KittehWatch: Day 116

Why does everybody have to go potty at the same time?

And why can't they give one another any privacy? Sheesh.

Don't ask Ernge. She doesn't know, either.

The kitties around the Happy Kitten Cottage are all doing pretty well, despite the unpredictable rainstorms and killer heat waves we've been having. I love going out onto the back porch in the morning and snuggling a few of Ernge's kittens—I think they now see me as their other Mama, purring like crazy when I pick them up and pet them. Well, that and they also know a big can of 9 Lives is coming.

What's that old saying? It takes a village to raise a kitteh?

Indeed. Elvis and Kigi have been very good babysitters for Ernge's kittens. They even stand by and let the little cats eat first, before they go hogging all the canned food.

Happily, Ernge is going to the vet at 9:00 this morning to get spayed. Hooray! She should be back home by Friday afternoon.

I just hope the kittens will stay around and know that Ernge will be back—she didn't abandon them. Maybe this would be a good time to whip out the Fancy Feast for outdoor kitties. Anything to keep them around the 36 hours she's gone.

It's all for the best, though. This having-kittens business has really worn down my formerly-tubby Ernge, and I know she'll feel better once she's not starving from having to nurse five babies.

UPDATE, 11:31 a.m.: Ernge is out of surgery and doing just fine!

Student Essay Insanity #41!

Back just in time to instigate the latest round of hair-yanking and teeth-gnashing, it's Student Essay Insanity! C'mon, admit it: you wanted to pull a Job today, didn't you?

Each blurb below is from a different essay, unless otherwise noted. The essay prompt is in boldface type; the funny/bad/poorly-thought-out sentence is below it. Oh, and there's one good one this time. As usual—real bloopers, real essays, real students. I shit you not.

These are all from the latest Regents' Essay Exam. Now, let us pray.

**********

Have you observed any significant differences between high school and college teachers? Explain.
To teach is to love, and to love is to teach.
[Miss Kitty's note: Amen!]

Same prompt, different student:
I have had a dose of many kinds of teachers. Coming into college I was warned of college professors and their “evil & tricky” ways, but as I entered college my experience lacked such “wicked” teachers.

Discuss some of the pressures on college students.
I feel that college can be very stressful. I always thought high school was stressful. College is different in many ways to everybody. When you go to college you are suppose to “grow up” to figure out your future. Many people find themselves worrying about parties than books. I happen to fall in that category.

Should English be the standard language in public schools, or should schools be required to offer classes in the language a student speaks at home? Discuss.
In the 1700s people from all walks of life and cultures came to the United States to live without persacution. Although, they did not regard each other as equals, these groups were banded by simple language. Today you cannot walk down the street or even in a school hallway without having at least three language other than English.

Is romantic love a good basis for marriage? Discuss.
Romantic love is not only a good basis for marriage, it is the best basis for a marriage. Romantic love is a true kind of love. When a couple has this love, they can overcome any obstacle or problem that they might encounter throughout their married life. They will not want to be unfaithful to one another, and this will lower their chances of their marriage ending in a divorce.

On This Week's Episode of "FAIL Train...": EPIC FAIL Week #19

All together now: "The FAAAAAAAAAAAAIIILLLLLLL TRAIN!"

Suddenly, I have visions of Don Cornelius dancing in my head.

Well, dammit. I knew things were too good to be true with this fantastic country music class. All the Summer Term happiness was just too unreal. Of course, I was hoping that that gnawing dread in the pit of my stomach was just hunger, but...oh well.

My class took the final exam yesterday morning, and all went well. Several students dropped by my office afterwards to say they'd really enjoyed the country music course, and hoped I'd offer a "Country Music II" class some other time. I was flattered at the kind words; usually, the end of the semester involves a lot of bitching and griping. This sure was different, and I liked it!

So I checked my e-mail one last time before heading home to grade papers...

Prof. Kitty I have a huge problem and are in DESPERATE NEED of your help!!! I went to talk to you in your office, but I must have been too late because you were not in there. I really hate to ask but due to some unfortunate circumstances in other classes I am on the verge of losing my athletic scholarship! If it is all possible I really need an A in your class. I have never been so stressed out before in my life, and I really don't think that my performance on the final cut it. I know this is short notice, but I WILL DO ANYTHING!!! Please help me!!! I would really appreciate it, and you might just save my athletic, and college career! Thank you for your time.

Way to completely deny any personal culpability there.

I e-mailed my sister and told her of my student with the stainless-steel balls. He/she (I'd rather not identify the student in any way) had a low B average coming into the final, having done C work on quizzes, a B+ on the presentation, and a C+/B- (80) on the midterm. "I guess I should just e-mail the student and say, 'Well, I have to list your grade as what you've earned, so all I can do is see how it averages out.'"

"Right," Pixie answered. "You get the grade you earn, not the one you beg for."

The Colonel, who called later that afternoon, had a different take. "Sheeeeeiiiiit," he said, "I wouldn't even dignify it with a reply. HELL, no! The student's done this before and it's worked, maybe in high school. But not in college. "

Students never fail to amaze me. I know I'm giving this student the grade that averages out once I grade the final exam and the last paper. As to whether I'll reply to the OMGOMGOMGOMG e-mail, I dunno. (Should I forward the e-mail to this student's coach?)

My D2U colleague Dr. Cornell* teaches a Tech and Science Writing class that's required for all science and nursing majors—and notoriously tough. (One of his bachelor's degrees is in biology. Somewhere along the line, he decided Chaucer would take him where he really needed to go in life.) He tells me often that he gets a lot of students who don't do well in his class, not realizing that serious work and writing are required, and complain, "I lost the HOPE Grant because of your class." Dr. Cornell's reply: "No, it wasn't my class. It was all the C's and D's you made in your first couple years of college that put you there." Zing.

As my sister wrote one time: "I can haz A?" Rly sry, hav 2 ern.

Workshop FAIL, Complete with Slide Show: EPIC FAIL Week #18

Thank you Pixie for this EPIC FAIL post title.

**********

I've been teaching for 11 years, and have been to my fair share of workshops and training seminars. But I went to one a few weeks ago that was hands-down the worst I've ever attended.

Tiny Technical College (along with the other 36 technical colleges in the state) has just switched from BlackBoard to Angel for all our distance-learning classes. The transition was sudden, an end-of-fiscal-year decision made by the bean counters in Atlanta, not by people who actually teach the classes. But DTAE managed to cover pretty well, migrating ALL our materials from BB to Angel pretty seamlessly, and paying for every online instructor in the state to get a couple hours of webinar ("web seminar") training as the new quarter began.

The workshop was scheduled to begin at 10:00am, and I was late—I had no excuse, since I live five minutes from Tiny Tech, but I'd rolled out of bed late. I sprinted from the parking lot into the new library, hoping against hope that none of my higher-ups would be there, and embarrassed that I was the last to arrive. When I finally got to the workshop, it was 10:10, and I was so angry with myself. I gulped as I walked into the meeting, trying to hide the fact that I was panting from my run halfway across campus, and prepared myself for some ugly glances coming my way.

But everyone was sitting around, chatting and sipping coffee. There was something on the projector screen—evidently, someone was fooling around on the internet, but it wasn't our Distance Learning chair. Bobby* was sitting behind a desk at the front of the room, looking bored. When he saw me, he nodded, stood up, and handed me a Getting Started with Angel packet. "Sorry I'm late," I whispered.


"No problem," he said. "We haven't started yet."

As I found my way to my seat, I waved hello to all my supervisors (William*, Betty*, and Dr. Ford*), to Mr. Brown* and Mr. Red* (fellow instructors), and a whole host of other Tiny Tech people whom I hadn't seen in a while. "How's it going?" I whispered to Betty*. She filled me in briefly on how things had been going during this first week of the new quarter. Then I sat down and got out my notebook, eager for the webinar to begin. My watch read 10:15.

But nothing happened. Nothing. Over the conference-call loudspeaker, I could hear the Angel rep, who would be leading the workshop from Angel's HQ in Indianapolis, get all 37 DTAE colleges online at the same time. It sounded like one incredibly confused phone call, with all kinds of background nose and feedback from a few of the other colleges already on the call, and who God knows where else. The poor rep didn't seem to know what was going on, or how to remedy each college's problems with Angel. And on the screen at the front of the room, I could see instant messages from each of the workshop leaders at each college:

ReallyTinyTech: We have no sound here
ANGELREP: OK, wait a sec.
BigSouthernTech: No sound here @ BST, what do we do
ANGELREP: disconnect, try logging in again - conf call code is 55xxxxx
TownieTech: Just tried logging back in, still no sound
ReallyTinyTech: TTC, do you have sound?
TinyTechColl: Yes we do
ANGELREP: hold just a sec, did you reboot connex?
ReallyTinyTech: yes, no sound again
BigSouthernTech: logged in 4th time, still nothing on spkr
CountryTech: This session has been worthless

So things already weren't looking too good. I turned to the psychology instructor sitting next to me. "How long's this been going on?" I asked, motioning toward the screen.

"Since I got here, which was 20 minutes ago," she replied. "Sounds to me like everybody in the whole state waited 'til 9:58 to try logging on."

"Looks like Bobby* was already set up," I replied, looking toward our Distance Learning guy.

"Oh yeah, he's been here since 8:30, making sure we had everything squared away. I like that about him."

"Well," I sighed, "I hope we get started soon. I've got an appointment across town at 12:30." I looked at my watch—it read 10:19.

The webinar finally began...at 10:46. Forty-five minutes after it was supposed to.

Sadly, things did NOT get any better from there. The Angel rep got on speakerphone, and it was immediately clear to all of us in the room that either 1) the rep was brand-new to the company and/or the Angel platform, or 2) was simply incompetent. She couldn't answer any of our questions—okay, so she was able to answer a simple one from North-of-Atlanta Tech—and her review of Angel's features, while of course compressed to fit 120 minutes of stuff into 75 minutes, was nearly incoherent.

