Monday
8:00am Molecular Genetics final
6:00pm German final presentation

Tuesday
Birthday (wink, wink, nudge, nudge)

Wednesday
10:30am French final

Thursday
10:30am Biochemistry final
5:00pm Dinner with nutty grandfather
6:00pm Baking Boston cream pie

Friday
3:00pm Gathering flowers while I may
5:30pm Set-up for in cursu graduation ceremony
7:00pm Aforementioned ceremony

Saturday
5:00am Drive to ETSU for a friend's graduation

Sunday
10:30am Drive to airport for week-long trip to DC and Disney

The next seven days definitely have an upward slant to them.  :-)

I got back from Berlin last night.  Rather than bore everyone with an extended travelogue, I will simply say that I return from Germany feeling happy, productive, obligatorily irritated, bemused, and with pseudo-better German (I at least know the words for getting on and off the metro system).  Check out Facebook for pictures.

Anyone ever planned a wedding in Germany?  I'll broaden that.  Anyone ever planned a wedding in another country?  While you're in the US?  For homework?  Lucky you.

So, I'm in this course about Berlin this semester.  And ordinarily, I like Dr. Weidner's assignments.  They're inventive, and we use our German in a variety of contexts.  However...

The assignment is to plan a wedding in the tower of the Französicher Dom (French Cathedral).  Sounds fun and happy.  I found the website for the church (that's in Berlin, that I've never been to) and have looked for information on planning a wedding.  It doesn't exist.  Nothing.  Zilch.  Nada.  There are several lovely vignettes about the history of the church and cute little pictures of the sanctuary, which I would dearly love to see Satan destroy with an earth-shaking boom.

I've worked on this for over an hour, and have unearthed nothing (except my desire to see the church drown in Satanic flame).  I've contacted someone else in the class for input, and will e-mail the teacher tomorrow if the other student can't find anything.  This isn't exactly information I can make up (cost of renting the church, how many people it will hold, stuff like that).

If any of you feel inclined to help, you can visit the following website and search for the word "Hochzeit" (wedding)...

http://www.franzoesischer-dom.de/

Allison has bunnies that irritate her by nibbling on her shoelaces and  by occasionally deciding that toe-flesh is more appetizing than nylon.  Lucky Allison.  I have ginzu knives--well, a ginzu knife--stabbing me in the ribs repeatedly.  What is this ginzu knife, you ask?  It is soon told....

My grandfather came by yesterday.  After the usual cringing on my part, I valiantly talked to him, and the conversation wasn't that bad.  My mother and I were getting ready to go to lunch, so time with him was mercifully limited.  Just as I thought I was going to escape relatively unscathed...

Grandfather: "I'll see you later, hon."

James: "Alright.  Bye."

Grandfather: "Oh, someone was asking me the other day--being something of a busybody, which of course, I'm not, hon.  Whenever you and I talk, it's just Grandfather and Grandson talking."

James (thinking): "What?!  Have you seriously deluded yourself into thinking that?  Asking me ~30 questions duirng a 10-minute conversation qualifies as being a busybody."

Grandfather (blithely continuing): "Anyway, hon, just go along with what I told them, and tell other people the same thing.  They asked me if you had been admitted to medical school yet, and I told them you had already been admitted to UT-Memphis and are planning to start there in Fall of 2008.  Like I said, just go ahead and tell anyone that whenever they ask you if you know where you're going."

James: "Exactly who was this you were talking to?"

Grandfather: "Oh, I don't even remember now.  But just go along with it, OK.  Just tell people that."

-----

What is the problem, you may be asking yourself?  It is soon told.... I HAVEN'T DECIDED WHERE I'M GOING YET!  AND HE KNOWS THAT!!  The reason for my exasperation lies largely in the fact that my grandfather's chief hobby for the last 15 years has been to hound me about school.  He literally starting asking me what I wanted to major in when I was in fifth grade.  Freshman year of high school brought a demand to know where I was going to college, and one year later, he prodded to know my destination for medical school. 

