A Merry Moment

I am quite weary of going to musical performances. My music professor says that if we go to three performances and have an A average by test four, we are excused from the final—“music” to my ears. He gave us three opportunities, all within the last week: Sunday afternoon listening to French music (free/55 min.), Tuesday evening listening to the music of an organist (free/55 min.), and Thursday night listening to the season opener of the Bowling Green Symphony Orchestra ($5/120 min + write a paper) called “Russian Nights.” Now whether or not to go to the first two performances was a no-brainer, and the music therewith was found to be quite ample. The real question was about the symphony orchestra, as the price was a little higher, both in money and in effort. I debated long and hard—it wouldn’t have been so bad if Sharon had agreed to go with me. But as “the price of gas” is so high these days, Sharon refused to budge from her room, and I was stuck going by myself.

I had imagined I would slip into the back somewhere as I had at the Presbyterian Church, where I could possibly work on my paper during the performance or mess around with my PDA if I got bored. [I have yet to win a game of Solitaire on that thing.] So I stood in the student line, paid my $5.00 and looked in dismay at my “ticket.” My seat number [what? seat numbers?] was G28. The usher at the door told me to go down the middle aisle and turn left into row G. Oh dear. Z was at the back, which meant G was seventh from the front. Yessir! Front and Center! And I did NOT like it. But I sat there anyway. No papers or Solitaire for me.

It wasn’t long before another young lady made her way to the seat beside me, clambering over the old people at the ends of the aisle, just as I had had to do. She was also a student, and we concluded there was a conspiracy afoot to get all the students to sit in the middles of the benches so we couldn’t escape so easily. Since Sharon wasn’t with me, it was time to make a friend. And so I did. Oh, we chatted and chatted at every available moment. “Layne” is a respiratory therapist turned pre-vet student. She wasn’t very impressed that the performance had cost us $5.00 and expressed sentiments that she hopes she “gets her $5.00 worth.”

All in due time, the performance began. The conductor led a congregational/orchestral rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. And then the announcement: four of the violinists had a flat tire, and the lead pianist was going to give us some special numbers on the piano while we waited on them. To the audience member who had paid $18 to listen to this performance, this was an added blessing. To the student who had homework to do, this was not particularly welcome.

They must’ve given up on the violinists for the first half, for we proceeded with “the show” after fifteen minutes of the piano solo. I enjoyed the music, but I always have to wonder why a particular piece must be so long. While I thought the pieces were marvelously played, I found myself noticing the oddest things such as the black and orange extension cords that draped down from the spotlights and the piece of leg showing between the bottom of a man’s pants and the top of his socks and the scar on the arm of the college guy in front of me.

Professor G had given us some instructions the very day of this concert. He had, in fact, said that a concerto is made up of several parts, and it is not proper to clap until the end of all these parts. He told us that if we hear several people clap when everyone else remains silent, this would, in fact, be an example of people “not knowing any better.” So when we heard the inevitable clapping in between the movements of the concerto, Layne and I would look at each other and just smile at the inevitable embarrassment of those poor unfortunate souls. And I was very thankful that I had been Informed! It’s one thing to be sitting up front and center; it’s quite another to be sitting up front and center and clap when you’re not supposed to.

I enjoyed all the pomp and circumstance of the conductor, the solo pianist, and the head violinist. Oh, but they would bow and march off the stage and just when you thought you could quit clapping—in they’d march again, and we’d have another round. Tricky guys.

It was during the finale of the final piece, however, that I truly felt like I had gotten my money and time’s worth. One of the three college boys sitting in front of us had long since tuned out by the end of the second hour. He was in the middle of his program, drawing many, many little things. And he was engrossed therewith. And suddenly, out of nowhere, came an instrument that was about three times as loud as the rest of the music. And this young gentleman, bent over his scholarly work, was startled. His head ascended so suddenly that the combination of the loud instrument and his quickly-moving head, in turn, startled ME (although not as visibly)! He hit the back of his seat, and I saw that a bit of whiplash had occurred. And he turned and beheld sheepishly that he had an audience of about three observing him. And we all four shared a Moment of Merriment during that final finale. My Moment, however, was so merry that I had a hard time recovering from it, front and center and all. And I decided it was a good thing that Sharon had not come with me, for it was hard enough to recover as it was. I cannot imagine how I would’ve contained my laughter had I had someone to enjoy that moment with.

