You Might Be A Shit-Stirrer If...

...someone jerks you out of class just to request you go and stir it.

I've been at the state adult basic education conference--a giant clusterfuck that has its own post coming shortly--and I learned two things. (1) I have probably the most powerful literacy agency in the state, and that if it doesn't fly with me and Director/Buddy the state literacy powers that be decide that it's better off not fighting that battle (a jaw dropping realization). And that (2) apparently my reputation has preceded me.

While in the middle of a session on something important about the culture of poverty, one of the regional powers that be shanghai's me on the way to the bathroom and says, "I need you to sit in on another session. Congressman X is running the session and I need you there." I said, "OK, you need bodies to pack the room? Why don't you make an announcement in this session, I'm sure they'd come." Apparently I misunderstood. "No, I don't need bodies, I need you." Still confused. Does she need me to help her with the set up? No. "I need you to...well...to do what you guys do best." Drink beer? No. "Well...let's just call it 'agitate.'"

Ohhh.

Sure, I'd love to.

So, needless to say, I got to meet Mr. Important On The Food Chain Representative. And he certainly got to meet me.

-- Virgil

Here's Your Sign, Dad. And It's Shaped Like A "D".

Recently, on top of everything else academically going on for me this week, I got an email from a concerned parent about the recent midterm grade report he got in the mail for his dear son. Students who get D's or F's get a report back to their primary address. It's supposed to be a wake up call to the person footing the bill. Midterm grades aren't factored into the final grade; they're more like markers to give you some idea of how you're doing. I've probably sent a total of at most 34 D/F reports home since I've been teaching. This is the first parent response I've personally received.

The gist of the email went something like this:

I am emailing concerning my son, Slacker. I spoke with his Advisor this morning by
phone and have found that his current grade in this class is a "D". Of course, this concerns me. I would appreciate any suggestions or advice you can offer in regard to Slacker's current status that may help him in bringing up this grade, and getting more on track. I realize there is an adjustment period starting College, but I just want to make sure he is making an honest effort, attending classes, etc.

I have attached the FERPA form which Slacker signed.

Thanking you in advance,

Parent "Dad" of Slacker

Normally, I don't have to respond to parents, because I can't violate the privacy of their children's records. Because they're -- gasp!-- adults whose lives are none of their parents' business anymore. But you'll noticed he made Slacker sign off on a FERPA form, which gives him the right to find out the details. So be it. While my first section of kiddies were busy with a group activity in Thursday's class, I drafted up an explanation for Mr. Dad--one that Slacker himself should've asked me for. In the second section, of which Slacker is a part, I noticed that Slacker didn't show up that day. Well, Dad, that changes the ballgame, as it puts Slacker on his 5th absence. Since six absences fails the course, at this point, we encourage students to drop. The odds are incredibly stacked against them that they won't miss one more day of class. Don't bet on that pony, you'll lose the farm.

I ended up composing and sending what was approximately a 1 1/2 page response, outlining what Slacker should do now, and how Slacker got to that point. It is very, very briefly paraphrased here:

Dear Father "Dad" of Slacker,

Expression of appreciation that he, as a parent, is willing to support his son at a difficult transitional time in his life, parents play a crucial role in the success of their children, blah, blah. Softened him up to hear the news that his kid is likely getting a D for "real" this time.

Explanation of absence policy, overview of Slacker's violations of it, list of short writing assignments Slacker failed to turn in, which would compound the problem and end up giving him a D anyway, recommendation to drop, explanation on how to do that along with relevant deadlines.

Turning the corner and outlining the even greater cause for concern, which was what put Slacker in this position in the first place. Slacker didn't turn in portfolio at midterm, which is an automatic D, but didn't appear to even bother doing the second essay in the first place. Detailing my extensive methods of student support, including, but not limited to, personal conferences, flexible office hours, speedy email reply, after class help, and many more. Simple but direct note that Slacker did not avail himself of any of these methods he has had ample opportunity to observe his classmates taking advantage of. Note saying with utmost delicacy that Slacker has crept out of class before I could ask him to stay and talk about what was going on. Cautionary warning that if Slacker doesn't figure out how to use the tools in place, history will probably repeat itself.

Concluding paragraph again thanking him for giving a shit, carefully placed sentence declaring this email was being cc'd to the Coordinator, who was a wonderful resource for both "Dad" and Slacker, and a lying ending about how I'd be happy to help with any other info.