He would like for me to go to UT.  Or ETSU.  Actually, he wants me to teach elementary school like he does, and is convinced that I will one day soon depart from my ill-planned medical career and enter the glories of teaching snot-nosed second-graders the multiplication table.  Not that I demean elementary school teachers, but it just isn't for me.  I hardly have the patience for it.

Anyway, I'm not certain what his plan is, but I know it's there.  There's no logical reason for him to just tell someone I've made up my mind to go to his chosen medical school.  My thoughts are as follows:
1. If I start telling people I'm going there (even if it's at his behest), word will eventually get back to him that I've said I'm Memphis-bound, and he can merrily believe and delight in the fact.
2. If I tell people I'm going to UT-Memphis, then I'll be obligated to do so when the time comes.  My actual needs and desires will pale in comparison with my obligation to third-party acquaintances to attend the school that I had previously specified (at my grandfather's coersion).
3. God only knows.
4. Not even God knows.

Personally, I'm split between #2 and #4.  Obviously, I have no intention of telling people that I'm going to UT-Memphis unless I decide that I would like to do so ( not very likely).  So my only real question is this--did he actually tell someone this, or is he just pretending to have done so?

If you have been suspended from the university, you should not come to a meeting with a professor 1.5 hours early, just to linger in the Honors Lounge.  In fact, according to the Dean of Students, if you do it again, you will be escorted away by the police. 

The malicious side of me is hoping it happens.  The nonmalicious side of me is lying dormant.

*evil-ler chuckle than usual*

You know, I'm all for delegating tasks.  As long as other people are doing them.  I myself like to do my own things.  I tend not to screw up, and when I do, I at least know where my mistake is and can usually fix it with some assistance.  However....

The "Future of Honors" committee wanted to see the 18 pages of paperwork generated by the Honors Council Director Search subcommittee from last year.  I have it all in paper form, but not electronic (which was how they wanted it).

I thought I would spread some knowledge around (as in, how to do things with the publishing programs on the computer), give an office worker a task with a little bit of meaning (as opposed to copying applications), and save myself from having to do it.  Therefore, I showed Office Worker X how to scan everthing in, put it into Photoshop, shrink the file size, stick it into InDesign, and merge it all into one big PDF (as opposed to 18 small ones).

He did so, sent me the file, and I forwarded it on (I don't know why I didn't look at it) to Dr. Dennis George, the chair of the Future of Honors committee, two weeks ago, so he could send it on to everyone else, as agreed.  This morning, he sends out a message to remind us of our meeting tomorrow and said he trusted everyone had a chance to read the file I had sent.  Which only went to him, since he was supposed to forward it on.

I frantically sent the 12-MB file out to everyone (from my grandfather's dial-up connection) with a quasi-sarky note stating that I thought someone else was supposed to send it to the committee.  Three minutes later, Dr. Pardue responds, saying that pages seem to be missing from the document.  I try to open it on my computer, but the download won't finish. 

I'm going in at 6:30 in the morning to try and rectify this.  I hope I can just send one page as a quick "sorry I left this one out" addendum.  But I'm thinking that I'm probably going to have to re-scan the whole thing.  And I'm not happy.  This committee is comprised of eight faculty members and me.  I would rather they not think I'm completely incompetent before our second meeting even begins.

Anybody got the number of the FBI, the INS, or Donald Rumsfeld handy?

My biochemistry professor is a very nice Asian lady, Dr. Kim.  Monday we had our first test over the 20 amino acids and their structures.  I can draw them all, give you their three-letter and one-letter abbreviations, and tell you at what pH they will lose their protons.  However, due to a rather picky point about terminology (in which she isn't entirely right), and b/c she apparently doesn't give partial credit, I made an 80 on the quiz.  Evidently, the fact that I add an extra positive charge to this molecule (which, based on her loose terminology, is technically valid) is just as wrong as someone who completely misdraws it.

