Professor Margarine gives the class Ebola

Maude here.

Because I haven’t beaten this dead horse enough, you’re about to read more about my anthropology teacher. (See part one and part two for reference.) Literally the only reason I’m showing up to class anymore (besides the fact that my grade depends on it) is to track the weird shit that goes down in the classroom.

Since I’m obviously going to continue to talk about this instructor until I’m rid of her, I may as well give her an alias… because I’m not about to divulge her name on the internet. I’m not THAT diabolical. Henceforth, she will be known as Professor Margarine, or “Marge” for short. I can’t believe she’s not butter. Because she’s large. (Cue laugh track.)

So Marge got up on her high horse today and instead of delivering her typical ADHD drivel, or “Senior Moments,” she actually constructed a more finite lesson plan. SHOCKING. In the 8 weeks we’ve been working with this instructor, she finally pulled her shit together (in the loosest possible terms).

We started with a less-than-formal classroom game where we were broken up into groups. Some students role-played the CDC, some people played the local hospital, some were local law enforcement, and some unlucky hack got to be patient zero; The state’s first-lady of Ebola. It was our job to work together to make containment swift and to secure the situation. I, of course, was given the role of media correspondent… and I used it to the full extent. Sensationalism ACTIVATED!

Needless to say, while it had the potential to be a great learning experience, it was poorly executed. After the data was gathered for our role-playing, chaos ensued. (I may or may not have made it worse by causing state-wide panic.) Of course, because I’m a charismatic asshole, the teacher let it slide. Also, I’m not sure she was fully conscious as the classroom exploded in an unconfined disease that makes you bleed and retch from every orifice. Professor Margarine is not really a “hands on” kind of woman (read: dozes off in class), so there was no real outcome, other than figuring out college students shouldn’t ever be in charge of quarantining other members of the student body. Eventually, it was concluded that we should probably just kill patient zero and burn her alive inside her house. Boom. Problem solved.

Later, we talked about various superstitions in world culture. Ah, yes! Something actually applicable to our textbook material. FINALLY! Until Marge said…

“Think of ‘contagion magic’ as a power derived from a personal object. For instance, Osama bin Laden’s hair or poop will give you supernatural powers.” (TEARS welled up in my eyes! I’m sorry… any mention of “poop” makes me giggle uncontrollably, because I’m as mature as an elementary student.) So there’s strike one, if we’re keeping count.

The next bit of unsolicited information via Marge: “The Dean of Students had me remove my Voodoo Doll from the classroom last year because it was pretty mutilated. My pupils were complaining that it was gross. Speaking of, if you’d like to pay me, I can do a tarot reading for any of you next week. I used to be an Alchemist.” Strike two.

Around the last 15 minutes of class, Marge likes to tell stories about her 45 year old son “Leon” who still lives with her. Her son is in no way developmentally disabled, therefore I feel fine about saying that it’s time to leave the fucking nest already… this little senior moment takes up another 10 minutes of class. We ended the last 5 minutes with Professor Margarine ranting that “our school mascot is vile and looks like one of those damn sexual furry freakshows. ” That was pretty much verbatim. She also made a remark about how furries would not make it if Eugenics in America had been given a real shot. Probably true. Touché, Marge. Strike three. See you next week.

My body is disgusting.

Maude here.

As Quincy so kindly pointed out in our last post, coffee makes me stink to high heaven. I think it’s the caffeine that makes the sweat smell pungent and unrelenting. That’s why I’m sitting here, next to Quincy and our dog, Blueberry, just to spite them.

I not only get a great whiff of scent coming from every pore on my body, but I have the jitters as well.

So why do I put myself and everyone else through this?

I fucking love coffee. I shouldn’t have it (ever), but I can’t get enough of it. I’m obviously caffeine-sensitive, which means it’s not great for me in the long-term, so I’m enjoying it while I can. Of all of the addictions I could have, smelly pits and breath is something I’ll suffer through for that delicious, rich beverage. Deal with it.

I’m a monster.

Caffeine and Maude do not mix.

Quincy here.

Oh my sweet God.

It has come to my attention that Maude should not, under any circumstances, be allowed to reside within a premises after she has consumed any kind of caffeine. The result of such activity is the most exquisitely excruciating STENCH. It is somewhere between ogre breath and an onion factory. Not an onion farm, where the earthy smells of nature can mask it… but an onion manufactory in all of its unadulterated glory. Merciful lord. Its exclusionary properties affect me from anywhere within a 12 foot radius.