Gasps for air.

The careful attention I had to place on my prose rankled my normally no-bullshit way of discussing things. So, here's the email I wish I could've sent:

Dear "Dad",

This is pretty simple. I noticed you said you'd talked to the Advisor. Did you bother talking to your son, or did you just shove the FERPA paper under his nose and demand he sign in? Since you went all "legal" on me, here's the bad news. I'm sure he could've told you why he got a D. He didn't turn in the damned portfolio. No worky, no passy. It's just that simple. He didn't even bother coming to class and doing the work for half of the portfolio.

You probably could've saved yourself the embarrassment of hearing what a slacker your boy is by simply asking him directly; he knows he's in the wrong, because the last two times he has made it to class, he's slunk out of the room the second I took my eye off of him. I stay after class helping those few who do actually want to learn work out the kinks they have with their projects. I respond to emails usually within 3 or 4 hours when the university says I have 48 hours to take my sweet time in getting back to them. Your boy gets the advantage of personal one on one conferences with me at least four times in the semester. None of his other classes offer him that. Additionally, I have flexible office hours, in case the ones I keep don't meet his special needs.

By only requiring him to put his signature down and letting "Daddy" take care of the rest, I see now why your son is a massive Slacker. You've taught him not to use the tools at his disposal, but rather to take advantage of an overly and unduly prolonged adolescence, chalking up his failures to a difficult "transition" period. Here's a piece of advice. You can't sign his FERPA form all of his life. But you certainly got what you paid for.

Oh, and by the way, I've cc'd this to the Coordinator, just in case you feel like making some bullshit excuses about why your little snowflake deserves to make up five weeks worth of work. In these cases, I love jumping behind the Ivory Tower Wall.

Sigh. Can't I just hit "send"?

-- Virgil

Virgil Thwarts Mooch With Bitch

The bitchiness about my work situation is beginning to set in. Apart from the fact that I've bitched about it to everyone within earshot--Batmite was actually the first person to hear about how skank this coworker is--I've now taken it to the next level. That's right, it's time for passive-agressiveness. Full blown bitch is yet to come. After all, I have to work with her for at least a year. If we're going to loathe the sight of each other, it might as well be later rather than sooner. As Director/Buddy is proving sluggish to take the bull by the horns, I decided I'd pull the bull's tail.

I determined that I wasn't going to a) be the gopher for lunch today b) be the ride home tonight or c) get out-odored. I deftly dodged an early attack when she called before 8:30 this morning to ask if she could ride into work with me. That threw me off guard, but only for a moment. I lied to her and told her I couldn't, because I wasn't going straight to work, that I had a few other places to go. Well, it wasn't really a lie, as I had two other places to go, but the stops were on the way. I'm not sure what I'm going to say exactly when she first figures out how to say: "I don't mind. I'll wait in the car." But for now it works. The generals are still coming up with a counter to that possible attack. Pretty much all her call did was piss me off. In two weeks she's gone from mooching a ride home and ordering me out for her food to demanding I bring her TO work as well as from it. She's vegetarian, by the way, because she's part of a pretentious religion--pretentious because it's white people posing as enlightened "others". So she only wants to eat from one place and is so fucking SPECIAL NEEDS that I'm about to lose my mind. Her politics also make her despise all fast food corporations. Which for some odd reason only wants me to order a Big Mac. Or a double Whopper.

Righteously pissed about getting a phone call on a Monday morning for a problem she's not supposed to have, I decided to preempt the lunch situation by bringing mine. So I stopped at Subway and ordered a cold cut combo. Give me more bologna on my trio of meats!! That'll show her. *Eyeroll.* Apparently her only plan was to catch me off guard as I was leaving the house and snooker me into giving her a lift to work, as she told me to tell Director/Buddy she'd be late because she would have to take the bus. What was your backup plan, exactly, if I'd already left the house? I used this knowledge of her lateness to my advantage, and having covered the transportation and food angle, proceeded to tackle the smell problem.