If that weren't bad enough, the hurried-up lecture was punctuated every four or five minutes by incredibly loud feedback, like the kind you get when you put a microphone too close to a speaker. Just as the rep would say, "Okay, that should take care of the feedback," SQUUEEEEAAAK! there it went again. At first we Tiny Tech folks chuckled, but after three or four of these tech bloopers, we were shaking our heads. So much for getting off on the right foot with Angel.

In between the ear-splitting bouts of feedback, the rep's lecture was interrupted by very loud conversations—these conversations sounded like they were either in the background at Angel HQ, or from the other 36 tech schools online with us. Just as the rep would seem to get them cleared up, they'd come right back in again.

The psych instructor and I looked at each in agony. "When is this going to be over?" she asked. "I hope they're going to let us go at 12:00, 'cause I've got a class at 12:15."

"I think they will," I replied, "because it wouldn't be fair to ask everyone to stay when so many have classes to teach." I shook my head. "This has been torture."


She agreed. "Where did they get this poor woman?!?" she asked, gesturing toward the screen. "Talk about not making a good impression on your clients..."

"Yeah, really," I said. "Whaddya wanna bet she gets demoted or fired over this?"

During a lull in the feedback-outside conversation-tech glitch loop, there was a loud beeping noise over the conference-call line. Onscreen, the instant message window read BigSouthernTech: connection dropped. And then other schools' connections suddenly got dropped: North-of-Atlanta, Really Tiny Tech, Country Tech, and five or six more. Almost 20% of the schools participating in the webinar had just inexplicably been booted out of the conference call. The rep struggled for a minute, then called Angel Tech Support to re-send the conference call phone number and password. I put my head down on the table, wanting to hide under it out of embarrassment for the Angel rep.

Just when I thought things couldn't possibly get any worse, they did. About 15 minutes from the end of the webinar, there was a very loud clickclickclickCLICK over the speakerphone—the noise you hear when the person on the other end hangs up before you do. Then, suddenly, a noise like someone had dropped the phone, and...an East Indian accent, a woman's voice. "Helloooo? Hellooooo? Meh Ai ahsk who theees eees? Helloooooo?"

The Angel rep stammered. "Uhh—ummm, this is Angel Learning, webinar for—"

"Ai ahm simply trying to place a call," the Indian lady said. "Why ahre yoo on mai phone? Hellooo?"

The entire webinar had been piggy-backed on a residential phone line from God-knows-where.

Suddenly, Dr. Ford* shouted from the back of the room, "I have complete confidence in our new online course delivery system!" We all broke into helpless belly-laughter.

When I got back to my country music class at D2U on Monday, I had to give them the speech on why I was making them do individual presentations instead of group work. I related to them the story above, and told them, "That is by far the worst workshop presentation I've ever seen, and I know you folks will do soooo much better than that. I have no doubt that you will."

Myrtle Mae Monday: 07/28/08

Shout-out for a longtime reader

Downtown Nashville, Tennessee—I think this is a shop of some kind.

As for the rest of you longtime readers and frequent commenters: your shout-outs are coming as I discover the pictures to go with them!

A would-be anniversary

Had I stayed married to my dipshit ex-husband, D-----, today would mark 11 years we'd been married. Eleven years. I can hardly believe it. Time sure flies when you're not paying attention!

I was 23 years old when we married, physically and legally well into adulthood, but otherwise still a little girl. It's the Southern thing to do to get married early, and many of my friends were talking marriage with their boyfriends. And I honest-to-God didn't think I'd find anyone better than D-----. (HA! There's a laugh!) Sad but true: I honestly thought marriage would ease the self-hatred and loneliness in my heart.

I don't wish D----- any ill. But I would like to be repaid the $25,000 I spent putting him through school at Awesome Methodist College. After all, just because I'm pissed off with Visa doesn't mean I don't still owe them for what I promised, with my signature on that receipt, to pay back. But his paying me back, even though he promised to do so many, many times, is about as likely as Davey cleaning up after himself. The morals to this story? First: Always get it in writing. Second: Never believe anything an active alcoholic tells you.

I'm glad to have gotten rid of him while I still could. Every day finds me a little closer to my personal and professional goals, and I know that had we stayed together, I'd still be in Hell. Here's to cutting one's losses and learning a hard lesson or two. [raises glass]

Student Essay Insanity #40!

This is #40?!? God help us!

No, really, for the 40th installment of Student Essay Insanity, I'm giving you a break from really bad Regents' Essay Exam bloopers. Instead, these are from my country music class's midterm exam. They're mostly just silly mistakes; these people are competent writers, for the most part. And once I pointed them out, the students got a big laugh out of their own goof-ups. At least they have a sense of humor about it all.

Each blurb below is from a different essay, unless otherwise noted. The essay prompt is in boldface type; the funny/bad/poorly-thought-out sentence is below it. And as usual—real bloopers, real essays, real students. I shit you not.

**********

Country music’s “protest songs” of the 1930s were written in response to labor conditions in what industry?
cole minning

What was Kitty Wells’ first big hit?
“God doesn’t make a hokey tonk angel”
Same question, but from a different student's essay:
“hony-tonk angels”

Discuss the ways in which Elvis Presley changed popular music in general, and country music in particular.
Elvis was a pinoneer of the rock-and-roll crazy. He was always wearing flashy suits which made his stage presents more likeable.

What were some of the stereotypes associated with traveling musicians in the late 1800s?
Some of the stereotypes were that they were all Southern poor people who were also alcoholics.

What was Kitty Wells’ most important contribution to the role of women in country music?
She made women more popular. She showed that women could sell as much as men.

And, of course, I've saved the best for last:

Discuss the theme of the American West and the cowboy life in country music.
Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, and Gene Autry were the pivots behind “country” cuntry music.

Poorly worded headlines

More and more often, I'm noticing very poorly worded blurbs on news websites—major mainstream ones, such as MSNBC's. The mistakes below remind me of those I sometimes see in the D2U student newspaper. [sigh]

Laziness sets in during teen years
No shit, Sherlock. What was your first clue?

Pregnancy and nuts may be a bad mix
Hmmm. You don't say.

Speaking of poorly worded: there's a special edition of Student Essay Insanity coming up tomorrow morning, one that will probably make you spit coffee all over your computer screen. Be sure to check in then!

Student Essay Insanity #39!

And today, we have even more bloopers from the Georgia Regents' Essay Exam. From this summer's rating alone, I wrote down enough bloopers for another three or four SEI posts. Talk about wrenching defeat from the jaws of victory.

Each blurb below is from a different essay, unless otherwise noted. The essay prompt is in boldface type; the funny/bad/poorly-thought-out sentence is below it. And as usual—real bloopers, real essays, real students. I shit you not.

**********

Do you favor decreased spending for national defense? Why or why not?
In the world today, tension is growing between countries.

Would you rather live in a city and visit less populated areas for vacations, or live in the country and go to the city for visits and vacations? Why?
I prefer to live in the country and visit the city because it’s more peaceful, has less traffic, and the schools are less populated. …The sounds of horns blowing and tires squelling are reminders of the stress people are under.

Should physicians be prevented from intentionally providing people with the means to commit suicide? Discuss.
Patient assitted suicide has been a topic of recent date, because of doctors like Kevorkian. Similar to abortion the nation is generally torn with a clear decision on the procedure.

Why do some couples choose to live together without getting married? Explain.
I lived with my x-husband for a year before we got married. During this time I was able to get to know him as a person and see his daily routine. The relationship between us grew stronger, because depended on each other to pay bills and to get chores done.

Discuss some of the pressures on college students. (NOTE: This essay's title reads “BIG. Changes”)
College life involves different changes on the students lifestyle.

If your doctor told you that you had only a few months to live, how would you alter your way of life? Discuss.
If I were told by my doctor that I had only a few months to live I would begin altering my life so that I may die in peace with myself and others.

SHUN! Shun the non-believer!

Before you read, be sure to click on the post title above to get the full effect. I Can Has Cheezburger? sometimes hits the proverbial nail right on the head.

While on my trip to Nashville, I made a special trip out to the Grand Ole Opry—I didn't think any trip to Music City, especially not one being paid for by grant money, should leave that out. Sadly, the hallowed old Ryman Auditorium hasn't been the Opry's home since 1973, but I'd already been there to see John Prine in concert a few years ago and knew of its beauty and history.

I wasn't even sure I'd be able to score Opry tickets on such short notice, having never tried to get tickets for it before, so I rolled the dice and went to their website. What luck! On the very night I wanted to go, they'd just added a late (9:30pm) show, due to high demand—Carrie Underwood would be there, so the first show had sold out very quickly. I snapped up my $60 nosebleed seat, winced at the price, and began looking forward to another new country music experience.

A little background: five years ago, I canceled my cable subscription. The Happy Kitten Cottage has stayed television-free since then, which has put me pretty far behind the curve when it comes to the latest TV shows. Mom ends up telling me what's new on TV, or I hear about it from my students and then catch clips on YouTube. Overall, it's not a bad way to live. I save $80 a month and read an incredible number of books, newsletters, and articles. And I get a lot more writing done (blog and otherwise) without the temptation of TV around.

So when Carrie Underwear Underwood made it big thanks to American Idol, I was clueless. A country music singer won AI? Umm, great! Yeah! I hadn't been watching the show to catch any of the drama behind her win, but so many people were so proud that a little ol' Oklahoma gal (singing country music, no less!) had won that I really couldn't be a smart-ass about it. I heard "Before He Cheats" on country radio and thought it was all right; I saw the video on YouTube and thought, Pretty well done; this is one more music video for my students' essays in Comp I.

Otherwise, though, I just haven't gotten the whole mania around Carrie Underwood. Okay, so she's a hometown gal done good; great, that's fantastic. She's from the town Merle Haggard made famous in song, so that's a ticket to country music stardom in itself. Her voice is okay, and she's not really glamourous—she reminds me a lot of Britney Spears in that she has pretty average girl-next-door features, but looks fantastic once a team of professional makeup artists gets hold of her. (Wouldn't we all?) Her voice is pretty good, though she's no Loretta or Dolly or Reba. But hell, country fans love her, and that is just fine.

