![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Can I interest anyone in a rebellious uterus? Mine is currently attempting to abscond with my sanity. I told my roomie I was willing to trade genitalia with him. He laughed at me. Of course he would. His God-given appendage doubles as a worrystone in times of stress, whereas my bits do nothing but cramp and spew noxious and vaguely carcinogenic biological hazards onto every surface not coated with Kevlar. It's just as well, I suppose. Were I suddenly endowed with a penis, I would no doubt waste valuable hours squirting myself in the eye and testing my testicles for ripeness.
Tomorrow is the second day of lessons, and now that the professor has dispensed with the tedious business of Storytime For Adults, I'm hoping she doesn't lapse into the favored teaching method of the past fifteen years and "split us into peer groups for discussion".
The only thing I ever got from a peer group was a blinding case of classroom rage. The theory is that the grouped students will learn from each other and develop problem-solving and social skills, thereby enhancing their education. Unfortunately, the reality is quite different. In a group of four, one student will quickly be designated the fall dork, and the others will piggyback on his hard work while doing nothing to contribute. If the fall dork carries the day, credit will be shared equally, but if the fall dork turns out to be little more than a moron in glasses, well, then it's all his fault, and he is duly ostracized.
General unfairness of such a proposition aside, I have two problems with "peer group" education. First, I learned all the social skills I needed to know in kindergarten. I learned that hitting was bad, bathing was your friend, and picking your nose in public will get you crossed off the list of kids to invite to the pizza party. I also learned not to run with scissors, eat paste, or loudly announce it whenever I passed gas. At twenty-seven, I'm fairly certain my socialization is as good as it's going to get, and if you haven't learned these things by the time you get to college and don't have the excuse of profound mental handicap, I foresee a long and fruitful career as a gas jockey in your future.
Secondly, when last I looked, I paid three hundred and fifty dollars for this course, not counting rent and food, and when I registered, I did so with the assurance that it would be taught by a professor. Indeed, the name listed under the title of Instructor read, "Dr. L. Reglaro, P.h.D. Therefore, I expect Dr. Reglaro to teach me, not Ned the soccer jock or Bitsy the Chi Omega. After all, according to your syllabus, you have the right to fail me should I fail to attend lectures. Why, then, do I not have the right to demand that I get that for which I paid, namely tutelage by a presumed expert in the field? If I have to sit next to the garbage can and wedged behind the door because the room is too small for a class of thirty and you can't be arsed to shift the desks to make room, then you have to be there and lecture for more than twenty minutes, and I don't give a damn if you don't feel good. After all, you don't have sympathy for me when I look like Death warmed over.
Fair is fair, isn't it?
On a less stroppy note, I had the weirdest dream about Greg Sanders from CSI last night. Remember the episode in which the lab blew up because Catherine left something flammable under the hood? Well, instead of escaping with minor burns and a case of the shakes, good ole Greg had suffered a perforated colon and was lamenting the fact that he'd have to wear a diaper for a few months. He was convinced no one would lust after him.
I don't know if I was his lover or a friend or a crazed candy striper with a terminal case of Overshare Syndrome, but I told him not to worry, that I still sometimes wet my pants when under stress. He was vastly relieved, and then I woke up.
Why can't I have a Greg Sanders dream where we do it like monkeys on the hood of Gil's Tahoe?
Welcome,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
misreadsigns, to the flist.
Tomorrow is the second day of lessons, and now that the professor has dispensed with the tedious business of Storytime For Adults, I'm hoping she doesn't lapse into the favored teaching method of the past fifteen years and "split us into peer groups for discussion".
The only thing I ever got from a peer group was a blinding case of classroom rage. The theory is that the grouped students will learn from each other and develop problem-solving and social skills, thereby enhancing their education. Unfortunately, the reality is quite different. In a group of four, one student will quickly be designated the fall dork, and the others will piggyback on his hard work while doing nothing to contribute. If the fall dork carries the day, credit will be shared equally, but if the fall dork turns out to be little more than a moron in glasses, well, then it's all his fault, and he is duly ostracized.
General unfairness of such a proposition aside, I have two problems with "peer group" education. First, I learned all the social skills I needed to know in kindergarten. I learned that hitting was bad, bathing was your friend, and picking your nose in public will get you crossed off the list of kids to invite to the pizza party. I also learned not to run with scissors, eat paste, or loudly announce it whenever I passed gas. At twenty-seven, I'm fairly certain my socialization is as good as it's going to get, and if you haven't learned these things by the time you get to college and don't have the excuse of profound mental handicap, I foresee a long and fruitful career as a gas jockey in your future.
Secondly, when last I looked, I paid three hundred and fifty dollars for this course, not counting rent and food, and when I registered, I did so with the assurance that it would be taught by a professor. Indeed, the name listed under the title of Instructor read, "Dr. L. Reglaro, P.h.D. Therefore, I expect Dr. Reglaro to teach me, not Ned the soccer jock or Bitsy the Chi Omega. After all, according to your syllabus, you have the right to fail me should I fail to attend lectures. Why, then, do I not have the right to demand that I get that for which I paid, namely tutelage by a presumed expert in the field? If I have to sit next to the garbage can and wedged behind the door because the room is too small for a class of thirty and you can't be arsed to shift the desks to make room, then you have to be there and lecture for more than twenty minutes, and I don't give a damn if you don't feel good. After all, you don't have sympathy for me when I look like Death warmed over.
Fair is fair, isn't it?
On a less stroppy note, I had the weirdest dream about Greg Sanders from CSI last night. Remember the episode in which the lab blew up because Catherine left something flammable under the hood? Well, instead of escaping with minor burns and a case of the shakes, good ole Greg had suffered a perforated colon and was lamenting the fact that he'd have to wear a diaper for a few months. He was convinced no one would lust after him.
I don't know if I was his lover or a friend or a crazed candy striper with a terminal case of Overshare Syndrome, but I told him not to worry, that I still sometimes wet my pants when under stress. He was vastly relieved, and then I woke up.
Why can't I have a Greg Sanders dream where we do it like monkeys on the hood of Gil's Tahoe?
Welcome,
misreadsigns, to the flist.Tags: