Dear Student:
The correct answer is not always “yes.”
For instance, if I ask you if your name ends with an “i” or a “y,” the answer is NOT “yes.”
Or if I ask you if you want me to look at the article on your computer screen or on a printed sheet, the answer cannot be “yes.”
I understand that you would like me to be happy with you and your answer. That is nice of you. But, first, you must listen to my question. Then you should take a moment to contemplate the answer. Then you may verbally respond, provided your answer makes a damn lick of sense.
This concludes our first lesson in Basic Interpersonal Communication. Check back next week for our presentation of “How to 'Like' Make a Point ‘Like’ Quickly, without 'Like' Boring the Class to 'Like' Tears.”
Your Teacher
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Where do you stand?
Last night, I made a strange request. I wanted to go to Red Lobster for dinner. I know, I know. But, people, there are cheese biscuits there. And they have shrimp, done up in multiple fashions. And once the idea got in my mind, it would not leave. So, to The Lobster we went. (Amy called it The Lobster all afternoon. “Baby, it’s The Lobster for you tonight! Only the best for my girl.” And, as a side note, this whole thing is even funnier because Amy HATES seafood)
The cheese biscuits, they were delightful. Amy ended up with an order of popcorn shrimp. Which went well. Until she realized that she had eaten about 50 popcorn shrimp. And then she dared to ask the question, “What is a popcorn shrimp, really?” She very seriously went about the business of de-breading a popcorn shrimp. Now this is delicate work here, the de-breading. It was like she was doing surgery. Little tiny surgery. And when she had finished, she held up the most pathetic looking shrimp I had ever seen. It looked like a white gummy shrimp. My response? “Please put its little breading jacket back on, and let’s go.” Seems as though the jacket makes the shrimp.
We stopped by Blockbuster on the way home to fetch a film. We ended up with Ocean’s 13, which is irrelevant (but I knew you would want to know). As we approached the counter, the cashier looked at Amy and said, “Do you have a Blockbuster card?” Her response? “I stand over here,” as she walked with her head down through the security scanners to stand by the exit door. Your response right now? What the fuck?? Right. I just looked at the guy, who was giving me the “Is that your Special Friend?” look, took out my driver’s license and paid for the video.
Look, I know that it was a strange response to an innocent question. But she takes me to Red Lobster; I forgive her idiosyncrasies. She is quirky and at times a bit strange. But she is my girl, and I wouldn’t change her for the world.
The cheese biscuits, they were delightful. Amy ended up with an order of popcorn shrimp. Which went well. Until she realized that she had eaten about 50 popcorn shrimp. And then she dared to ask the question, “What is a popcorn shrimp, really?” She very seriously went about the business of de-breading a popcorn shrimp. Now this is delicate work here, the de-breading. It was like she was doing surgery. Little tiny surgery. And when she had finished, she held up the most pathetic looking shrimp I had ever seen. It looked like a white gummy shrimp. My response? “Please put its little breading jacket back on, and let’s go.” Seems as though the jacket makes the shrimp.
We stopped by Blockbuster on the way home to fetch a film. We ended up with Ocean’s 13, which is irrelevant (but I knew you would want to know). As we approached the counter, the cashier looked at Amy and said, “Do you have a Blockbuster card?” Her response? “I stand over here,” as she walked with her head down through the security scanners to stand by the exit door. Your response right now? What the fuck?? Right. I just looked at the guy, who was giving me the “Is that your Special Friend?” look, took out my driver’s license and paid for the video.
Look, I know that it was a strange response to an innocent question. But she takes me to Red Lobster; I forgive her idiosyncrasies. She is quirky and at times a bit strange. But she is my girl, and I wouldn’t change her for the world.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Are You Down with G-O-D?!
I woke up late this past Sunday morning. Well, I was awake, but a shower seemed like a taxing event… so I took my time getting up. By the time I straggled into my closet to pick out clothes, I had realized three things:
1) I was going to have to go to the traditional service at church, which requires dressing up.