However, I had no earthly idea how much people love Carrie Underwood until I got to Nashville. I. had. no. IDEA.

While I walked around the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum in wonder, I saw a family wearing Carrie Underwood concert t-shirts, everyone from the toddler to the teenage daughter to the early-50s dad. Hmm, bet these folks have seen her on tour lately, I thought, and remembered that she'd been on tour lately. I let my attention wander back to the exhibit. As I walked to the next display, though, I saw more Underwood t-shirts. And they were not on family members; these were just random people walking through the Museum. And lots of them. Mostly women, ages 10 to 60. Hmmm, I thought. She must have a pretty wide appeal.

So I got to the Opry later that evening, anxious for the show to begin. Thousands of fans were milling about in the vicinity that is/was Opryland, listening to music, drinking cold beer, and people-watching. The evening was warm and pleasant, and a welcome change from the day's high of 95 with 65% humidity.

The Opry's "new home" would make even the roughest, toughest, take-no-shit architect cry like a little girl. I'm sure that in 1974, the ugly concrete behemoth was stylish and new, a welcome change from the fire-trap that was the Ryman, but today it screams "1970s!" right down to the light fixtures. Of course, it's country-fied on the inside, with thick oak stairs, doors, and paneling out the wazoo.

Once the show began, though, I forgot my architectural torment. Never have I seen a crowd come so alive at curtain! And I got goosebumps thinking about how so many people before me had come to see this show, and be a part of the WSM broadcast, since 1925.

The show began promptly at 9:30pm, and the crowd was very enthusiastic despite the knowledge they'd be getting back to their hotel rooms around midnight. The first singer out was Jeannie Seely, and she was great. After the first short commercial break, next up was Luke Bryan, and he was also great. Then there was a longer commercial break, and Opry stagehands began walking around the stage, moving instruments and microphones, getting ready for Montgomery Gentry to take the stage. Those guys were fantastic, and the evening was only half-over! Bill Anderson was next, followed by a young lady from West Virginia (and I'm embarrassed to say I can't remember her name), and then Jeannie Seely came back out to duet with Anderson.

But I noticed what I thought was the height of rudeness in between each act: the Carrie Care Bears started up with the chant "Car-RIE! Car-RIE! Car-RIE!" no matter who was about to walk onstage, or who had just walked off. "Keep your britches on," I said under my breath, "she's comin' out eventually." Carrie Underwear Underwood had been scheduled as the very last act of the evening—geez, it said so on the program, right there in big bold letters—and I thought the least the Care Bears could do was applaud politely for each act preceding her. But, no. It kept up all night long. Well, I thought, maybe tonight's fans are taking their first trip to a concert. Or their very first Opry show, and they don't know this is being broadcast live. Or that they're being really rude.

Finally, it was 11:15pm, only 15 minutes until show's end, and I figured Carrie would be out any time now for her own set. And sure enough, Eddie Stubbs launched into his dramatic intro, the lights dimmed, fireworks and dry-ice smoke flew fromt he stage—

Wait a minute! Pyro and smoke?!? This isn't very Opry! I thought. But I hadn't seen nuthin' yet.

Miss Underwear herself finally came onstage...in a tight-fitting, very glamourous, yet so-wrong-for-her-figure gold and black sequined dress that ended about halfway up her thighs. (I'm sure the young men sitting in the first three rows were delighted.) I felt really fuddy-duddy and old-fashioned for being taken aback by her outfit; this was something that might've been great to wear to the CMA Awards...but to the Opry?

Well, Lord knows I've made bad fashion choices before. But bless her heart, she looked like a gold-and-black-sequined pumpkin balancing on two shish-kebab skewers in that thing. Her awkward gait, which I'd seen before in video clips on YouTube, kind of like a cross between a person on stilts and a drunk chicken, wasn't being helped by the five-inch stiletto heels (similar to these) she was wearing.

And then WHOOOOOSSSSSSHHHHH! the crowd RUSHED the stage! Flashbulbs popped! The crowd got louder than they'd been all evening—and they'd started out loud, too! A thousand-plus mostly female voices filled the Opry to the rafters as Carrie launched into her first number.

I applauded and cheered, like everyone else. She sure had some pipes! But the bad thing was that those pipes seemed to be all she had. She couldn't differentiate one syllable or note from the next, it seemed; her enunciation and ability to slide between notes was pretty poor. She was loud, almost too loud—every belt strained the speakers to the point where I was expecting a loud POP! and then smoke from behind the fabric. Good thing the crowd knew the lyrics to the song, as I wouldn't have been able to ascertain them from just Carrie's singing. The next song went the same way. Is this the same woman who sings "Before He Cheats?" I wondered. Because it sure sounded better on my radio.

I came away from Tuesday Night Opry very, very happy that I'd seen it, very eager to go back...but underwhelmed with Underwood. To me, it was just more hype for a so-so singer from a so-so talent show.

The next afternoon, I was in the Country Music Hall of Fame gift shop, trying to figure out what to get my sister and her husband for souvenirs. I thought I'd found something for Pixie, but didn't want to leave out Guy. In the middle of the book section of the shop, I called her at work. We chatted for a few minutes, and she gave me some ideas of what she and Guy would appreciate. (I wanted it to be something they'd actually use, not put in a closet to collect dust). "Didn't you go to the Grand Ole Opry last night?" she asked. "How was it?"

"It was great!" I told her. "The crowd was so excited, and it was a real treat to be there, to see such a tradition going on. But, I hate to say it—"

"Uh-oh..."

"Well...Carrie Underwood just is NOT that talented," I told Pixie. "I mean, I really do hate to admit that, but she really didn't impress me last night."

"Seriously? What the hell?"

"Well, she couldn't enunciate words too well," I began, "and the most amazing thing about her voice is that it's loud. She just about blew out the Opry speaker system, and I'm not kidding when I say that. But...I'm sorry, but she is NOT that talented. I guess you can do a helluva lot to a singer's voice with a 97-track recording studio, a bunch of digital effects, and six months to record a dozen songs."

I happened to look up. Staring dead at me were four middle-aged women, each wearing a Carrie Underwood t-shirt, and each outweighing me by about 50 pounds. Their faces were turning red ever so quickly.

I turned around and headed out the door into the atrium—whew, I lost the women pretty quickly. "Sorry," I told Pixie. "Had to get outta there."

"What happened?"

"You know when I said that stuff about Carrie Underwood? Man, I looked up, and here were these four hefty women, looking like they were about to whip me for talkin' about their girl."

So that's how I almost got my ass kicked in the Hall of Fame gift shop. Ahh, the sacrifices I make in the name of country music scholarship.

T is for TOOL

With sincerest apologies to Meredith Willson...

[Miss Kitty sings]

We got Pro-fessors
Here at D2U
With a capital P,
And that rhymes with T,
And that stands for TOOL

Dr. Who*, my friend and mentor at Division II University, once commented that "there's a lot of mental illness in academia." He was so right.

The country music class is full of good students, students I'm going to miss very sorely in the fall. As this summer term is winding to a close—where the hell did seven weeks go?!?—I'm realizing that I will probably reap some serious karma once Fall Semester gets here, when I'm teaching three sections of Comp I, two sections of Regents' Essay Review, and serving on four committees. So the country music students and I are all enjoying these last few weeks of professor-student harmony that we so rarely find in the classroom.

Admittedly, we are a tough class to have as neighbors. This group of 20 is a boisterous one, and invariably laughs very loudly three or four times every class period at something that truly is funny. We also listen to six or seven songs per class, as well as watch a few video clips from YouTube or DVD. To make it so everyone can hear it in our cavernous room, I often have to turn the volume waaay up on the multimedia system. In the past, I've conducted class next door to ones like this, and it can be distracting. But I just take the other prof aside before or after class and ask if he/she can keep it down a little. The other prof says "why sure, no problem," and that's that.

A political science class meets next door to my country music class at the same time every day, and several of my current and former students are in there. A fellow from my morning Regents' class said a few weeks ago, "Professor Kitty, y'all's music really makes our class go by quicker. I love Waylon Jennings." I laughed, and asked him if any of the other students were having problems concentrating with the music from next door. "No, ma'am, I don't think so," he replied. "I guess our professor would say something, if they were. Most of us think it's great having y'all in the next room."

So this past Thursday, there we were at the end of another week, getting ready to wrap things up with only three days to go in the term. I was just about to hand out the Faculty Evaluations, along with the sad little #2 Putt-Putt pencils that the department makes us use just so the students won't leave with them (because who the hell wants to be seen on campus looking like they just came from the 4pm All-You-Can-Play special at Pirate's Cove?). Suddenly, the door opened one last time. All my students but one were there; I figured it was Skip* finally dragging in to class. I turned—only to see a tall, skinny, pasty-white man standing in the door. He was obviously not one of my students. "Hi! Can I help you?" I asked.

"Well, ummm," he began—and I could sense something weird about him, some anger that was juuuust about to boil over and flow my way—"I haven't said anything all semester, but my students are trying to take an essay exam next door, and it's just a little loud over here."

"Well, geez, I wish you'd said something before now," I replied, trying not to be embarrassed. My students sat motionless, their eyeballs ping-ponging back and forth between me and the other professor.

"Well, umm, yes," he went on, the color rising in his heretofore straight-from-Hickengroover-and-Sons-Funeral-Home face. "I haven't said anything until now, but just for today—"

"Oh, sure, certainly! Sorry about the noise," I replied, and watched him as he backed out of the doorway, letting the door swiiinggg-thunk! closed.

