Not So Fast!
Oh, did I celebrate. Hooray, hooray, hooray! Only fresh-smelling students in my class! For the most part, I don't have to hone my student-interrupting skills, which I hate to do. (Stinky Girl (aka "designated mess") also liked to make lengthy, lengthy comments - okay, comments is a misnomer - monologue is more like it - which ultimately had nothing to do with the class discussion for that day. You have no idea how vexing it is to watch your four hour class slip away from you because Stinky Girl is going on about subliminal messages in Disney films. Finally, an unsympathetic tenured professor gave me the unceremonious whack on the side of my head I needed and told me to (duh!) interrupt the damn girl and move. on.) It's really been lovely.
Until. Yesterday, I got an e-mail from a student in my fall section. He was asking me for the title of our textbook - preferably by ISBN number. Question: Why do students have NO problem e-mailing me with questions - all kinds of questions and favors: I can't get to the online study guide - can you print me a copy and bring it to class? What is the ISBN number for the text book? Can you write me a letter so I can get out of jury duty and hurry it up, please, because the letter was due yesterday, you stupid whore! And yet, their fingers all unfathomably wither up and snap off when it comes time to type, "Thank you." What's wrong with writing, "I got the letter you e-mailed to me and gave it to my parole officer and now I won't get re-arrested so THANK YOU." Hmm?!?! Would that be so damn difficult? But I digress. I guess if I were truly interested in being treated with some consideration, I would not have gone into education.
Anyway, Mr. ISBN student didn't say, "Hello, Teacher Lady. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Manners McMannersen and I'm a student in your fall Human Sexuality class." It was just, "I need the name of the textbook. Ideally, by ISBN. Later, Rudely McSniderton." So I decided I'd better check my fall roster, just in case this clown actually belonged in someone else's class this fall.
And what smacked me right between the eyes? Stinky Girl's name. There she is. Sitting there, stinking up the joint, on my fall roster.
And here I thought I had narrowly escaped. Sigh. I wonder if I'm allowed to bring scented candles to class - or would the fire marshal frown upon that, do you think?