to another technician, "This will forever be known as a skating-rink song."

"Oh my God!" I laughed. "That really IS a skating-rink song! 'Couples skate, couples skate only!'" Harold laughed, too, and we began sharing our memories of going to the skating rink in elementary and junior high school. It seemed that the reasons for going skating in New York City were the same as those in Booger County, Georgia: flirting with cute boys/girls, skating, getting away from home on a boring afternoon, and getting to hear the latest soul/R&B/funk records that your parents wouldn't let you listen to at home. Our conversation made me forget I had a needle stuck in my arm, and before I knew it, my blood-donation bag was filled. Harold wished me well and sent me to the recovery area.

I sat for a few minutes in the recovery area with a few other people, students and faculty, sipping fruit punch and nibbling on Nutter Butter cookies (both of which seem to be ubiquitous at blood drives). This was going pretty well; I'd managed not to get woozy while donating this time, and it looked as if I was going to make it back over to the English Building just in time for my afternoon class. I'd put a note on the door telling the students to wait around on me, just in case the drive was too crowded and I was running late.


My former student Larry* was there checking on all the donors, asking whether we needed anything and handing us our Red Cross sports bottles. "Hey, Miss Kitty! How ya feelin'?" Larry* is a non-traditional student, in his late 30s, who used to be a heavy-construction contractor; he decided to leave the travel-heavy, insanely busy industry and earn a nursing degree instead when he realized his two kids were growing up with an absentee father.

"Oh, pretty good, Larry," I replied. "Can I have a fruit punch?"

"Sure." He handed the bottle to me. "Want some ice with that?" He looked at me with a strange look. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Oh, yeah," I replied. But—WHOA. Suddenly I felt very tired, and dizzy. I wanted to put my head down on the table and rest. "Oooh, I'm feeling kinda woozy—"

"Put your head down," Larry said. "You'll be all right."

"Ummm...like this?" I tried to put my head on the table, on top of my arm, but I couldn't make head and elbow match up. Something was pulling my head down to my stomach. "Ummm...I—I, ummm—"

Suddenly everything was very, very far away, and the lights in the Student Center got dim. I felt like I had cotton stuffed in my ears—it was as if I were underwater and could barely hear the sounds above the water.

"Quick! Quick! Get her laid back! In the floor!" I could hear Larry shout. Funny, I thought, I've never heard Larry yell. And why does my head weigh so much?

I could feel people gathering around me, tipping my chair back, with me still in it. I was so, so dizzy, and sleepy, and tired. Why couldn't I just rest? All I wanted was to shut my eyes and get a few winks in right there on the Student Center floor. What was so wrong with that? I couldn't understand. "Keep your eyes open, ma'am! That's right, just keep talking to us," someone was saying. Harold* rushed back over to check on me. "Oh no! My skating partner's having some problems! You doin' okay there?"

I nodded that I was okay, and I felt someone take off my glasses. "Don't worry, ma'am," a female Red Cross worker quipped. "Harold has that effect on the ladies." The rest of the workers and volunteers burst into laughter. I was suddenly very aware that I was having a hard time controlling what I was doing and saying. I kept trying to get up, but I couldn't force my arms and legs to move. And I was aware that my butt was strangely...cold.

I was wearing a dress. And the back skirt part had dropped onto the floor while the workers were holding my legs in the air.

And my ass, clad in sexy ice-blue lace-trim panties from J.C Penney, was in the air in front of 40 people.

I instinctively reached around my thigh and grabbed up the back part of my dress. A female Red Cross employee saw what I was doing, and moved to help me. "Oops, sorry," I heard her whisper. "It's okay," I mumbled back.

Harold, Larry, and several other people finally got me into one of the reclining donation chairs, and set up a screen around me, presumably for privacy. I wanted to tell them, as Dorothy* put cold cloths on my neck and forehead, that it wasn't necessary—most everyone had seen what happened, and my fellow faculty members now know what kind of drawers I wear. But I couldn't make my mouth say the words, and I just lay back in the chair and rested.

After about 20 minutes, I realized that there was no way I was going to make my afternoon class. It was already 15 minutes past class time, and I knew my students were probably sitting there clueless in front of the computer lab, wondering how much longer they'd have to wait. So I asked Larry* to hand me my purse, and I got out my cell phone to call the English Department and have someone go to my classroom and give the students Friday's assignment. I put my phone back in my purse, and the head of the political science department, Dr. Thomas*, peeked behind the screen. "Good to see you, Kitty! Hope you feel better!" he said with a smile. I thanked him and silently wondered how much of my ass he'd seen.

Later, I told my sister of my ordeal. She thought it was hilarious. And I did, too, now that the embarrassment had worn off. "At least I got my little sticker to wear the rest of the day," I told her. "It says, 'Be Nice to Me! I Gave Blood Today!'"

She replied, "Your sticker ought to say, 'Be Nice to Me! I Gave Blood Today and Passed the Hell Out Where Everybody Could See My Ass!'"

My office kicks ass...again.