My students burst into laughter. I momentarily forgot who and where I was, and stuck out my tongue in his direction a la third-grade recess. The students laughed even more. I began to chuckle, still trying not to look too embarrassed in front of my class. "What the hell was that?" I said in a stage whisper. "He waits until today, three days from the end of the term, to say something? Where's he been for the last seven weeks?" This guy had seriously pissed me off. "I mean, he doesn't say anything...so I assume all semester long we're okay with our noise level..."

The students were shaking their heads in agreement. "And why didn't he come over here and just ask to speak to you?" Felicia* asked from the back of the room. "I mean, he didn't have to call you out in front of us—it's like he was trying to make you look bad, you know, like, 'Oh, I've done you a favor by not saying anything...'"

"Right, right," I said.

"That was highly uncalled-for," said Jerry*, the retired minister in his late 60s. "He should've extended you the professional courtesy of asking just to speak to you outside the room, or maybe he could've asked around to find out who you were, and dropped by your office to talk with you."

"Even an e-mail would've been better than that," Della* said, shaking her head. "Was he afraid to come over here or something?"

"Probably afraid y'all would bite him," I said, and the students laughed loudly again. I shushed them. "SHHHHH! We're being too noisy! Oooohh!" They started laughing more quietly, but laughing just the same. "He waits until now to come say something. Mm-mm-mm."

"Actually, Professor, he's been in here once before," Della* told me.

"Wha....when?" This was news to me, as today had been the first time I'd even seen the guy.

"About a week into the semester," Della continued, "and he just stuck his head in here and mumbled something about 'can you guys keep it down' or something like that."

I thought hard, and could NOT remember this happening. "All of y'all saw him?" The class all shook their heads. "I must've been under a rock. That's bizarre..."

"I think you were looking at the computer," Jasmine* said, "trying to get your iPod to sync, or something. I don't think you saw him, but we did."

"Hmm, wish you guys would've said something," I said. "But then again—if it was so important back then, he really shouldn't've relied on you to relay the message. He should've gotten MY attention instead." The students agreed.

A hand went up at the edge of the room. "Why would he go and do something like that?"

"Well—" I had to think a minute to come up with something besides Because he's a self-important turd. "We professors, well—we're not like other people, and I'm not being silly when I say that. Where 'normal people' might try to go work a problem out directly, professors more often than not don't."

"Why not?"

"When you're really, really smart, you're sometimes not very good at social situations, and so society kind of allows you to pull back into your shell. People like me often hide in books, so we get to where we're brilliant on paper or in a lecture hall, but we're totally lost when it comes to dealing with other people." A few were shaking their heads, as if they'd witnessed profs do such things before. Then a streak of mischief hit me. "Man, too bad we don't have more bass in these multimedia speakers..."

Germaine* spoke up. "Monday I'll drive my cousin's Monte Carlo. He's got one biiiig stereo. Turn UP the Cowboy Troy, the Brooks & Dunn!" The students chortled yet again.

"Ohhh, if only, Germaine!" I said.

"Really, Professor Kitty," Jerry* spoke up, "I think you should go talk to his department head. That was beyond rude, and childish, what he just did."

"And it didn't work, either," Karla* said from her side of the room, "because he looked like an ass in front of 20 more students." The class belly-laughed again, and Karla* and Felicia* shushed them.

"Well, I'm going to cool down a day or two, and then figure out whether to do anything," I said. "I'm too P.O.'d right now to do any good."

"Want us to moon him?" someone asked. The class howled with laughter again.

When I got back to my office, I told my sister over IM about what had transpired with the jerk from next door. "Awwwww!" she wrote. "It must be so hard to try & give his boring lecture next door to where so much fun is being had."

Perhaps I'll find out his office hours and sit down with him next week, introduce myself, and explain very nicely how if he's got a problem with anyone here at D2U—especially with me—then the most proactive thing to do is to confront the person directly and cordially. I don't think I'll tell him that three of my front-row students flipped him off as he walked out of my room. That would burst his self-righteous bubble.

Readers, have you dealt with a passive-aggressive nincompoop like this guy? If so, how did you handle the situation?

Myrtle Mae Monday: 07/21/08

Mama likes donuts for breakfast.

So does Myrtle Mae.

She reeeeally likes donuts for breakfast.

And she does not like kittehs horning in on said breakfast.

But Ernge is so skinny and pathetic that Myrtle Mae feels sorry for her. After all, she's a fat, healthy hen with a glossy coat. And Ernge has generally been pretty nice to MM.

She turns her head and pretends not to notice Ernge getting closer to her donut.

What a pretty girl!

Brrrrk! Brrk-brkbrkbrkbrkbrk-brrrrk! Brk-brkbrkbrkbrkbrk-brrrrk?

I've finally figured out that this is just Myrtle's look: always slightly pissed off.

Is that a fat, juicy slug I see behind you, Mama?

Oh, well. Off to pick more grubs out of the lawn. Brrrrk!

But Myrtle saw that Ernge and the kittens had eaten her entire donut, and then shit in surprise.

And speaking of shit, no, this is not mine. I sat in Myrtle's.

KittehWatch: Day 104

Yes, it's been two full weeks since the last KittehWatch update. I should be ashamed of myself. But nothing's wrong—everyone's doing just fine. Their Mama has just been too busy to put any real effort into making a quality KittehWatch picture-story post.

So to tide you over, here are a few pix from the last couple weeks. I know you'll like these.

Student Essay Insanity #38!

Try not to freak out, folks—this makes two days in a row of Student Essay Insanity! Armageddon must be upon us! No, no, I just thought you might need a Friday laugh. Or is that a Friday [headdesk]? Damned if I know.

Here we have more Regents' Essay Exam bloopers, and they are stinky. Angry Professor commented yesterday that that SEI #37 contains "by far the worst snippets [I have] ever posted." Awww, AP! The FAIL has only just begun!

Each blurb below is from a different essay, unless otherwise noted. The essay prompt is in boldface type; the funny/bad/poorly-thought-out sentence is below it. And as usual—real bloopers, real essays, real students. I shit you not.

**********

Have your family’s expectations of you been a help or a hindrance? Explain.
I seem to strive harding to get where I need to be.

Should the advertisement of alcoholic beverages be banned from television? Discuss.
In the world today, many young adults are being exposed to the negatives of life at an early age.

Same prompt, different essay:
The advertisement of alcoholic beverages should not be baned from television.

Explain why you do or do not enjoy having picnics.
Picnics are terrible events.

The “Living Will” directs a person’s family and physicians not to keep that person alive by artificial means if that person were to suffer a totally incapacitating disease or illness. Would you consider signing such a document and giving it to your own family? Why or why not?
Today, there is a law called the “Living Will.”

Student Essay Insanity #37!

For this installment of Student Essay Insanity, I'd planned to include in this post a ton of crazy bloopers from the latest FWIP grading sessions, but I can't seem to find the notepad on which I wrote over half of the bloopers. Aaaarrrgh!

But never fear: this week is Regents' Exam Rating Week, a week where students freak out in anticipation of an exam that proves nothing but decides everything about their academic futures—an exam that makes professors' bowels liquefy at the thought of more bad essays!

[cue Psycho shower-scene music]

Each blurb below is from a different essay, unless otherwise noted. The essay prompt is in boldface type; the funny/bad/poorly-thought-out sentence is below it. And as usual—real bloopers, real essays, real students. I shit you not.


**********


Do you function best in the morning, afternoon, or evening? Explain.
Like every other normal human being, I have my good days, and my bad days. Once a bad day occurs, I undoubtly wake up on the wrong side of the bed. Which unfortunatly sends my morning spinning down the toilet, with the rest of unnecessary objects.

Which of your talents do you value most?
My talent I value the most is driving a car.

What steps should be taken to reduce the number of drunk drivers? Discuss.
In this world we see different people that have different personality and caracteristics when we talk about drunk driver, we should have to take a big steps in order to reduce the drunk driver.

Does a double standard still exist between the sexes today? Explain.
Doses a “double-standard” still exist between sexist today? Why yes, not only doses it exist it has enovle into many subjects.

Discuss the image of women presented in music videos.
Women are presented in music videos as dirty, trashy, sexy, beautiful and have a major effect on viewers.

Election Day in Small Town

Yesterday was Election Day in Small Town, as it was in many places across the state. On my way home, I stopped by the County Admin building to cast my ballot. They had the usual signs out front.

So I knew I was in the right place—the location has changed a couple of times in the last few years.

On the other side of the sign:

Suddenly, I didn't feel as confident about this process as I had three seconds before.

Too bad Kroger isn't the only place you can find these

Strolling through the automotive aisle...there it was.

Idiot Points: EPIC FAIL Week #17

This edition of EPIC FAIL Week isn't something that actually happened in my classroom, but the story was told by one of my country music class students. I'm not sure how we got on this topic today, but the entire class laughed so hard that I thought it was worth an E&P post.

Jill* is a Theatre Ed major who transferred to Division II University from a small junior college in Alabama. She's taken three classes with me since last fall, and could very well become a stand-up comedian, her wit is so sharp. (More later this week on her reasons for being a funny person and Theatre Ed major.)

"You know, we had a guy over at [college name] who'd ask the dumbest questions out of nowhere," Jill* spoke up. The class turned to look at her.

"Oh, yeah?" I knew this would probably be a good story. Jill's* stories are like that.

"I took this 8am biology class, and this idiot guy was in there. And it never failed—every day he'd do something stupid. I mean, off-the-charts stupid," she said.

"He plagiarized his whole research paper and left the URL at the bottom of every page?" the young man behind Jill asked. A ripple of laughter spread through the class.

"No, he'd just ask the stupidest questions out of the blue, and they had nothing to do with whatever we were talking about," Jill* answered. "One morning, we were talking about mitosis—"

I feigned dozing off and let my head fall thunk! on my right shoulder as I snored loudly. Jill* and her fellow students laughed. "Exactly!" she said. "And you know, it's eight o'clock, and everybody's basically still asleep, and nobody's coffee has kicked in yet, and not even the professor is happy about being there so early."

"Right, right..." a classmate urged her on.

