My first received email as an “instructor” all by myself for undergraduates seeking to become middle school teachers. Subject Heading: Professor Hughes. OH YEH! I clicked on the email thinking to myself how LONG it would be until I could actually call myself “professor” Hughes, but I clicked with excited anticipation anyway. “Professor Hughes,” one of my precious undergrad preservice teachers wrote, “I will not be able to attend your first class this Friday because one of my close friends just passed and I am signing in the funeral.”
It’s 7:00PM three nights before my first class teaching undergrads EVER and she addresses me as professor. Dignified, I think to myself. Respectable. Freakin’ Hysterical! I like it. I can do it. I WILL BE a professor one day, I think to myself with honorable and exhausted pride. My response to my student was something about how she could just call me Hilary as I was not a professor just yet, but I liked the sound of it (she could give a hoot, I’m sure), and something about how honorable it was that she was singing for her friend’s funeral, and if “there was anything I could do, just let me know.” Like she was going to call me and say, “Well, actually, could you bring a dish to the after-party?” (or whatever those things are called). What are they called? Wakes? Post-funeral-supper? Whatever.
And then it’s Friday morning. 6:00AM. Three days later. Morning of my first class as a college instructor. NPR is playing in the background; I’ve just exited the shower, have my brand new suit skirt on with a linen sleeveless shirt to accompany the skirt (professional, but not Too professional, as I will be leaving the suit jacket at home due to the ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT degree weather—no joke, people, it’s been HELL, literally). SO, I’m applying my last coat of mascara (a few extra coats, I’ve decided, to make myself more…distinguished? No hooker jokes here…), and I’m looking into the mirror doing that thing that most of us probably NEVER tell others: I’m looking at myself saying (in my head) “You can do this. You are a soon-to-be professor—that one girl even said so. You look professional and old enough to be doing this. These college kids will NOT eat you alive. You can do this. You taught 7th and 8th graders for God’s sake! You can do ANYTHING!” I’m serious, by the way. I’m not just writing this to enhance the story. This self dialogue was taking place in my head and any of you who had to face this class that I was going to teach would have been doing the SAME DAMNED THING! So anyway, I’m Dr. Phil-ing myself into security while at the same time absently listening to the morning story on NPR. The story just happens to be about a mother who has survived THREE different cancers (did any of you hear this one? Freakin’ tear jerker, right?) and they’ve asked her to have an open conversation on NPR about what it meant for her son growing up with her going through the horrors of three cancers. His fears, her fears…you get the tear-freaking jerking gist, right?
So there I am, leaning into the mirror to get a closer look at this one eyelash that won’t cooperate on my first day and match the “look” I’m going for with my suit and linen and shit, and I hear a mother and a son having a conversation about her cancer and what that means for their relationship. (Can you guess what’s happening by now? If you guessed water in eyes and non-water-proof black stuff, you win the prize.) At the same time I’m leaning into the mirror to get that ONE eyelash to cooperate with my Ultra-black mascara, I’m fighting off the quivering lips and tear-filled eyes. There I was. 6:15AM on my first day as a “pseudo” professor/undergraduate instructor.
Crying.
From an NPR story.
Trying to cowboy up in my new duds.
Crying.
My cat sitting behind me with that confused look on her face communicating her true annoyance (like she’s giving me right now as I write to you instead of challenging her to a game of ‘fishing pole’) of my tears instead of our usual game of 6AM chase around the house. Oh, but the tear-stained face is just the beginning of my first professional day as a new teacher.
You know those reality TV comedian shows they have now where you get to see the REALLY bad comedians trying out for the shows? And they say something horrible and everyone in the audience just sits there. And you can insert crickets into the silence to calm the mood? Do you have that visual in your head? Good.
That was my first class.
Twenty students averaging twenty years of age. Straight-faced. No smirks, no smiles, no nothin! Eight in the morning after a long summer, I’m sure. No coffee yet because they woke up too late to have time to stop for some. And me. With my tear-stained face in my new suit skirt and cute linen sleeveless top fumbling around this horrible room that’s too small for all of us—a room with NO personality--talking to people with NO personality, (save their amazing instructor) and cracking myself up for about an hour straight. And I mean CRACKING myself up. Slapping my knee after some comments. Looking around the room after something FUNNY as HELL was said…um….BY ME…. and seeing the most sullen faces staring back at me in the history of sullen-ness. Seriously, will this be my life? First day jitters? No chance. First day WHAT THE HELL was more like it! All I kept thinking to myself was, “I could go out and grab twenty other people who would think I was freakin’ funny you freaks!” Fun first day.
After that wonderful first class, I went home and set up the email communication that I’d have with my students, set up our web course that we’ll be using, and emailed their first assignment to them (along with fifteen other emails just to chat—y’all know how I love the email) and around 7:00PM with my last email (seriously, this had to be done for them for the purpose of the course), I made some off-the-cuff comment about how I’d been on line trying to figure out the whole WebCT thing (our online course stuff at UGA) for hours while they were probably out being social. Then I made some depressing comment about “Oh, how our lives change as we grow older…with me at home at 7 trying to figure out computer stuff and you all out on the town.” The FIRST email I get back from a student: blah, blah, blah, “Oh, and by the way, Hilary…our going out fun doesn’t start till 10 or after usually.” Oh, good Lord! Of course it doesn’t. Drat! Foiled again! Couldn’t even respond to that one. L-O-S-E-R old lady…
Later that night (probably not even 10 yet when they’d all be beginning their evenings—more like 9, probably): watching TV—High School Musical II—don’t laugh—it’s good. Watching the debut with breaks during commercials where the stars are giving some insight to the making of the movie. Me? What am I doing during the movie and commentary? Oh, I’m dabbing my eyes trying to get rid of the fresh tears that have developed from the greatest love story EVER on the new High School Musical. Loser? You betcha! And I’m not talkin’ misty-eyed here, folks; I’m talkin’ tears streaming down the eyes multiple times during the cheesy sing-alongs with the two main kids…whatever in the hell their names were, little bastards.
And here I sit, one year forward in my PhD program. Maybe just a little smarter than I was just one year ago, yet feeling a decade behind in my astute-ness with this generation of new people who are NOTHING like me. My 7th and 8th graders were so simple. Drama, reacting in big ways to nonsense, and more drama. I fit right in. This age group—who knows. We’ll see if my immaturity stirs the crickets in the room to become those frogs that are so obnoxious you can’t even listen to them on those educational CDs.
Last year: vocabulary words so large I thought they might knock me off my big plan-pedestal of hope because I felt so….dumb……
This year: need to get waterproof mascara; keep up the suit skirts; learn how to NOT cry when watching horribly cheesy movies about teenage love; and acknowledge that my own classes have started and I will have to endure the HELL of being a PhD student at the same time as I endure the torture of twenty students who might not think I’m as funny as I think I am. What in the hell is the world coming to?
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Friday, August 3, 2007
Boy Bands, Michael Stipe, and Millsy
So there I was on a Tuesday night. Eleven thirty post mortem (just kidding—I know it’s meridiem and it’s Latin and it means after noon or something like that…ok? Get off my back, people) at this bar called the 40 Watt, owned by the one and only Michael Stipe (REM guy). My friend Mills was in town visiting from CO, and he and his friend wanted to paint the town red (and black) because they had both gone to UGA for their undergrad. After they took me on a small tour of down town (hello…only lived here a year…what do you expect?), we went to 40 Watt to see this guy who once was the guitarist for Drive-by Truckers (you know that band, right? Yeah, me too) but left that band to start his own band.
So there I am. Front row. Arms above my head swaying to the five member band all dressed in brown and light blue plaid button-ups and jeans with holes in the knees (for effect?). My eyes are closed and I’m lightly falling back and forth a little too much so that I accidentally keep hip-bumping the guy next to me, who probably has a crush on me, but there is no way I could notice this because I’m so infatuated with the band. Not one member in the band; the whole band. And then I look to the left and I see me again.
There I am on a Tuesday night arguing with my girlfriends about who is going to drive home or who is going to by the next pack of smokes or who is going to put the next pitcher of Bud Light on her tab. All of us talking as if no one else is in the establishment and using our most lady-like inside voices and word choice.
Oh, you mean you thought that girl was actually me standing front row swaying drunkenly in front of the twelve-year-olds playing in the band? No, no. The real me was standing in the middle of the nineteen and twenty-year-old crowd about fifteen people deep from the band—SOBER—watching with wide eyes as my past unfolded rapidly in front of me. You wanna talk about being zapped back into time and instantly being able to reminisce your college days? Those were mine. Obsessed with the local boy bands and front row to watch them every night wherever they were playing. This band was so similar to my boy bands in that every single song they played sounded JUST LIKE the one before, only with either a slower or faster pace on the drums and bass. I actually think my boy bands were a bit better looking than this one, but at thirty-three, sober, and engulfed by drunk college kids screaming as if they were at a Pearl Jam concert it was all the same.
Oh, and the kid behind me (wasted) who “LOVED” that one song and kept screaming for them to sing it again…you know the ones… “PLLLAAAYYY BLAH BLAH AGAAAIIINNNN!” “GOD, I LOVE THESE GUYS! HELL YES! PLAY BLAH BLAH YOU ASSHOLES! GOD THESE GUYS ARE GOOD! DUDE, PLAY BLAH BLAH! JESUS I LOVE THIS BAND!” That was him. He was there. Right behind me. Or rather, right ON me, behind me, swaying gracefully with his sloshing beer and his ultimate and devoted love for HIS band. He was there, indeed. I finally turned around (gently, mind you…I understand that I was once to this kid’s right on a date with him or something thinking he was right on and wonderful for yelling so passionately) and said, “Wow, you REALLY love these guys, don’t you? Know ALL the words to their songs, too, huh?” his precious little glazed over eyes tried to focus in on mine as he smiled with a bit of drool on one side of his kegged out lips and replied, “Ohhh, sdskagoasdghawoifa.” And then walked off. What? Do you think I was trying to cover up a curse word by using random letters? No. I was just trying to capture completely for you what I heard come out of this youngster’s mouth while he thought he was the most articulate person in that bar at that moment. Too cute. Only for a few minutes, though.
I guess the only difference between my past experiences from college and this night (aside from the fact that I was in Macon, GA in college, not Athens, GA, and I would have never been sober in this kind of situation) was the fact that this bar was smoke-free. Well, they had the best intentions of being smoke-free, anyway. That is, until the band decided (after their sixth or seventh shot of whisky in just one set in between their “light” beers) that they all wanted a smoke. So they just lit up. Right there while they were playing. All of them. What do twenty-year-olds (and yes, I mean twenty…there was no way in hell these kids were old enough to drink…) do when they see their idols light up in a smoke-free bar? Go outside and smoke? Not quite. In a matter of two minutes about thirty kids were smoking cigarettes. BUT holding them down by their legs as to HIDE them from the fifteen bouncers circling the place. Brilliant, the youth of our time. Truly brilliant. I bet in an inside establishment they’ll NEVER see the smoke if you hold the cigarette by your leg instead of waving it in the air to cheer your band. Alcohol adds that last step of intelligence for most of us, doesn’t it. That moment when you have the best idea you’ve ever had and you must act on it right now. And then you’re sober the next day either thinking, where am I (for those who need to stop drinking yesterday) or, man, I thought it was SUCH a good idea last night to hide my cigarette by my leg so I could smoke inside a smoke-free building with thousands of bouncers and people who hate smoke. That was so stupid. And then you laugh. That’s what we did most of the time the day after, anyway; I’m not sure what you did.
So there I was on a Tuesday night. Standing outside (as we were leaving to go home and go to sleep and leave the early hours of the morning to the college professionals) talking to some twenty-one-year olds (“I SWARE I’m twenty-one. Here, check my ID!”) asking them about their majors and such while my friend Mills stood behind the goofy teens shaking his head that I would be so bold as to associate with the vagrants of our youth. It was pretty funny, I have to say. But when you’re looking for a good time, why not reel in some drunken kids and act as if what they have to say is interesting? Try it sometime. Good weeknight entertainment if you’re bored.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Can't Touch This
1/4/07
Do you ever wish you had a theme song? Not the ones when the band follows you around playing it like in I’m Gonna Get You Sucka (great flick, by the way), but the kind you hear in a wonderful movie that fits the moment just perfectly…and a tear—or two—might trickle down your cheek….maybe?
Even if the thought hasn’t crossed your mind (which, let’s face it, if we’re all honest, I’m sure it probably has crossed most of your minds once or twice in…well….the last week or two?) could there be a song that fits a certain time in your life? A song that when you’re flying on a plane and looking out the small window into the skyline as you’re about to land and you see the most perfect pink clouds you think you could ever see (outside of a small plane window) might accompany the moment nicely?
Or a song for that moment when you’re walking down the street and you are finally getting a few moments to yourself: no significant other, no kids, no chatty friends, no family members or work colleagues…just you and the outside bustle…isn’t there a song that could easily float through your head to help you skip along to that wonderful beat in your feet?
What a bout a song for when you’re sitting on your favorite couch or chair in the late afternoon or evening and you’re pondering the day’s or week’s events. You’re just sitting there, not wanting to move, exhausted, overworked, underpaid, wanting something more or just wanting some freaking sleep and that song serendipitously plays. You sit and you stare. You think to yourself: This song was written for me right now. This moment. This is MY song.