My latest eBay find:

Bonus points to any reader who can tell us under which Alabama governor's administration this tag was produced. (This is only the third such tag I've ever seen.)

Upon seeing this, friends and colleagues wise-cracked away...

"Sit down for Alabama!"

"Shut up for Alabama!"

"Take a crap for Alabama!"

"Drag a rag through Alabama!"

Post your own in the Comments section.

Student Essay Insanity #18!

Or, "Misplaced modifiers and why I love them!"

From an actual essay from my Regents' Exam prep class. The essay prompt: Explain why you do or do not hunt.
I have seen mother bobcats fighting away foxes while sitting in my tree stand.
Good heavens! How could you stay up in the stand with all that commotion?!?

Another student, same class, same prompt:
With my luck, some overzealous "Dick Cheney type" would "pop a cap off" on me.
That was too damn funny to leave "out of this post." And not just because of the "quotation marks."

Different student, different essay prompt: Explain why people are so fascinated with amusement parks.
I pity the fool who has not had the opportunity to experience an amusement park.
And so does B.A. Baracus.

And by the way: HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my sister and brother-in-law today!

Tidbits

• Yesterday, I went to the wedding of a dear high-school friend of mine. It was an Eastern Orthodox Christian wedding, at a church out in the middle of nowhere, and my first time going to an Orthodox church. The ceremony was the most beautiful and moving I'd ever been to; it's the same one that's been performed in the church for over 1,700 years. It's hard to describe, but the entire to-do felt more "real" than any other wedding ceremony I've ever been to. The church, although rather small—it might have been big enough to seat 100 people—was gorgeously decorated with icons of Jesus, Mary, and various saints, and incense and candles set a very deliberate mood for the wedding. It was one of the very few times in my life that, when told by a congregant of a church I'd visited, "You should come for regular services some time," I actually wanted to do so.
• I've been feeling alternately stressed out and sad lately. Somehow, I had the idea that when I was finally a full-time professor and only had to work one job, I'd be less worried, less tense. Wonder where I got that idea?
• Commenters have asked just how many cats I have here at the Happy Kitten Cottage. Currently, the number is 14: five outdoor cats (Elvis, Prue, Kigi, Kamakura, and Applebee) and nine indoor cats (Graya, Joy, Clark, Davy, Martha Ann, Hobo Kitty, and Ernest, plus foster felines D2U Mama Cat and Wide Lawns Kitteh). The foster kitties will soon be going to their purr-manent homes.
• In light of just how many cats I have, and their assorted stories—but mostly just to cheer myself up a little—I'm going to be doing a "Cat Story" series here on E&P to have a little fun and share the tales of how each of my kitties came to live here at the HKC.

La tristesse

MSNBC.com: French mime Marcel Marceau dies at 84

"If you stop at all when you are 70 or 80, you cannot go on. You have to keep working.” —Marceau's interview with the Associated Press, 2003

My office kicks ass.

There are a lot of hard-to-find tags on these walls. eBay will be my ruin.

In the lower right quadrant of the photo, in the middle and about four tags up from the bottom row, there's a solid red Arkansas "Mobile Home" tag from the 1970s.

It was worth every penny of $15 to have this 6"x12" aluminum insert-your-own-redneck-joke-here on my D2U office wall.

Now, about the tacky overhead fluorescent lighting...

Finals at Tiny Technical College

This week is Finals Week at Tiny Technical College, and I am in the library giving my online students their in-person exams. [sigh] This is wrong-headed, but, of course, TTC admin didn't ask me.

Teaching any distance-learning class is sometimes difficult. It's often harder to explain things via e-mail than in person. Sometimes communications between professor and student get crossed. Sometimes students can be demanding and overbearing. And, of course, students never get to meet their professor face-to-face...except when they go to Tiny Technical College and take Kitty B. Goode's class.

It's at this one time of the quarter—yes, we're on ten-week quarters here—where I finally meet my students, put names with faces, see how their names and e-learning personalities soooo do not match the way they look in real life. (One student, Sonja*, sounds online as if she's 6'2" and can skin a wild boar with her bare hands, but in the flesh, in the middle of the Tiny Tech library, she's probably 4'10" and 95 pounds.) Watching my students type away furiously on their computers for 120 minutes, I see all the little weird behavioral tics that would've driven me nuts in a physical classroom...or perhaps endeared the students to me. The young lady sitting across the carrel from me talks to her computer screen under her breath, much the same way I do when I'm working on something really difficult. Her hand gestures are cracking me up; she really gets into her work, and it shows in her essays. So this is what she does while she's laboring away at another paper on "Why Georgia high school students should be required to wear uniforms" or "Adoptive parents should share all available information with their children about birth parents."

DaVon*, the smooth-voiced, sharply-dressed-in-Roca-Wear-threads young man from the Firefighter Training Program, gave an awesome presentation about nutrition, and how eating right and drinking plenty of water can account for up to 90% of weight loss. Jasmine*, the single mother from way out in Booger County who dragged in here in her scrubs, fresh from work at the local health clinic, gave a presentation on prenatal care that was out of this world. Jerry*, a stout fellow in his 40s and an EMT in Lintville* (a few counties away), gave a timely and highly informative presentation on the most important first-aid techniques for regular people to know.