"So we're discussing mitosis, and this guy raises his hand. The prof calls on him, and the guy asks, in all seriousness: 'Why is the sky blue?'"

I stared at her. "He did not."

Jill's* classmates were as stupefied as I was. "Oh, he did too!" she continued. "And we just glared at him. He didn't even notice. So the prof goes on with the lecture, and this guy raises his hand again. Prof calls on him. 'Why is the sky blue?' Everyone glares at him again, and we're gettin' pissed off. The professor's really trying to be professional about this, but not five minutes later, the guy does it again."

By now, the entire class and I were belly-laughing. "Dear God! What did your prof do then?"

"He threw the guy out of class." The class agreed that that was the thing to do. "My classmates and I had been giving him 'idiot points' every time he said or did something dumb in class, you know, keeping a running tally in our notebooks? For that little incident he got 800 idiot points." Fresh peals of laughter from all of us. "Every single day, Professor Kitty—it was something new, different, and idiotic, I swear."

I was wondering about this dumb guy at Jill's* former college. "This guy, was he"—I struggled for a word—"like, retarded, or something?"

"I don't think so," Jill replied. "But we were in Alabama."***

***DISCLAIMER: Jill* and I were both born in Alabama and lived there for much of our childhoods, so we have the right to make fun of our native state.

Myrtle Mae Monday: 07/14/08

Today's Myrtle Mae Monday is a few random pictures from July 4th weekend, the same batch of pictures from which I whipped up last week's MMM. Enjoy!

Don't sleep with the radio on

Early this morning I had the most disconcerting dream. It's been almost 12 hours since I dreamed it, but it's still haunting me.

I dreamed that I was back in school—whether it was grad school or undergrad, I'm not sure, as the context seemed to keep shifting back and forth—and while I knew I was at Georgia, my Division II University colleagues were my professors.

My transcript told me I had a 3.94 GPA and was doing very well in all my classes. This was true—except for Spanish 1001, the most beginner-level Espanol there is. I couldn't understand the lessons or the language for the life of me...which really upset me, because I speak French pretty well (in the dream and in real life). However, I had to have the Spanish requirement on my transcript in order to graduate. There was no way around it.

All around me, no matter where I went on campus, everyone was speaking a little English, but mostly very fluent Spanish, and I was completely clueless as to what they were saying. I got more and more upset in the dream, trying not to cry on campus in front of all these students—by this time in the dream, I had figured out that I was both a prof and a student, and some of my Spanish 1001 classmates were my former students—but still trying to figure the best way to get out of this dilemma. It seemed that it was too late in the term to drop the course and get a W on my transcript, but I couldn't afford to torpedo my 3.94 GPA with this class, in which I currently had a 46 average.

I went to the Foreign Language Building (the same one as on the UGA campus, but populated with my D2U colleagues, LOL!) to try to find someone to talk to, an advisor or maybe the head of the department. I saw Dr. Paris*, the head of D2U's French Department, but she was very busy helping students and speaking French. I understood every word she said and resolved to try to find someone else to help me until Dr. Paris* was a little less occupied.

Every room in this building had a new person in it, and every time I spoke to a person, he or she would look at me and reply in Spanish. They couldn't understand me, and I couldn't understand them. I was still trying not to cry, and I found one last guy in a lone little office. Maybe he could help me before I had to go back and bother Dr. Paris.* "Excuse me," I said quietly, "but I need some help with dropping a Spanish class, I'm a grad student and a prof, and I'm due to graduate very soon..."

Jacques* looked up, just as sweaty and nervous in this dream as I remembered him before D2U fired him. "Ja? Ja?"

"I really need some help dropping this Spanish 1001 class, and—"

"Die Gruende hierfuer sind zum einen die mittlerweile sehr umfangreichen Angebote an sehr aktuellen und ausfuehrlichen Nachrichten kommerzieller Anbieter im Internet, zum anderen personelle Engpaesse und Arbeitsueberlastung der freiwilligen Mitarbeiter, die die Nachrichten unentgeltlich in ihrer Freizeit zusammengestellt bzw. uebersetzt haben?!?"
I turned and fled the room. Thankfully, Dr. Paris* was still in the lobby of the building, and was talking to a friend. I ran up to her. "Hi, Polly*, I reeeally need your help! You see, I'm taking this Spanish class and am failing it miserably, and I can't figure out how to drop it because it's going to deep-six my GPA, and—"

She turned, and the expression on her face was clearly one of delight at seeing me. "Buenos dias, Kitty! Donde estan todos los gatos? Yo quiero los gatos!"

"Ummmm...ummmmm..." I started to sweat profusely. "I don't understand..."

"Oh! Je suis desolee, Kitty! Et comment ca va aujourd-hui? T'es tres fatiguee, non? Mais, oui! C'est l'enfin du semestre, oui, tout le monde sont fatiguees...tu as besoin de l'aide?"

She was speaking French. And I could not understand a single word. I looked down at the piece of paper in my hand, an Add-Drop Form...and suddenly, all the words were in a combination of Spanish, German, and French. I felt my heart drop to my toes.

And then I woke up, sweating so much I'd soaked my nightgown, and breathing as if I'd been running. I realized I was safe in my own bed and breathed a prayer of thanks. My ears honed in on the sounds of my little AM/FM boombox, which was playing now and had been all night long.

The program currently playing? Agenda Hispana. Cuál es transmitido completamente en español.**

**which is broadcast completely in Spanish.

Truth on a bumper sticker!

I was thinking that I wouldn't have much to post on today, but I just witnessed something that deserves an E&P mention.

I've just returned from Mall-Wart Wal-Mart, which is the center of activity on any given Saturday night here in Small Town, this one being no exception. The place was packed, and most all the customers had their screaming hellion children with them. A trip to Wal-Mart almost always cures me of two feelings: loneliness, and the urge to have kids.

I found everything on my list and made my way to the checkout lanes. I'd hoped to find one with a short line, but no such luck—and of course, as Wal-Mart corporate policy dictates, only five registers were open in the entire monstrous SuperCenter store. (Damn the Wal-Mart board of directors to hell.) But I was in no hurry to go anywhere; I'd been in D2U City most of the day with Mom and El Seebeno, where we attended my little step-niece's birthday party and went shopping at the fabric store. All I had to do when I got home was do some laundry and give myself a pedicure.

I just chuckled, shrugged my shoulders, and got in line behind a few other people. The checkouts were moving pretty quickly, and I didn't think I'd be standing around for that long. Thirty seonds later, an obnoxious trio wheeled up behind me, chattering incessantly about almost nothing.

I saw the parents and little girl out of the corner of my eye; the child was almost as fat as her daddy, Small Town's very own homemade Larry the Cable Guy, and his wife wasn't exactly slim, either. They were fairly well-dressed in their matching red-white-and-blue outfits with strategically-placed snippets of yellow ribbon. I wanted to mention that July 4th was last weekend, but kept my mouth shut and turned back around to keep reading the cover of the National Enquirer. Maybe someone had sighted Elvis again, this time on the UFO with Bigfoot and Jimmy Hoffa.

"Are we next yet, Daddy?" the little girl asked.
"Not yet," he replied.
"Are we next yet?"
"Not yet."
"Are we next yet?"
"Not yet."
"Are we next yet?"
Not yet."
"Are we next yet?"
"Not yet."

I began to consider hara-kiri very seriously.

Seven or eight minutes later, the cashier was finishing up the order in front of mine. Boy, did she look tired—seems like Wal-Mart employees always do. I guessed that it was nearly shift-change time, and I was right.

"Ma'am," the cashier, a round, friendly-looking, salt-and-pepper haired woman probably in her late 50s, said to me, "could you please let those folks know I'm about to close?"

I turned around to Bubba Joe and Lurlene. "Umm, folks? This lady says she's closing." Blank stares, and slack jaws to match. "Right after my order, I think—" The cashier nodded yes. "Right after my order, she's closing." More blank stares.

"Sorry, folks," the cashier added. "I have to close right after this lady." Still blank stares from our friends from Tobacco Road.

The cashier began scanning my purchases, and I began hearing protests from behind me. "She's closin'!" Bubba Joe said to his wife. "Closin'! An we been stannin' here 20 minutes!" His face turned beet-red.

Now, do you remember how long I told you I'd been standing there when this trio showed up?

His wife mumbled several curses, all which I'm sure the child must have heard. "But we got waaaaaawww-fuuuuuls!" the little girl almost shouted. I turned to see four huge family packs of Eggos in their cart.

Bubba Joe's red-white-and-blue shirt rippled menacingly; whether from bile or obseity, I couldn't tell. "Well, I hate it, but we ain't goin no-whar!" he said entirely too loudly. "I ain't stood in this here line fer 30 minutes jes to go stand in another line!"

The time they'd been waiting had increased by ten minutes in the four seconds it took Bubba Joe to get pissed off. By this point, they'd been there around ten entire minutes—30 seconds less than I'd been standing there.

Dude, it's Saturday night at the Small Town Wal-Mart, I thought. What the fuck did you expect? In and out in 15 minutes like Jiffy Lube?

I leaned in toward the cashier and motioned for her to come closer. "I think these people are about to give you a hard time," I whispered.

She gave them a quick glance and nodded at me. "Well, I have to close, my shift's over. If I don't, I'm on overtime. You know how the boss feels 'bout that."

I paid for my order and began putting the bags in my cart. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Bubba Joe and Lurlene had proceeded to put their entire cartload of stuff on the belt. "I'm sorry, sir, but I've got to close now," the cashier said apologetically.

"Hmph! Naw you ain't!" Bubba Joe retorted. "Not 'f I Ah got anythang t' do with it!"

"Sorry, sir, I'm just explaining," the cashier said. "My shift's over, and I have to close the register now."

"Not if I done stood 30 minutes in line, you ain't! You gon stand rat-churr an rang me up!"

I'd like to wrang your big red neck, I thought.