Now, I am not happy with this fact.  Therefore, I have come up with a solution.  I briefly considered going and talking with her/reasoning/bluntly stating my opinion.  However, let's face it--I am a passive-agressive person.  To that extent, I have devised a new plan: since she's from Korea, I will phone the FBI and tell them she's making chemical weapons.  She will then be sent to Guantanamo or deported or something, and then I shall not have to deal with her.

This may be too much, you're thinking.  Remember, though, that I am a Jew--I operate by the "eye for an eye" law.  She gave me an 80; therefore, she's sent to prison camp.  I think it's a fair trade.

If she happens to relent and give the class partial credit, I will consent to let her stay in the country.  Maybe.  But only if she's nice.  The next move is hers.  We shall see.

So, I'm in the Honors colloquium about Tolkien.  And I'm finding it completely inappropriate.  Why, you may ask?  Oh, let me count the ways.

1. The course is entitled "Tolkien."  This leads me to believe that we will be viewing him holistically.  We have so far explored his Catholicism.  We have met four times (3 hr. each).
2. We were required to read 180 pp. of The Silmarillion for today.  We discussed three pp. of it.  All of it dealt with the theme of "how can there be freedom in submission?".
3. John Parker is in the class and says nothing but farkochte conditional statements while sucking up to Dr. Craven.
4. Robert Streeter pronounces Melkor "Melekor" and is an idiot.
5. Brian Baskette cannot make a point.
6. Dr. Craven: "You're using sociology to explain this.  Don't--I want to stay on philosophy."
7. My points have so far been pooh-poohed, one and all.
8. Dr. Craven has repeatedly degraded Protestantism and referred to it as "Sauron."  I find this inappropriate.
9. Dr. C asked Chloe Callis in class today if she intended to submit to her husband.  Again, inappropriate.
10. We had to read 40 pp. of Marian literature for the last class.  I did not sign up for a cathechism course.
11. The scope of this "interdisciplinary" colloquium is too narrow.  It is not titled "The Catholicism of J.R.R. Tolkien."  Something else must have influenced this man, and there must be more contextual information for LOTR than the sanctity of the BVM.  I feel as though I am being taught Dr. Craven's dissertation in exacting detail.

Basically, the whole thing feels like a really bad Cor meeting.  Think of me what you will, but I don't like to discuss the philosophy behind the nitty-gritty bits of religion; if I'm going to do philosophy, I prefer "what is lying" "is it right to..."  The annoying people who never advance the discussion, yet always seem to be talking, were even there.  I'm considering taking a W for this class instead of having to deal with it for 3 hours every week.  I'm busy, and have better things to do with my time.

Studying for the MCAT is not a fun experience.  The biology, organic chemistry, and verbal reasoning are all lovely and happy, and I've hardly had to look at them.  Then there's the general chemistry and physics section.

Did mention that it's been over two years since I last looked at general chemistry?  Or that it's been one year since physics?  And that I hated every blasted second of both of them?  And therefore, promptly forgot both of them?

The most frustrating part is that I would like to go to a really good school.  To do this, I need to make ~12 (out of 15) on the chemistry/physics section.  On practice tests, I've averaged from 9.5-10.5 on the chem/physics--good enough to get me into ETSU (esp. with the other high scores) but not Vanderbilt, Duke, or Washington U, for example.  I can get the 9.5-10.5 by virtue of conceptual knowledge I've had repeated over and over again--and a fair number of lucky guesses.  Granted, I seem to guess consistently well every time, but I'd rather not depend on that.  The problem is in the math and the (needless!) required memorization of equations.  Does anyone actually remember the flow rate equation, or the one for free energy of a molecule, for final velocity when you don't know time, or where to place an object in front of a lens to make a virtual image three times larger than the real object?

