I'll Do It. I'll Hit an Old Man.

What is with the old people in class? You know who I'm talking about: the 55+ student in your undergrad or graduate classes that just won't stop talking. No matter what the subject area, the old guy pounces into action with some useless comment about their own life experiences.

I have news for you geriatric, aspiring student: no one cares.

I've recently gone back to school, and maybe my patience is lower, or maybe I'm just a jerk, but the old guys always respond with, "Well, that's not always true." Then they traipse down some stream-of-consciousness labyrinth talking about their dead wives and their daughters in law; I wouldn't be able to follow their logic even if I had a flashlight and a bag of breadcrumbs.

Half the time, these oldie students come out of their 2-minute anecdotes looking surprised, like how my Grandpa used to look when I woke him from his naps. How'd I get here? What does my comment have to do with teaching pedagogies in secondary education? News flash old man: no one knows.

And unfortunately, the professors are brilliant, but polite; they let the old students go off on their tangents as if it will spark some kind of classroom discussion.

No one should interrupt the lunatic old man feeding the pigeons in the park. That nostaglic sparkle in his eye while he is talking about his favorite dog is priceless, and who is he really hurting by talking about Buster the beagle? The problem with the elderly in the classroom is that they are only about 25% senile: sane enough to type in an add code but crazy enough to make me regret the rising tuition costs.

I don't know how much of them I can handle. Don't get me wrong, I love old people; I just hate it when they hobble into my academic world. It's getting to the point where I'm prepping my knuckles for the backhand. Seriously, my classes cost money, and I want to hear the PhD recipient not the senior citizen.

The First, Last Day of School

As long as one is not getting fired or laid off, the last day of work is supposed to be empowering because few things give the all-around satisfaction of quitting a job and moving on to bigger and better things.

I remember quitting my first in corporate America. I walked into my boss's office knowing, for once, I held the trump card. "I'd like to give my 2 weeks notice." It felt like unlocking my own prison cell from within. The useless projects and unending meetings dissolved away. "Well, I'm going to need it in writing," my boss replied, still trying to dominate me. But it didn't work; I slapped down my letter of resignation like a Draw Four card in Uno. I didn't care about burning bridges.

But on Friday, the last day of my first teaching job, I found myself trying build bridges with my now-former boss. The principal and I hugged; surprisingly, it was a real hug, one where our chests actually touched a little bit.

And, oh, the students. They smiled, imbibed with summer ecstasy, but I could only look at them in a eulogistic fashion. Though they are still alive, it felt almost like a funeral because I would never see them again in the same context. The "academic year 2009-2010" versions of themselves died last Friday. I snapped pictures and inhaled the sadness of the moment; is this what birds feel like when the fledglings take off for better pursuits?

What's Up in Aisle 12?

Oreo Cakester? If I'm looking for a subtle chocolate flavor flanked by wonderfully fluffy cream, I'm going to buy an Oreo. Perhaps I should be more specific: I'm going to buy a REAL Oreo.

Listen here. I'm from the street, and I eat my Oreos the right way, with milk and NOT in cake form. I might dig on some Oreo ice cream or maybe even an Oreo mini, but why would I bastardize my sweet, sweet sandwich cookie perfection by turning it into a charlatan "cakester."

Dear Nabisco: stick to the cookie. If I wanted shitty chocolate sponginess, I'd just buy some Pillsbury cake mix. OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH! I just said that!


















Buy 8 or more and get a $0.50 discount on ice cream? Seriously? Safeway is basically telling us: you can save $2 if you stuff your fat asses with 15,000 heart-stopping calories of Neopolitan. I have news for you Safeway, I can't be a member the Safeway Club if I'm dead.


















It felt like a peach and smelled like a peach, so why the hell did it look like Saturn? And this wasn't some strange retarded peach; the whole basket looked squatty and deformed.

And oh my goodness, what are these Fruitty-Pebble sized oranges in my supermarket? I asked the grocer "What's this?" and held up the perplexing miniature. "Hmmm. I forget what it's called. It's like, a small orange."

So helpful.

Best Friends

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You've Screwed Me Again, DST

Daylight Savings Time and I have a love/hate relationship. She's prissy and flaky, always changing the time of sunrise and sunset; I'm grouchy and inflexible, always wanting my daylight consistent.

In theory, though, I love Daylight Savings. I can play basketball with my friends later, and studies generally agree that there is less crime and fewer traffic accidents. Plus, DST means that the perfume of spring has finally put a sleeper hold on the chills of winter. We're that pathetic couple who can never break up because the sex is too good.

But all practical reasons aside, DST is like any other woman: devious.

Back in April, when Spring Forward was still new to 2010, I was having a drink with a friend after work. We met up around 6 when, and thanks to DST, the sky was still "afternoon bright." Time passed quickly as we sat sipping our beverages and laughing. And because our conversation was so engrossing, I didn't mentally recalibrate my mind that "twilight" equaled 9 pm.

Losing track of time, and DST being a harpy of timekeeping, I arrived at home to my dog shamefully apologizing for dropping a bomb on my bed. And like any other woman, DST laughed at my having to wash poop off my white duvet.

DST is a beauty, but every end of March/beginning of April, it's like I'm on a business trip to the East Coast. I love the summer warmth of 8 o'clock at night, but I always feel slightly restless knowing that sunset is that much closer to midnight.

Tyrannosaurus Cookie

At first, I just assumed the outline on the display was misprinted. But then I found tyranno after tyranno with the weird proportions and confusing appendages.

Is that his jaw? His arm? And what about the larger protuberance near his other leg? I am so confused. And of course, the Sur La Table sales person thought I was being a jerk when I asked, "Can you describe this cookie cutter to me?"

Maybe a baker with frosting and imagination could salvage the basic shape into something recognizable. But for me, laymen baker, this tyrannosaurus cookie is simply strange.

What a shame. The king of the dinosaurs deserves much better cookie representation.

Airport Driver

While at the airport, I saw this well-to-do gentleman with his sign. He cradled it in one arm and patiently presented himself towards the escalators leading from the terminal.

I watched him for a moment or two. He never shuffled his feet or fidgeted his hands, and the only time he checked his watch was to make sure his client wasn't going to miss their appointment. Stoic and classy to the end.

I hope that one day, I'm important enough to necessitate a driver. Nothing will ever replace the smile of a friend or loved one at the baggage claim. That after hours confined in a pressurized tube, someone is waiting just for you, waiting just to give you a hug and talk to you even though your breath stinks from the nap on the plane.

But the next best thing would be an airport driver, a hired friend. I imagine it would be quite thrilling to walk around the corner of a foreign city and see my own name in bold Sharpie writing. I imagine the driver taking my carry-on bag and providing witty banter to pass the interminable wait for my checked luggage. In the lonely cities of the business trips, the airport driver would be the welcome party, the guide, and the friend.

Yes, if an old friend can't greet me, a salutational handshake with a driver would be the next best thing.