Maude, my darling, I love you to the end of the earth, but I beseech you to immediately plunge yourself into the shower.
All my love,
Q.

A Belligerent Rhino in ‘Free People’

Maude here.

I was walking through a mall with one of my gal pals and we stopped to browse in the store ‘Free People.’ We’re somewhat stylish 20-and-30-somethings and were like, “AW YEAH! This store is our JAM!”

As we were taking our time in our zen-shopping state of mind, I was carefully pushing back racks of clothing to find my size. Horror of horrors, I accidentally let two cashmere sweaters loose off of their hangers. (I’m sure this has NEVER HAPPENED IN A CLOTHING STORE BEFORE. Infinite amounts of sarcasm.) As I was gathering the sweaters up, a very large and belligerent woman, a fellow shopper, rounded the corner of the store and started yelling, “SHE’S THROWING THE MERCHANDISE! Oh my God, she’s making such a mess!!”

Shocked and red-faced, I stood there trying to delicately put the sweaters back on their hangers.

“That’s right. Clean it up! You’re such a mess!” The woman was completely in my face. A moment ago nobody knew I existed. The next moment, this rhinoceros woman had appeared and had completely crashed through my zen-shopping and parked her massive caboose all up in my business. The whole store watched me as I sheepishly sunk back through the racks to find my friend.

I found my friend trying on some GORGEOUS lace tops that looked lovely and feminine on her. I praised her great choices and waited for her outside of the changing rooms. In her last change of attire, my friend came out, beaming. She looked so content and pleased!

And then, the bulbous bitch rounded the corner again. (It was like she was eavesdropping in the store. Totally CREEPY.)

“OH MY GOD,” said the rhino, “That looks disgusting on you! Don’t listen to that girl, she threw clothes on the floor outside!”

My friend was so overwhelmed, she burst into tears right there. The rhino didn’t know that my friend had been dealing with her own issues around clothing and the comment made my friend feel like she was two inches tall.

So that’s my story. In retrospect, I should’ve had the balls to find the store manager to have that piece of shit thrown out. Instead, my friend and I got out of there as fast as possible. We were both so alarmed that we didn’t know what to say or do in that moment.

Not to fat-shame, but the belligerent rhino was far too large and too fucking old to wear anything in that store, so naturally, she should parade around the shop dissuading people from purchasing their own fitted garments. (NOT.) All of the pretty clothes in the world will never cure adult bullies… or obese sociopaths.

I’ve thought over and over again what we could’ve done to provoke such a response from a complete stranger, but I guess some people just hate young, pretty thangs. That’s the best I can come up with. Some rhinos are just cray-cray for no reason and like to prey on women they perceive as weaker. Something like that.

An ongoing senior moment.

Maude here.

As I mentioned in my post, “My teacher has mashed potato brains,” my current anthropology instructor leaves something to be desired. (This may be the understatement of the century.)

I’ve deemed her teaching style “an ongoing senior moment” because bless her decrepit heart, she’s old as Methuselah. And I love old people much more than youths, so this should detail what a wretch this instructor truly is. Not only does this woman stray far beyond acceptable topics for a Cultural Anthropology class, she finds clever new ways to waste time and tuition.

I cannot believe I’m paying a woman to show up to class late, hold the students back in class 10-15 minutes after class time is over, and rant endlessly about Chicano Studies (the other class she attempts to teach, but feels is relevant to ALL subjects in our basic Anthro textbook.) I wish this was a bad dream or a fabricated story. This is community college at its very worst.

Not only are her “lesson plans” ADHD in nature, but she actually pensively paused during the last class for 2 minutes before beginning again and said, “I maced a Cuban once.” Of course, this was just another one of her famous senior moments before she launched into another “cultural” discussion on her time as a prison guard. We didn’t have anything in our chapter about prison culture, so I assumed this was another opportunity for her to teach Chicano Studies in Anthropology. (Half of the time, she doesn’t even know where she is.)

So I’m sure any readers are questioning (as I am) how this old trollop has a job teaching other humans. Well, luckily for all of us, this came up in class! I’ll never forget when she said, “Several of my peers told me that I shouldn’t have a PhD. I showed them! Now, while they’re doctors, they also have to call ME Dr.!” Ah, yes… someone actually gave this ongoing brain-fart a higher degree, reserved for the academically elite. Again, this is real life. This is actually someone in a college-level teaching position (albeit a community college, but still)…

Just my two cents — if your academic peers suggest that you aren’t ready to be a PhD candidate and they go as far as trying to impede your certification with the institution you’re receiving your degree from, you may want to put your ego aside and perhaps be introspective enough to think about WHY they’re suggesting such a thing. It’s not because they don’t like you… it’s because in some way, it’s offensive that you are at the same level of academia as they are. In this case, the instructor of my Anthropology class is not at all a worthy candidate to be teaching anything other than clown college.