And during the course of all three of the performances I attended, I came to the conclusion that classical music IS something I can appreciate; however, I can appreciate it much better under the following conditions: 1.) as CD music, a background to whatever I need to be doing, or 2.) in concert, attending with a friend/relation, and 3.) only once or twice a year—not three times within the same week.

And so my extra-credit assignments are finished for this class, and I am now free to concentrate on Other Things.

Flawless Timing

The little boy with the bright red shirt edged his way closer to the self-serve drink machine. Then down the row he went. He was barely tall enough to reach the buttons, but he managed to make himself a custom mix. Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, Lemonade, Hi-C, and even a little bit of water went into the mix. When the drink was thoroughly mixed, and the little boy was happily slurping away, he decided to lay hands on the ice handle. Little by little, he began to build his mountain of ice in the tray.

And I continued to watch.

Where in the world was this little boy’s mother?? Oh, she was there alright. But her back was turned, and she had done what so many parents I have observed over the years have done. She had tuned him out while she was happily chatting with someone else. Just as she turned around, and just as the little boy’s dad came out of the restroom—I was SURE someone was about to get busted—the little boy quit! It was nary a second too soon either, for it was at the PRECISE moment he needed to stop to avoid any and all cross words. And no one was the wiser. Except for me.

And I want to know how he did that. My timing always tends to be just a little too late.

A Bear-Hug for Professor P

I like Michelle. I can always count on her to be just a little grouchier than I am. Michelle is taking Microeconomics with me, which makes our third class together. So I’ve known her for over a year now. She came storming into class on Monday morning, as mad as I’ve ever seen her. She was very upset about her accounting test score. Unlike my Accounting class which meets once a week for almost three hours, she goes to three 55-minute classes throughout the week. And she had her first exam on Friday, and it apparently had not gone well, for she ran out of time! So she ended up with a grade that was less than acceptable, and she was not amused. To top it off, she had been five minutes late to her Accounting class that very morning and had missed a quiz that consisted of writing their names and the title of the chapter they were to have read. It was over so fast that she missed the whole thing.

And then we got our economics test back, and she was even more unamused. She was in such a snit that I couldn’t help but just laugh at her. Still in a huff, she then said that she just LONGS to have our Math 116 professor back. “I saw her the other day,” said Michelle, “and I just wanted to BEAR-HUG her.” And then we both giggled ourselves into a mini-hysteria, for Professor P is NOT the type of professor one typically bear-hugs.

As I saw it was a Very Bad Day, I decided to take on the role of the Wise Counselor. And I counseled her to aim her arrival time for 7:30 so that she has half an hour to be late and not really be. I also counseled her to drop her fifth class so that she has time to study for these ugly exams. “Michelle,” I said in my sternest voice, “do you want to be satisfied with your performance or do you want to graduate sooner? You cannot work, take five classes, and maintain your sanity all at the same time.” And on and on I went... just as if I knew.

Michelle came to class this morning, her disposition much improved. I asked her if today was a little better, which she confirmed. She told me she knew I was right, and she had gone home on Monday afternoon and simply dropped her stressful art class. And we were both happier for it. I love Michelle.

Back to the Drawing Board

I received an email through an email list the other day from a former WKU German student who is teaching in a small town in eastern Germany.

“I'm working right now at a small, private, bilingual school in eastern Germany, and the school is seeking four or five qualified teachers to teach the primary grades.

Responsibilities:
Teaching primary school students in all subjects at all levels in ENGLISH.”

I cannot tell you how much this appeals to me. This is so ME. And I have thought about this for three days straight, and I am wondering (again) if I am on the wrong track. Do I switch my major (again)? This would be switch number three (Elementary Ed to English to Healthcare Administration to…Elementary Ed). Argh!

I am now for certain considering a minor in German, as well as a minor in CIS, as well as… well, never mind! There just isn’t enough time, nor enough money!

Back to the drawing board.

The N Word

Last weekend, I got to babysit this little darling while her owner was away for a couple days. She is the dog of one of Jolene's friends. They tell me it is a little long-haired chihuahua; I had never seen anything like it. It is the tiniest little thing, and such a sweet-natured dog. She snoozed on the table beside me while I did my accounting homework. I've decided I need one just like her.

