Sorry I've been so lax in my blogging. I'm sure you've all been dying to know what's been going on in the last week. (Feign enthusiasm, won't you?) It was finals week at school, so that should tell you enough as to explain my absence from leisure writing. Today, I'm going to see the "Skyfall," the newest Bond flick, with Luke, and picking up some drugs (from the pharmacy, you sillies).
I have a slight cold and exactly one more afternoon of school left, tomorrow afternoon. I guess I'll try and take the notes I did jot down during the week and go from there. I kept trying to write, but being bogged down in studying, and even the Offbeat Drummer can't multitask THAT well, although I'm notoriously distracted.
All day, I've had the phrase "One down, one to go" looping through my cranium, because I have my Theories final tomorrow morning (which you all know is my most fantabulous time of day), then am required to show up Monday afternoon to
I (and by "I," I mean "Luke") did the math to ascertain how well I have to do on the final in order to get the requisite B in Theories, minding that anything equal to or lower than a C is failure/repeat class/academic probation at my graduate institute of higher learning. I'm pulling A's in my other courses. Provided I did well on the Theoretical Orientation paper I did at 3:30 am last night (and polished this morning, and hey, some of it made sense, though no, 4 commas in the middle of a sentence are,,,,a bit much) and I get at least 50/70 on the final, I'm fine.
Ah, the nightly cocktail. Some folks relax with a glass of wine after a long day. Others veg out in front of the television. Some read books. Lucky Fucks get their tense muscles massaged. Extremely Lucky Fucks get laid. Perhaps a whirlpool bath. Me?
Luke picked a particularly bad night to pester me incessantly about trivial matters. I know he's attention-hungry. I know I haven't been the best mom this semester and have had to juggle a dozen things at once, and he wound up kind of low man on the totem pole. I reassured him that next semester, he'll have a lot more time with me since I've cut my course load in half to be with him. In any event, his constant outbursts and interruptions while I was trying to cram were most unwelcome, and for which he got into a heap of trouble. There were midnight screaming matches, Ma getting out of bed to yell at both of us, Craig being summoned on the phone...oh, it was just a great time. Finally turned the lights out for a couple hours' sleep at 3:30 am, to get up at 5:45am.
I'd gotten almost 3 hours of sleep before my Theories final. It was a multiple choice, essay and bonus true/false exam. Luke and I calculated that I had to get at least 50/70 on it, and 40/50 out of the final paper in order to pass the class with a B. Talk bout barely squeaking by. I ended up getting 43/70 on the final and 47/50 on the paper, evening things out for a B in the course.
The final was impossible. It didn't help that I kept falling asleep during it, or that I resorted to employing Luke's statistically proven "If you don't know the answer, guess 'C'.'" Literally, my face was down for the count onto the exam more than once, and I was one of the last people to finish it. Rumors have gone around school that his particular exam is one of the hardest in the whole school, so to have achieved what I did at all was amazing.
Wednesday's total bitch slap? I thought I was cruising in to an A in Life-Span Development, having gone into the final with 100% as my total grade. Never, in my dreams, would I have imagined I did as poorly as I did on the final paper. I haven't failed writing a paper in the ENTIRETY of my academic career, like since grammar school. I chose the subject of giftedness in adolescents and wrote a lucid, comprehensible 15-page paper, with journal citations and book quotes and (this is starting to sound like "Alice's Restaurant") what did I get on the paper? 29%. TWENTY-NINE PERCENT. It wasn't researchy or scientific enough. Not enough empirical data. Quotes that the prof thought were irrelevant. It became apparent that I literally could've handed in a set of haikus about my topic and would've scored higher. The F on the paper bumped me down to a B- for the class. Dayum!
What sucks is that this professor kissed my ass the whole semester. She was really nice, and accommodated my mental challenge and disability, and was, in general, a peach. There was no indication in our email correspondence (this was an online course) that I was going to fail at anything. I was just stunned.
I guess it worked out alright, seeing as I got an A in Ethics/Law and an A in Psychotherapy. So 2 A's and 2 B's. Given it took what few shreds of sanity I had left, to me, anyway, that's pretty damn impressive.
Continuing the bitch slap from earlier in the day, I had excitedly told Guy Friend how I did on my finals. What'd I receive back? Only like THE RUDEST email in the annals of emails. If he was trying to be humorous, he failed. If he was trying to be congratulatory, he failed. If he was trying to teach me an "it could be worse" lesson re: school, it didn't come across that way. You, Guy, acted like a horse's ass. A brief snippet:
"I won't begin to lecture you on proper study habits. You obviously thrive on deadlines, lack of sleep, messing up your diurnal cycle and medications, and cramming a semester's worth of review into several hours while texting, tweeting, emailing, and playing music simultaneously. That leaves about 2% of your brain prepared for the final exams. Congrats on pulling A's and B's in your first full semester of grad school. No - I didn't read any of your "critical" emails. Still have 88 others to filter through since Monday."Ok, Guy, fair enough. While I find it extremely hard to believe that he has 88 personal, non-spam emails of correspondence to weed through, If he didn't plan on lecturing me about my study habits, why'd he write an entire paragraph on criticizing my study habits? After another few paragraphs filling me in on the ills happening in his clan, with which I sympathized but were a little vapid, he ended on the following note:
"So I say to you - keep working hard. Don't waste your life. Some people are crazy, some are unlucky, some are just plain dumb. You are a smart lucky SOB surrounded by a lot of caring (and crazy) friends and relatives. Get some sleep."I hadn't realized I was wasting my life, but thanks. What REALLY crept out and ticked me off in this email? Being called an "SOB." Men don't just call women sons-of-bitches and expect to get away with it. My friends are crazy? They'll be glad to hear that interpretation of them. I didn't get through my first semester in grad school because of luck, which he should know by now. I got through because, amid tireless adversity, I worked my ass off. And yes, thanks, GF, I got some sleep.