Okay, so maybe that doesn’t happen to those of you who aren’t music people (who aren’t music people? I don’t think I’m friends with those people). But it’s been happening to me these past three or four weeks over my break. I’ve had so many damned songs that were “written for me” that I think everyone has been reading my emails that I’ve been sending you all and they’ve all released songs to fit my different life themes. Well…I mean…because…it IS all about…..me…..right? I…..mean…..am I wrong here?
As I was on my flight back from Chicago and we were landing yesterday, Dido was playing in my ears (not imagined…on the ipod) and I glanced out my teeny tiny window and saw that pink hew and knew that someone needed to be at home with me because that’s what she was singing in my head. I couldn’t really figure out who had wronged me at that moment and needed to be back with me so I could sleep because that’s what she was claiming, but I knew it had to be for me…about me….somehow…didn’t it?
As I searched iTunes relentlessly at midnight last night, I heard Depeche Mode telling me to find my own personal Jesus and, well, I ignored him, but I loved listening to him sing to ME. KT Tunstall has been one who could have been me lately, too. I’m actually listening to her as I write this to you now. Not only has her Cherry Tree and Black Horse had an impact on my spirit, but all of her other smashing, sometimes-down-sometimes-perky hits. She’s good. Oh yes, she’s good. When I listen to all of these people belt out my life story, no matter whether it comes from the 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, or today (no way I’m saying the 90s because that music sucked), I understand writing on a whole new level. The people who write the lyrics that make me think they’re writing my life down on paper are in reality, probably writing their own lives down. They too have been wronged, cheated on, left, loved, happy, nostalgic, lost, sad, romantic, sexy, imperfect, perfect, stalked, bored, elated, and alone…all in one freaking week! Just like me….
On a different note:
While I was in Chicago, I had the weirdest thing happen since I’ve started my PhD program. I was at a friend of a friend’s house and I met this very odd couple. (Someone should write a story about that…an odd couple…I bet that’d be funny…) The guy was very tall and had eyeballs that didn’t seem to blink. He was kind of goofy acting and, well, didn’t blink, just kind of leaned down and in my face—without blinking while he talked—and asked lots of questions. His date was normal looking, but a bit stuffy acting. They asked me what I did and I responded with my normal statement: “I’m in college.” They smiled at one another in an, “Oh, how cute that is that she’s thirty something and still in school” look, and then I replied to the girl, “So, girl, what do you do?” (I didn’t call her girl. I’m using that name for the purpose of this re-telling…jeez) Where she promptly tilted her dark curly head back with a smirk and replied, “Oh, well, I’m afraid I’m going to be a lifetime student. I’m working on my PhD.”
“Oh,” I said excitedly, “I am too! That’s why I’m in college. I’m working on my PhD in education at University of Georgia! What are you studying?” (Imagine how nerdy and excited I am here when I respond with this last line. I mean, I’m now smitten with this new friend and my excitement is a bit overdone.)
Her smug look quickly disappears and she says, “Oh, well. I actually have my masters in art. From University of Chicago. I teach undergraduate courses, you see. I hope to work on my PhD some day.” HUH? What? HUH? You mean you’re standing in front of someone whom you shouldn’t give a shit about and whom you’ve known for five minutes and you’ve just LIED about what you do in your life? HUH? What? At that moment, that recent song entitled CRAZY pops into my head. You know that one that they play all the time now? Not Patsy Cline—that new dude. Anyway, I smiled and turned to eat my shrimp cocktail and stare at the Christmas décor on the floor. I want to pull my grocery cart moves out and “Can’t Touch This” out the door, but I keep my composure and tell myself that everyone has reasons for what they say and do. (Ok, no I didn’t. I thought, WHAT A FREAKING LOSER! and continued to giggle to myself the rest of the night.)
So as I begin my second semester in my REAL PhD program, I sit here and think of all of the amazing people in my life. I have loved ones in Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Illinois, Massachusetts, Michigan, New Mexico, Arizona, North Carolina and I’m sure a few other places that I can’t remember the guys’ names (just kiddin’ daddy) and I think about how you all have songs that go with you, to me. They all match you with me. It’s nice. It’s comforting to me here in Athens, GA while I’m tackling big things in my life by myself. Being able to write to you these past months has given me the mental support that I’ve needed because it’s my way to keep my spirits high and let you know that I think of you often and miss you. Well, not really you, Duncan, but I have to include you so you won’t respond with some dumb comment. Thanks for reading, and you’ll be reading from me soon, I’m sure, as I plunge forward in to semester two, year one. And for those of you who don’t really read these and say, “Jesus, these are too long. I’ll just read it later.” and never do. Well… Just keep doing that and I’ll keep sending them. You know what “delete” looks like, jerk. Just hit the damned key!
Love, love, love,
HEH
Do you ever wish you had a theme song? Not the ones when the band follows you around playing it like in I’m Gonna Get You Sucka (great flick, by the way), but the kind you hear in a wonderful movie that fits the moment just perfectly…and a tear—or two—might trickle down your cheek….maybe?
Even if the thought hasn’t crossed your mind (which, let’s face it, if we’re all honest, I’m sure it probably has crossed most of your minds once or twice in…well….the last week or two?) could there be a song that fits a certain time in your life? A song that when you’re flying on a plane and looking out the small window into the skyline as you’re about to land and you see the most perfect pink clouds you think you could ever see (outside of a small plane window) might accompany the moment nicely?
Or a song for that moment when you’re walking down the street and you are finally getting a few moments to yourself: no significant other, no kids, no chatty friends, no family members or work colleagues…just you and the outside bustle…isn’t there a song that could easily float through your head to help you skip along to that wonderful beat in your feet?
What a bout a song for when you’re sitting on your favorite couch or chair in the late afternoon or evening and you’re pondering the day’s or week’s events. You’re just sitting there, not wanting to move, exhausted, overworked, underpaid, wanting something more or just wanting some freaking sleep and that song serendipitously plays. You sit and you stare. You think to yourself: This song was written for me right now. This moment. This is MY song.
Okay, so maybe that doesn’t happen to those of you who aren’t music people (who aren’t music people? I don’t think I’m friends with those people). But it’s been happening to me these past three or four weeks over my break. I’ve had so many damned songs that were “written for me” that I think everyone has been reading my emails that I’ve been sending you all and they’ve all released songs to fit my different life themes. Well…I mean…because…it IS all about…..me…..right? I…..mean…..am I wrong here?
As I was on my flight back from Chicago and we were landing yesterday, Dido was playing in my ears (not imagined…on the ipod) and I glanced out my teeny tiny window and saw that pink hew and knew that someone needed to be at home with me because that’s what she was singing in my head. I couldn’t really figure out who had wronged me at that moment and needed to be back with me so I could sleep because that’s what she was claiming, but I knew it had to be for me…about me….somehow…didn’t it?
As I searched iTunes relentlessly at midnight last night, I heard Depeche Mode telling me to find my own personal Jesus and, well, I ignored him, but I loved listening to him sing to ME. KT Tunstall has been one who could have been me lately, too. I’m actually listening to her as I write this to you now. Not only has her Cherry Tree and Black Horse had an impact on my spirit, but all of her other smashing, sometimes-down-sometimes-perky hits. She’s good. Oh yes, she’s good. When I listen to all of these people belt out my life story, no matter whether it comes from the 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, or today (no way I’m saying the 90s because that music sucked), I understand writing on a whole new level. The people who write the lyrics that make me think they’re writing my life down on paper are in reality, probably writing their own lives down. They too have been wronged, cheated on, left, loved, happy, nostalgic, lost, sad, romantic, sexy, imperfect, perfect, stalked, bored, elated, and alone…all in one freaking week! Just like me….
On a different note:
While I was in Chicago, I had the weirdest thing happen since I’ve started my PhD program. I was at a friend of a friend’s house and I met this very odd couple. (Someone should write a story about that…an odd couple…I bet that’d be funny…) The guy was very tall and had eyeballs that didn’t seem to blink. He was kind of goofy acting and, well, didn’t blink, just kind of leaned down and in my face—without blinking while he talked—and asked lots of questions. His date was normal looking, but a bit stuffy acting. They asked me what I did and I responded with my normal statement: “I’m in college.” They smiled at one another in an, “Oh, how cute that is that she’s thirty something and still in school” look, and then I replied to the girl, “So, girl, what do you do?” (I didn’t call her girl. I’m using that name for the purpose of this re-telling…jeez) Where she promptly tilted her dark curly head back with a smirk and replied, “Oh, well, I’m afraid I’m going to be a lifetime student. I’m working on my PhD.”
“Oh,” I said excitedly, “I am too! That’s why I’m in college. I’m working on my PhD in education at University of Georgia! What are you studying?” (Imagine how nerdy and excited I am here when I respond with this last line. I mean, I’m now smitten with this new friend and my excitement is a bit overdone.)
Her smug look quickly disappears and she says, “Oh, well. I actually have my masters in art. From University of Chicago. I teach undergraduate courses, you see. I hope to work on my PhD some day.” HUH? What? HUH? You mean you’re standing in front of someone whom you shouldn’t give a shit about and whom you’ve known for five minutes and you’ve just LIED about what you do in your life? HUH? What? At that moment, that recent song entitled CRAZY pops into my head. You know that one that they play all the time now? Not Patsy Cline—that new dude. Anyway, I smiled and turned to eat my shrimp cocktail and stare at the Christmas décor on the floor. I want to pull my grocery cart moves out and “Can’t Touch This” out the door, but I keep my composure and tell myself that everyone has reasons for what they say and do. (Ok, no I didn’t. I thought, WHAT A FREAKING LOSER! and continued to giggle to myself the rest of the night.)
So as I begin my second semester in my REAL PhD program, I sit here and think of all of the amazing people in my life. I have loved ones in Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Illinois, Massachusetts, Michigan, New Mexico, Arizona, North Carolina and I’m sure a few other places that I can’t remember the guys’ names (just kiddin’ daddy) and I think about how you all have songs that go with you, to me. They all match you with me. It’s nice. It’s comforting to me here in Athens, GA while I’m tackling big things in my life by myself. Being able to write to you these past months has given me the mental support that I’ve needed because it’s my way to keep my spirits high and let you know that I think of you often and miss you. Well, not really you, Duncan, but I have to include you so you won’t respond with some dumb comment. Thanks for reading, and you’ll be reading from me soon, I’m sure, as I plunge forward in to semester two, year one. And for those of you who don’t really read these and say, “Jesus, these are too long. I’ll just read it later.” and never do. Well… Just keep doing that and I’ll keep sending them. You know what “delete” looks like, jerk. Just hit the damned key!
Love, love, love,
HEH
Thinking about you dudes bringin' me down and Type Two Errors with my null hypothesis on a Tuesday night
Do you ever find yourself sitting around while reading the paper or watching the "news" wondering who the people are who conduct the "studies" that we read about, listen to on NPR, or watch on the 6:00 news (when we're not watching what Paris wore to jail, of course)? I haven't. I'm serious. I have NEVER cared who conducts those kinds of weird-ass studies where they ask one thousand people some questions, figure out what they all thought about the questions, and then had to figure out how to tell people like me about it. Never. Ever. I could have cared less. And I certainly didn't think about the ways in which they analyzed their data or the methods they used to come up with their analysis. I mean, who among you does care about that useless stuff? (OK, I know there are one or two, so just take me with a grain of salt...or No Salt, because that's better for your heart, I hear.)
Well, look no further, people. Your statistician has come forth. I will be so well versed in formulas such as sigma divided by the square root of N; finding confidence intervals with various confidence levels; and trying to avoid Type I and Type II Errors in my null hypothesis that you won't know what hit you when I come your way. This is serious stuff. And I'll have serious answers. Through formulas. And pictures of hills, as I call them; but, I guess they're really called frequencies or bell curves. But they look like freakin' hills to me. And they have "TAILS," if you can believe it! Tails on either sides of the hills, for goodness sake! Whatever those are for...
I mean, are these people SERIOUS? Who the HELL thinks this way? ( I was in my stats professor's office today going over addition and subtraction--just kidding--going over class stuff, and I said that statement to him--about no one in the country thinking this way--and he replied in his best Joe Pesci way, because he looks JUST like him, "Well, actually, MOST Americans think this way. Maybe just not you.") What the hell, Joe Pesci? Give a poor (and righteous) language arts lover a break, why don'tcha?
I spent about twenty nine hours this past weekend with my brand new book: The Complete Idiot's Guide to Statistics, delving in to the minds of those of you who are...um.....different than me? The majority, other than me? ORRRRRR, those of you who shouldn't be the hosts or hostess of dinner parties where people like me are coming. YO, I'm serious! Angie, Jaymee, Denise, Jake, J, and whomever else thinks this way, is this how you people put things into terms? Is this how you make sense of your professional world when thinking about life? If so, seeee yaaaaa! I can NO LONGER be friends with those of you who dream in Greek freaking syllables, squares, square roots, z, t, and f distributions, and freakin' bell curves that confuse people!