My economics teacher has a problem with using the word "need." He says you only use the N word if it is something that you need to prevent you from dying. I think in this case, however, this is an appropriate use of the word.

Not Understanding

Quote of the week:

"Umm...Is there such a thing as not understanding, but just accepting?"
-Hopeful Classmate, Microeconomics


This statement, unfortunately, sums up my own microeconomics experience to date.  The professor's response to the young lady was, "No.  Because that means you've given up on yourself."  And this was on the same day that he said that there are studies that have shown that students learn material better under teachers who are disorganized.. because they have to work harder to grasp it.  The harder you work, the better you remember it.  

Well, if that isn't a sign of hard times to come...  Let's see. We're in Week 4.. We're halfway through being halfway through.  

Little Things

“It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog.”  -Mark Twain

I’ve been thinking recently about Little Things.  And I would venture to say that Big Things are only as good as the Little Things that support them.  And as I peruse these things,  I find that I have an unofficial list of Little Things that I really value, and I have decided that they deserve to be Published.  

So here is my initial list of important Little Things.  I shall continue to contemplate the issue and add to it as inspiration strikes.  

1. Fingernail clippers


2. Tweezers


3. Ice


4. Eraser


5. USB flash drive


6. Pins


7. Keys


8. Comb


9. Blistex


10. License/ID


11. Tissue

In my opinion, these things are ones that their true value by far outweighs their market value.    Have you ever thought about how terrible life would be without tissues?  Without clippers?  Without combs?  And on and on you could go.  The market value of a good comb is about 50 cents.  But how much would you pay for one if they became so scarce that you had gone months without one (how frightening!)?  And just think how wonderful Blistex feels to chapped lips!  And ice!  One only has to go to Europe to appreciate the wonders of one little ice cube.  

I’ve often wondered how exactly non Mennonites survive without easy access to pins. Can’t open that bag?  Here..  I’ll just use my pin.  Splinter?  Hang on..  I’ll just fish out my ever-present surgical tool.   What a wonderful thing to always have handy.  Without keys and a license, you’d be stuck at home all day.  No eraser?  Oh dear…  

So what is your favorite Little Thing?

From Cockroaches to Blogging

One of my friends made a comment on how amazing it is that I write so often. This was my explanation to her and several others in that email group of why it is I write:

When I was really young (second or third grade), my mother instructed me one day that I should write my grandmother. She was quite insistent about it, in fact. And just like many people, I was struggling with what to write about. In the course of these awkward beginnings, Mom made some suggestions, and I took it and ran with it. One of the lines for which I became famous with my grandmother and aunt was this one: "We are all fine, even the cockroaches." I totally forgot about the letter and that particular line. But months later, when I visited my grandparents, I was greeted with much enthusiasm and was addressed as "The Letter Writer,” a title I found I really enjoyed. And at that young age, I quickly picked up that it was the small things like references to cockroaches that made getting a letter from me so much fun for them. This was probably my first positive experience with writing, and by golly, if it made me a celebrity with my grandmother, it really couldn't be such a bad thing! I began to enjoy writing... more so because I knew my audience enjoyed it than that I liked the process so much.

There were various writing-related incidents during my adolescent years that gave me enough affirmation for me to recognize writing as a talent, and indeed, I began to see it as something that gave me identity. In high school, fierce competition with my cousin in Typing class led to my taking a shine to keyboarding as well. So I combined the two.

One thing I did not enjoy, however, was the act of keeping a diary. I always thought that I SHOULD like it, but I never did. I have umpteen nice little journals that were given to me over the years. Every year as a New Year’s Resolution, I would determine that I WILL keep a diary this year, but it would rarely last past March. Somehow it always seemed pointless to write something that shouldn't be shared with others. If I looked back at those entries, I would always be so embarrassed that I'd take an exacto knife and cut it out of the book.

In 1998, when some of us girls took a train trip out west from Chicago to Washington state--that was the birth of a new kind of writing for me. I began to see the importance of recording the things that I experienced. We kept a journal of the trip and made it into a spiral-bound book. Looking back at the experience now, if it hadn't been for that journal, that trip would be nothing more than a vague memory and a waste of money. But now, we can always pick up the book, remember, and relive each memory. So often, we say, "I would've totally forgotten about that...."

In 2000, we did the same thing when we went to Europe. And I cannot tell you how much fun it is to have all the things we experienced in writing.