Bubba Joe wasn't foaming at the mouth, which I found very surprising. "You gon rang me up, 'r you gon git somebuddy else t' do hit!"

"All right, sir, but I'm on overtime," she said, and began scanning his family's items.

"Mah momma 'n me, we got waaaaaawww-fuuuuuls!" the little girl shouted to no one in particular.

The cashier looked in my direction. "Have a nice evening, ma'am," she whispered.

"You too," I replied, "and good luck."

For years I've had a bumper sticker that reads FOR A SMALL TOWN, THIS ONE SURE HAS A LOT OF ASSHOLES. And it's so true.

I don't know why I didn't call bullshit on Bubba Joe's assholishness. But I swear right now, to myself and to you—next time, I will.

Southern football

Today I'm running very low on energy—my last B-12 shot's wearing off, but I'm getting another this afternoon, don't worry—so I share with you an e-mail forward about football and the South. Forgive me if you've seen this before. There are some old stereotypes in here (dammit, they simply refuse to die!), but there's also a lot of truth. Take it from someone who's grown up down here in Georgia, where there's a First Baptist St. Vincent Dooley of the DogLeg Offense Church on every corner. (Thank you, Pixie.)

And let's not dare underestimate the rabidity of Ohio State and Michigan fans...nor the animosity between those two groups.

**********

Planning for the fall football season in the South is radically different than up North. For those who are planning a football trip south, here are some helpful hints.

Women's Accessories
NORTH: Chap Stick in back pocket and a $20 bill in the front pocket.
SOUTH: Louis Vuitton duffel with two lipsticks, waterproof mascara, and a fifth of bourbon. Money not necessary - that's what dates are for.

Stadium Size
NORTH: College football stadiums hold 20,000 people.
SOUTH: High school foot ball stadiums hold 20,000 people.

Fathers
NORTH: Expect their daughters to understand Sylvia Plath.
SOUTH: Expect their daughters to understand pass interference.

Campus Decor
NORTH: Statues of founding fathers.
SOUTH: Statues of Heisman trophy winners.

Homecoming Queen
NORTH: Also a physics major.
SOUTH: Also Miss America.

Heroes
NORTH: Rudy Giuliani
SOUTH: Herschel Walker & Peyton Manning

Getting Tickets
NORTH: Five days before the game, you walk into the ticket office on campus.
SOUTH: Five months before the game, you walk into the ticket office on campus, make a large financial contribution, and put name on a waiting list for tickets.

Friday Classes After a Thursday Night Game
NORTH: Students and professors not sure they're going to the game, because they have classes on Friday.
SOUTH: Professors cancel Friday classes because they don't want to see the few hung over students that might actually make it to class.

Parking
NORTH: An hour before game time, the University opens the campus for game parking.
SOUTH: RVs sporting their school flags begin arriving on Wednesday for the weekend festivities. The really faithful arrive on Tuesday.

Game Day
NORTH: A few students party in the dorm and watch the game on ESPN.
SOUTH: Every student wakes up, has a beer for breakfast, and rushes over to where ESPN is broadcasting "Game Day Live" to get on camera and wave to the idiots up north who wonder why "Game Day Live" is never Broadcast from their campus.

Tailgating
NORTH: Raw meat on a grill, beer with lime in it, listening to local radio station with truck tailgate down.
SOUTH: Thirty-foot custom-built pig-shaped smoker fires up at dawn. Cooking accompanied by live performance from the Dave Matthews Band, who come over during breaks and ask for a hit off bottle of bourbon.

Getting to the Stadium
NORTH: You ask "Where's the stadium?" When you find it, you walk right in.
SOUTH: When you're near it, you'll hear it. On game day it is the state's third largest city.

Concessions
NORTH: Drinks served in a paper cup, filled to the top with soda.
SOUTH: Drinks served in a plastic cup, with the home team's mascot on it, filled less than half way with soda, to ensure enough room for bourbon.

When National Anthem is Played
NORTH: Stands are less than half full, and less than half of them stand up.
SOUTH: 100,000 fans, all standing, sing along in perfect four-part harmony.

The Smell in the Air After the First Score
NORTH: Nothing changes.
SOUTH: Fireworks, with a touch of bourbon.

Commentary (Male)
NORTH: "Nice play."
SOUTH: "Dammit, you slow sumbitch - tackle him and break his legs!"

Commentary (Female)
NORTH: "My, this certainly is a violent sport."
SOUTH: "Dammit, you slow sumbitch - tackle him and break his legs!"

Announcers
NORTH: Neutral and paid.
SOUTH: Announcer harmonizes with the crowd in the fight song, with a tear in his eye because he is so proud of his team.

After the Game
NORTH: The stadium is empty way before the game ends.
SOUTH: Another rack of ribs goes on the smoker, while somebody goes to the nearest package store for more bourbon, and planning begins for next week's game.

And for SEC Fans...

HOW MANY SEC STUDENTS DOES IT TAKE TO CHANGE A LIGHT BULB?
At VANDERBILT: it takes two—one to change the bulb and one more to explain how they did it every bit as good as the bulbs changed at Harvard.

At GEORGIA, it takes two—one to change the bulb and one to stabilize the rolling beer cooler the bulb changer is using for a ladder.

At FLORIDA, it takes four—one to screw in the bulb and three to figure out how to get stoned off the old one.

At ALABAMA, it takes five—one to change it, three to reminisce about how The Bear would have done it, and one to throw the old bulb at an NCAA investigator.

At OLE MISS, it takes six—one to change it, two to mix the drinks and three to find the perfect J. Crew outfit to wear for the occasion.

At LSU, it takes seven, and each one gets credit for five semester hours.

At KENTUCKY, it takes eight—one to screw it in and seven to discuss how much brighter it seems to shine during basketball season.

At TENNESSEE, it takes ten—two to figure out how to screw it in, two to buy an orange lampshade, and six to phone a radio call-in show and talk about how much they hate Alabama.

At MISSISSIPPI STATE, it takes fifteen—one to screw in the bulb, two to buy the Skoal, and twelve to yell, "GO TO HELL, OLE MISS!"

At AUBURN, it takes one hundred—one to change it, forty-nine to talk about how they did it better than at 'Bama and Georgia, and fifty to get drunk and roll Toomer's Corner when finished.

At SOUTH CAROLINA, it takes 80,000—one to screw it in and 79,999 to discuss how this finally will be the year that they have a decent football team.

At ARKANSAS: None. There is no electricity in Arkansas.

Not only no, but hell no.

Remember those group projects from junior high and high school, and how you dreaded them worse than the Apocalypse? If you were like my sister and me, you dreaded them because you knew you'd get stuck with doing all the work—because you were a good student who wanted to get a decent grade. The other slack-asses in your group would stand around pulling their puds and skippity-hop away with whatever grade YOU earned THEM.

In my mom's oft-repeated words: "Not only no, but hell no."

It's those memories, plus a few experiences in classes I've taught, that make me avoid giving group assignments...especially for presentations. Whatever their majors, chances are that students will be required to stand in front of a group at some point in their careers and give a talk. It may happen just once, or it may happen every single day, but public speaking's a skill they'll truly need to have. This is why I like having presentations as part of many of my classes' requirements. And the country music class is no exception. I put down on the syllabus that students would be doing presentations for two of the last three days of class.

My goal with presentations in this summer course is not to make students' lives miserable. It's mostly to get them researching lesser-known figures or topics in country music, or explaining some of the things we just haven't had time to cover. Many college students won't look any deeper than just the material a prof presents in class, and I figured that if I want my students to take with them a little more appreciation for country's origins, they'd be well served by doing a little research.

And besides, you'd be amazed at how much great material is out there on little-known country artists from years and years ago. For example, I'm researching a fellow who had a "hillbilly" radio show in the Midwest in the 1950s, and have come across a stunning number of websites, recordings, and interviews...and he's generally not known outside southern Michigan and northern Indiana!

Now, I do love this class—they're some of my best students to date, and they make me eager to get to class every morning. But they're also human, and college students, and want to get away with doing a lot less work than is required as the term draws to a close. So of course, when I brought up presentations today, they had a lot to say.

"All right, folks," I began as I waited for the classroom's multimedia system to boot up. "We've got an exam tomorrow, and I'm also going to have ready for you the helpsheet on the upcoming presentations—"

"Awwww! Presentations!" about half the class groaned.

"Right, right. Remember, it's on the syllabus? Has been since June 9th?" I paused to get my dumbass iPod synced with the computer. "But this helpsheet, I think, will really outline for you exactly what's required, what I'm looking for." A hand darted up in the back of the room. "Question?"

"Umm...how about we do group presentations?" Skip* asked. Skip* is one of the class's ringleaders, and a funny guy who comes up with really good comments and observations. While I really like and have put to work quite a few of his suggestions for the class, I wasn't crazy about this one.

"Mmmmm, I don't think so," I said. Big groan from the class. "Don't you folks remember what it was like in junior high, high school? You know, you bust your butt so you'll have a good grade while everybody else sits around? You end up doing all the work while the class wankers take credit for your ideas, and get the A+ you earned."

"But," another student chimed in, "we don't have much longer in the term, and if we did group presentations, we'd be able to knock them out in one day, instead of over two days, like you have on the syllabus."

She had a good point. Still, the thought of students putting the work on one goody-two-shoes in each group was making my stomach do flip-flops. And despite how good this group is, I know how college students can be towards the end of a semester. "True," I replied. "But all I'm looking for is a five-minute presentation, folks—how hard is that to put together? You know, maybe a really simple little PowerPoint slideshow, or a CD or two and some Xeroxed handouts of lyrics. I mean, how hard is that?" Another groan from the class. "We have 20 students, and class is an hour and 35 minutes long. So..." I thought for a minute. "Yeah, we could easily knock it all out in the two days I allotted on the syllabus. And we're basically up to speed with what I'd meant to cover."

I noted at this point that about two-thirds of the class was keeping quiet. They were probably silently praying: Please, Lord, don't let her put us in groups. Don't send me back to the third concentric ring of junior high. Pleeease, Lord.