2) I was stubbornly, illogically unwilling to dress up (think a two year old that does NOT want to wear shoes. Yep, you’ve got it now)
3) I don’t even like the service I was about to drive half an hour to attend.
Then, there was a moment of decision. I had heard of a church close to my house that offers a contemporary service at EVERY service. Twice on Sunday and once on Saturday night. I could easily make it to said church with time to spare. And I could wear jeans. Score. I was in.
The parking lot of Not My Church was slammed when I pulled in. Immediately, I noticed the teenagers. There were teenagers everywhere, all decked out in their American Eagle Sunday wear. Some were holding hands. Some were giggling and chatting in small groups. Others were being herded into the sanctuary by their parents. The parents seemed involved, connected with their kids. In fact, there was an overwhelming sense of family togetherness at this church. That’s nice, right?
Upon entering the sanctuary of Not My Church, I was hit with the realization that this was a high production event. Not My Church wasn’t just offering God; they were going to offer a God EXPERIENCE. Two enormous screens on either side of the stage presented Bible verses and a countdown until the service. Yes, a countdown. Stage lights faded colors and patterns in and out. An iron cross held up by chains was above the stage.
I consider myself a progressive person. Especially theologically. But I was beginning to realize that there are certain aspects of a more traditional church experience that I embrace.
And then the rock band started jamming out for Jesus. A. rock. band. And the music minister did almost the equivalent of an alter call, on his knees, guitar still in hand. Then, more rocking out for the Lord.
At this point, I feel like I am in the twilight zone. Or, rather, I feel like I have been transported into the church service I dreamed of in high school. Or right on to the set of Saved. Either way, I am uncomfortable. But the folks around me are loving it. Hands raised, voices lifted. When the pastor says, “Let’s let God increase, while we decrease,” they respond with a hearty “Amen.” They are, in fact, having the God Experience that Not My Church offers. And God bless them for it.
Me, I will be back at my church this Sunday. I will get my happy little self up early; I will put on my good jeans, and I will head out to the early service. I believe God can reach anyone, anywhere. And He knows where He can reach me this Sunday.
1) I was going to have to go to the traditional service at church, which requires dressing up.
2) I was stubbornly, illogically unwilling to dress up (think a two year old that does NOT want to wear shoes. Yep, you’ve got it now)
3) I don’t even like the service I was about to drive half an hour to attend.
Then, there was a moment of decision. I had heard of a church close to my house that offers a contemporary service at EVERY service. Twice on Sunday and once on Saturday night. I could easily make it to said church with time to spare. And I could wear jeans. Score. I was in.
The parking lot of Not My Church was slammed when I pulled in. Immediately, I noticed the teenagers. There were teenagers everywhere, all decked out in their American Eagle Sunday wear. Some were holding hands. Some were giggling and chatting in small groups. Others were being herded into the sanctuary by their parents. The parents seemed involved, connected with their kids. In fact, there was an overwhelming sense of family togetherness at this church. That’s nice, right?
Upon entering the sanctuary of Not My Church, I was hit with the realization that this was a high production event. Not My Church wasn’t just offering God; they were going to offer a God EXPERIENCE. Two enormous screens on either side of the stage presented Bible verses and a countdown until the service. Yes, a countdown. Stage lights faded colors and patterns in and out. An iron cross held up by chains was above the stage.
I consider myself a progressive person. Especially theologically. But I was beginning to realize that there are certain aspects of a more traditional church experience that I embrace.
And then the rock band started jamming out for Jesus. A. rock. band. And the music minister did almost the equivalent of an alter call, on his knees, guitar still in hand. Then, more rocking out for the Lord.
At this point, I feel like I am in the twilight zone. Or, rather, I feel like I have been transported into the church service I dreamed of in high school. Or right on to the set of Saved. Either way, I am uncomfortable. But the folks around me are loving it. Hands raised, voices lifted. When the pastor says, “Let’s let God increase, while we decrease,” they respond with a hearty “Amen.” They are, in fact, having the God Experience that Not My Church offers. And God bless them for it.
