Thursday, August 25, 2005

Adjunct, Smadjunct! You all look the same with my boot up your ass!

Before I begin my story I have to define a term that may not be well known outside of academia, so here goes…

An Adjunct (or Adjunct Faculty Member if you want to get all technical) is a part-time teacher employed by the college on an as-needed basis. Some people manage to make a living by adjuncting (and yes, it can be used as a noun, verb, adjective, or whatever strikes your fancy – both the word and the person are passed around like $20 whores at a frat party by academic institutions world-wide) for several different colleges, but most are professionals who teach part-time at night to earn some extra money. It’s a good part-time gig, but in the academic hierarchy Adjuncts rate just above the cockroaches that infest the walls and just below the feral cats that keep the cockroach population in check.

Now on with the story…

As some of you know I work at a community college where I teach English as a Second Language (ESL) and I run our department’s computer lab. Usually, I’m pretty tolerant of non-ESL students using our lab as long as they follow the rules: turn your cell phone off, don’t bring food into the lab, and most of all don’t print more than 10 pages. Pretty reasonable stuff – at least that’s what I thought until about 2 weeks ago.

At 4:15 pm --exactly 15 minutes before I was to start my vacation -- I noticed that the lab printer kept printing, and printing, and printing. So I went to the printer and saw that someone was attempting to print 30 copies of their resume. Now this is a definite no-no. I canceled the print job, and, since there was only one person in the lab at that time, took the stack of resumes over to her and embarked on the following conversation with her:

ME: Are these yours? Because you know there’s a 10 page limit on printing.

Crazy Woman {hereafter referred to as CW}: Well, I didn’t know that. How should I know that?

ME: Well ma’am, there is that sign over the printer, and those 4 signs on the walls, and – oh yes – the window that pops up on your computer monitor as soon as you log in that all say to limit your printing to 10 pages. So, no more copies, ok?

CW: But I’M an ADJUNCT! {said in the thundering tones of a self-righteousness crack-pot}

ME: {trying REALLY hard not to sigh} Well, that’s good, but there’s still a limit of 10 pages.

CW: Well, my department TOLD me I could print here! They told me!

ME: Really, what department are you with? I’d like to talk with them so they’re clear about our printing policies as well.

CW: But I’M AN ADJUNCT! I teach here! My department sent me to this lab!

ME: {again resisting the urge to sigh – working on keeping murderous rage in check as well} Well, no other department has contacted me about using this lab. Which department did you say you were with again?

CW: You know I teach here – I have a degree in English AND a degree in Business! Dr. SO-and-SO told me to use this lab!

ME: Oh, Dr. SO-and-SO, you mean Harry? I’ll have to drop him a line to let him know about our policies. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you about the Adjunct Computer Lab in the next building. I’m sure he’d be happy to show it to you – seeing as how my lab is really only supposed to be for students.

CW: What is your name? I’m going to complain to your boss! I AM AN ADJUNCT! I can’t believe the way you’re treating me!

ME: {murderous rage supplanted by almost uncontrollable urge to laugh out loud – really, stop with the “I’m an Adjunct” crap! That carries about as much weight as saying “I’m the Assistant to the Second-String Crack Whore!”} That is your prerogative, ma'am. Let me give you my business card. Now my boss’ name is XXXX, and his supervisor’s name is XXXX. They both office in the next building – here, let me write down their office numbers for you. Would you like me to give you directions to their offices? I’m sure they’d love to hear from you!

CW: I will talk with them. I’ve been watching you, you know. I see that you do nothing all day. Students are always in here talking in Spanish! You’re always in your office! It must be nice to have a job where you do nothing all day! I’m going to talk to your supervisor!

ME: Yes ma’am. Again, his name is XXXX and his office number is ###. He might still be here so if you hurry you might be able to catch him. And yes, it is refreshing to have a job where I do nothing all day – it’s so kind of you to notice! Thanks for stopping by!

At this point she stomped off down the hall. I had high hopes that she might actually talk to my boss because he has even less tolerance for crazy people than I do. Alas, it was not to be because I never saw her again. I guess having a degree in English AND in Business-- and standing in line at the unemployment office -- means she's just too busy to complain about me. Oh well.

Monday, August 22, 2005

Nothing to see here, move along...

