Monthly Archives: August 2012

Auto Correct And The Online Class

So two days into college and already I feel like a genius!  I went to math class yesterday and felt ready to conquer the world.  Or at least put my shoes on the right feet.  I haven’t been to a math class in over seventeen years, and the only thing I remember about algebra is that back in high school, our book was sort of orange.  I was happy to see we were starting with the basics in our classroom.  Then when my daughter got home from third grade, she asked me to please check her math homework.  I’ll be damned if it wasn’t the exact same material we covered in our college class that day!  Okay, so maybe I’m not a genius.  On the plus side, my eight year old can be my tutor, and the best part is, she works for jolly ranchers.

I’m taking Medical Terminology online.  We had to write a short auto-biography, and one post in particular caught my attention.  I think this person is my favorite online classmate ever.  Her name is Richelle and I’m pretty sure she posted her auto-biography via her phone with auto correct on.  It started “Hi, my name is Erectile…”  I didn’t get past that part.  I just kept reading that part over and over because it’s funny every time.

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Silly Little Schoolgirl

Not my actual college…

It’s official!  I’m back in a classroom for the first time in over seventeen years!  College is very different from high school.  The teacher made it very clear she will not be hounding us to do our homework, which really sucks for me because the only reason I ever did homework was to avoid being nagged at.  Where’s my motivation?!  Also, I’m the oldest one in my class.  Although I stick out like a sore thumb an erect penis, I’m super smarter than everyone else in there, so it’s a lot easier for me to look down on them…as they excel at basic math while I still rely on my flash cards with large print.  Oh wait!  There’s one guy older than me.  He kept falling asleep sitting up, and then when his head would fall he would snap back up and snort.  I believe it’s called “narcolepsy”.  Or maybe it was “necrophilia”.  Whatever.  It was amazing how many common sense “rules” the teacher had to go over.  What’s wrong with kids today that you actually have to tell them that they can’t come to class  only until attendance is recorded and then leave and expect credit?  She forgot one rule, though, when she made her little note.  She didn’t tell people they had to keep their shoes on during class.  I would have thought this one was a given, but as I looked around, several people had their shoes off, with their dirty, sweaty socks hanging out, wafting foot funk in my direction.  Gross.  The teacher mentioned it would be a good idea to “make friends” in class.  So I looked around at all the zit faced kids, betting that not one of them has ever picked a booger out of another human beings nose, or been buried elbow deep in baby poop.  I can’t relate, so I’ll just get through this one on my own.  Nobody wants to be friends with the old girl in the back of the classroom who’s a total crab ass first thing in the morning.  In my defense, if it were socially acceptable to have wine for breakfast, I’d be a hell of a lot more pleasant.

Look out nursing world, here I come.  Don’t panic yet, though.  I’m still trying to tackle basic math…

How I Ended Up In The Bathroom Stall With The Waitress

Yes, I’m still complaining about the automatic flush toilets.  Yesterday, one was effing with me.  If I felt embarrassment, this would have been a situation that would have scarred me for life.

Some friends and I went to eat at Cooper’s Hawk.  I had to go to the bathroom and the second I saw that it was an auto flush toilet, I knew I was screwed.  I left about five gallons of yellow urine and some toilet paper in the bowl, and then stood up to go wash my hands.  The toilet wouldn’t flush.  So I waved my hands in front of the sensor but it didn’t help.  I pushed the little button on the side, but still no flush.  I even tried to remove the top of the metal box to see if I could somehow figure out the wiring inside, but then I remembered I’m not McGuyver.  I listened and waited for the bathroom to be empty and then I tried to make my escape.  Unfortunately, when I opened my stall, there was a waitress standing against the wall, she had been patiently waiting for me to exit the stall so she could restock the toilet paper.  You have GOT to be kidding me.  I looked back over my shoulder, hoping she wasn’t really going in there, but she was.  So I quickly explained that I was sorry but I couldn’t get the toilet to flush.  She politely assured me that it was okay, as she went in to the stall.  She flushed the damn toilet.  So I went into the teeny tiny stall with her…because why not make this more awkward…and said “no way, how did you do that?” to which she replied “If the sensor doesn’t work you can just push this little button on the side.”  I couldn’t believe it, because I had pushed that button repeatedly so I practically called her a liar to her face.  “Nuh-uh” I said while leaning over to see for myself.  I pushed the button that I had pushed a million times just minutes before, and the mother effer flushed.  “Oh yeah!  Well look at that.” I said.  “Well, have a good evening!” and on that note I exited the stall and washed my hands.  I have no doubt that girl does not get paid enough to flush the toilet for a thirty(ish) year old woman who can’t figure out how to flush it herself.

