I don't wanna work, I just wanna bang on the drum all day
So, this week was special. Lured by the promise of $20 and all the Magic Hat I could drink (i.e. one bottle), I somewhat foolishly volunteered to grade the essays of my fan club, AKA Kirstin's sophomore CP English class. 21 essays later, I can now say that I had no idea that Holden Caulfield's red hat, or the ducks in the Central Park pond, were so critical to interpreting Catcher in the Rye, although I suspect this was more a failing on Tinari's part than J.D. Salinger's elusive genius. My feelings on that book remain pretty much the same, and I think they are best expressed by the one student who referred to Holden as "crazy in the brain". Right on.
Meanwhile, at work, the tedium of data entry was interrupted by physical torture for the past two days. Apparently last year at graduation, several tickets were counterfeited, and in order to prevent this from occurring this year, the brilliant decision was made to put the school seal on each ticket, based on the assumption most counterfeiters probably do not own metal plates with the UDHS logo. This is very true. However, given that graduation is held in the Pavilion at Villanova, which I imagine is rather spacious, and that there are SIXTY-FOUR HUNDRED tickets and TWO school seals, I imagine that the effort expended in carefully embossing each ticket is FUCKING RIDICULOUS when compared with the option of just letting the few cheaters in. Especially since I am fairly certain that the stamping contraptions have been at the school at least as long as my father (since 1972), and thus require a great deal of pressure to actually create any kind of indentation in posterboard, whereupon they jam and you must pry the handle up at the expense of pinching your hands, fingers, or any other unwary limbs. Also, we had to have them all done by Monday.
We were warned against oiling them, since it would only get on the tickets, but eventually Janet cracked and called one of the maintenance guys, who stripped off all the accumulated goo and coated them in what smelled pretty much like motor oil. However, the seals worked a lot better, and I am quite sure saved it us all from totally crippling our hands from repetitive stress injury. On the other hand, the tickets now smell like a garage and sport the occasional brown splotch, which certainly breaks my heart, let me tell you.
I am now off to hang out with the fabulous Laura, and try to avoid putting any pressure on the heels of my palms, since that way lies PAIN AND SUFFERING.
HURRAH FOR THE WEEKEND.
Meanwhile, at work, the tedium of data entry was interrupted by physical torture for the past two days. Apparently last year at graduation, several tickets were counterfeited, and in order to prevent this from occurring this year, the brilliant decision was made to put the school seal on each ticket, based on the assumption most counterfeiters probably do not own metal plates with the UDHS logo. This is very true. However, given that graduation is held in the Pavilion at Villanova, which I imagine is rather spacious, and that there are SIXTY-FOUR HUNDRED tickets and TWO school seals, I imagine that the effort expended in carefully embossing each ticket is FUCKING RIDICULOUS when compared with the option of just letting the few cheaters in. Especially since I am fairly certain that the stamping contraptions have been at the school at least as long as my father (since 1972), and thus require a great deal of pressure to actually create any kind of indentation in posterboard, whereupon they jam and you must pry the handle up at the expense of pinching your hands, fingers, or any other unwary limbs. Also, we had to have them all done by Monday.
We were warned against oiling them, since it would only get on the tickets, but eventually Janet cracked and called one of the maintenance guys, who stripped off all the accumulated goo and coated them in what smelled pretty much like motor oil. However, the seals worked a lot better, and I am quite sure saved it us all from totally crippling our hands from repetitive stress injury. On the other hand, the tickets now smell like a garage and sport the occasional brown splotch, which certainly breaks my heart, let me tell you.
I am now off to hang out with the fabulous Laura, and try to avoid putting any pressure on the heels of my palms, since that way lies PAIN AND SUFFERING.
HURRAH FOR THE WEEKEND.