And then I started blogging, and this is where I am to date. The best thing about a blog is that it can be a topic as insignificant as the penny you found on the sidewalk or something really important. There's no pressure to make sure your audience gets a good read because those people who are reading it are there voluntarily, and if they don't want to bother with the toad in my window well, they can either skip it and go on to something else, or simply go to the next blog.

I guess writing does for me what singing does for you, Jeanene; what mentoring does for you, Dolores; what cooking does for you, Rita; what making other people think they're the best thing this side of the ocean does for you, Brenda and Amy. And so if you don't mind that I sing with no finesse or that I burn my food when I cook and turn my coasters wrong-side-up and am not good with people in general, I do not mind if you don't write as often as I do.

So yes, although I am probably just as busy as you are, writing has become such an integral part of ME that to take it away would be like a death of part of me. So no, it's not amazing, in fact. It's just me being me.

Total Meltdown

Doc’s 7-year-old daughter Isabel walked into my office this afternoon.  Her face was a picture of unhappiness.  “I am so mad,” she said.  

“What’s wrong, Isabel?” I asked.  

She pointed to the corners of her mouth, and there, on each corner was a cold sore that was having its way with her.  “Today was picture day!” she said.  

Oh.  I guess this was pretty bad.  Never mind all of her missing teeth.

I sympathized with her, and she tried to comfort herself with the thought that at least the school would have a Retake Day in about a month.  Unfortunately, according to Miss Isabel, it takes a month for her cold sores to go away.  

“It’s going in the yearbook,” she finished sadly.

“Isabel,” I said.  “It doesn’t matter.  There’s always next year, and it will replace this year’s.”  

“You don’t know what happened last year,” she said. “I had a total meltdown.”

“What happened last year?”  

“He said ‘cheese,’ and I sneezed.”    Uh oh.  I couldn’t help but laugh.  (Isabel thought I was being mean.)  

“Well, didn’t you have retakes last year?” I asked.

“Yes, but he didn’t tell me ‘cheese’ that time, and my eyes were looking like this!”  I was subjected to a Demonstration.  Oh my.  Really bad.  

I think she felt better after venting.  I know I did.  I highly enjoyed the Sad Little Tale.  

That’d be a great title for a book, don’t you think?  “He Said ‘Cheese,’ and I Sneezed.’

Are We Farming Yet?

Yesterday it was cows. Today it was a hay rake. I ask you--are we farmers or are we healthcare professionals?? Could we maybe get back to doctoring now or is that a little “out there”?

I hadn't clocked in yet. I was using the time to catch up on some reading for my economics class this morning and had the door to my office shut to keep the others out. The law of Murphy says, however, that any quiet time that is found must be disturbed. So it was no surprise when I was summoned to the telephone to speak with my boss.

“Have a busy day planned, Miss Kris?” asked the doc.

“Always,” I replied. “What’s up?”

So he informs me that he has a part for his hay rake that he needs to be picked up in Hopkinsville. And this pertains to me how? Yes. He wanted me to drive an hour and a half away to pick up a rod for his hay rake. His hay rake!! And the most amazing thing was that he just took it for granted that I’d have no objections.

“Well, just how big is this ‘part’?” I asked. “Will it fit into my car?” Oh. Well, he hadn’t thought about that. After some deliberation, he said he thought it was about seven feet long and that he was sure we should be able to somehow get it into my car, “although you might have to leave a window open.” I informed him that that would be most unfortunate if I would have to drive an hour and a half with my window open “on a day like today,” to which he agreed. Nevertheless, by my not fussing, I guess I agreed to do it.

Now luckily for me, Kim is from Hop-town, and it just so happened that she needed to go over there to pick something up from her mother’s house and to pick her boys’ winter clothes up from somewhere. So she not only volunteered to go—she begged to go. How much better could it get to not only get paid to go, but to get your gas paid for too (especially with the gas prices of today)? So it ended up working out well for all involved, for which I was very grateful. I just simply didn’t want to dedicate three of my precious hours to a hay rake.

Kim has a KIA, so she was better able to handle this thing called “a part.” But mind you, it was not seven feet long, as originally suggested by the doc—it was NINE feet long! It was a tough fit for Kim’s vehicle, but I probably would’ve had to have a flag attached to the crazy thing.

And that would’ve been cute.