Automatic Flush Toilets: It’s Like Russian Roulette For Your Butt

Sometimes you have to do something in life that gets your adrenaline pumping.  Something to feel alive.  Something wild and dangerous, like skydiving, or using an automatic flush toilet.

I never use a public restroom unless it’s absolutely necessary, but after three kids, “absolutely necessary” is anytime I cough, sneeze or laugh a little too hard. I’m always hopeful it will be a regular old-fashioned toilet that I have total control over, and I’m always let down when I see it’s an automatic.   After blurting out swear words and inappropriate phrases that would make even Eminem blush, I begin the game of Russian Roulette for my butt.  I sit down on the Devil’s urinal as slowly as possible so as not to activate the auto flush.  Success.  My ass is still dry.  I empty my bladder without moving, without breathing, without blinking.  And then Whoosh, the auto flush is somehow engaged.  What the hell…no fair, I didn’t even blink!   Now my butt is as wet as if I had fallen in!  I still have to pee a little, but I’m too cold and tense from my horrific ordeal.  Not only did I get soaked, but the toilet flushed with enough suction power to drag a small child down the toilet and all the way out to sea.  I almost died you know.  I finally calm down enough to resume urination.  The second I let my guard down the auto flush engages again!  Are you kidding me with this?  Am I being punk’d?  Ashton, is that you???  I look around and don’t spot any hidden camera’s, this is not a joke.  So I continue on with my business.  After I’m finished, I get up and…nothing.  No flush.  I wave my hand in front of the sensor, and still nothing.  I need the toilet to flush now, but it won’t.  So I’m standing there, staring at my eight ounces of processed water and some toilet paper, for everyone to see.  I try the manual button, no luck.  I give up and exit the stall to go wash my hands.  The second I unlock the door and step out, the toilet flushes.  Clearly the person who invented the auto flush toilet was a man who hates women.

Solicitor Training by Lisa Rochon

I love solicitors.  I get really excited when I see them knocking on the neighborhood doors because it’s a great opportunity to create awkward moments.  Not in a bad way, just in an I-have-no-idea-what-to-say-next-this-wasn’t-discussed-during-training way.   I would think going door to door getting rejected all day in the sweltering heat is a crappy job, so a huge kudos to those that do it as opposed to sitting on the couch playing video games all day long expecting someone else to take care of their bills.

So the other day, just as I sat down for dinner there was a knock at the door.  It’s showtime!  I opened the door and a kid maybe in his early twenties smiles at me and says “You must be the Mom.”  To which I replied “Why, because I look old?”  He kept his smile in place and asked “Are you Lisa?”  I stepped slowly out of the house, closing the door behind me, narrowing my eyes at him suspiciously.  “Did Shay send you?”  I demanded.  (Shay is my neighbor next door) “SHAY” I yelled towards her house in a way meant to sound threatening but I’m thinking it just sounded insane.  At this point his smile was still in tact but he fidgeted a bit.  “No, I came on my own.”  “Really” I said in a tone that indicated I thought he was a liar “Then how do you know my name?  Are you stalking me?”  “No” he laughed nervously, still not sure what to make of me.  “My name is Devin.  I apologize if I talk too fast, but I have thirty-six houses to visit tonight.”  “Well let me save you some time, Devin, I don’t have any money to buy whatever it is you’re selling, because I just spent it all on my bail.  Do you have any idea how much it costs to get out of jail these days?!”  Devin would not be defeated.  He said “Okay, well you haven’t really even heard me yet.”  I replied “Are you saying I talk too much, Devin?”  He takes a deep breath and regrouped.  The next words out of his mouth were great, it took all I had not to start laughing.  He says “Hi, my name is Devin.  How are you doing tonight?”  As though we hadn’t been talking for a minute and a half already.  “Hi Devin.  I’m poor.  What can I do for you?”  He proceeds to open a text-book to show me how easy it was to understand and follow this text-book.  “Isn’t that cool?!”  He asked me with fake enthusiasm.  “Yeah, but I still don’t have any money to buy it.  Unless you take Monopoly money.  I have lots of that.”  He was unrelenting and continued to flip through this book.  “Hey Devin, I’ve got dinner on the table, and I really wish I could help you, but I truly can’t.  I know some people pretend to be poor when they don’t want to buy something from you, but I really, really am poor.  I had Ramen Noodles for lunch today.  Yeah…that poor.”  At this point he pulls out a bunch of names on a list of people who were buying his product to see if I knew anyone on the list.  “Are you questioning my popularity?” I asked him “Because I am very popular, you know.”  He said he wasn’t questioning my popularity.  He gave up, and put his book away.  I gave him some bottled water, and wished him well.  Devin was a good sport.  I told him if he ever sold Ramen Noodles to come back my way.  I’m always in the market for some Ramen Noodles.