And thank GOD, by the way, for my sorority and them making us learn that God-awful song about the Greek alphabet. Because, people, that was the ONLY background knowledge this little qualitative-lovin', descriptive writing, non-loving-non-abled-math girl had on the first day of statistics class. I mean, do I reject the null or do I fail to reject the null? What kind of bull-crap is that? Why can't quantitative researchers balls up and make a claim about whether the hypothesis they were testing is ACCEPTED? They have to be all ambiguous and either REJECT it or FAIL to REJECT it. Whatever, dude. This is a fun game for me. A new "foreign" language (which my professor informed us used to be classified as a foreign language requirement at UGA years ago...let's see....I can take Spanish, Latin, French, or Statistics this semester...hmmmmm....); A new way to challenge myself, so-to-speak.
Just to let you all know, I've been in my professor's office already for a few tutorials; I have two different stats tutors whom I've met with already; I've read The Complete Idiot's Guide THREE times through; and I have a site that I refer to each day for a few hours to comfort me through some stats problems and review............ Oh......................................
And we've only been in class a week. OK, only two days...but it seems like a year already!
The other class that's keeping me from drowning myself due to the pressure/formulas of the stats class is a wonderful Feminist Methodology course. Yes, yes, people: there is a WHOLE class on feminism, feminist theory, and how dudes continue to bring us down, ladies! It's an amazing class where we have about 100 pages a night to read, but it's all worth it. All about how you guys continue to keep a good girl down, so I'll have plenty to say when I've completed the short four week course. (Oh, wait, I guess I've established via email and past friendships that I already have plenty to say...it'll just be about different stuff, I guess.)
OK, enough. I need to go compare two populations and see if I get to reject the null or fail to reject the null with my level of significance at 5%. (Stats people, you KNOW you're diggin' this...) and then call my dad at 2am, tell him men suck and hang up on him to stand up for the rights of my fellow sisters!
I figure, after all is said and done at the end of the summer, I'll be a post-modern feminist who can live in a positivist / non-sorority-Greek lettered / two or more comparative-population-numbered world, as long as I remind those who still come from the Enlightenment and continue to bring me and mine down that they are no longer the dominant norm in my subjugated sample mean of a society.
Just kidding. What I meant to say is: when all is said and done, in two more months, I'll know a shit-tone of formulas and still be a single, white, female--and, I guess be more aware of it...
If you all don't hear from me for a few months (well, I know it might be a nice relief for a few of you...), then check the local newspaper of Athens, GA (I'm not sure if we have one, but if we do, look online) and see if there is a single, white female, age 33, who has either drowned herself, jumped off a small cliff in the north GA mountains, or checked herself into a rehab treatment center with Paris, Brittany, Nicole, and whomever else has those little ugly dogs. What, do you think I'm going to "do" statistics sober? Heellloooooo!
Cheers! Hilary
Well, look no further, people. Your statistician has come forth. I will be so well versed in formulas such as sigma divided by the square root of N; finding confidence intervals with various confidence levels; and trying to avoid Type I and Type II Errors in my null hypothesis that you won't know what hit you when I come your way. This is serious stuff. And I'll have serious answers. Through formulas. And pictures of hills, as I call them; but, I guess they're really called frequencies or bell curves. But they look like freakin' hills to me. And they have "TAILS," if you can believe it! Tails on either sides of the hills, for goodness sake! Whatever those are for...
I mean, are these people SERIOUS? Who the HELL thinks this way? ( I was in my stats professor's office today going over addition and subtraction--just kidding--going over class stuff, and I said that statement to him--about no one in the country thinking this way--and he replied in his best Joe Pesci way, because he looks JUST like him, "Well, actually, MOST Americans think this way. Maybe just not you.") What the hell, Joe Pesci? Give a poor (and righteous) language arts lover a break, why don'tcha?
I spent about twenty nine hours this past weekend with my brand new book: The Complete Idiot's Guide to Statistics, delving in to the minds of those of you who are...um.....different than me? The majority, other than me? ORRRRRR, those of you who shouldn't be the hosts or hostess of dinner parties where people like me are coming. YO, I'm serious! Angie, Jaymee, Denise, Jake, J, and whomever else thinks this way, is this how you people put things into terms? Is this how you make sense of your professional world when thinking about life? If so, seeee yaaaaa! I can NO LONGER be friends with those of you who dream in Greek freaking syllables, squares, square roots, z, t, and f distributions, and freakin' bell curves that confuse people!
And thank GOD, by the way, for my sorority and them making us learn that God-awful song about the Greek alphabet. Because, people, that was the ONLY background knowledge this little qualitative-lovin', descriptive writing, non-loving-non-abled-math girl had on the first day of statistics class. I mean, do I reject the null or do I fail to reject the null? What kind of bull-crap is that? Why can't quantitative researchers balls up and make a claim about whether the hypothesis they were testing is ACCEPTED? They have to be all ambiguous and either REJECT it or FAIL to REJECT it. Whatever, dude. This is a fun game for me. A new "foreign" language (which my professor informed us used to be classified as a foreign language requirement at UGA years ago...let's see....I can take Spanish, Latin, French, or Statistics this semester...hmmmmm....); A new way to challenge myself, so-to-speak.
Just to let you all know, I've been in my professor's office already for a few tutorials; I have two different stats tutors whom I've met with already; I've read The Complete Idiot's Guide THREE times through; and I have a site that I refer to each day for a few hours to comfort me through some stats problems and review............ Oh......................................
And we've only been in class a week. OK, only two days...but it seems like a year already!
The other class that's keeping me from drowning myself due to the pressure/formulas of the stats class is a wonderful Feminist Methodology course. Yes, yes, people: there is a WHOLE class on feminism, feminist theory, and how dudes continue to bring us down, ladies! It's an amazing class where we have about 100 pages a night to read, but it's all worth it. All about how you guys continue to keep a good girl down, so I'll have plenty to say when I've completed the short four week course. (Oh, wait, I guess I've established via email and past friendships that I already have plenty to say...it'll just be about different stuff, I guess.)
OK, enough. I need to go compare two populations and see if I get to reject the null or fail to reject the null with my level of significance at 5%. (Stats people, you KNOW you're diggin' this...) and then call my dad at 2am, tell him men suck and hang up on him to stand up for the rights of my fellow sisters!
I figure, after all is said and done at the end of the summer, I'll be a post-modern feminist who can live in a positivist / non-sorority-Greek lettered / two or more comparative-population-numbered world, as long as I remind those who still come from the Enlightenment and continue to bring me and mine down that they are no longer the dominant norm in my subjugated sample mean of a society.
Just kidding. What I meant to say is: when all is said and done, in two more months, I'll know a shit-tone of formulas and still be a single, white, female--and, I guess be more aware of it...
If you all don't hear from me for a few months (well, I know it might be a nice relief for a few of you...), then check the local newspaper of Athens, GA (I'm not sure if we have one, but if we do, look online) and see if there is a single, white female, age 33, who has either drowned herself, jumped off a small cliff in the north GA mountains, or checked herself into a rehab treatment center with Paris, Brittany, Nicole, and whomever else has those little ugly dogs. What, do you think I'm going to "do" statistics sober? Heellloooooo!
Cheers! Hilary
Weight of the World and Cats
If you're bored one day and would like to change up your life…maybe add some adventure, try this:
Grab your kitten of six months, pack everything she owns, e.g., three different varieties of cat beds, fifteen different toys, dry cat food, canned cat food (both prescription diet because she might be a little high maintenance), cat treats (organic, of course, because her digestive system is also high maintenance), her kitty litter, her litter box, her car carrier, and don't forget her food bowl and water bowl. Once you’ve gathered the items listed above, stuff your feline into her small cage—the cage in which she NEVER hangs out—and put her in your car to go on a road trip. For six hours.
You and your cat. Six hours. Try it. I dare you. Want to kick your drug habit? Want to begin one? Wish you could drink alcohol while driving long distances? Follow this simple plan. Take your CAT in your CAR and let her roam free for six hours while you “drive” home to visit your family in the midst of an intellectual, mental breakdown because finals are not over yet and you still have to write one more paper, but you just can't stand it any longer and wish to get home to the comfort and support of your family. And bring your cat.
In your car.
Have you ever seen a kitten pant like a dog? No, more like a hyena? Have you ever heard that low moaning growl cats produce when they are in heat, are in a fight with another kitty, or are riding in a car with their owner for six hours? It's um, not relaxing.
As I pulled out of Athens, GA on a sunny Thursday afternoon, Phoebe was on her way to lulu-ville in her own mind as she paced my car in hysterics. The beginning panting/heavy breathing in my back window concerned me at first because of the extra long tongue that appeared which I had never before seen, but my concern eventually lessened when the heavy breathing subsided and my once precious kitten's face froze into a hyena's deadly pant. I don't know if I can even describe this visual to you so that you can experience a sliver of what I saw in my rearview mirror, watching my only life mate so far deteriorating in front of my weary eyes because her mother had forced her to confinement in a small box on wheels which tossed her around--side to side, up and down like jelly--and flashed large objects past her eyes at a million miles an hour anywhere she tried to look to get away from it all.
Did I try to give her drugs before the trip, you ask? Of course. I mean, hell, I read articles about traveling with a cat a week in advance, for goodness sake! I did everything I could to shove some Benadryl down her little throat before we left but her frothy foaming at the mouth and drooling threw me for too much of a loop, so I had to stop.
I even called my vet to ask advice. (Well, really to check in; I tend to call them one to two times a week to ask questions--I'm sure they don't mind...) As Julia (the assistant whom I speak to more than my parents) answered the phone to my, "Hi Julia, it's Hilary." with her monotone, "Oh, hi Hilary. What do you need this time?" And then used her most friendly and caring voice to politely answer my sincere and worried question, "Will Phoebe be mentally retarded for the rest of her life after this car ride? Because she's been howling for one hour now and the panting seems to worsen if she looks at large trucks out of the back window." with, "No, Hilary. Phoebe won't be mentally...um....retarded. Many people travel with their cats for multiple hours and their cats are fine. She will eventually tire herself out from stress and sleep. Anything else I can do for you today, Hilary?" Julia loves me. She’s got to. She knows me better than anyone else in Athens! I can just imagine the conversations that go on after she and the other assistants get off the phone with me each week---priceless. (And YES, I have time during my studies to call the vet with questions....who wouldn’t?)
Anyway, after the first three hours, my cat decided that being close to her mommy would make her feel better. She crawled up on the back of my seat to the head rest, slowly did a 180, backed her little bottom down on my left shoulder, rested her head on the seat belt, calmed her low moan to a faint and frantic meow, and slept for the remaining three hours. She's only six pounds, so my shoulder didn't begin to go numb until an hour after she planted her butt there, and she only startled herself awake when we slowed for a light or made a turn. Then she'd jump up, forget where she was and why she had fallen asleep, freak out mentally, howl for ten to twenty seconds to let me have it, and then re-position herself on my shoulder for her next nap. Not a bad way to spend the last three hours of a lovely drive, wouldn’tcha say?
Seriously, you should try it.
The drive back to Athens from my restful vacation in Florida wasn't as bad with the panting and howling. Only the first hour or so. The five hours she spent on my left shoulder were a little uncomfortable, but what wouldn't a mother do for her only child?
Summer school, oh summer school is now in session till August. Y'all have fun in the summer sun...I'll be enjoying the 110 degree air here in beautiful and sunny Athens, GA. With my cat.
Not in my car.
I’ll let you know when she’s trained on her new harness for outside adventures…I’m sure you’ll be hanging onto your seats waiting to hear how that goes. Cheers! HEH
Angry Attendant needs a new job and old, fat, snotty creepy man helps...
I bet you didn't know that some people working on their PhDs have lots of money to go to conferences all over the country, did you ? Well, we don't. I have, however, been traveling quite a bit lately--Chicago, San Antonio, and New Orleans in the past two weeks--and my experiences have been those that need to be documented---to you people---so hang on to your hats for this one...
I'll start with my TWILIGHT ZONE of an experience last week coming home from Texas. I was on American Airlines and I tell you what, folks, this was one flight attendant who was READY to end her trips for the week (or her life, I wasn't quite sure). I've been on flights before where they crack a few jokes on the speaker, but it's very rare (I often wonder why this is, actually. If I was on there and had a captive audience, I'd be rollin in the jokes, personally, and they'd all probably be about the people on the plane...but that's a different story). Well, THIS American Airline lady was OVER IT! And I mean over it.
I can imagine that it's got to be tough sometimes: people ringing the damned bell when they know the flight attendants damn well don't want to do anything for them but mask it as "the captain has requested that we remain in our seats because there might be turbulence" statements; people not buckling up; stuff not being stored correctly; fat arms and legs hanging over arm chairs when they're trying to deliver drinks and the cart rams into you; crying babies; drunks; old (and young) dirty men hitting on you all the time...it's not the job for me....BUT as I tell those who are burned out in the classroom, if you're over it, get another job. Don't freakin' take it out on me....
SO, the lady comes on the mic and starts out with, "I can't start the safety talk until everyone has buckled their seat belts." and she pauses....but she's still holding down the clicker thing, so we can hear her breathing and angry. No greeting. No, "Hello ladies and gentlemen and welcome to flight 765 going to Atlanta." Nope, instead, we hear again: "I WON'T start the safety talk until everyone has buckled their seat belts." More dramatic pause over the mic with angry breathing. No one could see this omniscient voice, but we could ALL visualize her staring the look of the devil into this poor soul who was obviously sitting somewhere near her and had NO CLUE that his seat belt was undone (I chose a male pronoun here, because we girls follow the rules and do what we're told...for the most part....Stacey Brown....). Finally, she says ON the mic, "You need to buckle your seat belt. You're holding up this flight. We will not taxi until EVERYONE's seat belts are buckled." I thought, well, here we go. I'm never coming off this flight alive. She'll have me for dinner.