Me, I will be back at my church this Sunday. I will get my happy little self up early; I will put on my good jeans, and I will head out to the early service. I believe God can reach anyone, anywhere. And He knows where He can reach me this Sunday.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Ssssay, where do you keep the sssspoons?
In my quest to further my status as a quasi-adult, I have taken to getting up a bit earlier in the mornings. Nothing crazy. Just enough time that I don't have to brush my teeth while I am trying to water the dogs, pack my bag and find my wallet. Everyone needs some quiet oral hygiene time to start their day out right.
Anyway, yesterday I was buzzing around the house, trying to grab something nutritious and sensible for lunch. I grabbed a frozen veggie number out of the freezer and went for a fork in the utensil drawer. I felt the drawer catch a bit, as if it were off the runner. Odd. And then.... hissssss. A gray reptilian head with a forked tongue was HISSING AT ME. FROM MY UTENSIL DRAWER.
Did I scream? No. Instead, I aborted the fork mission and herded Amy outside. Deathly afraid of snakes, she is. And then... we left. For work. With a snake in our utensil drawer.
The scene on the ride to work:
Kik: I am really worried about leaving the dogs. Do you think they will be okay?
Amy: Aaauuuuggggghhhh.
Kik: I mean, it looked like a garden snake, and it was small. But...
Amy: A-a-a-ahhhhhhhh. There is a snake in our house. Eh-eh-eh-auuuugggghhh.
Kik: Did your dad say he could come look for it? Do you think he would check on the dogs?
Amy: Aahhhh. Let's just board up the house. We can't go back there. They have infiltrated! Ehhhhh. Aaaahhhhhhh.
Kik: It might just leave on its own.
Amy: How can I ever trust anything again? Everything I believed was a lie. The snakes have infiltrated our house. Is nothing sacred??? Auuuuggghhhhh.
Kik: If you make that aaaauuuuggghhh, noise again, I am going to kick your ass.
So, yesterday there was much speculation about Ssssir Sssnake and his whereabouts. Amy's dad and cousin came over to bravely flush out the snake. To no avail. Amy's dad called all day with helpful hints: Snakes don't like moth balls. Snakes don't like loud noises either, apparently. Who knew?
Our friend, Hank, was the last of the Snake Hunters to bravely offer his services. He looked through every cabinet in our kitchen. No snake. Of course, Amy and Kate (his wife) had to be banished to the living room for shrieking every time he stuck his hand in a drawer... I guess for fear he would draw back a bloody nub with a snake attached to it? Alas, Hank's ultimate verdict was that the snake is gone.
I wouldn't be surprised if Amy has arranged a Wiccan House Cleansing to rid us of the evil of the snake. After all, as Amy noted yesterday, it was pretty much like Satan had been found in the utensil drawer.
Sssomebody pass me a ssspoon.
Anyway, yesterday I was buzzing around the house, trying to grab something nutritious and sensible for lunch. I grabbed a frozen veggie number out of the freezer and went for a fork in the utensil drawer. I felt the drawer catch a bit, as if it were off the runner. Odd. And then.... hissssss. A gray reptilian head with a forked tongue was HISSING AT ME. FROM MY UTENSIL DRAWER.
Did I scream? No. Instead, I aborted the fork mission and herded Amy outside. Deathly afraid of snakes, she is. And then... we left. For work. With a snake in our utensil drawer.
The scene on the ride to work:
Kik: I am really worried about leaving the dogs. Do you think they will be okay?
Amy: Aaauuuuggggghhhh.
Kik: I mean, it looked like a garden snake, and it was small. But...
Amy: A-a-a-ahhhhhhhh. There is a snake in our house. Eh-eh-eh-auuuugggghhh.
Kik: Did your dad say he could come look for it? Do you think he would check on the dogs?
Amy: Aahhhh. Let's just board up the house. We can't go back there. They have infiltrated! Ehhhhh. Aaaahhhhhhh.
Kik: It might just leave on its own.