The other presentations were superb as well; I am so proud of this group. I asked their permission to use their PowerPoint slideshows and pictures of their poster boards to use as good examples for our class website. One blushed and said, "Sure, Miss Kitty! That's the ultimate compliment, isn't it? To be an example for the future classes on what to do?"

This quarter has been tough, but my students make it worthwhile.

The crazy stuff I get in my Tiny Tech mailbox

This spam appeared this morning in my Tiny Technical College e-mail account. I shit you not:

Morning KGoode
Do women really care about penis size?
The answer is yes paduraru
chapko [big penis URL]

WTF?

Everyone loves the bathroom sink

Davy (aka Shithook) must have Feline Urinary Syndrome. He's big on drinking water wherever he can get it, whenever he can get it. I hope the fact I've got everyone on low-magnesium food and distilled water will help stave it off. Hope, anyway.

Clark, who's been confirmed as having FUS, also loves drinking from the bathroom sink faucet. At least everybody's getting their daily water allowance around here.

Vicarious chickenage—just for CrankyProf

By special request from CrankyProf, I bring you some Myrtle Mae pictures. I know, I know: my sassy red-feathered girl hasn't had much E&P coverage lately. It's mostly because this summer was hot as hell, with six weeks of temps at or over 100 degrees, and Myrtle spent a lot of time simply hiding out under the shed in the back yard. It's cool and dark under there, and there are bugs like you wouldn't believe squirming around in the dirt.

Plus my girl's still eating her own eggs. I haven't been able to save a single one since April. Tsk-tsk-tsk. So she's still on Mama's shit list, after a fashion.

One day, I'll figure out how to post video, and then you can see just what an oxymoron chicken jogging is.

Myrtle must have been a dog in her last life: she follows me all around the back yard. Really, though, chickens tend to do that once they identify who does the feeding at their coop.

Thinking about getting in Mama's lap? Naaahhh.

Is that cat food you have there?

Gimme! Gimme cat food! Before I turn this beady-eyed head again and JUMP!

I'll reach in there myself and get it, if I have to!

nomnomnomnomnom

I has many cat foods.

Student Essay Insanity #17!

Usually, I post only one edition of Student Essay Insanity every week, but the grading of the last week or two has just been chock-full of crazy sentences.

The following sentences are from my Regents' Essay Exam prep class; the same student wrote both. The writing prompt: If you were an employer, under what circumstances would you fire an employee?

• Tardiness: a vehicle which has driven many people out the door.


• If one is not on time for production, then products will indicate shortage, leading a company down the avenue of lost money.

Avenue of Lost Money? Hey, that's my residence!

A very difficult situation: Part 5

If you're just now picking up on this story:
A very difficult situation: Part 1
A very difficult situation: Part 2
A very difficult situation: Part 3
A very difficult situation: Part 4

**************************************

The last few weeks have been difficult—hours and hours, days and days of busy-ness and tiredness, made somewhat bearable by a few glimmers of laughter, happiness, and hope. Many concerned readers and friends have made suggestions so I can feel better: nap a lot, eat better, take a good multivitamin, be kind to myself, re-read your comments daily. Thanks to all of you for your love and concern. I have done all of the things you suggested, and I am still mind-numbingly tired. (My blood tests for diabetes, thyroid levels, and liver function a few months back turned out just fine, so I know it's not any of those concerns.)

It has to be the stress of dealing with what happened with Martin*—I still can't bring myself to say what Martin did to me—and the aftermath.

Division II University hired me full-time for this academic year, and I am delighted to be a Temporary Assistant Professor at long last. But I feel as if my performance has been so very poor these first few weeks of the semester. It's all I can do to drag myself to campus, teach my classes (six of them every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, 8am to 4pm), make lesson plans, grade papers, go to four committee meetings a week, and work on this paper I'm supposed to be presenting at an October conference. I feel as if everyone knows I can barely shuffle to my office hours, which are every Tuesday and Thursday.

The department head seems to say "hello" to me in the hall a little differently these days. Does she know I'm falling behind, teaching miserably poorly, barely able to hold my head up? Does she keep up with when I get to my office hours on time? Have I done something wrong? Does she sense that in order not to fall asleep on the drive home, I have to lie down in my office floor and take a nap before I leave campus?

Maybe this worry is from the stress, too.

My question is this: is it a good idea for me to sit down with my two supervisors, Dr. Pepper* (English department chair, female) and/or Dr. Rhettencomp* (chair of First-Year Composition, male), and let them know what's going on with me? Or is this "too much information" for one's bosses to know? Part of me wants to let them know, because I'm not usually a "slack" instructor, and I want to actually have a chance at getting a renewal next year. And part of me wants to hide.

Student Essay Insanity #16!