Income Statements

I go to my accounting class every Tuesday night. In accounting, I expect to learn about income statements but don’t expect to so much in my microeconomics class. But we did, sure enough. My economics teacher is an interesting elderly gentleman who is most of the time not the easiest professor to follow. He says things, however, in ways that can at times be quite comical. And I enjoy those moments.

I’ve already mentioned the fried bologna sandwich discussion we had in class, so it wasn’t really a surprise that we ended up talking about blue jeans one day. The topic of discussion was what kinds of things affect the quantity that is purchased of a particular good. One factor, he says, is income. Prof B said that if he conducted a survey throughout all the college dorms and asked how many students had blue jeans and how many pairs they had, the results would come back that everyone would have about 5 or 6 pairs of jeans. Income, in this particular survey, would have no bearing on the outcome. However, if the survey asked how many students had Lucky jeans or Abercrombie and Fitch jeans, you would find a direct correlation between income level and the number of jeans the student had, i.e., high-income students would have more pairs of expensive jeans than a low-income student.

Prof B went on to say that most people cannot tell the difference in the fit of a $20 pair of Levis versus the fit of an $80 pair of A & F’s. “So why do some people spend $80 on jeans when they could spend $20?” The answer, according to Prof B, is that people buy and wear expensive jeans in order “to make an income statement.” It would be socially unacceptable to go around telling people how rich you are, so people rely on the things they wear to convey this message. This, in turn, influences who people hang out with in college (or wherever), and can even influence who a person marries.

This brought up the topic of Catholic schools who make their students wear uniforms to prevent these “income statements.” Prof B said he had a student once who had gone to a Catholic high school prior to entering college. In the course of the class discussion, he found out that unlike other former Catholic students he has had in his classes, this particular girl said she did not take her uniform off right after school, and in fact, she and her friends from school would go to the mall, etc., with their school uniforms on.

Prof B told our class that when he heard that, he thought this girl was either really weird or there was more to the story. So he asked her what school it was that she had attended. It turned out to be a Catholic school from Nashville, TN. But it wasn’t just any Catholic school—it was a Catholic school that only the VERY rich can afford to attend. So then Prof B was satisfied that this gal did indeed fit into his theories. She and her friends were doing what all other teens do—by wearing her school-specific uniform, she was doing nothing other than “making an income statement.”

I thought it was interesting and, in fact, shed some light on not only blue jean habits but also some other behaviors we are guilty of. The houses we have, the vehicles we drive, the fabric we wear—why, they’re nothing more than an income statement. Would you concur?

I must confess, I wish my income statement packed just a little more punch.

After All That

I spoke with a British chap today. I’m used to getting someone outside of the U.S. whenever I need technical support for something, but I usually end up with Panama or Mexico. So it was a little surprising and a little refreshing to speak with a Brit located in Canada. Other than that, today was ANOTHER one of those days. How many must I endure?

The infamous fax machine (which I ruined a dress over and which I had finally gotten back in working order) sprouted a new Issue. The word “Telephone” would pop up on the LCD display. Not “Tel” or “Tel/Fax,” like the manual said. No—it was “Telephone.” And there was nothing anywhere in that manual that told me what to do about it; nor was there anything anywhere on the entire world wide web that might give me a clue. So that was when I called customer support.

Now “Allen” really was one of the best support people I have talked to as far as actually listening to what I had to say. He would “Hmmm” in all the right places. Then he would murmur, ‘So sorry, but I’m going to have to put you on hold; is that alright?” Eventually after we had tried everything there was possible to try (including resetting the machine), he admitted that he had exhausted all his resources and that he “was stumped.” As it turns out, I am (of course) the first one to EVER have reported this particular problem, and as such, neither he nor his managers had anything left to try.

So after all that…a ruined dress, a ruined day, and many hours debating the best recourse... the fax machine is dead.

Needed: Reset Button, New or Used

Today was one of those days that needed to be either deleted, rebooted, reset, or erased.