Amy: How can I ever trust anything again? Everything I believed was a lie. The snakes have infiltrated our house. Is nothing sacred??? Auuuuggghhhhh.
Kik: If you make that aaaauuuuggghhh, noise again, I am going to kick your ass.
So, yesterday there was much speculation about Ssssir Sssnake and his whereabouts. Amy's dad and cousin came over to bravely flush out the snake. To no avail. Amy's dad called all day with helpful hints: Snakes don't like moth balls. Snakes don't like loud noises either, apparently. Who knew?
Our friend, Hank, was the last of the Snake Hunters to bravely offer his services. He looked through every cabinet in our kitchen. No snake. Of course, Amy and Kate (his wife) had to be banished to the living room for shrieking every time he stuck his hand in a drawer... I guess for fear he would draw back a bloody nub with a snake attached to it? Alas, Hank's ultimate verdict was that the snake is gone.
I wouldn't be surprised if Amy has arranged a Wiccan House Cleansing to rid us of the evil of the snake. After all, as Amy noted yesterday, it was pretty much like Satan had been found in the utensil drawer.
Sssomebody pass me a ssspoon.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Call Me Senorita Spaz...
Why, oh why, is it necessary for me to get so worked up before the first day of class that I am a shivering, whimpering mess on the morning of the first day of the semester? Shouldn't I be, I don't know, emitting positive energy or something? Fortunately, by the end of the first five minutes of my first class, the doom and gloom had lifted. I was my spunky, if not slightly distractable, self.
I did notice that, when going through the syllabus on the first day, I sound rather like a raging bitch. Mean. A whole list of "Don't Ever Do This... Lest You Piss Me Off"... Which is usually fine. I typically play a little game where I try to get as many kids to drop the first week as possible. I know... devious. But it means more manageable class size. The difference between grading for 18 and grading for 22 is astounding. They. write. all. the. time.
Anyway, this semester God forbid any of them drop. Enrollment is down, and the English Department has already closed many sections. I need to hang on to every one I can! But I explained to them how much they will like me down the road. I mean, I am totally cool. And having students who took my class last semester and were clammering to spend one more semester with me really give me some street cred. Or something like that.
I think I will love teaching four sections instead of five. Right now, I am scrambling to find extra work to make up the pay from my missing section. There is an editing job that, if I can manage the Chicago Style Manual (15th edition), I think is mine. No, I have never even seen the Chicago Style Manual. Yes, I think I can pull it off.* Safe to say my optimism has returned? I thought so.
*I will have a copy of the manual with me when I take the editing test.
I did notice that, when going through the syllabus on the first day, I sound rather like a raging bitch. Mean. A whole list of "Don't Ever Do This... Lest You Piss Me Off"... Which is usually fine. I typically play a little game where I try to get as many kids to drop the first week as possible. I know... devious. But it means more manageable class size. The difference between grading for 18 and grading for 22 is astounding. They. write. all. the. time.
Anyway, this semester God forbid any of them drop. Enrollment is down, and the English Department has already closed many sections. I need to hang on to every one I can! But I explained to them how much they will like me down the road. I mean, I am totally cool. And having students who took my class last semester and were clammering to spend one more semester with me really give me some street cred. Or something like that.
I think I will love teaching four sections instead of five. Right now, I am scrambling to find extra work to make up the pay from my missing section. There is an editing job that, if I can manage the Chicago Style Manual (15th edition), I think is mine. No, I have never even seen the Chicago Style Manual. Yes, I think I can pull it off.* Safe to say my optimism has returned? I thought so.
*I will have a copy of the manual with me when I take the editing test.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
New Semester
I really enjoy teaching. There is something that strikes me as significant about reaching out to 18 year olds, even if they are difficult at times. However, I do NOT enjoy the first day of classes. I get hyper-anxious and panicky the Sunday before classes start. I have to coax myself into the classroom on Monday morning. Overall, it just isn't much fun. Looking forward to Tuesday, when I have something to report other than mild anxiety. Come back then.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)