I'm supposed to be able to recall all of this, and more, at a moment's notice.  Little to no reference of equations.  No calculator usage.  And throw in the concepts (again, that I haven't looked at in 1-2 years) on top of this.  The next two weeks (test on Aug. 19) look like one big gaping chemistry/physics-driven maw, ready to swallow me and my educational dreams whole.

My grandfather did get married on Monday morning.  We were all most ecstatic, if somewhat surprised. 

I went to the periodontist yesterday--had to get up at 5:45am (ie, before God) to get there by 8:00 (he's in Lebanon).  Good news: my gums are healing faster and better than normal.  I just have to keep rinsing with Listerine and doing the salt rinses (which I don't care for).

My grandfather did get married on Monday morning.  We were all most ecstatic, if somewhat surprised. 

I went to the periodontist yesterday--had to get up at 5:45am (ie, before God) to get there by 8:00 (he's in Lebanon).  Good news: my gums are healing faster and better than normal.  I just have to keep rinsing with Listerine and doing the salt rinses (which I don't care for).

Supposedly, my grandfather and Jean are getting married in the morning at 8:30.  He's still got twelve hours left to back out.  I'll believe it when I see it...

Another post shall be forthcoming on the morrow.

A few months ago, my grandfather started dating this woman who works in the deli at the local grocery store in Livingston; we had known her for years, but only on the level that one knows the deli worker--"I'd like corned beef on rye today, and aren't you tired of all this rain?"  For the longest time (since I can remember), my grandfather referred to her as "the Cornbread Lady" because she (among other tasks) made the cornbread for the plate lunches each day.  As I said, they've been dating for several months, and I know her name: Jean Reagan.  We've never officially met her--satisfying a corned beef urge doesn't count as official--but he was planning to marry her today, this morning.

He spent this past week with us in Cookeville, largely being in the way and driving me crazy (for instance, giving me advice on how best to approach and enlighten my PhD-holding history professor with the astounding knowledge that Andrew Johnson and Lyndon Johnston each succeeding assassinated presidents... my grandfather is a little nutty).  On Tuesday morning, he announced that he would not be getting married on Friday.  My father advised that he telephone the beloved with the news, and he did so.  We were most unhappy, as we would like them to get married: my grandfather is something of a child, and needs a parent.  We would dearly love to give the Cornbread Lady care of a bouncing 73-year-old, healthy boy.

On Wednesday, he announced that they would indeed be getting married on Monday, he telephoned his lady fair as such, and we were all once again quite happy.  When asked why he suddenly changed his mind, the response: "I've got her figured out."  ???!!

On Thursday, he announced that he would not be tying the proverbial knot.  Supposedly, he and Jean reached the decision together, but something tells me not (perhaps a subsequent remark from my grandfather stating "She'd marry me tomorrow if she could."

In the words of my mother, "If she does marry him, she's crazier than he is!"  We've told him that he needs to make a decision, or she's going to dump him.  I mean, when she wakes up in the morning, she doesn't know whether it's daylight or dark, left or right, or whether she's getting married that day or not.  I imagine that would wear on someone's nerves and perhaps even interfere with their cornbread!

I just give up.  There is no reasoning with someone this indecisive.  We've tried to show him how beneficial it would be for him, not only for having someone to stay with him, but because they can talk to each other and relate in a way in which we cannot.  It's similar to the decision about whether or not to renew his teaching certificate (since he didn't get his masters degree, he has to renew the certificate every ten years by taking two graduate-level classes).  We're advocating that he do so because he's still physcially and mentally active (if nutty), and it would give him something to do.  However, ultimately, we cannot make such a large life decision for him.  He has to do it himself, but he is mind-numbingly indecisive...

All I know is that I would dearly love to wake up on Sunday morning and start singing, "He's getting married in the morning/Ding dong, the wedding bells will chime..." from My Fair Lady.  He may not be Eliza Doolittle's father, but it would serve the same purpose...

