The Lost Art of Paying Attention to Details

I am a composition instructor for a private college.  You might not be able to guess it from this blog, but I am a stickler for details.  Grammar, punctuation, layout:  There are rules, and they should be followed.  


My students freak out when I walk past them and say things like, "Oops, you have an extra space between those two words" or "It looks like your margins are 1.2 inches; make sure you set them to 1 inch."  They are like HOW DO YOU DO THAT, YOU CRAZY WITCH WITH LASER EYES??!?! and I just remind them that I see HUNDREDS of papers every few weeks.


I obviously don't tell them that surface features are more important than content and development and originality and whatnot, but I tell them that once they have that content, they should pay attention to the surface and make it as pleasing to the readers' eyes as possible, because that is what makes documents professional.


I really try to model professional writing with my students at all times.  It's too bad my husband tries to sabotage that.


Back when we were dating, I was in my first year of teaching at Central Michigan University.  We spent a lot of our free time at my apartment because I usually had tons of crap to do and was always reading drafts and answering student e-mails.  Also, I liked my apartment better, but that is neither here nor there.


Anywho, one night, I was at Jeremy's apartment and I jumped on his computer to get some work done while he was watching a baseball game.  I had an e-mail from a student who was really struggling to put her paper together.  She had sent me a draft and asked for comments.  I spent a long time giving her ideas and pointers and comments.  At this time, I was using the comment feature on Word that adds little bubbles along the margins and saves it as a whole new document.  I finished, double-checked all my comments to make sure they made sense and had no spelling errors, attached the document to the e-mail, and sent it off.


After sending the e-mail, I decided to create a document to distribute in class the next day, and opened Word again.  As it was loading up, I just happened to notice the registration information on my lovely boyfriend's version of Word -- Author: Jeremy, Registered to: MY ASS.


PANIC.  I opened the e-mail I had just sent to my student and rolled over each of the comments.  Every time my mouse rolled over a comment, a little bubble appeared, announcing the same information -- Comment author: Jeremy, Registered to: MY ASS.


I screamed at Jeremy to come look at what had just happened, and what does he do?  LAUGH AT ME.  Ha ha, that's so funny that you sent that to your student.  Really?  REALLY?!?!  Get ready to be my sugar daddy when I get FIRED!!


Jeremy was quick to point out that had I noticed that BEFORE sending out the e-mail, I might have avoided the situation.  You know, by paying attention to details, like I ask my students to.


Eff that noise.  I didn't take into account that my loving boyfriend might SABOTAGE my career.  But now I do.  Oh yes, I always assume sabotage. My best advice: CONSTANT VIGILANCE, my friends.  You never know when someone might trick you into making an ass of yourself.  You can take that advice to the bank, people.

Let's Ban All Awards Since They Make Me Sad

Okay, so I totally watch Toddlers and Tiaras.  If you aren't watching it, you really should be.  it is like horror on a stick and it totally freaks the shit out of my husband because he thinks it is creeping into my subconscious and I will take our precious young daughter and put her into pageants.  No worries, my love.  I'm sure I will force her to do a lot of things, like dance classes and piano lessons and whatnot, but you are safe from the world of pageants.


It hit me the other night that one of the things I hate most about these pageants is at the end, before they crown the overall winners, they give out awards like "prettiest eyes" and "prettiest hair" and "prettiest smile" and "prettiest face" and ... my god, the looks on the other little girls' faces when THEY don't have the prettiest of something.  Or the prettiest anything.  They start this at age "newborn."  To see those 4, 5, and even 8-year-olds realizing that they are not pretty enough.  It is heartbreaking.

{source}

Yeah, I know the same thing ultimately happens in the end when they crown the overall winners, but breaking apart the features like that?  It really gets to me.


I told Jeremy that it was the most disgusting part of the pageant, and he said, "Isn't it a lot like the mock elections in junior high and high school?" Thanks a lot, smart ass.  You got me there.


I was not a popular kid in school, and I was certain when I transferred schools in 6th grade that I would never attain popularity, and therefore never win a "title" in mock elections once we go to junior high.  Imagine my surprise when I won "prettiest hair" in 7th grade!!  I was freakin' ecstatic! But, come one, how could you NOT give this hair an award in 1994?

When our senior class mock elections came around, I knew I was not in contention for prettiest anything.  At this point, I was the yearbook editor, an aide in the front office, in honors classes, did not play sports for the school (but took dance lessons three days a week and played for a non-school soccer league), did not get invited to any of the parties people threw, and often brought boys from other schools to dances (because no one at my school would ask me).  So, nerdalicious.  Whatever.  I took life a little too seriously at the time.  