When I got to work, Transcriptionist told me that Receptionist had called and wouldn’t be coming in due to some sort of family emergency. When that happens, it means that someone must fill in for Receptionist. So between Office Manager (me) and Transcriptionist, we juggled filling in up front. To begin with, we had umpteen patients cancel their appointments, probably because the weather was nice today. We were left with about five patients which always makes the Doc cross. So Medical Assistant 1 called some patients from our overloaded schedule of next week to see if they would come in today. We ended up with a total of seven, two of which were new, four of which were echoes, and one of which needed a surgical clearance letter. We figured that would keep Doc busy for a while, even though our numbers were down. Well, Doc gets there late, as usual. He sees one patient with whom he spends an incredible amount of time. I was helping Transcriptionist look for Receptionist’s supplies which were not to be found in Logical Places. We had to end up constructing some new patient charts, which made us both cross as anything because that was supposed to have been done and in Good Supply.

I could hear Doc coming because he said my name as he was coming up the hall. Never a good sign. And I knew he was not pleased. “We need to come up with a system to… yip yap yip yap yip…..” and on and on he prattled, almost at the point of yelling. I didn’t have any idea what he was referring to so I stood there silently, gazing blankly at him, letting him rant. I gave him no response—just blinked a couple extra times—and he passed on by, still muttering. I asked Medical Assistant 2 what in the world was the matter. It boiled down to the fact that when he saw patient 1, he had evidently not dictated an H&P on her initial visit, and it was deemed Missing.

Well, we see roughly 240 patients in a month. This is the first that this particular problem has ever happened because… [brace yourself] WE ALREADY HAVE A SYSTEM in place to prevent this very thing. But somehow the system was breached, and so we have to have a major crisis in the hallway in front of the patients. It is the responsibility of the Transcriptionist to see to matters such as the issue he was raising, and as she was already ill about having to fill in for Receptionist, now was not really a good time for her to be bothered. Especially because it’s like pulling teeth to get him to do what he needs to do in the first place. She says many times when she tells him to dictate something, he’ll just plop it on her desk without doing it. But that is beside the point…

It’s not so much that the conversation happened, it’s more the thing of how it happened, where it happened, and the fact that it turned into this Eternal Blame Game that the Doc loves to play. Never any fault of his own. Never say oops, correct the mistake, and go on. No. We have to throw a fit. We have to get everyone in an uproar. We have to revamp the entire system…and not tomorrow. Today! And we certainly can’t stop long enough, or in a place private enough, to discuss the situation like grown-ups.

Well, he finished his fit then said he was off to do a stress test at the hospital and that he would be back shortly. Argh. We had just started seeing patients. And they were already tired of waiting.

Well, once everything had calmed down and I had heard out Transcriptionist’s side of the story, I went back to my office to try to get something done. Foremost on the list was the memo the Doc had just ordered Medical Assistant 3 to have typed up. Yet another ignorant memo. Doc returned from the hospital and resumed seeing patients.

A short time later, I look up as Doc walks into my office. “How’s everything going, Miss Kris?” Well, quite frankly, I was still grouchy from his little fit. His mood seems to set a chain reaction throughout the whole staff, and everybody snaps at everybody. It was well-circulated that we must tread softly because he was NOT in a good mood today.

Anyway, I just shook my head, turned back to my work, and muttered, “It’s going.”

“What?”

“It’s going!” I said a little louder.

“Any problems?” he asked.

I wanted to lower my head enough so that I could peer at him over my spectacles and say in my most disgusted redneckish slang, “Whada you think?” But I didn’t.

Instead I said, “We’re just trying not to get on each other’s nerves!” I don’t know if he read anything into that or not, but he turned around and said, “Well, I’ve been sick all week and…” I tuned him out. I was like, “Talk to the hand…”

I don’t even know what his point was in coming in there, but the best thing to do is just ignore him when he gets like that. So I did.

However, it didn’t stop there. Not only do we have a grumpy Doc, but we also have a malfunctioning fax machine. I had rigged the phone lines up where we could receive faxes on Medical Assistant 1’s computer, and I was supposed to drop the fax machine off at the repair shop on the way to my 3:45 class. Because of helping to cover the front desk and helping to soothe employees’ hurt feelings and helping to come up with a New System, time flew by, and it was all of a sudden time to leave. I hadn’t had time for lunch, and I was so hungry. My lunch for the day was chili, and I thought I would just try to eat it on the way. So I hurriedly packed the fax machine into my car and then went back inside to get the rest of my belongings and to warm up my chili. And I proceeded on my way.