So, Friday was the big day: first term classes (American History I) ended, Jonathan (unfortunately) went home, and I had my gum surgery.  You may remember that last time on James's phusebox, I had to have a gum graft because of a rather large, if isoloated, gum recession, brought on by one of my lower teeth moving too quickly when I had braces.  Irritation was caused by the fact that my regular dentist's office did not see fit to clean my teeth before the surgery (which was necessary); however, another dentist's office was willing to do so.

I did go to the other dentist's office; it was much cheaper, the people were nicer, and the dentist remembered me (his wife was my high school German teacher), and that Wesley and I didn't get to go to Washington, DC.  I think I've found a new dentist...

Back to the gums: Friday, I took my final, said good-bye to Jonathan, and my parents whisked me off to Lebanon.  An hour before my appointment, I whisked myself off to Never-Never-Land by taking a prescribed Atavan (like a stepped-up Valium).  While I still cared what happened to me at the periodontist's, I only have a vague recollection of what actually did.  I can remember being rather aware at the time, but unfortunately, I am now unaware of what I was then aware of.  Regardless, they had me take one of my prescribed painkillers immediately following the surgery, and I was out until eleven o'clock Friday night (did I mention that the surgery took place at two o'clock that afternoon?)...

Post-op: the gum itself is somewhat sore, but because it's in the lower front of my mouth, it's relatively unbothered by eating, drinking, or anything else.  The more annoying part is the roof of my mouth; invariably when I eat or swallow saliva, a little bit of pressure is applied to those stitches, and it's not the most pleasant feeling.  Nevertheless, the pain itself isn't bad at all.  At most, there's some discomfort due to swelling, exacerbated at times by facial expressions (ie, strange mouth movements).  Needless to say, I have not had any more painkillers, other than Tylenol.  I do prefer to be cognizant.

In other medicinal news, I also have an antibacterial mouthwash to use.  However, since I am not allowed to rinse my mouth out or spit, I just have to let the mouthwash sit in my mouth and then let it just kind of fall out.  The problem arises because if the mouthwash is swallowed, it makes you nauseous.  Naturally, I'm not swallowing it, but let's face it: I'm a somewhat busy person.  I cannot stant in front of the sink for an hour expelling mouthwash, so some of it invariably gets swallowed.  Naursea is not pleasant.  The remedy comes in the form of another of the periodontist's insructions: rinsing my mouth with saltwater.  This at least removes some of the mouthwash and keeps it from building up in my mouth.

Actually, the sorest part is from the most minor aspect of the surgery.  In addition, to the gum recession, I had a "fremma."  Basically, there was a small piece of tissue connecting my gum to my lower lip; I've had this since birth, as do many people.  It wasn't really causing any harm, but it wasn't helping anything either.  Therefore, the periodontist went ahead and cut it.  That, combined with them holding my lower lip down and open for an hour (you try it!), has caused the most soreness.

Undoubtedly, there will be further updates...

Goodness, but it's been a long time since I posted.  Nothing much has happened, except...

I had braces until about six months ago.  Not a big deal--many people have braces, and mine required little remarkable treatment (four teeth pulled at once, but that's another story).  However, since I had the bottom ones removed, the gum from one of my lower teeth has receded.  A lot.  We're talking half a centimeter here.

On the good side, it's not my fault.  I say that because usually when your gums recede it's because you haven't been taking care of them, pockets of infection develop, and you have to have (what seems a me) a rather gruesome procedure:  they split your gum, peel it back, clean away the bacteria, and suture (stitch) it back together.

However, as I said, this one isn't my fault.  Apparently, when you get braces and your lower teeth have to be moved forward quite a bit (one of mine was), the tooth can kind of break through the thin covering of gum that shields the root.  Basically, this is what has happened.  On the very good side, it's on one isolated tooth, the tooth has not become sensitive to cold and is not loose (ie, there's no damage to the tooth or the root), and I just have to have a gum graft.