It's one of those moments that reminded me of classroom when we teachers do ridiculous things because we're over-tired and pissed that we have to give standardized tests, and we don't get paid enough, and we've just had it out with our principal, and some kid in the next class takes out the wrong book or crosses his feat the wrong way and we GO OFF and say something dumb like, "Well, we're ALL waiting on YOU...." and then just stand there and stare at them like we could shoot laser beams and burn holes in their heads...then we wait so long, the other kids start whispering, "Man, come on, dude, put it away" because they fear for their classmates life....and nothing's really happened. The kid hasn't done anything wrong except come to our class that day....yeah, it was kind of like that....
The rest of the talks over the mic were frequent and scary. She would explain something we had all heard a million times, but then she'd say, "I know you all think you don't have to watch us demonstrate because you think you've heard and seen this a million times, but would it hurt to take three minutes and stop what you're doing and show us that you appreciate what we do for a living? If you think you can do that." Then she'd say stuff like, "We're about to bring the drink cart down the isle. For those of you who think that you can still put your arms, hands or feet out in the aisle because this doesn't apply to you, we'll simply run the cart into you so you will know it applies." I was CRACKING UP by now. The weird thing was, as I looked around for others to laugh with me, no one in my area was laughing, smiling, or even--it seemed as she said----paying attention. (insert Twilight Zone theme music here)
The lady barked on the whole flight. At one point, about five seconds after the captain turned on the seat belt sign, she got on and said, "I imagine some of you saw and heard the signal that the captain has just turned on the seat belt sign; for those of you who got up right after it came on, you were either ignoring it like half of you do, or you weren't paying attention, like the other half of you do." Oh, and then when she told us we had to turn off our electronics--this was a good one-- she said, "In preparation for landing, please turn off all electronics. This means that you actually stop listening to your iPods, stop playing your games, stop typing on your laptops, and you take your finger and either poke the button "off," click a switch, shut a lid, or push stop on your iPods..." and some other stuff I can't remember now. It was a hoot! She kept me laughing the whole flight. The best part was the obnoxious twenty-something next to me who had three beers in our hour and a half flight and got up to go to the bathroom EVERY TIME the seat belt sign came on. Too much!
Part Two:
I went to New Orleans on Thursday with the team I'm on from the business school (the MBA guys) whom I went with to San Fran last month, because we were in a competition at Tulane with our charter school plan. We were competing in the not-for-profit track for ten thousand dollars. Now, in education, we all go, "Ooooooohhhhh, ten thoooouuuuuuussssaaaaannnnnddddd dollars..." but in the business world, they go, "Oh, just ten grand?" One of the other teams that came with us from UGA just won FIFTY thousand last week at a competition--and they're starting a roach killing company. Go figure...
So I'm the fifth on a team with four other guys: our team leader went to New Orleans the day before us to interview for some job, and I was on the same flight as one other team member. In the airport when we walked up to our gate, we saw another team member who missed his flight that morning and was trying to get on ours. We walked up to him to chat, and as the three of us stood talking, this man in his late sixties/early seventies with greasy gray hair--a bit mullet-ed in the back and bald in the front, about 5'9 and 200 pounds, wearing a pair of Docker-looking khakis up to his chest with a tucked-in short sleeved shirt, stood up and invaded my space as I was talking. He stood about two inches from me and started in on our conversation. His teeth were about the color of mustard and he mumbled incessantly about this and that, piping in here and there about my seat on the plane and if I was on this flight or the next. It was SO weird. Creepy mustard-teeth man!
I climb on board and guess who I'm in the middle of? I'll give you 8 chances. OK, not really. It was the creepy mustard-teeth man who space invaded. I was in between him and another rather large guy who was very friendly. As I sat down, the creepy old man started talking away about something related to me, so I assumed he had been chatting with our other team member since he missed his flight and that was why he knew some stuff about what we were going to New Orleans for. Thankfully, as we started to taxi (with a nice flight attendant who wasn't angry at the passengers on the plane) the old man conked out for the flight. Or, maybe not-so-thankfully, as it turns out. If any of you remember the old school cartoons when the rooster or Elmer or someone would snore and suck things up while he was snoring, that's just a pinkie nail's worth of this man's roar. It was so loud and startling that it would actually make me jump when it came out.
At one point, I looked over to the guy on my other side and he was holding his Bible down tightly on his tray. I asked him what he was doing and he said, "I'm holding it down because I'm afraid he's going to suck it up in a minute." I then told him to make sure I was in my seat at the end of the flight because he might suck me up, too.
Good thing our flight was only an hour. When we landed, the old creepy man got his bag and seemed to be WAITING for me as we got off the plane. I was utterly confused. As I stood waiting for the other team member, the old man told me that we were the only three on this flight from our school and that it shouldn't be that expensive to get cabs and what-not...all in this really weird way of speaking---kind of mumbling to himself, but talking to me, but grunting loudly and clearing his throat and sinuses ALL at the same time. When the other member joined us and we started walking, everything started coming together. I mouthed to the other member, "Who is that?" and he told me that it was their professor from the business school who was coming to the competition. THANK GOD---maybe... this dude has a degree in theoretical physics, was supposed to go study under Einstein at Princeton (?) for his masters, but Einstein died that year, so he ended up at Harvard where he completed an MBA as well as a PhD--one in business, one in physics. If that gives you ANY clue to his social capabilities.
So I just had one of the most well renowned MBA professors in the country falling on me while he was sleeping (I forgot to tell you, as he would doze off, he would fall to his right...which was basically on my shoulder...) and almost snort me up into his nasal passage.
Long story longer...that dude was WEIRD, but AWESOME and brilliant, so I loved talking to him for a few days....
AND our team WON!
We won first place with our charter school business plan and won TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS!
I'm exhausted. I have more to write, but I've now typed myself into needing nap because of just returning from our big win two hours ago. The business world amazes me. The money that flows freely simply makes me sick to my stomach. But I am going to figure out a way to fuse the business world with the education world without having them try to make any decisions; just give us money. I think I can do it. I started the process last night at the awards cocktail hour.
I hope all of you are well. Cheers to the last week of classes during my first year of college!
HEH
I'll start with my TWILIGHT ZONE of an experience last week coming home from Texas. I was on American Airlines and I tell you what, folks, this was one flight attendant who was READY to end her trips for the week (or her life, I wasn't quite sure). I've been on flights before where they crack a few jokes on the speaker, but it's very rare (I often wonder why this is, actually. If I was on there and had a captive audience, I'd be rollin in the jokes, personally, and they'd all probably be about the people on the plane...but that's a different story). Well, THIS American Airline lady was OVER IT! And I mean over it.
I can imagine that it's got to be tough sometimes: people ringing the damned bell when they know the flight attendants damn well don't want to do anything for them but mask it as "the captain has requested that we remain in our seats because there might be turbulence" statements; people not buckling up; stuff not being stored correctly; fat arms and legs hanging over arm chairs when they're trying to deliver drinks and the cart rams into you; crying babies; drunks; old (and young) dirty men hitting on you all the time...it's not the job for me....BUT as I tell those who are burned out in the classroom, if you're over it, get another job. Don't freakin' take it out on me....
SO, the lady comes on the mic and starts out with, "I can't start the safety talk until everyone has buckled their seat belts." and she pauses....but she's still holding down the clicker thing, so we can hear her breathing and angry. No greeting. No, "Hello ladies and gentlemen and welcome to flight 765 going to Atlanta." Nope, instead, we hear again: "I WON'T start the safety talk until everyone has buckled their seat belts." More dramatic pause over the mic with angry breathing. No one could see this omniscient voice, but we could ALL visualize her staring the look of the devil into this poor soul who was obviously sitting somewhere near her and had NO CLUE that his seat belt was undone (I chose a male pronoun here, because we girls follow the rules and do what we're told...for the most part....Stacey Brown....). Finally, she says ON the mic, "You need to buckle your seat belt. You're holding up this flight. We will not taxi until EVERYONE's seat belts are buckled." I thought, well, here we go. I'm never coming off this flight alive. She'll have me for dinner.
It's one of those moments that reminded me of classroom when we teachers do ridiculous things because we're over-tired and pissed that we have to give standardized tests, and we don't get paid enough, and we've just had it out with our principal, and some kid in the next class takes out the wrong book or crosses his feat the wrong way and we GO OFF and say something dumb like, "Well, we're ALL waiting on YOU...." and then just stand there and stare at them like we could shoot laser beams and burn holes in their heads...then we wait so long, the other kids start whispering, "Man, come on, dude, put it away" because they fear for their classmates life....and nothing's really happened. The kid hasn't done anything wrong except come to our class that day....yeah, it was kind of like that....
The rest of the talks over the mic were frequent and scary. She would explain something we had all heard a million times, but then she'd say, "I know you all think you don't have to watch us demonstrate because you think you've heard and seen this a million times, but would it hurt to take three minutes and stop what you're doing and show us that you appreciate what we do for a living? If you think you can do that." Then she'd say stuff like, "We're about to bring the drink cart down the isle. For those of you who think that you can still put your arms, hands or feet out in the aisle because this doesn't apply to you, we'll simply run the cart into you so you will know it applies." I was CRACKING UP by now. The weird thing was, as I looked around for others to laugh with me, no one in my area was laughing, smiling, or even--it seemed as she said----paying attention. (insert Twilight Zone theme music here)
The lady barked on the whole flight. At one point, about five seconds after the captain turned on the seat belt sign, she got on and said, "I imagine some of you saw and heard the signal that the captain has just turned on the seat belt sign; for those of you who got up right after it came on, you were either ignoring it like half of you do, or you weren't paying attention, like the other half of you do." Oh, and then when she told us we had to turn off our electronics--this was a good one-- she said, "In preparation for landing, please turn off all electronics. This means that you actually stop listening to your iPods, stop playing your games, stop typing on your laptops, and you take your finger and either poke the button "off," click a switch, shut a lid, or push stop on your iPods..." and some other stuff I can't remember now. It was a hoot! She kept me laughing the whole flight. The best part was the obnoxious twenty-something next to me who had three beers in our hour and a half flight and got up to go to the bathroom EVERY TIME the seat belt sign came on. Too much!
Part Two:
I went to New Orleans on Thursday with the team I'm on from the business school (the MBA guys) whom I went with to San Fran last month, because we were in a competition at Tulane with our charter school plan. We were competing in the not-for-profit track for ten thousand dollars. Now, in education, we all go, "Ooooooohhhhh, ten thoooouuuuuuussssaaaaannnnnddddd dollars..." but in the business world, they go, "Oh, just ten grand?" One of the other teams that came with us from UGA just won FIFTY thousand last week at a competition--and they're starting a roach killing company. Go figure...
So I'm the fifth on a team with four other guys: our team leader went to New Orleans the day before us to interview for some job, and I was on the same flight as one other team member. In the airport when we walked up to our gate, we saw another team member who missed his flight that morning and was trying to get on ours. We walked up to him to chat, and as the three of us stood talking, this man in his late sixties/early seventies with greasy gray hair--a bit mullet-ed in the back and bald in the front, about 5'9 and 200 pounds, wearing a pair of Docker-looking khakis up to his chest with a tucked-in short sleeved shirt, stood up and invaded my space as I was talking. He stood about two inches from me and started in on our conversation. His teeth were about the color of mustard and he mumbled incessantly about this and that, piping in here and there about my seat on the plane and if I was on this flight or the next. It was SO weird. Creepy mustard-teeth man!
I climb on board and guess who I'm in the middle of? I'll give you 8 chances. OK, not really. It was the creepy mustard-teeth man who space invaded. I was in between him and another rather large guy who was very friendly. As I sat down, the creepy old man started talking away about something related to me, so I assumed he had been chatting with our other team member since he missed his flight and that was why he knew some stuff about what we were going to New Orleans for. Thankfully, as we started to taxi (with a nice flight attendant who wasn't angry at the passengers on the plane) the old man conked out for the flight. Or, maybe not-so-thankfully, as it turns out. If any of you remember the old school cartoons when the rooster or Elmer or someone would snore and suck things up while he was snoring, that's just a pinkie nail's worth of this man's roar. It was so loud and startling that it would actually make me jump when it came out.
At one point, I looked over to the guy on my other side and he was holding his Bible down tightly on his tray. I asked him what he was doing and he said, "I'm holding it down because I'm afraid he's going to suck it up in a minute." I then told him to make sure I was in my seat at the end of the flight because he might suck me up, too.
Good thing our flight was only an hour. When we landed, the old creepy man got his bag and seemed to be WAITING for me as we got off the plane. I was utterly confused. As I stood waiting for the other team member, the old man told me that we were the only three on this flight from our school and that it shouldn't be that expensive to get cabs and what-not...all in this really weird way of speaking---kind of mumbling to himself, but talking to me, but grunting loudly and clearing his throat and sinuses ALL at the same time. When the other member joined us and we started walking, everything started coming together. I mouthed to the other member, "Who is that?" and he told me that it was their professor from the business school who was coming to the competition. THANK GOD---maybe... this dude has a degree in theoretical physics, was supposed to go study under Einstein at Princeton (?) for his masters, but Einstein died that year, so he ended up at Harvard where he completed an MBA as well as a PhD--one in business, one in physics. If that gives you ANY clue to his social capabilities.