Now one of my summer projects was to sew new dresses. And I had made a stunning white dress. And this dress was the envy of all my other dresses, because I liked it so much. And this was the day I chose to wear it. Sharon and I have talked about the dangers of wearing white dresses, and I was very conscious of those things, and I made sure I did NOT drop chili on my nice new stunning white dress. And I arrived at the repair shop in good time …and with no chili on my dress. I gathered up the fax machine and entered the repair shop where I was relieved of the monster by a kind gentleman. But alas! I had black ink on my left arm. A huge, unforgiving blob. And horrors! I now had three blobs of black ink on the front of my stunning white dress. And that is what made me the crossest. And the gentleman in the shop expressed his concern for my black blobs on my stunning dress. And he suggested using alcohol for my removal efforts. I thanked him and proceeded on to class.

Where could I get alcohol on this side of town? And then I spotted it. A pharmacy. One that I had never noticed before. I cut through the DQ lot and rushed inside. I grabbed a bag of cotton balls and the first bottle of alcohol I found. I paid for my items and resumed my journey up the Hill.

I knew I was in bad shape when I could not wipe the ink off my arm. It was there to stay. Indeed, it looked like a very large bruise. And I pretended to have been abused and chose to devote my efforts elsewhere. And I noticed that this alcohol was not so common as to be just plain alcohol. It was rubbing alcohol with WINTERGREEN oil. And so I began to smell as if I were a wintergreen-flavored mint.

And I took a large dollop of alcohol and applied it to my dress…as suggested by the concerned man in the repair shop. Not only did the spot get larger, but it also took on a brownish tinge around the edges. Now I looked as if I had burned a hole in my dress.

And so I abandoned the project. I was not fit to appear in class. But I had to. Because I’m a stickler as far as attendance goes. And thus began Mission Cover Up. I finally figured out what the dangly straps on my backpack are for. They are there for you to fiddle with just in case you need to have a reason to have your hands placed strategically in Odd Places. I pulled the straps over the Spots, and my hands stayed there, suspended at the waist. And I fiddled with those straps the entire fifteen minute walk inside to my class. And when I sat down, I placed my backpack in my lap and squeezed up to the table as tightly as I could. It was tricky, but I pulled it off.

I did the same thing on my way back out to the car after class. And as I was walking, another girl cut in front of me. And I was distracted because I was reading the back of her shirt. It said, “There are leaders and there are followers. Please Note: You are reading the back of my shirt.” And I frowned at her shirt in disapproval… just as my foot hit [and stumbled over] the curb.

And I began to pray that God would just get me home safely. And He did. But I still want to hit the reset button.

The Next Schedule

Monday, Wednesday, Friday

English
Since I am no longer enrolled in an algebra class [for the first time in a year], I am enjoying a more relaxed school schedule this semester.  I am almost through my first week and have been to all my classes.  On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I am scheduled for my Junior English  class at 8:00 and a Microeconomics class directly following it at 9:10.  

At the last minute, the University switched English teachers on me.  I found out the night before classes started.  I had been scheduled to take the teacher I most wanted!  I had read all her reviews and had even checked out her personal website.  I was excited to be taking her.  And then the big switch!  Oh, but I was ILL about it the night before, and I “stomped” up the hill the next morning all out of sorts and prepared for the worst.  It was rather disconcerting to find myself actually liking the new prof.  The professor assigned to my class turned out to be Dr. W.  She had been teaching at the University of Arizona, and her specialty is linguistics.  She’s the type of teacher who just beams at the class.  She almost always has a smile on her face.  She is 53 years old and seems to be quite jolly.  

Unlike my Music Appreciation teacher, Dr. W invited us to bring coffee to class.  She also said she just doesn’t think it’s  very wise to be writing on all these controversial topics like abortion or homosexuality  because writing in anger just isn’t a good thing.  I can whole-heartedly support that position as I very much dislike writing about controversial issues.  The second day of class, she said she’s going to make a change to the syllabus…a change that she didn’t think we’d mind.  She said she will not be giving us pop quizzes after all or make us keep a Reader’s Response Journal.  Since we’re Juniors, she said, we’re old enough to know why we’re here, and she doesn’t think she needs to add those things to make our load any heavier.  Praise God!  The lady gets better by the day!  

We will have some shorter writing assignments in the first part of the semester like writing summaries, critiques, etc., on certain articles.  Articles that “are not too dry,” she said.  She is going to go through our book and weed everything out that she wouldn’t enjoy reading herself, and at the end of the semester, we can give her feedback and tell her which articles we did not enjoy reading.  The rest of the semester we will spend on the process of writing a research paper.  She is going to walk us through it, step by painful step.  And there will be no final.  Ahh…  I am so happy to change my attitude about the professor, for a good professor is hard to find!

