saturated, finito

I am sitting in a living case study, an experiment to investigate how many repititions of the same cheesy Kenny G song are required to catalyze nuclear fission and psychological meltdown for customers here in the coffee shop. I finally capped off the ENGR 352 assignment… only 5.5 hours sunk into that grading episode; I have never hated anything deeper in my soul.

OK, that is a bit dramatic but you get the picture that I am not currently enjoying the grading opportunity. I could barely stand being in that class (title Advanced Mechanics of Materials) back in the day, now in a beautiful twist of karma I am reliving the same conceptual and algebraic errors via thirty-five homework packets per week.

I did, however, end up teaching a different class at the university this past week: ENGR 220, titled Engineering Dynamics. Literally stemming from the Latin root Dynamis, meaning movement, the lucky students learn all about coordinate systems, velocities, accelerations, rotations, yada yada yada. I enjoyed teaching the class but of course it’s a stress load to have over thirty students critiquing your work, especially when the majority is older than I am.

I ripped off a few Billy Crystal-esque joke lines thoughout and kept the mood light. Akin to “I can tell you’re out there, I can hear you reloading� sort of thing, I asked if they agreed or disagreed with a math ‘ninja-trick’ I pulled on the greaseboard. “You must be OK with that; else I would have gotten smacked with someone’s calculator in the back of the head.� Once they picked up on my sarcasm, which I am learning is almost TOO dry for strangers to grasp, they relaxed and the learning environment cracked wide open.

A fleeting moment, however, and I am thrown back into anonymity and representation only by my red grading pen and redundant smiley faces scribbled on their papers. Do non-traditional thirty-year-old students feel condescended by a “stupedipular� comment on occasion? Do I care?

Onto bigger and better things, I anticipated running into Lauren down here. In her truly unique style, I have not heard from her since she left for Portland on Friday morning. How does one not take it personally when someone you care deeply for neglects to call? Thus, I left her a message earlier in the day suggesting she come down to Starbucks once settled into town, and hey hey she still has not arrived. Too much time to think today. Mental time warps me during yard work, during grading, during this journal. The contrast between our styles taxes me, at times, more than it should.

Off for now, perhaps I will speed home and bake those scones I promised to Greg. Nothing says domestic like floor moppage and pastry baking in the same day. Greg either enjoys my personality or my housewife-style habits… either way I believe he is content with me back in the bachelor pad.

Misc. details:

Music Choice of the Day: The Fiery Furnaces

Website of the Day: www.StolenUnderground.com

Book of the day: All the Pretty Horses.

Diversion of the Day: Wandering aimlessly through Winco, marveling at the six-dozen finches inhabiting the rafters above the bulk food section.