So I just had one of the most well renowned MBA professors in the country falling on me while he was sleeping (I forgot to tell you, as he would doze off, he would fall to his right...which was basically on my shoulder...) and almost snort me up into his nasal passage.
Long story longer...that dude was WEIRD, but AWESOME and brilliant, so I loved talking to him for a few days....
AND our team WON!
We won first place with our charter school business plan and won TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS!
I'm exhausted. I have more to write, but I've now typed myself into needing nap because of just returning from our big win two hours ago. The business world amazes me. The money that flows freely simply makes me sick to my stomach. But I am going to figure out a way to fuse the business world with the education world without having them try to make any decisions; just give us money. I think I can do it. I started the process last night at the awards cocktail hour.
I hope all of you are well. Cheers to the last week of classes during my first year of college!
HEH
Single White Female ditches V-Day party and conducts her own research
Did you think I had finished up my PhD in Athens, GA and was never going to email again? It's been awhile, I know. Some of you are probably thankful so you don't have to read this long-ass stuff! I think since Prince had his hair up in that pretty scarf during Super Bowl. I heard after that some people thought since he never got wet from the rain during the half time show that they actually figured out how to super-impose him digitally on that stage and it looked real. I think those are the same people who are still fighting for the truth to come out about the Holocaust not really happening.
It's a beautiful sunny afternoon here in Athens, Georgia: 60 degrees, not a cloud in the sky, little humidity--I keep forgetting where I am. I hear we get this for AT LEAST two weeks before summer comes and it's 110 every day with 100% humidity. Can't wait. I'll be here for summer classes through July, so that should be AWESOME with the weather and all. (Have I mentioned how much I love the weather in the South compared to that horrific weather out West?--OK, this is where I start inserting sarcasm...read carefully as to not misinterpret me...)
On a non-sarcastic note, I have been wanting to share with all of you the new tradition I learned about in February on that overrated ridiculous "holiday" that some people call Valentine's Day. Oh wait, NOW the non-sarcasm begins: so some graduate students (girls) wanted to have a Valentine's get-together. They made these precious little invitations (their elementary ed teachers, obviously) and mailed them out, asking everyone to RSVP so they'd know how many party favor bags to make for their guests. (Are you getting my drift yet about how excited I was to attend this gathering?)
It was a "themed" party that began after we all got out of class on the BIG night, but it was only to last till 10:00PM so we could all get back to our respective abodes and rest for the coming day's school events. When I EMAILED my RSVP (didn't want to waste a stamp), I asked if boys were invited....OK, not because I had a Valentine I wanted to bring....just because I was curious, and the hostess replied back that this was just a girls' get-together--for "girls who were single" on this joyous occasion. Alright, whatever, I'm thinking, I'll go hang out with bitter old and young ladies like myself for a few hours and get some good chocolate to bring home.
As I met my office-mate the next day, I asked her what time she was going to the shin-dig, assuming since she was PRETTY good friends with both hostesses that she would no doubt have been invited and going. "What party?" She inquired with a puzzled look on her face. "Sarahhhhh, you really need to check your mail." I filled her in and she complained about how busy she was since her wedding (just was married over our Christmas break) and she would get right on it about checking her mail.
Later that day...nothing. No invite for the recently married young twenty-something who was in the same program with the two hostesses AND friends with them. Can anyone infer why this young lady was not invited to a party for girls, when she, herself was indeed a girl? I'll let one of my old students practice their inferencing skills with this one.....remember.....background knowledge, read between the lines, make an educated guess about what the author is trying to tell you, but not explicitly...............................anyone?.................................................................
Times Up: Big shin-dig for single girls only. No married girls...even if you were just married a month ago........Is anyone finding this odd? Because I did. I flipped out. I laughed, I cried. Just kidding....but I did laughingly say, "Are you KIDDING ME?" My friend calmly said to me, "Hilary, this makes perfect since. It's a culture that you might not be used to. Once you're married in some people's minds, you're obligated to husband stuff, not single girl stuff."
"Oh, well, that makes MUCH more since." I said back to her in my sarcastic voice, "Thanks for clarifying that for me."
ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I didn't go to the party, to say the least. My friend Sarah ended up asking the hostess "what she was doing tonight" to see what she'd say, and the single hostess with the mostest replied, "Oh, we're doing a little thing. I thought you'd have plans with your husband so I didn't tell you about it. There are one or two other married girls coming if you would like to stop by."
WHAT? WHAT?
Maybe I've been single for so long, I just don't get it anymore....who knows....
I do wonder if I would have had to wear my polka dotted strapless dress to the party...I hope not.....I sent it to the cleaners recently after I wore it to the basketball game....
Speaking of polka dots: a few of us in my research class are about to embark on an assignment for our class where we compare undergraduates at a happy hour bar for an hour one night and then observe graduate students and professors at this other happy hour bar another night. We're learning how to take field notes for qualitative research, so we thought we'd investigate the differences and similarities of older and younger drunkards....who said graduate school was hard?
Another research project I'm working on right now with a professor is a year long study for next year to see if we as supervisors can "coach" student teachers to "cultivate their pathic dimensions." In other words, can we coach those who don't have a FREAKING CLUE in the classroom about their surroundings to have some kind of clue... should be really cool.
As this semester is coming to a close, you might not hear (read) from me for a little bit. I have a few papers, research projects and other little things to do in the next few weeks. I'm starting my own study next week with three of my student teachers interviewing them about their "white" pasts. You know, who they grew up around, where they went to school and with whom (or what color whoms) what cultural experiences they've had outside their lives of whiteness that could help them become more open-minded to culturally diverse classrooms. I'm using this one guy's chart to analyze my data and it's called "Whiteness Orientations" if you can believe there would be such a thing. It's pretty interesting, really. I have to give Angie Paccione credit for this passion and interest that I was introduced to long ago and has now come back to the surface 1000 times over here in Athens. Thanks, Angie!
I loved seeing lots of you recently, and I can't wait to see others of you sometime soon. I guess I need to go write this damned midterm paper that's due tomorrow. He assigned it three weeks ago and it's due tomorrow, so I thought I'd write a long essay to you all instead!
Love, love, love
Hilary
It's a beautiful sunny afternoon here in Athens, Georgia: 60 degrees, not a cloud in the sky, little humidity--I keep forgetting where I am. I hear we get this for AT LEAST two weeks before summer comes and it's 110 every day with 100% humidity. Can't wait. I'll be here for summer classes through July, so that should be AWESOME with the weather and all. (Have I mentioned how much I love the weather in the South compared to that horrific weather out West?--OK, this is where I start inserting sarcasm...read carefully as to not misinterpret me...)
On a non-sarcastic note, I have been wanting to share with all of you the new tradition I learned about in February on that overrated ridiculous "holiday" that some people call Valentine's Day. Oh wait, NOW the non-sarcasm begins: so some graduate students (girls) wanted to have a Valentine's get-together. They made these precious little invitations (their elementary ed teachers, obviously) and mailed them out, asking everyone to RSVP so they'd know how many party favor bags to make for their guests. (Are you getting my drift yet about how excited I was to attend this gathering?)
It was a "themed" party that began after we all got out of class on the BIG night, but it was only to last till 10:00PM so we could all get back to our respective abodes and rest for the coming day's school events. When I EMAILED my RSVP (didn't want to waste a stamp), I asked if boys were invited....OK, not because I had a Valentine I wanted to bring....just because I was curious, and the hostess replied back that this was just a girls' get-together--for "girls who were single" on this joyous occasion. Alright, whatever, I'm thinking, I'll go hang out with bitter old and young ladies like myself for a few hours and get some good chocolate to bring home.
As I met my office-mate the next day, I asked her what time she was going to the shin-dig, assuming since she was PRETTY good friends with both hostesses that she would no doubt have been invited and going. "What party?" She inquired with a puzzled look on her face. "Sarahhhhh, you really need to check your mail." I filled her in and she complained about how busy she was since her wedding (just was married over our Christmas break) and she would get right on it about checking her mail.
Later that day...nothing. No invite for the recently married young twenty-something who was in the same program with the two hostesses AND friends with them. Can anyone infer why this young lady was not invited to a party for girls, when she, herself was indeed a girl? I'll let one of my old students practice their inferencing skills with this one.....remember.....background knowledge, read between the lines, make an educated guess about what the author is trying to tell you, but not explicitly...............................anyone?.................................................................
Times Up: Big shin-dig for single girls only. No married girls...even if you were just married a month ago........Is anyone finding this odd? Because I did. I flipped out. I laughed, I cried. Just kidding....but I did laughingly say, "Are you KIDDING ME?" My friend calmly said to me, "Hilary, this makes perfect since. It's a culture that you might not be used to. Once you're married in some people's minds, you're obligated to husband stuff, not single girl stuff."
"Oh, well, that makes MUCH more since." I said back to her in my sarcastic voice, "Thanks for clarifying that for me."
ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I didn't go to the party, to say the least. My friend Sarah ended up asking the hostess "what she was doing tonight" to see what she'd say, and the single hostess with the mostest replied, "Oh, we're doing a little thing. I thought you'd have plans with your husband so I didn't tell you about it. There are one or two other married girls coming if you would like to stop by."
WHAT? WHAT?
Maybe I've been single for so long, I just don't get it anymore....who knows....
I do wonder if I would have had to wear my polka dotted strapless dress to the party...I hope not.....I sent it to the cleaners recently after I wore it to the basketball game....
Speaking of polka dots: a few of us in my research class are about to embark on an assignment for our class where we compare undergraduates at a happy hour bar for an hour one night and then observe graduate students and professors at this other happy hour bar another night. We're learning how to take field notes for qualitative research, so we thought we'd investigate the differences and similarities of older and younger drunkards....who said graduate school was hard?
Another research project I'm working on right now with a professor is a year long study for next year to see if we as supervisors can "coach" student teachers to "cultivate their pathic dimensions." In other words, can we coach those who don't have a FREAKING CLUE in the classroom about their surroundings to have some kind of clue... should be really cool.
As this semester is coming to a close, you might not hear (read) from me for a little bit. I have a few papers, research projects and other little things to do in the next few weeks. I'm starting my own study next week with three of my student teachers interviewing them about their "white" pasts. You know, who they grew up around, where they went to school and with whom (or what color whoms) what cultural experiences they've had outside their lives of whiteness that could help them become more open-minded to culturally diverse classrooms. I'm using this one guy's chart to analyze my data and it's called "Whiteness Orientations" if you can believe there would be such a thing. It's pretty interesting, really. I have to give Angie Paccione credit for this passion and interest that I was introduced to long ago and has now come back to the surface 1000 times over here in Athens. Thanks, Angie!
I loved seeing lots of you recently, and I can't wait to see others of you sometime soon. I guess I need to go write this damned midterm paper that's due tomorrow. He assigned it three weeks ago and it's due tomorrow, so I thought I'd write a long essay to you all instead!
Love, love, love
Hilary
Prince's facial cream and scary biker chicks
Sorry it's been so long since one of these things that most of you don't read. Oh my, how the time flies when you're having fun! Oh wait...am I having fun? It's 8:19PM on Super Bowl Sunday and I'm sitting in the same chair that I have gravitated toward for the past three weeks, every day, from about 8:00AM to 10:00PM to read thousands of pages and write even more for my classes...that is, if I'm not out of this chair, showered, dressed properly and professionally out visiting my student teachers in the surrounding county middle schools (thirty to forty minutes away) making sure they're not screwing up the future lives of middle school students in the grand ol' state of Georgia. Wow, that was a long sentence. Breathe now, Louanne, the period shall bring you relief. :)
I don't know if any of you have experienced what I'm about to describe since your college days way back when (except my friends Molly W., Ansley, Shannon S., Shannon H. and whoever else is a current 'stay-at-home' mommy), and if you didn't experience this during your college days, you need to go BACK to college and experience it. Or, I guess have a kid...Because this experience, it's pure ecstasy! I'm in this chair--the one mentioned earlier--in my "comfy" pants, big pink slippers, three-day-old t-shirt, glimpsing the TV (Prince is performing his half-time show with a SERIOUS hair-do....my GOD he's short! And seriously, the dude has not aged in twenty freaking years!) and the only time I've left this position today is to go to the bathroom, eat my two meals, and go to the gym for a serious "Body Flex" work out class. By the way, those girls are serious about what they do, aren't they? The ones who lead those classes...
I mean, I'm standing there at five o'clock in the afternoon on a Sunday, looking at myself in the mirror lifting weights that I don't want to be lifting, breathing harder than I want to be breathing, and wishing I was at home in my comfy pants, and merry-little-Melissa is chanting in her waaaay-too-cheery-micro-phoned-voice-over-voice, which we can barely hear over her aerobic chic rendition of "You've Gotta Fight for Your Right" mixed with some 90s tunes that I'm not familiar with right this second, "OK now, we're not going to stop doing these sets until I hear you say you're feelin' it. Come on ladies, let me hear your pain! I want you to YELL it when you've had enough!" And then she smiles and says a few more, "C'mon, lemme hear it! I'm serious....I need you to YELL!" motivators...