"But, Professor Kitty," Karla* spoke up. "Some of us are deathly afraid of public speaking. I mean...won't those of us who can't do it well get a worse grade than those who are comfotable with it?"

"No, not at all," I replied. The looks on the students' faces told me they were frustrated with so far being unable to change my mind. Too bad. This is a topic near and dear to my heart. "Look—I made a living as an actress for several years, and I speak to people every single day. What makes you think I'm not nervous when I'm about to get up in front of a group?" A few students shrugged. "Every. single. DAY that I come in here, I'm nervous as I'm walking to class. EVERY DAY. I kid you not."

"Really?"

"Really. Every day. But I know you guys are a good group, and I know I've prepared well, so my nerves get better within a few minutes." I took a sip of soda. "You should see me on the first day of class—whew. I'm ready to vomit, hands shaking like leaves. But once I get in front of the class and things start rolling along, I'm all right."

"Wow," Felicia* said.

"If I can do it, you can too. And you're going to be called on to talk in front of people once you get out into the work world. Just a fact of working life. Just think of it as a day that you get to teach the class. You'll be telling us about an aspect of country music we didn't get to cover, or a singer who's really important, but that the surface-level country fan might not know."

I thought for a second on how I might reassure them. "All I want to see is that you've done your very best. You don't have to stand in front of everyone; when I'm really nervous in front of a group, I tend to half-sit"—I slid one butt cheek and thigh onto my desk to demonstrate, balancing my body weight with the ball of the other foot—so nobody can tell my knees are knocking together." A chuckle rippled through the class.

They still grumbled about having to do individual projects, but they'll get over it. I'm putting together the helpsheet and a rubric this evening, and I think that'll make them feel better about the whole process.

While Shopping with Mom #3

Didn't I say somewhere that this might make an interesting regular feature? Damned if I wasn't right. Except I wasn't tagging along this time—this happened today while she was in town after dropping off my Graya at the vet.

Mom sent this along Monday afternoon while I was on campus; I've changed a few things for consistency and clarity, but other than that, it's all her words.

Her title? "Watch What You Buy @ Wal-Mart."

**********

This could make an interesting Blog if there's nothing interesting going on.

So I'm at Walmart today getting vitamins, since I forgot yesterday. While I was in the pharmacy section, I decided to stock up on condoms. They don't always have Seeben's brand, but this time they actually did have a few boxes.

So I finish shopping, get some other things (i.e. Cat Fuel), and check out. They've added an extra person at the entrance checking receipts when you leave, a la Sam's Club. So as I'm going thru the sensors, [the alarms] start caterwauling. "Aw, crap!" I say and point. "Look in this bag. I know there's something in there that didn't scan."

So this elderly, distinguished-looking gentleman [Wal-Mart receipt checker] looks in the bag. "It's probably these things," he says and palms the box, but not before the other person checking carts sees what he's taken out of the sack.

Yup. The rubbers.

The lady starts grinning. I just sigh. "You KNOW it's the rubbers. If something is gonna complicate matters, it's gonna be the thing that will embarrass you the most." She starts giggling. I say, "Well, at least they're the X-tra Large ones."

So now she's laughing out loud, and I say, "I could have needed the Pre-School-I'm-Just-Learning ones." Now the poor woman is doubling over. The man is also laughing, and trying his best to make the bar code reader-thing stop beeping. He keeps shaking his head and comments that it just won't do right. I ask him if he'll have to use the intercom: "Hey! Someone to the front, help me with these rubbers!" He's now laughing out loud, and the lady is hysterical with laughter.

The man says, "It's either these things or the pregnancy tests. Happens at least once a day." As I finally left, the woman called out, "Have a great day! You've certainly made mine!"

So I left Walmart—My Work Here Is Done.

I'm going to miss these people in the fall.

Some of you are probably wondering why I haven't been talking about how my country music class is going. That's because it's going so well I can hardly believe it, despite the tons of problems I've had with getting the required music together and readily available. (Still working on that clusterfuck.) While I love what I do, I'm not sure I've ever been so eager to get to a class in the morning. No, really—I haven't. It's been a real treat to be able to sit around reading for class and really get into what I'll be presenting to the students. I treasure this opportunity to be able to put together a course from my own knowledge and research; if you ever have a chance to do this, take it. This is the most fun I've ever had working my ass off.

There are 20 students in the class, and they range in age from 19 to 66. Most are white Americans, with about half a dozen black Americans and two foreign students (one from Nigeria, one from Japan) rounding out the group. Most liked country music at least a little before this class, while a few loathed The Twang. About 60% of the class are native Southerners; the rest are from elsewhere. A few students are from rural areas or small towns, while the great majority of them are from suburbs of larger cities. A few of them are "military brats." So the class itself is a pretty diverse one. This is a very good thing, as the questions they ask during lectures and discussions are a lot more insightful than we might get in a class where, say, nearly all the students are from the same ethnic and socioeconomic background.

We laugh like crazy almost every day about something, and it's usully one of six people who start the laughter. Felicia* is about my age, a black woman who's secretly liked country music for several years. She and two other mid-30s black women, Karla* and Jasmine*, tend to carry the class, along with Della* (white, late 20s), Hailey* (white, early 20s), and Skip* (white man, early 20s). If one of these characters is absent from class, many of the other students say aloud, "Where's _____? How are we supposed to have class without _____ here?" Then there's usually an attempt to get me to cancel class for the day, upon which I smile and say, "Good try, but no dice. You get an E for Effort."

Last Wednesday, I got to the classroom a few minutes before we were to begin, and was almost bowled over by laughter as I opened the door. "Do I even want to know what you hooligans are talking about?" I asked. They laughed even harder.

"Professor Kitty," Skip* began, "Felicia's* killin' us! Make her stop!" The laughter started up again. I began laughing myself, simply because the students were having such a good time, and then Felicia* started explaining.

Felicia* is a student in D2U's Criminal Justice program, and it helps C.J. majors to have police-type work on their resumes as they complete their degrees. So Felicia* works part-time for City Security* whenever there's a big event at the Civic Center. The night before, she had been working during an O'Jays concert and had gotten to talking with several of the big, burly, country white guys who were full-timers with City Security. "And, Professor Kitty," she said, "you know, around here, security and police officers tend to be...uhhh, well..."

"She means 'good ol' boys!'" Skip* chimed in. More laughter from the class. I had to find out where the hell this was going—it was too good not to.

"Right, right, 'good ol' boys,'" Felicia* continued. "So last night, I was standing around with a bunch of the good ol' boys I worked the O'Jays show with—during a slow spot—and they asked what classes I was taking this summer."

"Yeah?"

"And when I told 'em I was taking this class, they were all, 'Uh-uhhhh! You? Country music?'"

I hooted and said in my best redneck accent, "Black people like The Twang? OH GAWD! End Times are upon us!" The class laughed again.

Felicia* paused to let the laughter die down a little. "Professor Kitty, I used everything we've been talking about in here! They were blown away that I knew about Patsy Cline. I was telling them stuff they didn't know about her, like how she helped bring in the Nashville Sound, and how she almost didn't record 'Crazy' because she couldn't get Willie Nelson's phrasing down—I wish you could've seen the looks on their faces!" The class was rolling with laughter now.

"Well, now you've done it!" I said, leaning on the multimedia cabinet so I wouldn't fall over laughing. "They're gonna have to start listening to the Commodores and 50 Cent!"

Another wave of laughter rolled across the classroom. "I know!" Felicia* replied, wiping her eyes. "And the best part is—" She put her head down on the desk to get the belly-laughs out. "—the best part is, my newfound knowledge got me invited to a hoe-down!"

"What?! No way!"

"I swear! Ol' Bubba & Skeeter invited me to the hoe-down they're having next week out at the mud bog in Crusty County*!" The students broke into fresh peals of laughter at the idea of Felicia*—who's usually dressed in Baby Phat or Apple Bottoms—dressing up in jeans, camo jacket, and boots to ride four-wheelers and drink Natural Light in the God-forsaken wilderness of Crusty County.*

"Are you going?"

"Well, yeah, probably just long enough to say 'hey,' maybe listen to this cover band they're gonna have. I'm still on the country down-low, remember?"

All the profs I know would give their left arms for a group like this one. My Lord, how I'm going to miss this bunch in the fall.

Myrtle Mae Monday: 07/07/08

Mom and Steve were over at the HKC helping flea-bomb the little house.

And all the racket meant Myrtle Mae couldn't snooze under said little house for the time being. (That's where she stays on hot summer afternoons.)

She stepped off across the yard, hoping to find some ticks or wood lice or grubs over by the other fence.

Is that a photogenic bird, or what?

Brrrrk! Whatcha got there, Mom? More watermelon rinds?

I should've known—that stupid camera. Again.

Whatever. I'm outta here.

So she took off to the far back corner of the yard, which was until Thursday afternoon overgrown with brush and saplings. Mom trimmed back the mimosa (aka Chinese fringe tree), so maybe now the little redbud tree next to my neighbors' garage can get some light and grow.

Did you know that chickens are descended from wild jungle fowl? I think it's true—good luck holding Myrtle back once she sees a wooded area.

Wild Southeast Asian Red junglefowl? You bet your gizzard!

There's my creepy jungle-loving bird in her natural habitat.

My grandmother's chickens used to sleep in the lower branches of the trees in the front yard. (Guineas do that, too, but they're a completely different story.)

So the sun began setting around 8:30pm, and Myrtle got a move on toward the back porch, where she's been sleeping all summer. But she saw the outdoor kitties beginning to congregate for their evening meal.

Don't intimidate mah little kittehs, you chicken, you! Peck on someone your own size!

Talk about chickenshit. She could at least be clucking at Elvis. But noooo, gotta get all huffy about some little ten-week-old kittens. Myrtle, you are so fierce. Mm-hmm.