Enter Febreeze, bane of Hippy Stink!! I personally donated my home bottle of Febreeze and febreezed the entire trailer, from front office to back storage. Twice. I dared her to stink. For good measure, I'd sprayed myself down with Lancome's Hypnose. It would be the battle of the smells, and I had my loaded weapon (Febreeze bottle) within reach. She gave it her best shot. After two hours of her presence, I sprayed down my personal office (shared with Director/Buddy) with Febreeze. She works in the outer room. I saved the personal attack for last.

When I came through there an hour or so later, I made a very pronounced show of prancing around and sniffing the room. I stayed away from her corner, so as not to be too direct, but honey, I'll go there if I have to. I marched back into my office, about-faced back to the main room, took my position, aimed, and fired! No, I didn't squirt her. But I squirted everything else. And then marched proudly away. She was three shades of red when I started firing. Let's hope this gets the point across. For good measure, after she left for the day, I sprayed her station down. Take that. The score for now is Virgil: 1 Smelly Hippy: 0.

If I have to, I have camo pants and a military jacket. I will wear them and come in with two Febreeze bottles on either hip. Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

-- Virgil

Sincerely, One More Clove And I'm Gonna Kill You

Dear Abby,

I have a work situation that I'm not sure how to handle gracefully. It's not that I care so much about tact, but I'm going to have to work with this person for at least a year. See, when she first started through a special program that gives us another worker for up to three years, I wasn't very impressed. She constantly forgets things she's been told five minutes earlier. When she calls people and I talk to them later, they tell me she sounds like she's "in a fog." She's already having basic disagreements about her job description, even though it was made perfectly clear to her what she'd be doing before she started. Suffice it to say she's not the brightest bulb in the office.

But I have two even more basic problems than that. First, she doesn't have a car. She said she was getting one before she was hired. Her big plan was that she'd be a participant in a medical study and get cash for it. When that fell through (for unknown reasons), she had no back up plan to get a car. Our office is on the bus route, but it is out in the county. On day one, I ended up driving her home. I was not impressed. I mean, it's not like I wouldn't give somebody a ride. But when you put me in the position where I have no real choice in the matter except to look like a total bitch or drive you home, I don't like that one bit! To top it off, when I drove her home, I found out she lives one block from me! This sets me up to be her chauffeur whenever she's going in to work. I've since dodged at least five attempts at "You can swing by and pick me up, right?" And she's been here about two weeks. My response is usually, "No, sorry, I'm doing this other thing. So when are you getting a car?" The biggest problem with this transportation dilemma seems to be that since I work at the office three days a week, we're often the only two there together at the end. It's obvious that I'm going home. What kind of heel am I if I don't take her with me? After all, it's not like we're not going to exactly the same area. I'm pretty sure she's banking on me to be her ride three days a week. How do I get out of this?

Part two of my conundrum explains one of the reasons besides just generally being put upon that I don't want her in my car. She smells. In this age of soap and water, she smells. It's not like she exactly smells of B.O. She smells...well...like burnt hippy. If you've ever heard Ween's song "Hippy Smell" off of their God WEEN Satan album, it's spot on:

Hippy smell, I can tell
Patchouli oil, Sixties hell
You're not real, you're not surreal
Can't you tell? Hippy smell

She's got the hippy smell, ladies and gentlemen
You can smell the patchouli oil on her breath
She's got the grateful dead posters hanging up all over the place
She's says, "You know, man, I wish I was alive in the Sixties, Those were really groovy times!"
Well you know what? I've got something to tell you
You wouldn't have wanted to be alive in the Sixties
Cause you would've probably got your little hippy ass killed, or something
You little shit face

Refrain

Or if Ween is too fringe for you, I know you must've heard Lynyrd Skynyrd's song "That Smell" on the radio a million times:

There's too much coke and too much smoke
Look what's going on inside you
Ooooh that smell
Can't you smell that smell
Ooooh that smell
The smell of death surrounds you

Where "smoke" = pot and "the smell of death" = the last cry of the sixties.

She probably uses some kind of crystal instead of deodorant and she probably washes her clothes in some sort of special hippy water, like some people add lavender water to their laundry cycle. How the hell do you tell somebody that they smell stale? This Friday was particularly wretched, as it was cold. I turned up the heat. It was like lighting a scented candle. Eau de Hippy. It made things worse. I came home and I smelled like her, and not in a good way!