Which sounds just terrible.  I'm told, though, (and have read several places online) that it's pretty simple:  they go in, clean the exposed root, take a small piece of tissue from the roof of the mouth (pain=that of a pizza burn for a couple of days) and suture it over the exposed root.  Add some fancy-named cementing gel, and you've got a new gum (pain=can be taken care of with Extra Strength Ibuprofen for a couple of days).  Presumably, not that bad.

The irritating part in all of this comes on the way home from Lebanon (where the periodontist is).  It's time for me to get my teeth cleaned, and the periodontist said I needed to do so before I have the gum graft.  Okay.  We schedule the gum graft for the last day of June (a Friday, giving me an entire weekend to recuperate, even though it's only supposed to take 12-24 hours).  I call my longtime dentist's office to schedule an appointment to get my teeth cleaned.  No need to see the dentist.  None.

I explain that I'm having oral surgery, have to get the teeth cleaned by then, and morning will not work (missing 1 day of summer class=very bad).  I'm informed that they are unable to accommodate me unless I'm willing to have the cleaning done at 10am or the middle of July.  This will not work.  I explain again that I have to get this done.  Again, they are unobliging.  Therefore, I very merrily (actually, very irritatedly[?]) call the other dentist in town and have an appointment for next Friday at an excellent time. 

Now, I don't think it's too much to ask for the dentist's office where I've gone for several years and always paid promptly to schedule this for me.  Cleaning my teeth takes 20 minutes.  That's not a long time.  Givena a couple of other small incidents that have happened at this same dentist's office, I'm seriously considering changing dentists, if I like the new one.  It seems as though my current dentist is doing me a favor by allowing me to be one of his patients.  The inherent problem in this?  People don't usually pay over-priced fees for favors...

Especially when they're going to have to undergo surgery at the end of the month.  Bah!

There was this girl in my biology classes this past semester.  Nice girl... we'll call her Susie.  As I said, Susie was a nice girl; I'd like to say more good things about her, perhaps that she is intelligent and will be an asset to society in her chosen profession, but unfortunately, I cannot. 

Imagine my surprise when I open the spring graduation program this morning in the Honors Office and am scanning it for people I know, when I see Susie's name and the double cross demarcation next to it, signifying that Susie has graduated after four years of undergraduate instruction with a 4.0 QPA.   Let's just say I was flabbergasted.

As I said, I had a couple of classes with this child.  She no more deserves a 4.0 than I deserve the All-Athletics Award.  The professor for one of these classes was Dr. Goss (pronounced just like the recently retired CIA leader).  She would INCESSANTLY call out "Professor Go-oss!" whenever she needed anything.  This could be anything from a pertinent concern ("I think I just rubbed anthrax bacteria into this open wound on my hand, despite your specific instructions not to!") to the type of question that would make young children cringe ("What question do we begin with on the exam?"). 

Not only are her questions asinine (yes, Virginia, there are stupid questions), but the way she addresses the professor makes me grit my teeth.  As I said, she calls out, "Professor Go-oss!".  She double pitches the professor's last name and turn it into two syllables.  And the professor part is just irritating.  Were she from another part of the country, where the norm is to address all lecturers as "professor," I would overlook it, but she's from this region!  I want to shake her very hard and say, "Susie, sweetie, it's Dr. Goss.  Not Professor, Dr.  And her last name has four letters--one vowel, one syllable, one pitch."  Twitch.

She also cannot get it through her head that I am not in her Molecular Genetics class.  She asked me three times what I thought of the MG homework.  I told her I was not in the class.  At one point, she asked, "Are you sure?"  Yes, dear, I think by the time April rolls around, I know which classes I am enrolled in.  Thank you."  Seriously, she has the IQ of a young head of cabbage.

The other minor irritation of the day was driving down 10th St.  Now, if you've ever ridden with me (or driven behind me), you know that I am not the fastest of drivers.  I usually go the speed limit or a couple of miles below; there are several (read: 15-20) feet between me and the car in front of me.  I believe in cautious driving.  However, this does not mean you should go 12 mph on 10th St. (speed limit=35-45) when there is no traffic on the road. 