Well, my little vacation is over and now I'm back at work - which means two things:

1) I won't be seeing another movie in an actual movie theater for quite a while, and

2) I'll have plenty of time to blog.

So get ready for oodles of triviality as I assail the internet with fabulous tales of pissy teachers, sadistic veterinary receptionists, and of course my flatulent but fabulous best friend and our gastronomic adventures!

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Mark this day on your calendars!

My blog has officially made it to the big time. I have been comment-spammed! Woo-hoo! My feelings right now are alternating between feeling violated and feeling exhilarated.

What's next? Paparazzi placing mini-cams in my toilets? Hacking into my cell phone to get to my amateur porn videos? I feel a little like Paris Hilton except without the billion-dollar trust fund and the genital warts.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

Closing the Gender Gap

I realized something very important the other day as I was changing my shoes for the third time before rushing out the door for work. Men have one pair of each type of shoe (or at least most of the straight men I know do). For instance, my husband has one pair of dress shoes, one pair of sandals, and one pair of sneakers. He may have a few other pairs of shoes languishing at the bottom of the "give-away" pile - but those clearly don't count.

I, on the other hand, have 1 pair of clogs, 1 pair of keds, 1 pair of sneakers (different from keds - the women out there know this, so I'm just explaining this to any straight men still reading this), 4 pairs of sandals (2 dressy pairs and 2 casual pairs), 2 pairs of black loafers (to be worn with slacks), 1 pair of knee-high boots, 1 pair of low boots, and 3 pairs of "work" heels. Yet with all of these shoes I still find myself trying on at least 3 different pairs each morning before I am satisfied (or at least running so late that I can't waste any more time on finding the "right" pair of shoes) with my selection.

My husband, smart man that he is, has learned to stay away from me during my daily shoe-finding frenzy. My son is too young to understand this yet, so it's my husband's job to ply him with Fruit Loops and grapes until the disturbance has passed and it is safe to re-enter my presence.

This got me thinking that one day my husband will have to sit down with The Boy and have "the talk." You know, the conversation that starts out like this,
"Son, love between a man and a woman is a beautiful thing and the ways of love are mysterious yet delightful. What you need to understand, however, before you can even think about getting past second base is to never, and I mean NEVER, tell a woman her shoes don't match her outfit. As a matter of fact, never say anything about a woman's attire. It'll only lead to heartache and - more than likely - a crushed larynx."
I have no logical explanation as to why women are compelled to find the absolute "right" shoe. I'm 33 years old and still don't understand this phenomenon - yet I engage in this silly ritual each day like a lemming racing over a cliff.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Hooray for Boobies!

Usually when we take The Boy over to The House of GrandparentsTM he leaps out of my arms, flings a casual wave back in our general direction and runs with utter abandon into the waiting arms of my doting in-laws. The moment he enters their home he knows that he is about to embark on a night-long pudding and Baby Einstein orgy. We, his parents, the people who gave him life (!), are left unwanted and forgotten by the door - like cigarette butts tossed from a moving car. Yes, usually this is the way it goes down.

Yesterday, however, The Boy was feeling a bit clingy. So clingy in fact that he refused to be put down and I had to carry him balanced on one hip into the house. He refused to let go of me -- even when his granddad tried to lure him into the kitchen with the promise of juice and pudding. In fact, this seemed to aggravate The Boy to the point where he grabbed the neck of my shirt and pulled it down over my boob in his scramble to curl into a fetal position while remaining firmly glued to my hip.

Yeah, you read that right. I flashed my father-in-law.

Well, technically my son made me flash him, but it was my boob - not his - so I guess you could say I did the flashing. This is a new low in my tenure as a mother. I just thought the internet should know.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

The Most Disgusting Sentence Ever Printed

"After Jim's teeth rotted to the gumline, he would pop the sores in his mouth with his fingers and rub the pus on his shirt."

followed by this close second...
"In the final year, Jim sat in his chair, naked, a towel draped over his lap, flies laying eggs on his stump."
Read the whole story here about the Wisconsin man (and his father Jim - Stumpy, the fly-loving pus-bucket) who kept his mom's body in his freezer for 4 1/2 years. Is it any wonder that this man kept his dead mother in his basement freezer?