And she IS SERIOUS. She's THAT lady, the one who WANTS me to SPEAK while I'm doing this shit, or to act like I'm having fun; either way, she's an oxymoron of a cheery sadist! So now there's an uncomfortable silence in the room--especially from the three new-comer-biker-chic-lookin'-ladies who do not have ONE ounce of skin showing, due to their amazing bodywork in the field of tattoos--and these chicks are wearin' tanks and long shorts with chains hanging off the pockets--and finally one of them yells, "OK, this sucks! Now can we stop?" I wonder if we changed sets right then because merry-little-Melissa was afraid she was going to get her ass kicked after class if she didn't allow us to change what we were doing, or if it was just time to move on to shoulders and triceps...either way, I was over on the side laughing my love handles off!
So that wasn't the experience I wanted you all to recall from college. I was really referring to the chair, comfy pants, not getting up unless you had to pee or eat experience. Do you remember that? Well, yours truly has been living it every day for the past three or so weeks. I have left my house for the theatre, a few conferences, some classes, some observations of my student teachers, and maybe one or two meals. But other than that, here I sit. On my newly body-flexed butt, reminding myself that it IS important to shower. And that it IS important to use the phone once in a while. And maybe the importance of cleaning my surrounding area every other seventh day or so....but that last one's just a maybe....
And do you know WHY I've resorted to this behavior? I can tell you it's not because I'm so hungover I can't blink my eyelids, like back in the days of undergraduate studies....oh, no.....and it's not because "depression hurts here..." (anyone seen that cheezy ass commercial? Sorry if you've been diagnosed due to that commercial and I've just made you want to slit your wrists because of it)...no, no,
It's because of my new little love of my life that I told most of you about a few weeks ago. My kitten, Phoebe. I mean, who can leave the house with a precious jewel waiting for you at home every minute of every day? Who can study at a coffee house when you have a little fir ball waiting to climb all over you while you're reading the latest about reforming America's schools or writing a 20 page paper? Yes, this little creature has transformed me into...well.....a freaking......SLOTH! There is so much I could tell you about Phoebe, but I'm not going to be "that girl" who I recently saw a comedian complaining about because he was SO tired of hearing about his girlfriend's cat. Too funny!
I have to say, while my recent crush is in another country, my kitty has done wonders for me in the department of replacing men. I mean, she only seeks me out when she wants affection; she sleeps where she wants to; eats when and where she wants to; and whines when I'm not giving her enough attention. What more could I ask in a relationship substitute? It's normalcy; it's perfect! :)
As a long story becomes longer, school this semester is even better. It's "easier" because I get it now. I have the necessary files needed in my brain and I can read and read and read and then write a little. I'm starting cool research projects and meeting good people to know in my classes. I'm still happier than I've ever been in my life. (I mean, who wouldn't be when they get to hang out in comfy pants, dirty freaking t-shirts, and pink squishy slippers with a little fir ball hanging out with them ten hours a day?) I just wanted to check in and let you all know that I think football is grand. I mean, those guys REALLY deserve the 9 million they pull in a year for running up and down the field to entertain us all....I mean, they're MUCH more important than say....................oh, I don't know.............................educators?
Love to you all! I hope the Gators win the Super Bowl. juuuuuuuuuust kiddin' .............................................I'm not THAT dumb!
I really hope the Giants win....I love New York!
Take care, Hilary
I don't know if any of you have experienced what I'm about to describe since your college days way back when (except my friends Molly W., Ansley, Shannon S., Shannon H. and whoever else is a current 'stay-at-home' mommy), and if you didn't experience this during your college days, you need to go BACK to college and experience it. Or, I guess have a kid...Because this experience, it's pure ecstasy! I'm in this chair--the one mentioned earlier--in my "comfy" pants, big pink slippers, three-day-old t-shirt, glimpsing the TV (Prince is performing his half-time show with a SERIOUS hair-do....my GOD he's short! And seriously, the dude has not aged in twenty freaking years!) and the only time I've left this position today is to go to the bathroom, eat my two meals, and go to the gym for a serious "Body Flex" work out class. By the way, those girls are serious about what they do, aren't they? The ones who lead those classes...
I mean, I'm standing there at five o'clock in the afternoon on a Sunday, looking at myself in the mirror lifting weights that I don't want to be lifting, breathing harder than I want to be breathing, and wishing I was at home in my comfy pants, and merry-little-Melissa is chanting in her waaaay-too-cheery-micro-phoned-voice-over-voice, which we can barely hear over her aerobic chic rendition of "You've Gotta Fight for Your Right" mixed with some 90s tunes that I'm not familiar with right this second, "OK now, we're not going to stop doing these sets until I hear you say you're feelin' it. Come on ladies, let me hear your pain! I want you to YELL it when you've had enough!" And then she smiles and says a few more, "C'mon, lemme hear it! I'm serious....I need you to YELL!" motivators...
And she IS SERIOUS. She's THAT lady, the one who WANTS me to SPEAK while I'm doing this shit, or to act like I'm having fun; either way, she's an oxymoron of a cheery sadist! So now there's an uncomfortable silence in the room--especially from the three new-comer-biker-chic-lookin'-ladies who do not have ONE ounce of skin showing, due to their amazing bodywork in the field of tattoos--and these chicks are wearin' tanks and long shorts with chains hanging off the pockets--and finally one of them yells, "OK, this sucks! Now can we stop?" I wonder if we changed sets right then because merry-little-Melissa was afraid she was going to get her ass kicked after class if she didn't allow us to change what we were doing, or if it was just time to move on to shoulders and triceps...either way, I was over on the side laughing my love handles off!
So that wasn't the experience I wanted you all to recall from college. I was really referring to the chair, comfy pants, not getting up unless you had to pee or eat experience. Do you remember that? Well, yours truly has been living it every day for the past three or so weeks. I have left my house for the theatre, a few conferences, some classes, some observations of my student teachers, and maybe one or two meals. But other than that, here I sit. On my newly body-flexed butt, reminding myself that it IS important to shower. And that it IS important to use the phone once in a while. And maybe the importance of cleaning my surrounding area every other seventh day or so....but that last one's just a maybe....
And do you know WHY I've resorted to this behavior? I can tell you it's not because I'm so hungover I can't blink my eyelids, like back in the days of undergraduate studies....oh, no.....and it's not because "depression hurts here..." (anyone seen that cheezy ass commercial? Sorry if you've been diagnosed due to that commercial and I've just made you want to slit your wrists because of it)...no, no,
It's because of my new little love of my life that I told most of you about a few weeks ago. My kitten, Phoebe. I mean, who can leave the house with a precious jewel waiting for you at home every minute of every day? Who can study at a coffee house when you have a little fir ball waiting to climb all over you while you're reading the latest about reforming America's schools or writing a 20 page paper? Yes, this little creature has transformed me into...well.....a freaking......SLOTH! There is so much I could tell you about Phoebe, but I'm not going to be "that girl" who I recently saw a comedian complaining about because he was SO tired of hearing about his girlfriend's cat. Too funny!
I have to say, while my recent crush is in another country, my kitty has done wonders for me in the department of replacing men. I mean, she only seeks me out when she wants affection; she sleeps where she wants to; eats when and where she wants to; and whines when I'm not giving her enough attention. What more could I ask in a relationship substitute? It's normalcy; it's perfect! :)
As a long story becomes longer, school this semester is even better. It's "easier" because I get it now. I have the necessary files needed in my brain and I can read and read and read and then write a little. I'm starting cool research projects and meeting good people to know in my classes. I'm still happier than I've ever been in my life. (I mean, who wouldn't be when they get to hang out in comfy pants, dirty freaking t-shirts, and pink squishy slippers with a little fir ball hanging out with them ten hours a day?) I just wanted to check in and let you all know that I think football is grand. I mean, those guys REALLY deserve the 9 million they pull in a year for running up and down the field to entertain us all....I mean, they're MUCH more important than say....................oh, I don't know.............................educators?
Love to you all! I hope the Gators win the Super Bowl. juuuuuuuuuust kiddin' .............................................I'm not THAT dumb!
I really hope the Giants win....I love New York!
Take care, Hilary
I'm 33 and it's time...
I would like to announce to all of you who have known me now for far too long my good news. Tomorrow, at precisely 11:00 in the AM, I will be the new mommy of an eight week old, long-haired tabby kitten! She is absolutely precious, and I have chosen the name Phoebe for my little shining star.
I have to tell you the reasoning behind the name, because all of you will appreciate my weirdness the most. After hours of research and deliberation, I went with the name Phoebe because of the following:
Phoebe was a Greek deity; she was thought to be the goddess of bright intellect; she was also a probable oracle of Delphi (I LOVE Greek mythology...wanted a connection there)
Shakespeare used the name Phoebe in his play As You Like It (which once was the name of my mother's kitchen and bath store many moons ago), and so I like that connection of Shakespeare to my mommy. (because I LOVE them both)
The definition of Phoebe is "shining" and "bright," which might be a lil' of her new mommy's personality and hopefully a lot of hers. There's also an Italian line to the name Phoebe when relating it to Shakespeare, but I'll go into the Italian thing sometime later.
I have already been buying everything that will fit into my house for this little kitten of love, so I hope she will feel like her new home is inviting when she arrives tomorrow. She has been a bit ill lately, and that is why I've had to wait to adopt her, so I'm also hopeful that she will be healthy from here on out. I"m sure she will help me create many new stories to share with you all!
Enough about my new baby! I KNOW people like Cooney are SO excited about this new CAT because she is SUCH a CAT Lover!
Off to a meeting. Love to you all, Hilary
I have to tell you the reasoning behind the name, because all of you will appreciate my weirdness the most. After hours of research and deliberation, I went with the name Phoebe because of the following:
Phoebe was a Greek deity; she was thought to be the goddess of bright intellect; she was also a probable oracle of Delphi (I LOVE Greek mythology...wanted a connection there)
Shakespeare used the name Phoebe in his play As You Like It (which once was the name of my mother's kitchen and bath store many moons ago), and so I like that connection of Shakespeare to my mommy. (because I LOVE them both)
The definition of Phoebe is "shining" and "bright," which might be a lil' of her new mommy's personality and hopefully a lot of hers. There's also an Italian line to the name Phoebe when relating it to Shakespeare, but I'll go into the Italian thing sometime later.
I have already been buying everything that will fit into my house for this little kitten of love, so I hope she will feel like her new home is inviting when she arrives tomorrow. She has been a bit ill lately, and that is why I've had to wait to adopt her, so I'm also hopeful that she will be healthy from here on out. I"m sure she will help me create many new stories to share with you all!
Enough about my new baby! I KNOW people like Cooney are SO excited about this new CAT because she is SUCH a CAT Lover!
Off to a meeting. Love to you all, Hilary
Reflections from Hog Mountain Road
As I was making a hard right this morning onto HOG MOUNTAIN ROAD on my way to Winder-Barrow Middle School--in Winder, Georgia, population about 100?--, I was reflecting on my life and two things came to mind:
first, I'm really glad I don't live on or near a road beginning with the word HOG.
Second, how do some people get those HUMONGOUS blow-up Santa Clauses, Mrs. Clauses and Snowmen in their yards? I mean, these suckers were over twenty feet high and they were all over the damned yard! In truth, the snow man was larger than the little white house he perched in front of, smiling at me with his very large pipe drooping out of the side of his mouth a little too low, due to lack of enough air to bring his pipe up a bit further, I'm sure.
I'm serious: these were my two reflections as I made sure I turned left at the Piggly Wiggly to get on the right road. Okay, so it wasn't a Piggly Wiggly, but wouldn't that have been a perfect next line for this tale? For those of you who aren't familiar with Piggly Wiggly...you'll just have to imagine...
My further reflection on the way back from Winder-population-100-plus-several-Piggly-Wiggly-like-stores, rested on my first semester here in Athens, GA. I can't believe I've already completed my first semester of college. :) Okay, so my classes ended last night, but I still have a few (three--so would that be "a few" or "a couple"? Louann? ) papers due this week and next week. One of which I sent a beginning rough draft of to my professor yesterday asking her where to go from what I had...her only response was five pages into my beginning twelve pages...where she wrote, "This is your beginning. Start here.Save the other stuff for something later." I wondered to myself...SAVE THE OTHER STUFF? Does she KNOW how long those measly five simple pages took me to write? Does she KNOW that it took me sixteen pages to get to those first five which led into the next seven? Probably, I continued to answer to myself, probably.
So as I sit here, writing to all of you, listening to Louis Armstrong sing about What a Wonderful World we live in, I'd like to talk to him. I'd like Louis to come sit in MY chair and re-read for the seventeenth time this draft of synthesized work that WAS twelve pages, but in an instant became seven. This paper that I've written and re-written and I can't even add my own freaking thoughts. This twelve pages of "beginning" ideas (because I've only just begun...) from other people. You probably wouldn't think the world was so wonderful if you had to do that, now would you, Louis...so you just keep singing about the "blue skies" and "keep thinking to yourself," but do me a favor and do just that: keep it to yourself.
Okay, those of you who usually get worried about me during this portion of my essay, don't bother. I'm JUST KIDDING. I'm FINE (do yo all remember what F.I.N.E. stands for?). I'm just using Louis as a writing prompt to help my paper-writing aggression.
