worst teacher
She had these little things in the corners of her mouth. Little deposits of chalk dust, we'd decided, a clump of white paste interrupting the peculiar orange-pink lipstick she wore everyday. She had to be at least one hundred years old by our clever seventh grade calculations, and she taught algebra. Her back was always toward the class, and she had one of those lumpy "old lady" bottoms, the kind that distract your attention with the physics of how that type of structure might be possible. She wrote the equations on the board, showed how to solve them and erased them without ever making eye contact with the class. She wasn't a particularly bad teacher, and we weren't bad kids, but a room full of seventh graders being virtually ignored with nothing to do but algebra is hazardous. It didn't take long for the class to discover that when she got angry she salivated and when she salivated the chalk clumps grew and eventually began to move. Alas! Entertainment! So she stood facing the blackboard, writing out equations, while little pieces of chalk whizzed by her head until she got angry, and then we watched the dance of the yucky chalk collections. Then, to our extreme disappointment, we returned from Christmas vacation to find a brand new, shiny, white marker board where the old green chalk board had hung. The chalk was gone. We had nothing left to do but algebra. She continued to ignore us as she taught, and first period became almost entirely uneventful, but I never forgot her. The image of those peculiar little white clumps growing in the corners of her mouth was forever emblazoned in my mind.
team building excersises
There are few words I hate to hear more in a class than "group activty." It's not that I don't like to interact with my peers and get to know people, it's the dreaded "getting to know you" activity that immediately follows those words. I am a private person, as many people are. I am a huge fan of personal boundaries. Working with people is generally a good experience, but I feel it is entirely possible to work together on an activity without preceding it with a team building excersise. If your activity happens to be climbing Mt. Everest, then I agree a certain amount of personal information should be obtained by all parties. But, to problem solve a statistics question or play a silly game really ought not to require my full name, place of birth and shoe size.
I was faced with one of these excersises today in one of my classes. The professor broke us up into teams himself and then gave us three pieces of information, about ourselves, to share with our teammates. The first two were fairly non-descript, but the third instructed us to tell our teammates something most people don't know about us. Doesn't it serve to reason that the things most people don't know about me they don't know because I don't want them to?!?! Therefore, wouldn't it also make sense that if I choose not to tell most of the people I know the things that fall into this particular category, that I would probably prefer not to share with two people I don't know?
I realize the purpose of the activity is to create some open line of communication and offer an initial means of connection, but the situation is manufactured, unnatural and akward. Wouldn't it suffice to introduce yourself, tell your major and your year of school and keep everything trivial and impersonal. We'd still be talking, and the activity would still be done, but with decidedly less irritation on my part.
bartender's weekly ~ vol. 1
Bartending is honestly a dream job for a college student. I have yet to find another job that fits my schedule so consistently. I remove the hours usually allotted to sleeping and use them otherwise. It's foolproof, I am certain of it. But, the things that happen in bars... Work is a constant adventure for me and at the end of the weekend I am never without a good story or drink recipe or bit of wisdom gained at the end of the night from a patron who has recently been blessed with a deeper knowledge of the universe. It is truly amazing what intellectual complexities are secretly stored in Jack Daniels bottles.
If nothing else I hold a plithera of knowledge in the field of cool drink recipies with absolutely horrifying names, and I have heard nearly every cheap pick-up line known to the Central Maine saavy man.
This Week's Recipe:
Sex In The Bahammas
1oz Stoli Razz
1oz Malibu Mango Rum
Fill with Orange and Cranberry
hands assignment
Sometimes the smallest things are those that scare you the most. From the very first time my tiny fingers wrapped themselves around his, I scared him. His baby girl, so precious, so perfect and delicate, holding on so tightly to him. Those tiny hands changed so fast, becoming more imperfect with time. A scar appears on my right index finger, stretching from the nail to the knuckle. I was cutting an apple. I was eight, and I could do it myself. Later, three very distinct calluses begin to form a triangle from the palm of my left hand to the center of my middle finger - bartender's calluses. Three years of opening hundreds of beer bottles every weekend for people who wouldn't care to know my hands were ever perfect. I was paying for school. I was eighteen, and I could do it myself. But all the physical imperfections that appeared as I learned never scared him like the ring that sits on my left hand. He only hopes the boy who gave me the ring doesn't let his little girl do everything herself.