Microeconomics
My Microeconomics teacher, unfortunately, is not quite what I was hoping to find.  Mr. B seems to be a very likable guy, but he’s not the warm and friendly type.  He doesn’t give us good notes on the board and he doesn’t seem to be basing his stuff on the textbook either.  When I sat down the first day, I silently challenged him to please awaken a dormant love for economics within me.  But so far, I haven’t felt any love flowing.  He doesn’t mind calling on people, that’s for sure, and he sure didn’t hesitate to call on me.  I was still writing the problem down on my paper when he called on me, and I hadn’t processed it a bit.  So I just popped out with, “Well, you reduced the y quantity to 80; therefore the x quantity has to be less than….  Whatever it was.”  Well, it was close enough, I guess, that I got myself off the hook, even though I was clueless about it.  Well, he asked another poor little girl about the next problem.  Her answer was, “Well, it’s exactly what she [meaning me] said….”  Ha ha.  She was clueless too.  

Mr B is the only one of my professors this semester who does not have an attendance policy.  “When you buy a sweater at Dillards,” he said as his reason for not requiring attendance, “they don’t call you up on the phone to make sure you’re wearing it.”  He figures as long as you’ve paid for the class, it’s up to you whether or not you attend.  He goes off on a tangent sometimes, like discussing fried bologna sandwiches.  According to one of my classmates, you can buy a fried bologna sandwich in a restaurant in a little town near White House, TN.  Mr. B is going to go there to see.    I’ve never even had a fried bologna sandwich, but Mr. B says Western used to serve them a long time ago.  This is the class that will present me with the most difficulty, I think.  I’ll have to work to stay on top of the material. I fear this one could be the one that I’ll blow my GPA on.  

After this class, I go back to work and work for as long as I can stand it.  I’m at work by 10:30 a.m.  Not too bad, I think.

Tuesday, Thursday

Music Appreciation
Tuesdays and Thursdays at 3:45, I have a Music Appreciation class.  This is the professor that Sharon took a year ago.  Remember my “parking lot stalker” of last semester?  It turns out that this professor and the stalker are one and the same (oops).  He is also the one I ran into twice who thought I was Sharon and spoke to me as if I were.  The second time, I didn’t let him talk very much before I informed him that I had signed up for his class in the fall.  He did a double take and said, “But you already took my class.”  I said the usual, “No.  That was my sister Sharon.”  He was amazed.  
When I entered the class for the first time, he saw me and made his way to the back table where I was sitting and introduced himself.  “I’m Mr. G,” he said.  “Tell me your name again.”  So I did.  “And your sister’s name?”  Sharon.  “I thought so,” he said, “but I wasn’t sure.”  

Along with about 65 other students in Music, I saw Tony from my Math 100 class and Thomas from my Art 100 class.  And while it is good to see familiar faces, my heart sank when I saw Thomas.  If there is ONE person I wouldn’t want to ever take a class with again, it is Thomas.  He is the type who skips class or leaves halfway through; when he was in class, he and his buddies would talk and whisper and play games on their cell phones and even went so far as to make a cell phone call during class once.  The teacher never saw them, but it made it SO annoying for those of us who sat in their vicinity.  One girl even got up and moved to the front row.  Thankfully, I think Mr. G is a little more hawk-eyed than my Art teacher was, and I don’t think that will be happening.  Also, in Mr. G’s class, we have assigned seating, so he couldn’t pick his partners in crime this time.  

Financial Accounting
My Accounting class meets only on Tuesdays from 6:00 to 8:45.  The book that I need for the class is one I bought on eBay.  The seller had a mental lapse and forgot to send it to me.  So for now, I’m bookless and grouchy about it.  I hope it comes tomorrow.  Anyway, I think once I get the book and can start the homework, I’ll be fine.  I’ve already made two friends in that class.  

Because Accounting only meets once a week on Tuesdays, Thursdays are my lightest days, schedule-wise.  

The best thing about this semester is that NONE of my professors did the painful introduction thing where you have to turn to a classmate and find out an unusual factoid about them, then introduce them to the class.  I dislike awkward situations.