Oh my, but this is a batch of doozies for you today. Yes, folks, these are real bloopers from real student essays—I've changed nothing from how I found them in the original papers. Read 'em and weep. Or laugh. Or both.

I've made a few snarky comments, but most of them, I've left open for yours. Read each sentence aloud if you don't quite get why it's a blooper. There are a few words in here spelled incorrectly because the writer mostly has going for him or her secondary orality; that is, language use and communication grounded in today's electronic media culture. Pop culture is sometimes all the culture our students have. And some students didn't learn phonics in school, so they put together letters that seem to make up the word they meant (see below how one student spells "known").

• When I first began college, it was a different atmosphere from high school. [Yeah. Much more oxygen in the college atmosphere.]


• Also being a good student, you have to devote your time wisely. Such as taking time to study, and the library if necessary.


• If I were an employer, my company's rule and regulations would be thoses grounded deeply within common sense. This would mean that staying out fo trouble would be "easy as pie," seemingly so that is not always the case. [Too bad the crooks at Enron didn't get this memo.]


• In today's society American is none to have the most people that are overweight.


• From day to day many individuals have to face the harrassment of car dealers and high price vehicles. [Damn Ford place—follows me everywhere I go.]


• Suicide: one of the top killers in teenagers.


• There is a world full of wise people. [Sadly, it's not this one.]


• A student who makes a choose to go to college must first decided is a college best for him, or should he look at other revenues to be successful.


• Money comes from many different places. [Like the counterfeiting operation in my basement.]


• You can only hate a job if you allow yourself too. Hate is just a feeling, and feelings can change. [So if I don't allow myself to hate my job giving blowjobs to sweaty longshoremen...]

A paw for a paw

I called Mom the other night to catch up on the week's happenings. Mom, like me, is big on rescuing abandoned animals; all 11 cats and three dogs at her house were either saved from abusive homes or picked up after someone threw them out on the side of the road.

Mom asked about my trip home from her house several nights before. "Did you see any animals along the way? Near Doe Butt Estates*?" (That's a cookie-cutter little subdivision between Small Town and Mom's house, built to make freshly-moved-down-from-Atlanta city folks feel as if they're communing with nature. Peh.)

"Ummmm...an armadillo crossed the road in front of me." In the heavily-wooded 22 miles from my house in Small Town to Mom's house in Booger County, I can always count on seeing (and swerving to avoid) at least one possum-on-the-half-shell.

"No, no, domestic. Like dogs, puppies."

I had to think hard. Had I seen any dogs or puppies? "Mmmm, no. How come?"

"Well—hmm, what evening was it? Oh, Monday—Bonnie was coming back from Small Town, and just down the road from Doe Butt* she saw a bunch of puppies—"

"Ohhhhhh! Little dawgs! I bet somebody threw them out," I said.

"Yeah, that's what Bonnie thought," Mom continued. "So all she had in the car was a bottle of water, and she pulled over to try to help the dogs, maybe give them something to drink until she could get home, get some food, and come back."

"And?"

"So she started pouring the water out into this little plastic take-out cup she had in the car, and the puppies were climbing over each other to get to her and the water," Mom continued. "She said they were skin and bones, looked as if they hadn't eaten in weeks."

"Sons of bitches who left 'em oughtta be taken out and shot," I grumbled.

"For real. So Bonnie went to her house, got some canned food and more water, and stopped by here and picked me up. She figured with two of us it'd be easier to round the puppies up, though they were used to people—they ran right up to her," Mom told me.

"So what happened? Do you have any little dogs?" I was very hopeful for a chance to play with puppies, as the current Happy Kitten Cottage population of 13 cats and a chicken precludes my having anyone of the canine persuasion.

Mom sighed heavily. "No. By the time we got there, two had been run over in the road. The other four were nowhere to be seen. Just in a space of 15 minutes, all that happened."

"Jesus Gawd." That was my grandmother Mildred's favorite phrase; she used it whenever she heard something absolutely atrocious or unbelievable. I use it in much the same way now.

"Fucking disgusting." I could hear Mom take a sip from her ever-present water bottle. "But Bonnie thinks a lady who kept driving by in a white SUV might have picked up the little dogs. The lady drove by three times while Bonnie was stopped for the puppies."

"Well, let's hope." I paused and thought about how lonely, how terrifiying it must be to be a small animal put out on the side of a two-lane country road frequented by overloaded pulpwood trucks. "I bet those little dogs were used to people."

"They were," Mom said. "Otherwise, they wouldn't have run right up to Bonnie. Makes me fucking sick that people can do that to an animal. 'Ohh, they have instincts!' About the instinct a toddler has. Dumb shits, throwing animals out like that. No punishment hard enough for 'em."

"They'll rot in hell, no worries about that."

"Nope. Hell's too good for 'em." Mom thought for a minute. "They need to know what suffering like that is like. Need to know just how it is to be helpless, starving, and completely alone."

"Maybe throw them out on the street, like they're homeless?" I offered.

"Nah, not harsh enough." She thought some more. "I've got it."

"What?"