The best way I can explain it, is if you've ever worked in a restaurant or a pizza place, you know how the smell of french fries and just plain old grease sort of lingers on your clothes after you're home, and you pretty much have to change and take a shower if you want to smell any different? Well, that's what she smells like, only I think she forgot the part where you wash your clothes and then you wash yourself to get it all off.

I came home, had a bath with salt in the water, scrubbed myself with some sort of exfoliant before I did my regular washing and afterward coated myself in oil just to get it off of me. This is a beauty ritual that, while pleasing, I do not have the time to do three days a week. Help!

Sincerely,
One More Clove and I'm Gonna Kill You

Warning: Cursing and Partial Nudity Ahead. Whoo-Hoo!

It has been a hell of a last two weeks. Everything in my life has combined forces to make more work for me than I've had to deal with in quite some time, and my stress level went through the roof. So when the bar down from my favorite bar advertised a "male revue", me and Director/Buddy signed up. What ensued was pretty much normal for us, as it ended with security people rushing to the scene.

Most of the women were already drunk when we got there , and so came sloshing over to us muttering, "Whirrs nekkid mann?" Honey, I don't know. I'm waiting, too. Don't ash your cigarette on me, please. The room was so smoky it looked like smog. I was surprised there weren't more women there, but I guess most of them were denied permission to go. We took a seat at the bar, most of the ladies fighting for tables down front. Being higher than the other women offers better viewing opportunities and strippers work the room, so it really doesn't make a difference if you're down there front and center. They come to you. But first they had to fucking get there.

The strippers were 1 1/2 hours late. A not very attractive man who was past his prime as a stripper was working the room, basically trying to crack as many dirty jokes as he could to keep the women from rioting. I have a link further down to what this man looks like, as the security feature of the evening relates to him. I found one other picture of him on Google Images, but it's too pornographic to post. It probably didn't help his case that a couple of months before he had tried to rent a house from Director/Buddy but couldn't come up with the money. When there aren't naked men to go along with your bottled beer, all you really have left is, well, bottled beer. After a few, we began to get bored. When Director/Buddy gets bored, she gets sarcastic. When I get bored, I get into trouble.

So when MasterMind working the room gets within grabbing distance, I've already grabbed his microphone and said, "Don't you know that the number one turn off for women is when men are fucking LATE? We're drinking up your tip money." The women in the room start hooting. He switches the mike off quick and makes a big show of recognizing Director/Buddy. "Hey," I butt in, "if they don't get here, maybe you could be the show, and then you'd have enough tip money to rent her place." If looks could kill. "Honey, I am part of the show," he says. "Then, SHOW US YER ASS!" I yell at top volume. The women all resume hooting. He moves away quickly. He bills himself as an "Adult Film/Indi Film Actor/TV Personality/& TNA Wrestling Star." And yet he's surprisingly difficult to find anywhere else but Myspace. I finally decided he was completely full of shit, and that he would be my personal target for harassment the rest of the night. Every so often he keeps coming around and trying to flirt, saying things like: "You have a hole in your pants," and touching my leg, to which I respond, "You must be some kind of genius! No wonder you're the brains of this outfit." Frowny faces and moving away quickly again.

When the strippers finally did arrive, the first dude was billed as a Jamaican. Of course, what else would you bill the black man as in West Virginia? I found out the other option later. He was Fakin', maybe, but he ain't Jamaican. He came out to Black Sweat, by Prince. Anytime someone opens with Prince, that should be exciting. It was a waste of a good song. Instead, he began pulling girls into his lap and making them dance around. I'm sorry. I wasn't aware this was your personal show. I was under the impression there would be naked dancing men here. Several other women who hadn't gotten any male attention in a long time, though, thought it was great, so what do I know? Still bored. It's about at this point that I realize this isn't going to be the full monty. Getting more aggravated.

The second guy, JP, was billed as 6'4". For a second, I thought The Undesirable Element had a second job I wasn't aware of, particularly since I now know he has access to a tuxedo. Now that would've been entertaining. When the guy came out, he obviously knew how to strip. He danced around for his first song and came out to work the crowd during his second song. I noticed as he was dancing around the front tables that most of the women didn't have their money out. I'm not sure they understood this was a tipping event. My trusty Economics degree says the law of the dollar will prevail, so I raise a few of them in the air. Even though he's halfway across the room, he points at my dollars and heads my way. Suckers.