You may find my sentiment to be harsh, but c’mon… I’m paying $50 per class to sit there and be taught false facts (see other blog post), to be judged for being pretty, and to watch as my male counterparts are being annihilated with horrendous stereotypes. This teacher has OPENLY complained in class that she has been up in front of the review board for her behavior before, and yet was able to keep her teaching position. There are far more people better qualified for this position who would actually stick with the course work intended for this class. You don’t even have to be an interesting person to teach from the textbook — you just need to TEACH IT. If students are paying for college, they’d better get what they pay for between the $250 textbook and the $400 in-state class tuition.

Of course I’ll be complaining to the institution. This sort of flagrant disregard for education is criminal.

When things don’t work out.

Maude here.

When things don’t work out in my favor, I like to think that I handle it graciously.

But let’s be honest, I handle failures like an infant. Anyone close to me knows this. It turns into a fiasco of emotion and sentiment and underlying meanings and wave after wave of self-depricating self-talk.

In public, I look like I handle things well… maybe even better and less bitter than most people who still release personal information via social media. The fact of the matter is that behind the scenes, I’m going through it HARD.

Of course, when I’m able to collect myself (having previously had my meltdown in the privacy of my own home), I look like an utter saint in public. Such is NOT the case. I’m vulnerable, I’m naked to my “feelings,” and I’m kind of a shitty person to others when I’m going through whatever crap position I’ve put myself in. I’m the queen of bitching and moaning.

In my defense, I try to bitch-my-way-to-a-solution. All of my wailing, crying, and emoting has to have a positive outcome, otherwise I’d probably just slit my wrists and spare people the agony of interacting with me while I’m going through a hard time. (Emo much? Jeez.) So yes, I do make a concerted effort to not be a terrible shit by bettering myself in the end.

I do go through it though. I feel some big, scary feelings and I allow myself to feel them. By having those moments of terror and breakdown, I’ve been able to relate to others and help pick up other people out of their own self-made hells. So I guess that’s okay, right? …right?

I dunno. I think that while being present for feelings is great and all, and repression is definitely not in the cards for me, there has to be a gentler way. There has to be a surrendering without all of the background noise. In fact, that gentleness is often how I help others. I’m not a shrink and I don’t want to be… all I want to be is a good person. A combination of loving and logical.

To connect this post with my last blog on “not understanding people,” I think it’s probably that I understand more than I’m willing to admit to myself. I see it all… I see flaws, I see goodness, I see the whole person. It makes me judgmental of myself and others, and it’s not a trait I particularly like. I have control in social media (and in my social life at large) to portray myself as whomever I want to be… but behind it all, I’m still working on my stuff, just like everyone else.

I think a little more compassion all around is in order.

I don’t understand people. Period.

Maude here.

I don’t understand people. I genuinely do not.

I don’t understand social media. I don’t understand why people even bother to interact most of the time when everything is so self-centered.

People have an infinite capacity to be smug assholes. The number of “likes” you get is somehow synonymous now with social hierarchy. I’m not exempt from this… part of me gets a little thrill when I hit over 50 likes on a post via my personal page. It’s a sickness, really. I’m not content until I hit that 50 “like” mark. Because in my own pea brain, I’m an asshole just like everyone else.

But really, who doesn’t like to be fawned over and liked? Who is like, “Oh hey, keep that praise to yourself!” Nobody. We’re all huge, egomaniacal sphincters.

So when I say “I don’t understand people,” I really don’t get myself OR people outside of my realm. Frankly, after studying tiny bits of psychology in undergrad (which, of course, makes me an expert… HAAA) I don’t really care to know what makes people tick… because most people are infinitely screwed up. (At least I have the good knowing that I, myself, have moments of utter humanity. It’s the people who aren’t cognizant of their own actions and behaviors that I worry about.)