"Strip 'em naked and put 'em in a steel cage juuuust big enough so they can kind of move around, but so they're still cramped up. Then put 'em in the middle of the busiest intersection in Small Town—"

"Ohhhh, the one near the Industrial Park!"

"Right—and let the cage get thumped and tumbled and pushed around by all the 18-wheelers coming out of the factories down there."

"So they'll get the feeling of what it's like to be alone and helpless in the middle of an intersection, with hardly any protection," I added.

"Exactly. They'll know what it's like to have your paw or back leg get nipped by a car, how terrifying that must be, and all the car and truck horns honking at you to get out of the way."

"And NO food or water," I said. "All they'd have is rainwater, and maybe if someone took pity on them, some funky tuna fish or week-old bread."

"Yep. Bastards need to know just what it's like. Sorry fuckers. No punishment harsh enough. And these are the same assholes who think they're good, upstanding citizens, but throw out their animals and refuse to get 'em neutered and probably beat their wives and kids, too. What a crock."

Then Mom and I began to discuss where we could find heavy-duty, super-reinforced, person-sized steel cages at wholesale prices.

Close call

Thursday evening, I had an appointment with Bonnie, my distant cousin, friend, and longtime hair stylist. I dislike the pretentious atmosphere of many regular hair salons, so it's a pleasure to go to Bonnie's in-home salon and get my hair done. We sit around, catch up on the latest community gossip, and sip on a Southern Comfort & Coke—leave it to Bonnie's Redneck Salon to offer you a cocktail while you wait for the peroxide to lighten your roots. I've often told Bonnie, only half-joking, that she should put up a neon Pabst Blue Ribbon bar sign in her styling area.

On this visit, Bonnie's friend Sally* and her teenage daughter were also visiting; Sally was getting her highlights refreshed while her daughter used Bonnie's computer to work on a school project. I chatted with Sally about getting her daughter ready for college, and how important critical thinking and writing skills really are in today's world. As Bonnie was styling my hair, I asked Sally about her own job.

"Oh, I work at Linthead Mills*," she replied. "Been there 27 years. That's where Bonnie and I met, way back when."

"Really? I worked at Linthead as a temp for a couple of months—guess it was spring of 2001. Used to date a plant manager there, too."

Sally's eyebrows lifted. "No way! Who?"

"I'm too embarrassed to say." We all laughed knowingly. "Well, as long as you don't tell anyone I went out with him: Larry Porkchop*."

Sally's expression darkened. "Larry Porkchop? The one who useta be married to Charlene Porkchop*? And they had two kids, Bobby* and Mary*?"

"Yeah, that's him."

"You know he just got out of prison, right?"

"WHAT?!?!?!?!?" I almost fell out of the chair. Bonnie dropped the bottle of styling lotion, which blew a boogerlike wad of product across her kitchen floor.

"No, really, he just got out...hmmm, last year or 18 months, I reckon," Sally said. "He and a couple other Linthead managers got caught embezzling. They were falsifying hours on time sheets and splitting the money amongst themselves. I don't know if anyone else did time, but I know he did."

"Good God!" I had just been thinking about Larry the other day and wondering whatever had happened to him. Small Town is very small, and it's just about impossible to go for long without seeing one's exes around town. I'd been wondering why on earth I hadn't run into him over the last couple of years. "Sally, I'm so glad you told me that. Sheesh. Something about him was a little shady, but I couldn't figure out what. I'm glad I quit seeing him when I did."

Sally shook her head. "Yeah, it was a huge mess. I'm surprised you didn't hear about it."

"Well, I don't know anyone who works at Linthead Mills anymore, and since I work at D2U, I'm not really in the Small Town gossip chain." Bonnie began spiking my hair, having cleaned up the goop in the floor that she'd just mopped a few hours before. "But, come to think of it—didn't he useta own a pawn shop outside of town? And it burned down about ten years ago?"

Bonnie chimed in. "Ohh, I remember that," she said. "Rumor was it was arson. The cops just couldn't pin it on Larry."

"Riiiight," I said. "When I was dating him, he said he was still going around and around with the insurance company, because they thought he'd done it himself, but he said he had an alibi, and it was faulty wiring that burned it down." I checked my reflection in the mirror Bonnie held in front of me. "Man, am I ever glad I quit dating him. What a close call that was."

Hecklers in the classroom

New commenter Lucy, a stand-up comedian, has posted some interesting stuff about hecklers on her blog. I've never done stand-up, but I think I can relate to what a pain they are. There are a few students who think of themselves as the hecklers of the college classroom: unsure of where they stand in the academic world, and trapped in their own sad little existence, they carry on the "class clown" and "life-of-the-party" roles they inhabited in high school...only to find they're not too well received among the grown-ups. Instead of being a democratic, take-back-the-power-for-the-people voice in the crowd, college-classroom hecklers are usually our cultural/ national id speaking. It's up to the professor and/or fellow students to take these people out behind the woodshed, so to speak.