Of course, there are exceptions.  Perhaps you are cradling vases of expensive Oriental lilies in your lap, or a rabid squirrel is sitting on the seat next to you, sending telepathic messages that it will bite you only if you go above 15 mph.  Maybe you're having a psychotic episode and feel as though you are the bus driver in Speed.  These are all perfectly normal, everyday reasons to drive 30 miles below the speed limit, and I can understand them.

However, if I am driving behind you, and I can see you and your wife (and your combined ages number higher than the rooms in the White House) pointing out each window at everyone on the street and talking, chances are you are not in crisis mode.  You are in nosy mode.  And when you simply stop in the street to stare at something, you need to not be driving.  And this is coming from the Yenta King. 

Why are some people allowed to be parents?  Seriously, why were eggs/sperm placed in their genitalia?  Some people are less designed to be parents than Naturally, I'm not talking about all parents, or even most.  I'm talking about a select group of parents: the ones who discipline their children by yelling. 

I am admittedly no expert on children or how to raise them--I've never read the books (it's never really been applicable to me...) and or have any of my own (children, that is... I do have books), but I do know when people are making large mistakes.

We have relatives staying with us this weekend, and I could definitely do without.  Whenever the children (ages 3 and 6) do anything--regardless of what it is--the parents yell at them.  If they touch the glass on the door, they are yelled at.  Walking in the general direction of the china cabinet makes Mommy bellow like a longshoreman.  Daddy shouts when, I don't know, the younger one breathes too loudly.  Then, naturally, when they actually do something dangerous or that they shouldn't do (putting their hand dangerously close to the blades on the fan, for example), they don't respond when their parents yell.  And this baffles the parents.

I would like to tell them that their children have not yet reached double digits in their years and are unable to distinguish between "Mommy is yelling as she always does" and "Mommy's voice has gone up 1/2 an octave; this means that I must be doing something that could produce unsound effects on my health."  I have had to leave the house twice today and go outside for a few minutes just because of all the yelling.  And the kids are not neglected; they're well-loved and not abused or anything.  They've grown up in this culture of yelling, so it's all perfectly normal.  I, on the other hand, who was rarely yelled at as a child (and knew to respond instantly when my parents did yell), find this constant shouting grating.

This is not to say that all yelling is bad.  If the children are about to stick their fingers in the fan blades or are simply acting so atrociously that even Mary Poppins would fail with them, then yelling can have its justifications.  But all the time?

In addition, both children still drink out of sippy cups.  Did you happen to catch their ages?  Three and six, in case you didn't.  The three-year-old, that's fine; a sippy cup is a good thing.  But when a child is six, can swim underwater (she told me), and is almost done with kindergarten, a sippy cup for plain old water seems unnecessary...

So, I believe we should have a new rule.  Or rather, reinstate an old rule.  A very common sense rule, really.  Or so I thought:

If you're not going to bathe, don't wear sleeveless shirts.

Apparently, this is not common sense, as people do it.  Of course, the people who do it (at least the one today) has yet to demonstrate to me, or anyone for that matter, that he does indeed possess said sense held by the common folk.  As I left the Honors Lounge this afternoon, it was not in a state of bliss at the thought of going home.  No, no.  It was in a state of asphyxiation. 

I feel that I'm being very nice about this.  I'm even willing to compromise.  Note that the rule does not say, "Thou shalt bathe."  Perhaps these people are unable to do so.  Perhaps their showers are broken, their bathtubs have holes in them, they do not possess memberships to their local YMCA, and the creek near their home has recently dried up.  Whatever the cause, I shall graciously allow them their lack of soap time.  I maintain that if they are not going to be able to meet the requisite amount of time with their favorite brand of cleanser that they should stay home.  However, perhaps they have to go out.  Maybe to pay their water bill, God willing.  If, however, they feel that they must indeed enter the world of the hygenically competent, then they must not--repeat, not--wear sleeveless shirts.

Twitch.