I mean, how did we get to the point of going bankrupt over social events like weddings, birthdays, etc. just to have a few measly photos posted on social media? That’s how crazy this stuff is getting. People could literally be putting a down payment on their homes or cars, and yet every other day, I see another tremendous waste of money in order to showcase something social that inevitably ends up on social media. WHY? For likes. If it wasn’t for accolades, nobody would post anything. If we couldn’t comment, share our praise, and generally inflate egos, social media wouldn’t exist. Maybe it shouldn’t if people are actually having negative emotional reactions to their social media statuses.

What happened to events and happenings that are PRIVATE? (And really, do I need to hear that my friend from middle school’s baby pooped for the first time?) And if you drop off of social media, is it social suicide? Do you miss these big life events or will people actually remember you if you don’t have a Facebook or and Instagram? I mean… really… is our western society that shameful…?

Socializing at its best is sitting with a few friends IN REAL LIFE over dinner, gabbing about anything that makes us feel connected. I truly prefer looking into peoples’ eyes and having some sort of moment of understanding between the two of us. Words written on a social media page can convey any number of things, but it’s no substitute for a real, true interaction. Sending the words “love and hugs” is NOT THE SAME THING as being PRESENT for someone in your life. Sure, the sentiment on social media is pleasant and caring, but to actually feel that hug and feel that exchange between people is very important.

Am I the only one who thinks hugs make us saner individuals? I’m not talking about the kind of hugs mall-rats give each other where you touch briefly and pull away. I’m talking about the kind of hugs your close friends and family give you. That feeling like it’s not weird to keep hugging tightly. I’m notorious for the too-tight hug, because as awkward as it could be, it can’t be more awkward than the barely-touch hug.

I hate social media and I’m a hugger. Do with that what you will.

Maude is a Social Pariah

Maude here.

It has dawned on me that people like me until they get to know me.

For instance, I appear put-together, charismatic, and even pretty on the outside… but once people figure out that I’m heavily entrenched in nerdiness (and not in the sense of a chic, hipster nerd), I think I naturally repel people. I’m not “cool.” I’m a secret geek. I’m off-puttingly INTENSE to be around and I get more so every year. I don’t want to be embarrassed of how much I like talking about & implementing environmental procedures and lifestyle changes. I don’t want to stand out like a sore thumb and call people out when they’re being apathetic pieces of poop. I don’t want to feel like the black sheep in the room. I don’t want to be different.

…but I am. I am different. And while it’s totally uncomfortable to be so unusual in most circles, I like that I don’t put up with the excuses of the typical citizen.

I think talking about real things, as in failures or  weaknesses or real dire circumstances, scares people… especially when you have an urge to tell people that they can be BETTER or be more aware or more eco-friendly if they wanted to be. Or even telling people that they’re not seeing the whole picture and attempting to point them in the direction of places to start improving. It’s as if individuals’ brains get full too fast, instead of being like, “Oh hey, I’d have more freedom and less stress if I’d improve how I work in the world.” Yeah. Something like that. That’d make MY existence a lot easier.

Instead, people push back because being a conscious human being actually takes work, initially. (Later, with practice and persistence, it becomes a natural state of operating.) You have to teach yourself how to be conscious. You have to read a TON (from multiple viewpoints), you have to improve your communication and listening skills with others, and you have to WANT to improve yourself, not just to reach some material end-point, but to be comfortable in that there will always be something to fix and something you personally need to work on. I’m talking about a constant cycle of personal growth and self-awareness. All of this looks like “too much effort” for most people, so they continue to do less than they’re capable of and continue to screw over the rest of us with their poor choices and uninformed biases.

This isn’t a political statement. This isn’t a “poor me” statement. It’s a wake-up call for me to be more present to listen to the concerns of others and try to be a solution, not a terror to talk to. At the end of the day, I realize I cannot control other peoples’ perceptions of who I am, but I would hope that the people who have to interact with me on a daily basis know that I’m always striving to be better, to be more compassionate, to get things accomplished, and to lead by example.

It’s stupid to limit people. I think the more criminal thing to do is to “accept peoples’ faults” instead of helping them see a more connected way to exist in the world that we’re forced to share. Personal choices DO affect the world on a global and local scale. It grosses me out to say this, but the old adage is proving to be true: “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.” There is no middle ground or neutral point. Everything we all do has an impact and the more we connect the dots and become educated through the scope of non-bias, the more difficult it is to stay ignorant to our personal behaviors.