A few Spring Semesters ago, I taught a Comp I class at 9:00 on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. This group was a good one; even though it was pure hell for that bunch of teenagers to be up any time before 2pm, they struggled and did their best to be awake and intelligent for my class.

Except for one guy.

Chance* shouldn't have been in college. He needed a few hard years of construction or restaurant work before he could really appreciate what a privilege a college education is. He boasted about how he really wasn't supposed to be in college—how he and his three younger brothers raised themselves out in rural Poke Stick*, Georgia; how they showered under the garden hose outside their roach-infested trailer with no electricity while their dad smoked meth in the back shed; how he sweet-talked the drama profs at D2U into giving him a full acting scholarship when he'd never had so much as a background part in a school play. He certainly looked as if he were from Poke Stick, with a tall, lanky, malnourished frame and a mat of greasy blond hair underneath his trucker's cap, but something just wasn't quite right. I felt as if this guy might be a regular J.T. LeRoy.

Chance had a bad habit of mumbling under his breath about four times per class period, usually something that would make the clueless little sorority girls around him shiver with suppressed giggles. I'm hard of hearing (blame it on years of working around heavy machinery and/or loud music), so I'd always look in Chance's direction and say, "What? Something you wanted to add to the discussion?" And he'd say, in his best Poke Stick accent, "Nuthin." After a while, I would add, "So if it's nuthin, why are you talking?" and a cold glare. This worked for a while, but Chance was the type who liked to try and rattle his high school teachers. It was NOT going to work on a college professor—at least not this one.

While he might have "escaped" his "upbringing," Chance had certainly not managed to leave its mindsets behind. He had taken everything negative that a poor or working-class kid could learn and absorbed it all: racism, sexism, braggartism a la Hank Williams Jr., religious intolerance. Yep, he had a bad case of the Know-Nothings.

One day, we were discussing political correctness. What did the term really mean? I wanted to know, and I told the students a little of my introduction to the idea of P.C. in the academic world. The students had all heard the term derided on various talk radio and yell-at-the-other-guy TV shows, but none could really define it. We began examining the history behind "correct" names for racial and ethnic groups, and we had some good laughs as we considered our own upbringings and how our parents taught us about race and class. I asked the white students whether they minded being called "white" if their black classmates were called "African-American." They thought about it and said they didn't mind being referred to as white. Several black students agreed that black was fine with them, as they didn't really identify with their African ancestry and weren't offended by the term. "Although brown is a lot more accurate..." one conceded.

"Kinda like 'peach' or 'pasty' would be more accurate for me," I said, showing the fish-belly-white inside of my forearm to great laughter. A couple black students then said they really preferred African-American, as it more accurately described their heritage.

Then Chance opened his mouth. "I don't see how come we gotta use all them fancy words to describe somebody," he said. "We just oughtta say the truth."

"What do you mean?" I asked. This is one of my favorite phrases in the classroom; I love making students clarify and justify the things they blurt out in class.

"I mean...there just ain't no call for fancy phrases 'n all 'at. Call 'em what they are."

"Call who what?" I thought I knew where this might be going, and I wanted to call him on it. I'd had enough of this pain-in-the-ass kid for one semester.

"Well—" Chance began. A few classmates were beginning to give him puzzled looks. Had he had a nip before coming to class? Funny, he didn't smell like Mad Dog 20/20. "You shouldn't hafta call 'em anything fancy—just what they are."

"Chance, I'm not following you."

He sighed deeply, as if to say, You moron professor, since you're not going to read between the lines, I'll say it out loud. "I just don't see why we have to say 'African-American' or 'black' or anything like that."

By now, a few black students were glaring at Chance. A few more were looking down at their desks, as were many of the white students: Lord, please shut this guy up. Please. Most of the students were simply slack-jawed. Could he be...did he really...?

"So, what do you suggest, Chance? You're not being clear."

He sighed, exasperated. "You know," he said and did the you-get-my-drift gesture with his shoulders and hands. "Just call 'em what they are."

I thought it was bizarre how the "they" he kept referring to were real people, sitting just one or two desks away from him. This was about to get ugly.

"So, okay," I stammered, wondering what the hell I was going to do next. "You say we should 'call people what they are,' regardless."

"Yep, that's it."

"Just call them what you 'honestly' think they 'honestly' are?"

"Yyyyyepperr." Ignorant country bastard, I thought. I paused before the rising tide of rage in my solar plexus.

"Okay, Asshole."

Chance almost fell out of his chair. "Whoo-! Whu-whu-whu-whu—whuuut didjew just say?!?!?"

The class was chortling now, and the students who had been glaring at Chance just a few minutes before were now clearly relieved at not having to kick his ass.

"Well, Chance, you said we should call other people by what they are, and not some politically correct name, so...there you have it." His expression was that of a bull who's just met the business end of a cattle prod. "You don't like that? Geez, I thought you'd be all for that." And I moved the discussion on to the next point.

At the end of the day, I opened my e-mail to find a computer-generated "Drop" notice: "Student #xxx-xxx-xxx, Chance T. Ledbetter*, has dropped COMP I, Section xxxxx, Prof. Kitty B. Goode."

