Tabling the Salt

In case anyone is wondering, I hate table salt. It tastes like rust. And makes my tongue hurt.

This semester I have been on a kick with popcorn as my study snack. Hey - it's fat free, cheap, crunchy, and satisfying. What else can I ask for?

This was actually inspired by the popcorn habit of an autistic teen girl I work with. She LOVES popcorn and has it almost every evening I have spent with her.

Smart girl, man! Popcorn: perfect snack!

So it's been almost nightly that I bust out my little popcorn maker (One of the best gifts I have ever received, courtesy my lovely ladies from SMFA) and cook up some fresh hot popped corn. I toss some sea salt on it, bring it and my cup of tea to my desk, and try my darnedest to not inhale it Cookie Monster style. There are even nights when I have to restrain myself from making a second bowl.

Last night I ran out of sea salt. I shed a little tear and put "buy Sea Salt" on my to-do list for on my way home from the library today. But this morning I decided to work from home instead, seeing no reason to haul my crap to the library and cause myself even more back pain.

After an ungratifying can of soup for lunch I decided that what I needed was a nice piping hot bowl of popcorn! I whipped it up, tossed it in the bowl, and...

Oh, sad face! I'm out of Sea Salt.

I thought, oh it's not such a big deal. I'll just toss some table salt on it. It won't be that different.

Well, kids, I am here to tell you that it is. And it SUCKS. My popcorn tasted like... well, rusty. And all my saltiness tasting taste buds cringed.

I had to abandon my popcorn. It was tragic.

I hereby declare myself Anti-Table Salt.

Oh Monday...

I have been working hard all weekend on a number of different papers and on the final steps for a group project which was due for presentation this morning in my class titled "Examining Power, Privilege, and Oppression". I've been really stressed about it all. Rather, *am* really stressed about it all, about getting it all done.

After a full 8hr day at the library, and 3 more hours of working when I arrived home, I went to bed at 2am (this has been the norm for the last few weeks), and set my alarm for 7am, hoping to get to school by 8am to do one last minute bit.

I woke up at 7:40 with my little "daylight/sunrise" alarm going off, glowing happily and radio chattering away, and my cell phone alarm in hand and shoved under my pillow. It too was buzzing away, as well as sounding it's annoying alarm. I had probably been hitting snooze for the last 40 minutes but I have no memory of it.

So I scramble to get everything together. get dressed. look nice. get books for afternoon class. feed cat. brush teeth. make coffee! oh, don't forget breakfast!

I get to school at 8:45 and thankfully find that the last bit i thought I needed to do did not need to be done.

My group and I present our project (A discussion of the culture of, history of, and counseling issues pertaining to counseling refugees from the Sudan and Somalia - no small deal, let me tell you!).

The presentation goes great!

As soon as it's over I scurry off to the restroom...

Where I discover that I have my undies on backwards!

Well, that explains why they were all in a bunch.

And yes, I am thankful that they are the *only* thing I have put on backwards, or that I remembered to put them on at all.

Oh, Monday...

Dear Term Paper:

Dear term paper on Gender Role Quality Development:

I am sorry that you are feeling moody and have locked yourself in the bathroom, but I really need you to come out now. I know you are having a very rough week, but can we please talk about it later?

I am sorry that you are feeling bloated, and tired, and feeling like no one listens to you... yes, I know, not even the cat. But I really wasn't trying to offend you.

No. that isn't what I meant.

I'm sorry, I was trying to be funny.

Yes, I was being an ass. You are right.

No, I think you are beautiful... OK, sexy. Incredibly hot!

Yes, I really mean that.

Will you come out now? Please?

You see, we are kind of running out of time...

With man gone is there hope for monkey?

October 1st, 2009

I've been meaning to start a blog about my adventures in graduate school for a few weeks now. Actually, since I returned from France. But being the good procrastinator that I am, I had to wait until I was in the throws paper writing with pending deadlines to find the time to start the blog.

Actually, I should give credit where credit is due. The impetus to write tonight is the direct result of the conversation between three 18yr old freshman students which I overheard while eating my lunch this afternoon.

I was sitting in the cafe minding my own business, eating my reheated pasta covered in vast amounts of garlic and olive oil, when without warning...

Sitting at the table next to me were three dolled up young gals loudly discussing a book one had recently read that she had found very profound.

A few moments after I sit down I realize this young lady, we will call her Girl #1, is talking about the book "Ishmeal". She is now describing to her cohorts the end of the book. With tremendous affect comes the following description:

"So then, like, he goes to the circus and stuff, right? So, like, then he goes to the apartment and the monkey is gone. Then he's, like, going through some, like, boxes and stuff and he, like, finds this poster, ok? On one side the poster says, like, 'With man gone is there any hope for monkey?'. And then on the other side it says, like, 'With Monkey gone is there any hope for Man?' So, it's like, if he [the monkey] isn't there to tell him stuff, what's going to happen to the man??"

OK, wait. Did I really just hear that right? So you really think the author is asking the reader "what is the fate of the narrator without the magic talking "monkey" to 'tell him stuff'??"

Ouch. I think I just burst a blood vessel.

Oh wait. Hold your horses, kids. It gets worse.

They go on to compare what they would like to get tattooed to their butts, backs, hips, etc. One of them recounts seeing another girl in her dorm with a tattoo on her back that is a poem, a segment of text, and how she thought that was just the coolest ever. She pulls out a piece of paper saying that she would like to get part of "this" (what is written on the paper) tattooed to her back. They discuss a little longer their various tattoo fantasies and then pack their bags to scurry off to class.

Two get up, one remains a moment longer looking at the paper. The following exchanges ensues:

Girl #1: Yeah, so I would totally want to get like not the whole thing but a part of that as my tattoo.

Girl #2: That's cool. But who this is? I don't know who this is.

Girl #1: You don't know who Nelson Mandela is?

Girl #2: No.. Should I?

Girl #1: OMG. You should just like google him.

Girl #2: Is he important?

Girl #1: Well, so like, he's African American, lives in Africa. And like, he was thrown in prison and like beaten really badly, and then he was released. But like, yeah, he was in prison.

Girl #2: oh. ok.

Ouch! There goes another blood vessel. It might not be evident from my description, but hearing this description I wanted to ask this young lass: "So you think he is African American because he is black and speaks English? Please tell me you do know that Africa is not one of the 50 American states." Jesus, I think I just figured out what is wrong with the world. If the average human uses only 10% of their brain power, these girls were using only 1/3 of that.