So, if you’re still reading this, go read something interesting. Read anything interesting. And after you’re done with that, pick up something to read that is the exact opposite of what you just read. Compare notes. Figure out where your loyalties and beliefs truly lie. Educate yourself. Go out of your way to do good things for others, even if it has the potential to make you uncomfortable. It’s not hard… just use your head and do your best to understand EVERY angle of whatever you’re learning. Be a decent human being and never stop growing.

That being said, I’m not perfect at all. I stay up late watching Netflix and Amazon Prime, for Christ’s sake. I have my own crap to worry about. At the very least, the first step is awareness… followed by some finite steps forward. And then, change occurs… and it hurts, and then you make a breakthrough. (YES, it’s going to HURT going to bed at a decent hour and doing those mundane things, but it’s worth it! And yes, it’s going to hurt to listen to the opinions of some people, but it hurts MORE to not be listened to.) We all have our shit. Take care of it. Be better than you were yesterday.

Go forth and be awesome. You’re welcome. 😉

Dance, Monkeys. Dance!

Maude here.

My Spanish instructor asked, “Que comida te gusta?” (“What food do you prefer?”)

So naturally, I said, “Yo prefiero verduras.” (“I prefer vegetables.” Because that’s the only non-stereotypical Spanish food item I know.)

Ah, Spanish 1. Realm of 18 year olds and their broad world views…

Student One: “EW! Vegetables? You could’ve said hamburgers or pizza with mucho cheese!”
Student Two: “Maybe she really likes vegetables!”
Student One: “I don’t think I’ve ever had a vegetable. I eat meat.”

Congratulations, you’re… normal? 

Me: “Well, I am a vegan… it comes with the territory.” I laughed. It wasn’t a big thing to me.
Student One: “I couldn’t live without BACON! Hehe, BACON! I love steak. Yum, yum!”
Me: “Okay. Cool. That’s your deal.”
Student One: “Oh my GAWWWWWWSH, how do you know that someone is a vegan? THEY’LL TELL YOU! Hehehehe!”
Me: “Um… you asked?”
Instructor: “I’ve been a vegetarian for over 20 years.”
END. 

Whenever someone has the audacity to say “vegans shove their views in everyone’s face,” they fail to see how they invariably shove their snarky meathead views in our veggie-lovin’ faces constantly. McDonalds isn’t “veg-friendly” and yet we see TV commercials 24/7 from them. Outback Steakhouse doesn’t serve healthier vegan options in leu of their mass-produced “Bloomin’ Onion” or any of their meat/dairy-laden options. If we didn’t SAY something about our food preferences, in even a simple, sincere, and discreet way, we vegans would have nasty decaying carcasses shoved in our faces at every meal. So yeah, we’re gonna let you know that we want vegetables and fruit over roadkill and cow boob juice. If MY personal choice is offensive to you, even if I’m not imposing it on you, it’s your problem, not mine. I typically abide by “live and let live.” I’m generally sarcastic about my food preferences and I shrug off a lot of taunting. I’m not militant, but guess what? I’m not going to eat half of the malarky most Americans are accustomed to. It’s not my thing.

Would I like to live in a world full of vegans? Hell yes. Is that a possible reality? Probably not, because humans can be incredibly self-centered in regard to each other, let alone to animals. I’m not holding my breath. I am, however, never going to apologize to some little trust-fund 18 year old for not liking his precious, hipster pieces of charred flesh. Shitty people, whether omnivorous or vegan, are just shitty people. #TypicalVeganRant

Netflix and Amazon Prime equal ABYSS

Quincy and Maude here.

We’ve been experiencing a black hole effect coming from our Xbox… and it’s getting ugly.

When your contact lenses stick to your eyes, you miss social events and workouts, and you start acquiring more than your fair share of cellulite dimples on your arse, you may be suffering from Video Streaming. A most heinous affliction, Video Streaming can strike anyone at any time, provided you have a gaming console and an adequate television. Other side-effects include extreme thirst (from not having the energy to cross the room to retrieve water pitcher), irritability (from moments of slow internet speed), and full-blown insomnia.

The struggle is real. Worse, Netflix and Amazon Prime create a veritable rift between the two of us. Maude’s affliction may be slightly more horrendous, as anxiety ensues when Quincy takes a Streaming break for Destiny and various other video games. Pillows fly, voices of outrage cry out, and feelings are hurt… until we inevitably find a Streaming title to enjoy together.

Someday, we’ll kick this nasty habit… but for now, we’re going to watch Cutthroat Kitchen until the wee hours of the morning and our mouths are parched from salivating at food we will never taste. Tragic.