After some amusing stripper action, the third guy comes out. This one really knew what he was doing. He was also smart enough to realize that two of the chicks in the room knew how to tip. So over he came. He was the other black guy, and since the Fakin' had already taken the Jamaica label, he came out to the rap song (naturally) as, what else, an African Warrior complete with feather. Think this, but with less covering:

He was strong for a little guy, witnessed by the fact that for two dollars I got picked up and put around his neck and spun around the room a bunch of times. Wheee!! He got most of my stripper money.

The final act, which is supposed to be the best, was done by the Master Mind himself. Disappointment, thy name is Damien Lee. It probably didn't help that I was yelling throughout his act "Bring back JP!!" But he hauls Director/Buddy to the center of the floor and then proceeds to go work the other side of the room, leaving her sitting there. It wasn't until I trotted up to the floor to bring her a few dollars and her beer from the bar (and all the other women started laughing) that he finally turned around and realized he should get back to her. Apparently the coup de gras of his act is to set his crotch on fire. It took him a couple of goes at it, but he did, in fact, set his crotch on fire. It should've been impressive, but it wasn't.

So where does security come in? Let's see. Immediately after the show, the strippers went around the room mingling with the ladies and the strange new influx of local men, probably hoping to clean up with the ladies after the cock tease. Mr. Disappointment comes nearby. He has on his g-string. I'm still kind of pissed that it wasn't a full monty show. So I decided to make it one. I jerked his g-string down to his knees. He screeched and pulled it back up, making the mistake of coming even closer to us. So I grabbed it again, and tried to pull it down. He starts yelling "You can't do that!!" And decides that to show me, he's going to squat down, hopefully breaking my grip on his drawers. He squats, but my hand doesn't go anywhere, so all he gets is a monumental wedgie. He starts squalling at this point and yelling for security. "You're in Pxxx County," I mocked him, "Who've you got coming, the Hot Cops?" I don't think he caught my Arrested Development reference.



The women, of course, were loving it. Next thing I know, there are six other men around me, including two of the previous strippers. I think they thought I was drunk, as there were two methods used to try and pry me loose. The first method was sultry talk, the second was outright physical force. "You a bad girl, aren't you? I like bad girls. Let's go over here and talk about it." "So, you're reinforcing my bad behavior by rewarding me with strippers? Brilliant move." Then it turned to physical force. I don't think they were trying very hard. But I was enjoying Mr. Disappointment writhing around with his wedgie far too much to just let go. Bottom line, when enough men said please enough times, I let go and he darted away. Here's a link to what he looks like; you can imagine him with a wedgie. He's also lying about his age.

We laughed our asses off all the way home.


Bottom line, we were expecting this:


But ended up having a reaction more like this:


The same clown is doing a show in this town in about a week. I'm considering going just for the laugh factor.

-- Virgil

Whoopsy Part 2

Being at a festival at the crack of dawn is not really how I prefer to spend my day, especially if I'm working and not playing at said festival. I have a whole post about this festival brewing, but for now, let's just say it's one of the biggest festivals in West Virginia, and it revolves around the grain "buckwheat." Because we had a full day slated of nonprofit selling, raffling, recruiting and eventually riding in the parade, we were at the festival early. And we sort of rewarded ourselves by having a buckwheat pancake breakfast first. Supposedly the best place for said buckwheat cakes is in a Methodist church in a nearby town, close to where Director/Buddy lives, and thus convenient as a starting point.

I dislike going into churches for any reason. I've had enough of church to do me plenty for the rest of my life, thank you very much. I don't like it because no matter what the event, there's always a subtle way of slipping Gawd into the picture. But, Director/Buddy and her neighbor dude swore this was the best place to eat buckwheat cakes, so off we went.

I ate cakes and had some coffee and cracked the usual jokes about the place spontaneously catching fire now that we were in it, remarks about looking for the ceiling to crack and so on. Got done, headed for the exit. Oh, wait. You can't get out the door without taking one of the tiny New Testament Bibles from one of the preachers blocking your way. I guess you could've shoved through them, but that's bad form. You ate their buckwheat cakes in their hall, so you should probably grimace and mutter thank you and take the damn bible.

You probably shouldn't say, when you're only two steps away instead of the ten steps you thought, "What's this? Fancy toilet paper??"

Sigh. I think they wanted to light me on fire with their eyes.

-- Virgil