So I shooed her away from the kittens' food area and got her to come back out into the yard until it was almost dark. Then she'd perch on the patio rail and not come down until daybreak, and wouldn't bother the kittens and Ernge for any canned food. (I'd given her plenty of both dry Kitten Chow and canned 9 Lives that morning, anyhow.)

Can't figure out who's telling whom to "grow, dammit." Chicken telling herbs? Herbs telling chicken? In any case, they go together pretty well.

No, not like that. Get your minds out of the broiler pan, people.

Hmmm. Just not the same effect.

KittehWatch: Day 90

STRIPE'S KITTEHS ARE THREE MONTHS OLD TODAY!!!!!!!

My Lord, has it been THAT long?!? Wow.

So how are Stripe and her kittens doing three months on?


Yoda, Clarence, and Orson are loving their new home, and being spoiled rotten by The New Mommy Formerly Known As Grandmommy. They've been at Mom & Steve's about three weeks now, and have settled in just fine. And they follow Mom wherever she goes in the house—though the kitchen floor (pictured above) is their favorite playground.

And Poppy's rep is completely shot. She's now openly playing with "The Boys," as Mom calls them.

"So, did Poppy get over her 'tude?" I asked.

"Nope," Mom replied. "There was just too much fun being had. She couldn't stand to be left out of the action."

Stripe and Tiger Lily are still here with me at the Happy Kitten Cottage. Remember how I went to all that trouble last weekend to flea-bomb the little house and give T.L. a bath? It didn't quite work; the little house is still flea-ridden, though not as much as it was before.

So Mom and Steve helped me this afternoon.

Mom swept the place out, while Steve moved a few heavy items around. Then Mom covered the A/C unit with a trash bag to keep the air from circulating and therefore saving fleas' lives. Then we sprayed the hell out of the little shed, and promptly got the hell out of there.

Stripe and Tiger Lily? Oh, I brought them in the house.

Clark was all excited to check out the new kitties in the carrier. Kitties, however, were none too happy about General Clark E. Pie's proximity to them. I'd have to do something different for the three or four hours that Stripe and Tiger Lily would be indoors with me.

Grandmommy, meanwhile, was very happy to scruff and snuggle one of Ernge's kitties. Emmylou (above) and one other kitteh—don't worry, I'll be posting on them and their sweet new names very soon!—let me pick them up, but nobody's really used to being handled yet, nor are they used to visitors. Hence the scruffing.

After Mom and Steve went home, I ended up moving Tiger Lily and her mama into the bathroom for the time being. I set up a temporary litter box and brought in some food and water.

Tiger Lily was a lot sweeter this time. Maybe she could tell I had no plans to bathe her.

Oh, and that's my paraffin warmer to the right; I gave myself a luxury pedicure after kitties went back to their shed.

Stripe was happy to have some love from Mama. Look at the sweet little shaved tummy! She's healing up very well.

But she was still bored to death and wanted very badly to get out. In due time, kitteh. In due time.

I got both mama and kitten with the flea comb, and was delighted to drown about 50 fleas in the soapy water. Heh-heh-heh.

Doesn't Tiger Lily look like her mama in the face?

Well, okay—so Stripe doesn't constantly have the why don't you just eat shit and DIE! look on her face. Little T.L. must get that from her dad.

While they were fairly content in the bathroom, they were still very bored, and really happy to get back to a relatively flea-free little house. We'll see how this afternoon's flea-bombing went. Boy, I sure hope it sticks this time.

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!

Happy 232nd birthday, America!

Hope you're all having a safe and happy July 4th weekend. We're mostly grilling and relaxing around the Happy Kitten Cottage this weekend—pictures to follow, of course.

Merle Haggard Set List - Atlanta, Georgia, 26 June 2008

At the Merle Haggard concert last week, I think I was the only person in the whole place with a pen and pad in hand, trying to write down each song title. But nobody noticed, as we were all having too good a time to care.

I've listed song titles except for places where I'm not familiar with the tune; for those songs I didn't know, I've just listed a line and put in in italics. If you happen to know these titles, please let me know, and I'll post that instead.

The show was AWESOME: 90 solid minutes of music, with very little of the usual onstage pitter-patter. I guess when you're Merle Haggard, you don't have to talk very much in between songs. In any case, I hope to see Merle in concert again one day, and I'll soon be buying my tickets to see Loretta Lynn when she comes to Atlanta in August.

**********

• "How did you find me here?"
• "That's the Way Love Goes"
• "Big City"
• "Rainbow Stew"
• "I Think I'll Just Stay Here and Drink"
• "Silver Wings"
• "My heart has settled back to earth"
• "White Line Fever"
• "Heaven was a drink of wine" (about a Rorschach test & conversation w/ shrink)
• "Runaway Mama"
• "Twinkle Twinkle Lucky Star"
• "Make [something] go away" (mentions taxpayers)
• "Love, always love ... love's always pretty" (possibly a new song?)
• "If I Could Only Fly"
• "30 Again"
• "Are the Good Times Really Over (I Wish a Buck Was Still Silver)"
• "The Fightin' Side of Me"
• "Keep on livin' the way I do"
• "Ramblin' Fever"
  
  

Country Music Class: Interesting Books, Part 3

Check these links for Part 1 and Part 2.

These are the last of the books I've been using to prepare for the country music class; I'll post again when I discover new books on the topic. Check Amazon.com or your local college library for them—Division II University has access to GIL Express, which lets me borrow just about any book from any other University System of Georgia library for free. The books usually arrive at D2U within a couple days of the request. Perhaps your local college library has access to a similar system.

A Boy Named Sue: Gender and Country Music, edited by Kristine M. McCusker and Diane Pecknold. Oxford: UP of Mississippi, 2004. ISBN 1-57806-678-6

The First Generation of Country Music Stars: Biographies of 50 Artists Born before 1940 by David Dicaire. Jefferson: McFarland & Company, 2007. ISBN 978-0-7864-3021-5

The Women of Country Music: A Reader, edited by Charles K. Wolfe and James E. Akenson. Lexington: UP of Kentucky, 2003. ISBN 0-8131-2280-5

Wrong's What I Do Best: Hard Country Music and Contemporary Culture by Barbara Ching. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2001. ISBN 0-19-510835-3

Judgment & Grace in Dixie: Southern Faiths from Faulkner to Elvis by Charles Reagan Wilson. Athens: U of Georgia P, 1995. ISBN 0-8203-1753-5

Singing Cowboys and Musical Mountaineers: Southern Culture and the Roots of Country Music by Bill C. Malone. Athens: U of Georgia P, 1993/reissue 2003. ISBN 0-8203-1679-2

Some helpful news

Thanks to those of you who've inquired about my health and well-being lately. I got some blood test results back a couple weeks ago, and now have a few answers as to what's been causing my deep, all-consuming fatigue. My doctor and therapist agree that my depression is probably the main culprit—the last six or eight months have been emotionally exhausting, and my body is slowing down so it and my mind can regroup—but there are a couple physical things going on, too.

The blood tests revealed that my Vitamin B-12 levels were seriously low, so Dr. C has me come in for a shot once every two weeks. The B-12 has worked wonders for my energy level—my afternoon nap is only an hour long now, and I don't always need one (though it's a luxury when I can do so).

I also found out that for some people, antidepressants can lower the levels of folates in the blood, which can sap one's energy. Dr. C started me on a pill called Deplin, which puts folates back into the bloodstream and helps neurotransmitters start functioning better. It really seems to be working.

Dr. C also didn't like how Wellbutrin made my heart race, and neither did I, especially when I was sitting completely still. And I had to admit that while I'm pretty happy with the weight loss—I've lost 25 pounds in the last year, down from 139 to 114—losing 13 pounds in three months was scary. (And a bout of clinical depression is not the way to lose weight, believe me.) Unlike it did when I was in my 20s, the Wellbutrin just wasn't helping my depression. So Dr. C switched me over to Cymbalta, which has been helpful for some people who have both PTSD and depression, as I do. It's made me feel a lot better. I can do my daily activities again and am happier about life, but not so much so that I'm oblivious to my problems.

Thanks for all your concern and good wishes—I appreciate your readership, and all your thoughts and prayers. E&P readers truly are the best.

I give up. Or do I?

I'm thinking that getting the music for my country music class onto CD and distributed to my students is just going to be impossible. We've been listening to a LOT of songs in class the last two weeks, and that may well be the best way to go about doing things for now. My sister's husband, Mile High Guy, said that when he was in college, his Jazz Appreciation course consisted of a lot of in-class listening, and it worked out pretty well.

Here's a thought, though: it seems that students who have iTunes accounts can play the CDs I burned. If that's so, then technically, just about everyone could sign up for iTunes and wouldn't have to buy a single thing. Right? And they could just log in, play my CD, and all that happy crap?

The other day, I told the students that I was really embarrassed by my inability to get the music to them in an accessible format. They seemed to understand, as they know this is the first time I've taught the class.

Live and learn. Next time, I'll know to get started on this project waaaaaay ahead of time.

Student Essay Insanity #36!

Just when you thought your day was completely without humor, here's Student Essay Insanity to cheer you up!

Once again, these tidbits are from D2U's recent Freshman Writing Improvement Project scoring session. (I collected nearly four dozen bloopers this time around, so we have several more FWIP installments coming up.) The essay prompt, given to nearly all Comp II students, asks student writers to do three things:

1. Identify a belief you held before coming to college;
2. Explain how that belief has been affected by your college experiences; and
3. Interpret for your readers why this has/hasn't been a beneficial experience.

Each blurb below is from a different essay, unless otherwise noted. And as usual—real bloopers, real essays, real students. I shit you not.

**********


My parents, as well as my religion, always taught me that it is wrong to consume alcohol before I turned 21.


Many teenagers drink underage.


There was trash on the side of the rode.


The average college campus these days is full of parties, drinking, sex, and many other things.


When I went to high school my teachers actually let us get away with murder because I was a star basketball player.