31 March 2003

[er.]

I have to wake up ass-early tomorrow, as it will be the first day of classes for me. Another quarter of doling out borderline remedial instruction to "college" students. I'm slightly antsy. I don't see sleep in my future. I think I might go to Vertigo and have a drink to calm my nerves. How pathetic.

26 March 2003

[Feelin' a Bit Saucy]

I must have this porn star tee.

25 March 2003

[The nametag pinned to my shirt should have read "Sucker"]

I apologize for my lack of updates. This being my spring break and all -- before, again, facing another tedious quarter at access college USA -- I have decided to catch up on my bills by starting a second job and to avoid my computer as much as possible.

16 March 2003

[Organization is Key, or I've Heard]

I am currently archiving all electronic journal entries, which are scattered among various hard drives and servers. This, unfortunately daunting task, needs to be done.

15 March 2003

[Decisions, Decisions]

I'm in the process of redesigning my website, debating whether I should stick with nested tables or sashay into the css realm.

11 March 2003

[To Quote Serpentbite, "Porn Soothes the Soul"]

What is -- exactly -- the purpose of a fourteen inch cock? Seriously. I get spammed with porn, often in fact. I generally peruse it -- I have no shame. But there are certain things I won't look twice at, animal-type porn being one of them. Foolish I decided to check out the "Fourteen Inch Cock" e-mail sent to me this morning and opted to send the "overly large penis porn" to the black list where "Barnyard Porn" resides. Looking at a photo of an enormously large, oily, veiny penis crammed into an anonymous asshole is painful. Why the token "big dick" needs to be accentuated further via anal sex is beyond me. I am in pain. But I blame myself. Curiosity didn't kill the cat, but it made the bored redhead queasy.

10 March 2003

[Out With the Old]

This is the final week of the quarter. Tuesday, my day students are writing an in-class essay; they are turning in their final portfolios thursday. Thursday night, my Prep. Comp. students are writing their in-class essay, which makes me very nervous. How my Prep. Comp. students fare at the Prep. Exit Review will -- I know -- be reflective of my skills as a teacher, although others in the department argue that with remedial students, it doesn't matter how much effort you put into instruction and individual conferencing, as most of these people will never grasp what composition is, ever. Working in educational institutions over the last four years has made me very, very conservative. While I think it's nice that colleges are opening their doors to those who are not quite ready for real, college level work, I feel that this is a disservice to both students and teachers. By providing false hopes to those with no hope at ever getting through college (let alone remedial) courses, "access" schools are wasting the time and money of people who would be better off going to a technical college. Not everyone is university material. And there is nothing wrong with that. Whether my time has been wasted this quarter will be determined in a week, when the Prep. Comp. portfolios are reviewed by fellow professors. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

06 March 2003

[Another Visit from the CARma Fairy, That Bitch]