I could have been fired on the spot for what I said to Chance, but as soon as I heard it come out of my mouth, I knew it would be a risk worth taking. And sometimes, to both save face and get a lesson across, one has to do just that.

A full 50% of the evaluations at semester's end mentioned this incident: "I really learned a lot that day" and "Prof. Kitty really showed us about political correctness. I'll never forget her class" were among the comments I read. I'm thankful that the students were a bright and loyal, if sleepy, bunch.

My next career

Steve brought the big truck home for Labor Day Weekend. Whenever I get frustrated with being a college professor—and that's usually around midterms, or finals week—I tell Steve only half-kiddingly that I'm going to earn my CDL and go out on the road with him. "You can make twice the money if you team with me, Seeben! We'll never shut the truck off!" He just laughs and humors me.

The saying is true: If you bought it, a truck brought it.

Tired. So tired.

I arrived home today at 6pm to find myself completely exhausted. I could barely drag myself up the steps and into the house, and there was no getting around taking a nap before I did anything else.

I've always been a big fan of naps, but I've never been one to snooze once I get home late in the evening. I generally try to wait until it's bedtime to sleep. My diet and exercise must improve; vitamins would probably help, too.

Although I'm now full-time at D2U and part-time at Tiny Tech—only working two jobs, as opposed to four—I'm more tired than I've ever been. That $98 office-sized futon at Wal-Mart is looking really good right about now.

A very difficult situation: Part 4

If you're just now picking up on this thread...
A very difficult situation: Part 1
A very difficult situation: Part 2
A very difficult situation: Part 3

Searching on the internet this afternoon, I located two of Martin's* former students, Autumn* and Jade*. I have my suspicions that Martin may have preyed on Autumn, though of course I have no way of knowing for sure, and Jade, I just don't know whether anything happened to her (don't know her that well).

Happily, both these young women, now in their early 20s, are enjoying great success in their acting careers, getting work both in off-Broadway shows and touring productions of popular plays. Martin was their acting coach for many years (junior high and high school), and I notice how his name and teaching do not show up at all on either of their resumes. Sure, that might be because it was so long ago—my high-school English teacher was a big influence on me, but I don't include her name on my curriculum vitae—but, still, it made me wonder.

I am wondering whether and how to contact these former students to ask them whether Martin* ever gave them a creepy vibe, or tried anything with them. Of course, I'm talking it over with my therapist and am in the process of getting a lawyer, so those are my number-one sources of info on doing something like this. And, when you haven't seen acquaintances in, oh, six or seven years, how do you e-mail them or hit their MySpace pages and ask questions about such a weird thing? "Hi! I know you barely remember me, and I haven't seen you since October 2001, but do you remember Martin? Did he ever put his hands on you? I was just wondering, because he tried that shit with me and he's a fucking fruitcake."

Ummm, no.

Any thoughts, E&P readers? I'd love to hear/read them.

Student Essay Insanity #15!

Thank goodness I found these bloopers in the current batch of Tiny Tech essays—I was beginning to fear E&P would be perenially gloomy after the last few posts. So here are a couple silly sentences from a real student essay to brighten (or perhaps dampen) your day.

This paper was on the invention of the electric chair...ahh, a nice, positive topic for a process essay. My own comments are in italics.

• In the 1880s, the most commonly used method of capital punishment was hanging. Before that, there was crucifixion. (So what other methods did they use to kill folks in the 1,880 intervening years?)
• The day before [Kemmler’s] execution a horse had been tested in the electric chair and was successful. (The horse scored a 38...the pencil kept falling out of its hoof. )

I can't wait to see the "Comments" section.

A very difficult situation: Part 3

When I finally got home that night, it was nearly midnight. I had turned my cell phone on "silent" so as to be able to get some clarity in my head. What the hell had just happened? I hadn't seen Martin* in almost six years—and he knew I'd been seeing someone lately. His and my relationship was over nearly six years ago. I'd once told him at length about my being molested. And he went ahead and crossed that line—he must have known exactly what he was doing.

When I took my phone off "silent" and checked my messages, I'd gotten a late-night phone call from Martin that very same night: "Hey, it's Marty! Did you get home OK? I was worried about you." Yeah, you motherfucker, so worried you groped me all over. "Just let me know how the monologue goes in class! Bye!"

Totally. fucking. OBLIVIOUS. to what he did.

I began getting angry. Rip-his-tiny-little-balls-off-and-nail-them-between-his-eyes angry. (But seeing as to how small his balls are, others might just mistake them for a skin tag.) I knew exactly what I wanted to do—kill him in a very gruesome manner—but I knew I couldn't do that. First: one sick turn does not deserve another. Second: I'm not very slick. Even though Martin's landlords are out of town until December, and even though he has no relatives who speak to him regularly, I would screw something up and get caught and then be on one of those late-night A&E True Crime Specials..."Danger, Stage Left," or something corny like that. No, that wasn't how I wanted the name of Kitty B. Goode to go down in history.