Actually, I like what I'm writing; I like my topic and I really enjoyed reading what those other thirteen people had to say about it. Research is funny. (Not funny..haha...as much as funny...what the?....) You read and read and read to look for a "gap" in the literature. And that's your moment of glory. Whatever you find what others haven't is your rise to fame. When really, EVERYONE has thought about the gap--they're just probably too damned busy re-writing their freaking drafts of the other stuff they found for their professors or editors (sorry Louann), so they don't have TIME to write about the gap too! ...it could happen...
Would anyone like to share right now about why you think I'm still writing to you right now when that paper is due tomorrow? No, Duncan, you're NOT ALLOWED to hit "respond all" and make some dumb ass comment. And no one's allowed to hit "respond all" and comment on the cute boy I've told some of you about because he's now on this list....so shhhhhhh... sorry, Gerard. You can just keep skimming or even hit delete if you want...
My last point before I close for the Christmas holiday (sorry to those of you who don't celebrate Christmas...just play along here, okay? Jesus! ) Some of you have sent responses saying, "I hope you're saving these emails to one day put them together." That is a really good idea. Well, it Would have been a good idea. But I haven't. Not one. So, I'm writing you all these essays in hopes that my words will float loosely into the cyber world and touch the hearts and minds of some creepy old men who are pretending I'm a child and soon will be arrested by one of those Dateline guys who get their joys on the weekend by pretending to be young girls online so they can "catch the predators." Freaks. They need to get a life!
Who can tell Hilary's out of Ritalin? Hope my doctors come through while I'm in Colorado or you all will be receiving emails more random than this one.
So funny....when I originally decided to write this to you all, my hopes were to describe how pretty Georgia is--I've been writing it in my head for a few weeks now--since I was up in north Georgia last week. Oh well. Just go to Google Images and type in north Georgia. Maybe you can see how pretty it is then. :)
Love to you all! Happy Holidays and I'll be in touch next semester with some new information....my question is, what will I do with all of this other information I just got this semester? Where do it go?
HEH
first, I'm really glad I don't live on or near a road beginning with the word HOG.
Second, how do some people get those HUMONGOUS blow-up Santa Clauses, Mrs. Clauses and Snowmen in their yards? I mean, these suckers were over twenty feet high and they were all over the damned yard! In truth, the snow man was larger than the little white house he perched in front of, smiling at me with his very large pipe drooping out of the side of his mouth a little too low, due to lack of enough air to bring his pipe up a bit further, I'm sure.
I'm serious: these were my two reflections as I made sure I turned left at the Piggly Wiggly to get on the right road. Okay, so it wasn't a Piggly Wiggly, but wouldn't that have been a perfect next line for this tale? For those of you who aren't familiar with Piggly Wiggly...you'll just have to imagine...
My further reflection on the way back from Winder-population-100-plus-several-Piggly-Wiggly-like-stores, rested on my first semester here in Athens, GA. I can't believe I've already completed my first semester of college. :) Okay, so my classes ended last night, but I still have a few (three--so would that be "a few" or "a couple"? Louann? ) papers due this week and next week. One of which I sent a beginning rough draft of to my professor yesterday asking her where to go from what I had...her only response was five pages into my beginning twelve pages...where she wrote, "This is your beginning. Start here.Save the other stuff for something later." I wondered to myself...SAVE THE OTHER STUFF? Does she KNOW how long those measly five simple pages took me to write? Does she KNOW that it took me sixteen pages to get to those first five which led into the next seven? Probably, I continued to answer to myself, probably.
So as I sit here, writing to all of you, listening to Louis Armstrong sing about What a Wonderful World we live in, I'd like to talk to him. I'd like Louis to come sit in MY chair and re-read for the seventeenth time this draft of synthesized work that WAS twelve pages, but in an instant became seven. This paper that I've written and re-written and I can't even add my own freaking thoughts. This twelve pages of "beginning" ideas (because I've only just begun...) from other people. You probably wouldn't think the world was so wonderful if you had to do that, now would you, Louis...so you just keep singing about the "blue skies" and "keep thinking to yourself," but do me a favor and do just that: keep it to yourself.
Okay, those of you who usually get worried about me during this portion of my essay, don't bother. I'm JUST KIDDING. I'm FINE (do yo all remember what F.I.N.E. stands for?). I'm just using Louis as a writing prompt to help my paper-writing aggression.
Actually, I like what I'm writing; I like my topic and I really enjoyed reading what those other thirteen people had to say about it. Research is funny. (Not funny..haha...as much as funny...what the?....) You read and read and read to look for a "gap" in the literature. And that's your moment of glory. Whatever you find what others haven't is your rise to fame. When really, EVERYONE has thought about the gap--they're just probably too damned busy re-writing their freaking drafts of the other stuff they found for their professors or editors (sorry Louann), so they don't have TIME to write about the gap too! ...it could happen...
Would anyone like to share right now about why you think I'm still writing to you right now when that paper is due tomorrow? No, Duncan, you're NOT ALLOWED to hit "respond all" and make some dumb ass comment. And no one's allowed to hit "respond all" and comment on the cute boy I've told some of you about because he's now on this list....so shhhhhhh... sorry, Gerard. You can just keep skimming or even hit delete if you want...
My last point before I close for the Christmas holiday (sorry to those of you who don't celebrate Christmas...just play along here, okay? Jesus! ) Some of you have sent responses saying, "I hope you're saving these emails to one day put them together." That is a really good idea. Well, it Would have been a good idea. But I haven't. Not one. So, I'm writing you all these essays in hopes that my words will float loosely into the cyber world and touch the hearts and minds of some creepy old men who are pretending I'm a child and soon will be arrested by one of those Dateline guys who get their joys on the weekend by pretending to be young girls online so they can "catch the predators." Freaks. They need to get a life!
Who can tell Hilary's out of Ritalin? Hope my doctors come through while I'm in Colorado or you all will be receiving emails more random than this one.
So funny....when I originally decided to write this to you all, my hopes were to describe how pretty Georgia is--I've been writing it in my head for a few weeks now--since I was up in north Georgia last week. Oh well. Just go to Google Images and type in north Georgia. Maybe you can see how pretty it is then. :)
Love to you all! Happy Holidays and I'll be in touch next semester with some new information....my question is, what will I do with all of this other information I just got this semester? Where do it go?
HEH
Reflections: A compare/contrast essay for language arts (just kidding)
I know things are different in my life when on a Friday night, we decide to go to a movie at 9:45PM because one of the girls who I'm meeting needs to do some interviews for her dissertation, as opposed to me waiting to go out at 9:45 because the band down in Edwards doesn't start till 10:30 or so. I also know things to be different when I can't even stay awake in a late movie any longer, due to my "late nights" of 10:30ish, so I can finish up that last article I am re-writing for the seventh time or reading, highlighting, and annotating that last one hundred pages for that class sometime next week.
I know things are different in my life when it's mid-November, the leaves are just starting to change, and one or two nights it's been in the low 40s; when I am wearing a long-sleeve T-shirt in the morning and I have switched to shorts by the afternoon, and the only jacket I have out (because I didn't get rid of any of the thirty that I owned) is the light weight thin leather jacket that blocks some of the high winds rushing through campus chasing me as I'm hiking to my building from my parking area. Whereas I used to be pulling out my skis right about now (not to use them until December, of course...but I still pulled them out) and I was already wearing my down coat and wool sweaters. By now I had probably had strapped on the snow shoes a few times, or at least hiked up the trail dodging the frozen mud mixed with snow.
Things are different when I think about how many "favorite TV shows" I now have during the week, forcing me to rush home after a three hour class so I can set up my work station and watch religiously for two hours before I go to bed, working on those relationships that I am building with some of the characters on those shows. As I review my Sunday night (Brothers and Sisters), Monday night (Studio 60 and sometimes The Bachelor--if I'm in the mood for cheesy drama), Tuesday night (House), Wednesday night (I take this night off, usually), and Thursday night (Grey's), I often think back to a single time when I might watch ten minutes of TV in CO, but that was only while I was getting ready for school in the morning. A time when my TV was really just a part of my living room decor, and my awareness of shows was little or none.
I know this life is different from the last when the thought of dating someone in CO was a hope that would inspire me to meet as many people as I could whenever I could. A hope for a future with someone who would take me to expensive sushi dinners, wine and dine me in the beautiful Swiss village at five star restaurants, and take me skiing for,,, two hours on a Sunday afternoon. Today, the thought of having to give up one hour of my time to spend with someone else turns the anxious nerves in my stomach, because then I would actually have to switch the focus from my studies to engage in some sort of dialog that had to do with "how I was feeling," "how my day was," or "what I wanted to do to spend some time together this weekend." I can't imagine having to give up that kind of time....
And to add to that---I KNOW my life is different when I used have such a specific "list" that I was trying to check off for the man of my dreams, and a man whom I recently met in CA re-writes or adds to that list for me every time I talk to him on the phone.
Yes, I met a nice young man (well, not too young--I'm over that phase, I think--so this one's my age) while I was running that half marathon in CA three or four weeks ago and he's coming to visit me next week right here in Athens, GA. Mind you, I will be on break, so I won't have to give up my study time to spend time with this gentle soul. Yes, yes, my life is different...
When my days are filled with switching my research topic from advocates for young adolescents to studying "whiteness" and how white teachers view their non-white students, as opposed to trying to figure out what time we will meet to snow shoe after school or we're deciding whether to eat at the Brewery or Mustangs because we're so tired of eating at both all week long, I see that my life is different. When I go to dinner with people in my department and we discuss the history of race in the South for three hours over salads and iced tea/wine, I am reminded that my life is different than it was just six short months ago.
And when the words that I used to email to you with (epistemology, ontology, post-modern-structuralist feminism or hermeneutics) lamenting the hardships of trying to sift through tough texts now seem like middle school adventure books to me, you KNOW my life is different.
Some things that I can see the capital "T" truths in before entering my second semester of my doctoral program:
1) Why most people don't stay married while working on their PhD
2) Why some people either quit their PhD programs or never finish their dissertations
3) Why some people want to move to other countries after studying and learning the history of ours in relation to education and the future goals of America
But I am not those people, my loved ones. I am in the small percentage of those who absolutely love every day of every lesson; every minute of every reading; every part of every re-writing, and I am serious when I say this. I have just had news of two articles that were accepted in two different journals (well, a journal and a book), and I am just about to send off a third to another journal (after I work on my ffifth draft to appease my professor). I am about to turn in my first research proposal to conduct a study next semester with some of my preservice teachers so I can come to a better understanding of the future of white teachers with non-white students in their classrooms. It's some pretty cool stuff, I have to say. And I can see why those of you who live in this academic world want to stay--it's not for the money, and it's not for the clout---I can see that it's for the learning, for that feeling of contribution. Pretty darned cool. More to come in the near future, so stay tuned...
Oh, and have I gone to church here yet? Sure I have. You betcha...
Have a great Turkey Day, everyone. Love to you all, HEH
I know things are different in my life when it's mid-November, the leaves are just starting to change, and one or two nights it's been in the low 40s; when I am wearing a long-sleeve T-shirt in the morning and I have switched to shorts by the afternoon, and the only jacket I have out (because I didn't get rid of any of the thirty that I owned) is the light weight thin leather jacket that blocks some of the high winds rushing through campus chasing me as I'm hiking to my building from my parking area. Whereas I used to be pulling out my skis right about now (not to use them until December, of course...but I still pulled them out) and I was already wearing my down coat and wool sweaters. By now I had probably had strapped on the snow shoes a few times, or at least hiked up the trail dodging the frozen mud mixed with snow.
Things are different when I think about how many "favorite TV shows" I now have during the week, forcing me to rush home after a three hour class so I can set up my work station and watch religiously for two hours before I go to bed, working on those relationships that I am building with some of the characters on those shows. As I review my Sunday night (Brothers and Sisters), Monday night (Studio 60 and sometimes The Bachelor--if I'm in the mood for cheesy drama), Tuesday night (House), Wednesday night (I take this night off, usually), and Thursday night (Grey's), I often think back to a single time when I might watch ten minutes of TV in CO, but that was only while I was getting ready for school in the morning. A time when my TV was really just a part of my living room decor, and my awareness of shows was little or none.
I know this life is different from the last when the thought of dating someone in CO was a hope that would inspire me to meet as many people as I could whenever I could. A hope for a future with someone who would take me to expensive sushi dinners, wine and dine me in the beautiful Swiss village at five star restaurants, and take me skiing for,,, two hours on a Sunday afternoon. Today, the thought of having to give up one hour of my time to spend with someone else turns the anxious nerves in my stomach, because then I would actually have to switch the focus from my studies to engage in some sort of dialog that had to do with "how I was feeling," "how my day was," or "what I wanted to do to spend some time together this weekend." I can't imagine having to give up that kind of time....
And to add to that---I KNOW my life is different when I used have such a specific "list" that I was trying to check off for the man of my dreams, and a man whom I recently met in CA re-writes or adds to that list for me every time I talk to him on the phone.
Yes, I met a nice young man (well, not too young--I'm over that phase, I think--so this one's my age) while I was running that half marathon in CA three or four weeks ago and he's coming to visit me next week right here in Athens, GA. Mind you, I will be on break, so I won't have to give up my study time to spend time with this gentle soul. Yes, yes, my life is different...