Attempted Running

Let me start by saying that I’m not a runner.  It’s not that I don’t want to be, it’s that every time I try to run, my legs and lungs tell me to piss off.  I had to chase after my dog once, and I only made it down my driveway before collapsing with shin splints and lung spasms.  My driveway is less than forty feet long.  I lay there in the fetal position while my dog came back to mock me.  Even he couldn’t believe how completely out of shape I was.  He’s so judgemental.

So exercising to be fit and healthy became my new motivation.  I’ve found that once you get into a habit of working out, it becomes almost like an addiction.  Some people do crack, I do Tae Bo.  I don’t look very graceful doing it, but in my head I’m a total bad ass.  If I don’t get my daily exercise, my Chi gets all out of whack, I get very edgy, and everyone around me turns into an asshole.  (Yes, it’s all of them, not me.)  Because of my new-found fitness, I thought I’d give running a try.

I made it about a mile and a half, MOSTLY running.  I’ve got a whole new respect for runners.  Hats off to you crazy freaks of nature.  You all look so graceful, free and happy.  Your obvious passion for running is inspiring.  I was flopping around like a kindergartener running from a boy with cooties.  I started out at a nice pace, my feet hitting the pavement in time with my husbands.  Toward the end of our route I was way ahead of him.  While he kept a nice even pace, I had sped up to get this torturous run over with.  I ran as though bill collectors were chasing me.  At the end of my run, I had sweat dripping down into cracks of my body that I’m usually not aware of.  It was not sexy.  I smelled foul and felt like my heart was pounding in my head.  Where real runners finish their route and feel a sense of accomplishment, I just felt the need to throw up and then eat a donut.

As soon as I can feel my legs again I’ll give it another go.   Seriously, kudos to all the runners out there.  You guys make it look so easy.

Conversations With My Mother: Art vs Graffiti

Awhile back, Mom and I were driving together…

Wait, let me start over.  Awhile back, Mom was driving and I was in the passenger seat hanging on for dear life and crying from sheer terror, when we got stopped at a railroad crossing.  As the train went by we could see various words and pictures that had been spray painted on the train cars.  This sparked a debate over whether these colorful pieces of work were “art” or “graffiti”.

Mom:  Look at that beautiful art work!

Me:  That’s graffiti.  Also known as vandalism.

Mom:  That’s not graffiti, it’s art.  Not everyone can do such good work you know.

Me:  Clearly the vandals can.  I wonder what their probation officer would think.

Mom:  Lisa!  If you look at the detail of…

Me in my mind while Mom is lecturing:  I wonder if I could get Mom to buy me lunch.  Eww, look at that dead racoon.  I’m not that hungry anymore.  Yes I am…

Mom:  …then clearly you can see it’s art.

Just as Mom finished her argument, a train car with the gigantic word “PUSSY” tagged on it passes across our view.  We watched in silence as it left our sight.  Mom took a moment to regroup while we both tried to contain our laughter.  I looked over at her with an expression that announced I had clearly won this argument, and I motioned with my hand towards the train.

Sarcastic Me:  You’re right…there’s your freakin’ art!