This morning Cincinnati was hit by some bad ice. Traffic on I-75 North, I heard on the news while getting ready for another morning commute to access college hell, was backed up thanks to traffic accidents galore. The first three minutes of my drive down Central Parkway toward I-75 North were normal. I was listening to the usual Dawn Patrol insanity and my fingers were the usual frost bitten due to my inability to find the gloves, that were so conveniently put in my purse for a reason. Icy rain lightly assaulted my windshield, so -- like any normal driver -- I relied on my wipers to remedy the problem and restore my vision of the road and traffic. This was a bad decision, as my wipers, their rubber frozen beyond any acceptable wiper state, did not clear my view; rather they caused my vision to be stolen altogether. While driving at thirty-five miles per hour -- the speed limit, yes (I have to be good) -- my windshield went from being mildly annoyingly blurry to completely opaque white. I couldn't see shit and I hastily pulled over to the side of the road. I scraped the glass; vision was restored, but only briefly. I was forced to pull over again, thirty seconds later -- as the Rob Zombie/Lionel Ritchie rendition of "Brick House" played on the radio. This time I scraped my windshield with a plastic parking pass, because I couldn't find where I tossed my ice chisel. At this point, I decided that the commute would be dangerous and impossible. I returned home, slipping and sliding along McMicken. I was forced to peer carefully out a tiny scratch I made in the opaque matter that coated my windshield. Before pulling into the parking lot of my apartment building, I was forced to stop at the top of the driveway, to scrape some more, so that I wouldn't hit another car. I called the secretary at work and left my odd excuse on her voice mail. I'm sure it was the topic of the day: Amanda can't make it to work -- she can't see. Of course, I crawled back into bed after unplugging the phone. I wasn't going to waste valuable sleeping time, as I had a feeling I'd need all the energy today I could "scrape" together. I woke up a little after eleven, and headed to Jiffy Lube on Central Parkway, knowing they replaced windshield wipers. My car being due for an oil change, I decided to go ahead a take care of that, although I usually go to Midas. "Ma'am, we can't do an oil change on your car. It's company policy. You have a leak, several of them in fact. Have you hit something lately?" (SURE, probably one of those goddamned potholes the city has yet to fit on my fucking street) There was no oil whatsoever in my car. The attendant filled topped my oil for free and told me that I needed to get my car serviced immediately. Midas, the people who claim to do it all, told me over the phone that they didn't do oil leaks. Bastards. I called my mother from Jiffy Lube, telling her I might need to borrow her car for work tonight. After she asked why, I explained that my car was leaking oil. She flipped and immediately began to treat me like a child. I slammed the phone down and left Jiffy Lube. I am twenty-five years old for chrissake (That is the last time, I swear, that I will ever ask a favor from the egg and sperm donor. Ever since my little brother moved to New York and got a real job paying real money, I've been reverted to the younger sibling. My lack of success has made me fragile in the 'rents' eyes, I s'pose. I feel very small). I returned home, made an appointment at ProCare (which is no longer owned by BP, something I didn't know), and threw a little hissy fit. Sean and I headed out to the ProCare on Glenway. While my car was initially being looked at, we hit Fridays, ate, and drank. I had some wine. Sean drank beer -- he needed it to cope with me, I guess. We returned to ProCare, where I was told that not all of the damage could be fixed. Well, it could, but it wouldn't be economical, as one of the leaks required the entire transmission to be lifted. The areas which were causing the most leaking could be fixed for a little over two-hundred bucks. I was told to return at four-thirty. After a trip to Toys R Us, we headed back to Fridays. I drank a diet coke (I had to teach tonight, folks) and Sean had three beers to top the two he had earlier. I must have been crankier than I thought. So now, I am broke. (Why I am not currently fucking an auto mechanic right now is beyond me, as it seemed like all my exes were automobile savvy). And I need a fucking drink.

05 March 2003

[Good, Bad, and Moot]

GOOD: [I'm] cured! At least that's what my doctor said today at my follow up, the follow up that I was supposed to have two weeks ago, but had to cancel thanks to weather issues here in the lovely Cincinnati area. BAD: I was nabbed driving 51mph in a 25mph zone on the way to Bethesda North. A loser is me. A loser of ninety dollars thanks to the uppity white suburban need to have slow traffic on big roads that might as well be highways. The cop was nice, at least. And the fact that I didn't have to fork out a co-pay at the clinic, once I safely arrived, made me feel a tad bit better. MOOT: Wendy's messed up my lunch order. But I ate it anyway.

04 March 2003

[Frizzy is Me]

My hair iron refused to heat up in a timely manner tonight after I showered, so I have post-coital hair. In other news, my hard drive is full.

04 March 2003

[A Winner is Me. A Wnner -- 56 Dollars Poorer -- is Me]

I just survived a nasty Ebay auction as it frightfully drew to to a dramatic close. Whether it is a good thing I was victorious is still debatable -- though the item I won is mighty pretty. I'm such a sucker for antique jewelry. I think most new stuff is flamboyantly ugly (is that possible?) and tacky. When girls flash their new engagement rings, I want to say, "congrats, you're marrying a man with no fucking taste." But then again, if she's flaunting the ring . . . I have a rule. Anything made after 1950 is trash. There are exceptions. But if I ever try to explain those exceptions to a man (which I have in the past, actually), I end up getting ugly stuff -- ugly stuff that is usually unreturnable as it was purchased/bartered in some sketchy back alley, ghetto pawn, crack dealer-esque transaction. As much as I would eventually like a daughter -- so that I can buy her pretty things, but at the same time keep her wary of men -- I know it will be a cold day in hell when I hand my great grandmother's engagement and wedding rings, circa 1910, over to her. A cold day, indeed. How my mother parted with them when I turned 16, I shall never know. Again, Ebay is evil. I need to grade papers. Oh the stack is so high. And the grammar is so bad. But the quarter is almost over, and before I know it, I will be greeted with a new batch of fifty students -- half of which AT LEAST destined to drop out. As much as I hate the politics and "rules" of access colleges like the one I teach at, I must admit that I rather enjoy watching my students drop like flies. It makes my job a bit easier. And considering my heart -- last time I checked -- was a dark shade of slate, I can't find the time or energy to really care about who stays and who goes.

02 March 2003

[Amanda is Completely Unavailable]

Bah. I just missed Tricia's phone call while I was showering. Damn me and my personal hygiene!