When my days are filled with switching my research topic from advocates for young adolescents to studying "whiteness" and how white teachers view their non-white students, as opposed to trying to figure out what time we will meet to snow shoe after school or we're deciding whether to eat at the Brewery or Mustangs because we're so tired of eating at both all week long, I see that my life is different. When I go to dinner with people in my department and we discuss the history of race in the South for three hours over salads and iced tea/wine, I am reminded that my life is different than it was just six short months ago.
And when the words that I used to email to you with (epistemology, ontology, post-modern-structuralist feminism or hermeneutics) lamenting the hardships of trying to sift through tough texts now seem like middle school adventure books to me, you KNOW my life is different.
Some things that I can see the capital "T" truths in before entering my second semester of my doctoral program:
1) Why most people don't stay married while working on their PhD
2) Why some people either quit their PhD programs or never finish their dissertations
3) Why some people want to move to other countries after studying and learning the history of ours in relation to education and the future goals of America
But I am not those people, my loved ones. I am in the small percentage of those who absolutely love every day of every lesson; every minute of every reading; every part of every re-writing, and I am serious when I say this. I have just had news of two articles that were accepted in two different journals (well, a journal and a book), and I am just about to send off a third to another journal (after I work on my ffifth draft to appease my professor). I am about to turn in my first research proposal to conduct a study next semester with some of my preservice teachers so I can come to a better understanding of the future of white teachers with non-white students in their classrooms. It's some pretty cool stuff, I have to say. And I can see why those of you who live in this academic world want to stay--it's not for the money, and it's not for the clout---I can see that it's for the learning, for that feeling of contribution. Pretty darned cool. More to come in the near future, so stay tuned...
Oh, and have I gone to church here yet? Sure I have. You betcha...
Have a great Turkey Day, everyone. Love to you all, HEH
Tight Belt of the Bible squashes PhD Student
Okay, some of you whom I love dearly are a bit more religious than I, so if you think you might be offended after reading this email, you'd better either delete it right now or just remember that I am a very spiritual person...I just haven't found the "right church" yet...or something like that.
To begin, let me say that I am now listening to my i-pod in the coffee shop where I originally came to read for my qualitative research class tonight. It's a few hundred pages, but I'll get there, I'm sure of it...I'm listening to my i-pod now because there are two very sweet, young ladies sitting across the room praying. Out loud. And they're still praying as I'm sitting here typing this with frustration. It's been like fifteen freakin' minutes. What else can they say to God? He listens all day long; do they have to talk out loud at the table, too? I wonder if He sits up there and laughs at them when they're doing that, whispering, "You know, I can hear you when you think, sneeze, whisper, shout or talk out loud. No need to annoy Hilary while she's trying to study."
As I walked to my car (with a scowl on my face showing them how annoyed I was...but they couldn't see me, of course because they had their eyes shut, heads bowed and hands together on the table), I remembered my run the other day in a new neighborhood and my new observation of the fish. My goodness gracious there were so many fish. Fish. You know the ones. The symbols that some of us put on the backs of our automobiles so everyone behind us will know we support the son of God? Yes, those fish. And here in Athens, Georgia, they even have the fish with the word Jesus in the middle...in case sadists like me forget the metaphoric connection that accompanies the little water inhabitant.
I would say--and I'm not exaggerating here, people--that every 9 out of 10 cars have the fish in Athens. What's wrong with that, you ask? Hilary, why don't you let other people believe what they want to believe and mind your own business? Yes, that would work here in the BIBLE BELT if there weren't five churches to every single person in this town. I mean, seriously, when I was running the other day, just from the END of one block to the other, I counted FIVE churches...on ONE BLOCK. Okay, that's an exaggeration. There were really four--one, I guess, was bought out by a bank, because I saw an American Bank sign on the front of a church building--tall pointy thing on top of the building and all. :)
We have it all here in Athens, Georgia, folks, so step right up. You can be a Baptist (if you're not, we're fine with that, but you know you're going straight to Hell, right?); a Methodist (kind of the same, but a bit more mild on the Hell part); Presbyterian ( I have no idea--they're just everywhere); Church of Christ; Church of God; Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (what?); Episcopal (not many here; they were all run out by the Baptists); the Reformed Episcopal Church (they beat up the local Baptists so they could stay); the United Church of Christ (which is different from Church of Christ...I guess because they are more...United?); and of course you could be a Catholic (don't even get me started with the rehab/therapy those people are going to need).
Now, those are just a few of the churches I've seen around town. Oh, but wait, there's more. More, you ask? How could there possibly be more in such a small town of only 100, 000 people? Excluding the African-American versions of all of these churches (because white people and black people decided they'd worship separately here some time ago, and my friend from New York tells me she's tried five different African American churches and they all just scream and holler and sing about LOVIN' the Lord! Then they get up and dance and stuff...she's NOT pleased, being from New York, with the Southern style of worship), and the Jewish and Muslim services that are advertised on signs, there are the "others" whom I've just met a few of in my classes these past weeks. They are called Fundamentalists. Let me start a new paragraph for this one...
Some students in my qualitative research class read a book about a fundamentalist private school that a researcher did a study in many years ago. As this woman was "book talking" the book to our group, she kept saying, "And, well, they didn't want the researcher in the school b/c, you know, it was fundamentalist....and the school ran like, well, you all get it... it was fundamentalist." Finally, I had to do it.
"I don't know what you're talking about. You keep saying we know, but I don't know. What are you talking about?" Mind you, I didn't say, "You are a miserable human being; your children were born of Satin, and your husband is really a woman with three heads." BUT, you would have thought I said that. She then, looking at me like I just stomped on her toe, very slowly and calmly (because I am now seen as lower and stupid, I imagine?) explained to me that fundamentalists, well in HER church, read the Bible literally. "We take every word of God to be literal," She so proudly stated.
"Every word?" I asked in astonishment.with they eyes of a three-year-old who's just seen the largest chocolate chip cookie ever made.......
....we moved on to the next book....
This morning when I was visiting two of my student teachers in a 6th grade class, I noticed a 6th grader's t-shirt. I'm not sure if the student was a male or female, but that's beside the point. The shirt was one of those explanations of something in three boxes with stick figures. You know, like the See Jane. See Jane fall. See Jane whatever in the hell Jane does...
Well, this shirt said: See Jesus Saved the World! and in box 1 it had Jesus doing something...I can't remember...maybe standing there drinking red wine and hitting on women or something...anyway, box 2 had a stick figure hung on a cross and box 3 had a stick figure coming out from behind a rock with stars and sun beams surrounding it.
I thought, well, well, well, they've finally made a shirt where the man is coming out! (Just kidding, Manny...I know Jesus wasn't gay...well, I don't know that for sure, I've heard some speculation....)
I guess my long-winded point is that this place is a bit more religious than I'm used to. I think I knew five people in my ten years in CO who went to church. I know that's an under-exaggeration, but it makes a better story for you heathens out there in the mountains. I have moved back to the Bible Belt and my thoughts are getting a little muddled with this freakin' belt strapped so tightly around my vision.
Oh, oh, and the billboards. The MASSIVE billboards around town that say things like,
DON'T MAKE ME COME DOWN THERE---GOD or
WHAT PART OF THOU SHALT NOT DON'T YOU GET? or
PLEASE USE SOMEONE ELSE'S NAME IN VEIN (something like that) those are pretty good, I have to admit. They make me laugh out loud. (Isn't that what they're supposed to do?)
And I have received the cutest little emails from my student-teachers saying things like, "We're so blessed to have you as a supervisor," or "See you this week. Blessings, so-and-so."
I tell you what, I'm getting so many blessings around here from my sneezes to my emails that I'm set for another few years before I have to go to church.
I'm off t read this weird case study about mentally ill men who do something... (nice cliff hanger, huh?)
Love to all, HEH
To begin, let me say that I am now listening to my i-pod in the coffee shop where I originally came to read for my qualitative research class tonight. It's a few hundred pages, but I'll get there, I'm sure of it...I'm listening to my i-pod now because there are two very sweet, young ladies sitting across the room praying. Out loud. And they're still praying as I'm sitting here typing this with frustration. It's been like fifteen freakin' minutes. What else can they say to God? He listens all day long; do they have to talk out loud at the table, too? I wonder if He sits up there and laughs at them when they're doing that, whispering, "You know, I can hear you when you think, sneeze, whisper, shout or talk out loud. No need to annoy Hilary while she's trying to study."
As I walked to my car (with a scowl on my face showing them how annoyed I was...but they couldn't see me, of course because they had their eyes shut, heads bowed and hands together on the table), I remembered my run the other day in a new neighborhood and my new observation of the fish. My goodness gracious there were so many fish. Fish. You know the ones. The symbols that some of us put on the backs of our automobiles so everyone behind us will know we support the son of God? Yes, those fish. And here in Athens, Georgia, they even have the fish with the word Jesus in the middle...in case sadists like me forget the metaphoric connection that accompanies the little water inhabitant.
I would say--and I'm not exaggerating here, people--that every 9 out of 10 cars have the fish in Athens. What's wrong with that, you ask? Hilary, why don't you let other people believe what they want to believe and mind your own business? Yes, that would work here in the BIBLE BELT if there weren't five churches to every single person in this town. I mean, seriously, when I was running the other day, just from the END of one block to the other, I counted FIVE churches...on ONE BLOCK. Okay, that's an exaggeration. There were really four--one, I guess, was bought out by a bank, because I saw an American Bank sign on the front of a church building--tall pointy thing on top of the building and all. :)
We have it all here in Athens, Georgia, folks, so step right up. You can be a Baptist (if you're not, we're fine with that, but you know you're going straight to Hell, right?); a Methodist (kind of the same, but a bit more mild on the Hell part); Presbyterian ( I have no idea--they're just everywhere); Church of Christ; Church of God; Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (what?); Episcopal (not many here; they were all run out by the Baptists); the Reformed Episcopal Church (they beat up the local Baptists so they could stay); the United Church of Christ (which is different from Church of Christ...I guess because they are more...United?); and of course you could be a Catholic (don't even get me started with the rehab/therapy those people are going to need).
Now, those are just a few of the churches I've seen around town. Oh, but wait, there's more. More, you ask? How could there possibly be more in such a small town of only 100, 000 people? Excluding the African-American versions of all of these churches (because white people and black people decided they'd worship separately here some time ago, and my friend from New York tells me she's tried five different African American churches and they all just scream and holler and sing about LOVIN' the Lord! Then they get up and dance and stuff...she's NOT pleased, being from New York, with the Southern style of worship), and the Jewish and Muslim services that are advertised on signs, there are the "others" whom I've just met a few of in my classes these past weeks. They are called Fundamentalists. Let me start a new paragraph for this one...
Some students in my qualitative research class read a book about a fundamentalist private school that a researcher did a study in many years ago. As this woman was "book talking" the book to our group, she kept saying, "And, well, they didn't want the researcher in the school b/c, you know, it was fundamentalist....and the school ran like, well, you all get it... it was fundamentalist." Finally, I had to do it.
"I don't know what you're talking about. You keep saying we know, but I don't know. What are you talking about?" Mind you, I didn't say, "You are a miserable human being; your children were born of Satin, and your husband is really a woman with three heads." BUT, you would have thought I said that. She then, looking at me like I just stomped on her toe, very slowly and calmly (because I am now seen as lower and stupid, I imagine?) explained to me that fundamentalists, well in HER church, read the Bible literally. "We take every word of God to be literal," She so proudly stated.
"Every word?" I asked in astonishment.with they eyes of a three-year-old who's just seen the largest chocolate chip cookie ever made.......
....we moved on to the next book....
This morning when I was visiting two of my student teachers in a 6th grade class, I noticed a 6th grader's t-shirt. I'm not sure if the student was a male or female, but that's beside the point. The shirt was one of those explanations of something in three boxes with stick figures. You know, like the See Jane. See Jane fall. See Jane whatever in the hell Jane does...
Well, this shirt said: See Jesus Saved the World! and in box 1 it had Jesus doing something...I can't remember...maybe standing there drinking red wine and hitting on women or something...anyway, box 2 had a stick figure hung on a cross and box 3 had a stick figure coming out from behind a rock with stars and sun beams surrounding it.
I thought, well, well, well, they've finally made a shirt where the man is coming out! (Just kidding, Manny...I know Jesus wasn't gay...well, I don't know that for sure, I've heard some speculation....)
I guess my long-winded point is that this place is a bit more religious than I'm used to. I think I knew five people in my ten years in CO who went to church. I know that's an under-exaggeration, but it makes a better story for you heathens out there in the mountains. I have moved back to the Bible Belt and my thoughts are getting a little muddled with this freakin' belt strapped so tightly around my vision.
Oh, oh, and the billboards. The MASSIVE billboards around town that say things like,
DON'T MAKE ME COME DOWN THERE---GOD or
WHAT PART OF THOU SHALT NOT DON'T YOU GET? or
PLEASE USE SOMEONE ELSE'S NAME IN VEIN (something like that) those are pretty good, I have to admit. They make me laugh out loud. (Isn't that what they're supposed to do?)
And I have received the cutest little emails from my student-teachers saying things like, "We're so blessed to have you as a supervisor," or "See you this week. Blessings, so-and-so."
I tell you what, I'm getting so many blessings around here from my sneezes to my emails that I'm set for another few years before I have to go to church.
I'm off t read this weird case study about mentally ill men who do something... (nice cliff hanger, huh?)
Love to all, HEH
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