The next day, I told my sister the whole story of what had happened. Even though we were both at work and talking surreptitiously through Instant Messenger, I could still hear her rage loud and clear:

AAAAAARRRRGH!!!! Piece of shit! Fucking sorry bastard!
I'm on nxt plane to ATL!!1!
RIP HIS FUCKING HEAD OFF!
fsgskdhkdhhhhhh! jdshjshgsdhghgghhhhgghhggh!!!!!
[Blogger's note: That last was incoherent IM rage.]

We continued our conversation by phone later that day. Pixie sensed that I was already blaming myself—after all, I had tried to wear the least sexy thing I possibly could, and that meant somewhere deep down I knew he would try something with me—and she would have none of it. "What he did is legally termed sexual battery," she told me. "And if he's tried this with a confident 33-year-old woman, who's to say he won't—or hasn't already—with one of his teenage students? You've told me before about how he used to tell you how hot they were, or how delighted he was when they began developing breasts."

Pixie's reminding me of this got me pissed off again instead of depressed. It did used to sicken me when he'd talk of his "little girl" students...oh, but he couldn't handle it if I mentioned I thought the current male lead over at Atlanta Shakespeare Tavern was a cutie. Hmmmm. "Sexual battery? Really?" I was amazed to find that out.

"Yep. That's what it is. Ask any cop, any lawyer."

"So what do you think I should do?"

Pixie paused. "What do you want to do?"

"I want to beat the living fuck out of him and teach him a lesson he'll never forget. I already told Mom and Steve what happened. Steve's ready to drive the big truck right over Martin's sorry ass. If I bring all three of you...well, hell, I could just bring YOU and tear his ass up verbally. I'd feel better with you there."

"Mmmm, I dunno," Pixie replied. "If I'm in the same room with him, it's going to take all I have for me not to physically assault him. And then, after I beat him up, he'll have a reason to press charges against us."

"Pixie. This is the same guy who was 'too depressed' to call the cops after someone broke into his apartment."

"Hmmmm."

I asked Pixie whether she thought it would be too ugly of me to call or write the chair of the theatre school where Martin teaches to let higher-ups know what transpired. "Yes, I think you should. Call them today."

"But what if they fire him?"

"Good! He shouldn't be groping students!"

"But I used to date him. Won't that look bad?"

"Doesn't matter whether you used to date him. Some boundaries you DO NOT CROSS, and Martin made the mistake of doing so. Being 'nice' to him won't keep him from doing this again. He'll have to learn the hard way."

"But what if I ruin his career?"

"What career?" Pixie paused. "Hasn't it been, like, two years since he last had an audition? And nobody will give him a full-time director's gig, even though he's pretty talented? He has no career. What little he has, he's jeopardized by treating another person like a piece of meat."

Pixie had a point. With this in mind, I called Todd* and Kathy*, a married producer/director couple for whom I'd been a production assistant on a short film. They had been very good to me, and even though they moved to Hollywood a couple years ago to try their luck (and they're starting to get some work!), we'd remained in touch. I wrote Todd an e-mail vaguely stating my situation, and that I really needed some advice. I felt comfortable talking to him and Kathy about the situation with Martin since they'd been in the Atlanta acting scene for so long.

Twenty minutes after I sent the e-mail, my cell phone rang. It was a number from the 323 area code: Los Angeles. Todd called as soon as he read my message.

After I told him what had transpired, Todd was quiet. And he sighed heavily. "Kitty, it pisses. me. OFF. to know Martin did this to you. I always had a weird vibe from him, a weird feeling, but I couldn't really put into words what it was. Now I know," he said. "I think you should definitely call the theatre school and let them know. They should at least know to keep an eye on him, because you may or may not be the first." Todd majored in child and family psychology in college before becoming an actor, so he knew a little about crises like this. "What happened is something you could press criminal charges about; it's called sexual battery." Wow. My sister had said the same thing.

Very late that night, I got another phone message from Martin: "Heyyyy! How's it goin'? Haven't heard from ya, hope your monologue went well. Inquiring minds want to know! Hope you can come up again soon. Bye!"

Still. fucking. OBLIVIOUS.

I called Georgia Lawyers for the Arts the next morning. GLA helps musicians, actors, filmmakers, and other creative types find low-cost legal services. The person with whom I spoke said she'd be happy to get my a referral, although I make juuuust enough money not to be eligible for free services. She was also amazed that I wasn't looking to sue Martin. "He doesn't have anything I want," I told her. "I just want to be sure that 1) he knows he's done wrong, and 2) he doesn't do it to someone else."

So now, I'm trying to work through all the mess with my therapist while deciding what to do. I'm alternately depressed, guilty, and angry. I thought I'd be able to hold off on dealing with my past sexual abuse until later in my therapy, but it's all come to the surface now. But maybe, my counselor and I agreed, that's a hidden blessing.

I appreciate your support, E&P readers. Your comments have buoyed me so much this last week. I'll keep you updated.