I’m wondering how soon it will be before I’m in the teacher’s lounge, smoking a cigarette and making up unflattering nicknames for the students.
If you recall, I have that sweet job assessing people’s essays for a test prep course. These aren’t high school students or even college students. These are actual teachers who are employed and have to take a test for certification. If they don’t pass, they lose their jobs. Some of these people have master’s degrees or their equivalents. Ooo. Assessing essays for people with master’s degrees! Sound intimidating? It’s not.
Out of the four people I’ve dealt with so far this week:
Guy #1 has spelled his own name three different ways. If you can’t spell your own name, we’re in trouble.
Guy #2 pretty much plagiarized an essay.
Guy #3 sent me 2 and a half sentences, instead of the 20 he was supposed to. No, I don’t know why there’s only half a sentence.
Guy #4 wrote a random essay that wasn’t assigned. I have no clue why he wrote it.
Master’s degrees, people. Master’s degrees. I’ve made a promise to myself that I will not use this an excuse to rant about public education. (I will not rant. I will not rant. I will not rant.)
Darling Husband is on day two of his mechanical difficulties.
Yesterday, as he left work with the parking lot full of people, his car horn started randomly beeping at people. It randomly beeped during the entire forty-five minute drive home. He hit the horn as hard as he could, hoping to stop the beeping. It seemed to help.
Until he left work today, when it started randomly beeping again. He had to spend the entire trip home making puzzled faces and shrugging his shoulders sheepishly at everyone who gave him evil looks as they passed him, while the car kept on beeping.
Picture of the day.
Forgot to take a picture of the dining room table looking beautiful for the guests who visited for dinner tonight. Instead of a picture of the fresh bread and steamy soup in a snowy white tureen, here’s my half eaten bowl of soup.
There are plenty of leftovers for Melissa.