I text slapped him back, letting him know how unappreciated his sarcasm was on me. I told him that if he considers my third psychiatric medicine adjustment in 5 months a win, he is essentially ignorant about bipolar disorder. Thursday, I was adjusted again. Upped the mood stabilizer another 50 mg. The Russian Drug Czar gave me something to help regulate my circadian rhythm. (Read: Sleeping pills, but my mom doesn't need to know that.)
No word from Guy Friend after my retaliatory comeback, so I attended therapy with an out-of-control Luke and an increasingly depressed Craig. Comparatively, I was the sane one of the bunch, which speaks volumes about the psychiatric condition of the rest of my family.
Knowing the weekend would be raft with family obligations that Guy resented on the missus' side of the family in Indiana, I didn't expect to hear back from him. Being the overly forgiving and conflict-averse little frittle I am, I sent Guy the following vague someecard:
It was the strongest semblance of an apology for the whole scene I could muster, and he viewed it on Friday morning, but I obviously heard nothing back from him. And shit, if either of us owes the other an apology, he's him and not me. My texts in response to his snotty email were biting to say the least. Meh, he can mull it over as he makes nicey-nice with his crazy in-laws and family & I will ride shotgun on the Peace Train.
Luke and I found ourselves bored to death early in the afternoon, so we took a trip to Walgreens to look around. A little old lady stopped Luke and asked him if he were a little boy, which clearly he isn't anymore, would he prefer a penguin hat and gloves or a puppy hat and gloves. He and I both chimed in that she should go with the penguin. It was at that point, I noticed that my son must've grown another 2 inches taller, because he's zoning in on my height at 5'8". Granted, he had his Reeboks on, and they give him maybe an inch, and I had high tops on that keep me at my normal level, but the boy's growing, no doubt about it.
The plethora of unintentionally obscene items is really rather remarkable at Walgreens. In about half an hour, we found all of this (Safe for Work, since it's only perverted in my mind):
Dryer Balls: SuprJuls swears by them. I find them humorous.
I didn't realize cries for help regarding non-suicidal self-injury came in $5 little packages, but walk away from the blade. It'll be okay.
What if you're skinnier now than you were in high school?
If you want a little sumpin'-sumpin', you best have a pair of Hot Booties nearby.
Greatest Walgreens score? (These aren't to scale...they're tiny) Beatles lunch boxes, perfect size to hold my nightly pills when I'm on the go. $1.99 apiece. Got an Elvis one for my mom too. (Early Christmas present.)
We had Contemporary last night, so my band played. We really should have a better band rider, as I found myself in desperate need of a Chapstick and none to be found. That and Tylenol or Advil. I was too late to have Luke bring me any of the above. I also had no idea it'd be as hard as it was to text/type in the fingerless traction gloves I was wearing so that my drumsticks don't go flying out of my freezing hands (they're extra-slippery when I'm cold). The thought finally occurred to me to, well, take them off when I wasn't playing. I'm kind of slow that way.
Then, I started laughing to myself in the car before the service, listening to the radio. What should come on but this, which reminded me of the band:
The Chic-Chic tea place (Argo Tea) by school is featuring my usual lunch item. The Mate Turkey Cheddar Panini. Tea-poached turkey (???), cheddar cheese and spinach on a whole wheat panini roll. I had no idea the turkey was tea-poached, but no wonder it's like $6 for a tiny 400-calorie sandwich. Good news! I've had so much tea this semester that I've earned my free cup of tea, on my "LoyalTea" card, of which I'll take advantage when I go to school for the final class of the semester. Though, if I want to stay awake during my last class, I best not order one of these:
The Vegan Green Tea Muffin. Dense, Soft, Gummy, 400 empty calories of barely-tasting delicious. To de-veganize them, a big ol' slathering of butter would be really, really good. Perhaps had I not had one of them before my Theories final, I wouldn't have fallen asleep during the test, during which I wrote incomprehensible "letters" indicating my answer on half the test, only to go back, read the actual questions and pick a fucking legitimate answer.
Love this one. Hemingway said this, well, before he killed himself, obviously.
We'll see if Guy surfaces this week with or without his tail between his legs, and yes, I still love him regardless, even when he acts like a prick. Last week, he was like a totally different person. I even commended him on his thoughtful and bounteous communication. This week, he was throwing expletives at me, what the fuck? I should screen him for multiple personality disorder.
Happy Hanukkah, by the way, Jewish friends!