Imagine my surprise when I won a title!!  I was on top of the world.  People liked me!  They really really liked me!  They must have liked me all along! Maybe we could start being friends now, and I would be popular and loved and invited to all the parties that summer!!


What did I win, you ask?  


Most Responsible.  So, like, the lamest of the lame.  I basically won "Little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes of the Graduating Class of 2000."  A slight bummer. Plus, no one wanted to be my friend or invite me to parties.  So, a total wash.


Then, on graduation day, I got another unexpected award: Outstanding Senior.  I was shocked and proud and happy, even though it is an award that all the faculty vote on, meaning it was a "teacher's favorite" award. Whatever.  It was a trophy, and the only other one of those I had was from earning second place in kindergarten little league, and I had DEFINITELY not contributed to our team winning any games.  I was usually picking dandelions in the outfield.  But I got a lot of fresh air.


I was still happy ... until I went to the all-night party after graduation.  One of my kind and lovely classmates came up to me and said, "Wow, so you won Outstanding Senior, huh?" to which I humbly (and honestly) answered, "I know, I was really shocked."  This lovely lady returned with, "Yeah, the whole class is shocked too.  We thought someone who deserved it would get it, not you," and left me there to have a stern talk with my eyeballs, telling them to KEEP THE DAMN TEARS INSIDE because I didn't want to earn the title of "Class Crybaby" while I was there.


So, here we are.  Full circle.  Awards suck.  Even the line dancing trophy I won five years ago during a trip to Texas.  Maybe it was a joke and they were making fun of me and I was actually the WORST line dancer and they were all laughing at me after I won.


As you can see, awards damage psyches.  And possibly lead to massive psychosis.  And are probably the reason I am chunky.  And maybe they are the root of my constant back pain.  CLEARLY, I would be totally perfect if awards did not exist.  Case closed.

Maybe It's an Inner Ear Thing

While searching my brain for funny things to say in this blog of mine, I think I hit gold.  How could I have forgotten my tried and true recipe for comedy success?  Embarrassing myself.  Perfect!

I also realized while searching through my vast supply of embarrassing moments that many of these tales of woe involve teaching.  And falling.  Seriously.

The very first embarrasing moment that involved me in the role of "Ms. Marcetti, college instructor" (aside from my very first day of teaching when I showed up so nervous and sweaty that I didn't raise my arms even once for fear of revealing huge wet armpit stains) took place after class while I was escorting two of my students downstairs to my office to answer their composition-related questions in the comfort of my office because ... I had an OFFICE.  That I could use.  For official office-related things, like help my students.

So, I was heading toward the stairwell, confidently juggling a pile of student papers, a large bag filled with more papers, a large travel mug of coffee, and clicking along in my "grown up" heels, all while chatting with two nice lady students.  I took my first step down, and my fantastic stilleto heel decided it would be much funnier if it landed in the cuff of my "fancy teaching pants" on my opposite leg instead of landing on the stair where it belonged.

What followed must have been something truly magnificent to behold.  Unfortunately, I was unable to witness it, as I was the one with one leg trapped in the pant leg of the other, hurtling headfirst toward the bottom of the stairs.

I fell all the way down the stairs, my coffee mug flying in the air with sweet drops of caffeniated warmth raining down on my head.  As for physical injuries, I came from the incident with only a seriously raw knee and a sore hand.  The psychological pain?  Oh, it was BAD.  Those poor girls did not know what to do.  The noises that came out of them were half shock and half laughter.  Then they rushed to me in concern.  One even said, "It's okay!  I fall all the time!"  The other said, "At least we know you're human!"

I laughed it off and we went to my office and questions were answered, but the uncomfortableness could not be removed from the air.  Oh, it was brutal.

So, you might think I would not be interested in repeat performances of this nature.  Well, you'd be wrong.

Not more than a few weeks later, I was standing at the front of the classroom (luckily, not the class of the two girls who watched me crash down a flight of stairs) talking animatedly, writing on the super-awesome electronic overhead that allows you to put a piece of paper on it and project images like those stupid old-fashioned ones that require everything to be copied on to clear plastic sheets (seriously, I had no idea what I was going to do when I started teaching at Baker and they didn't have these.  It was like going back to pioneer days or something!) when, all of a sudden, I realized I was in the process of doing something truly embarrassing and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

It started with my ankle -- for no reason whatsoever -- slowly collapsing.  It just decided not to hold me anymore.  Because I had not learned my lesson and was still wearing classy-lady stilletos, one heel slid on the floor beneath me, and I knew there was no saving me.  What followed might have made it into the Guiness Book of World Records for the slowest fall ever had it been caught on camera.  The fact that I was standing behind a cabinet that was waist-high must have made it even more comedic for my student audience.  I S-L-O-W-L-Y started falling, but not to the left or the right, but directly down, like I was squatting.  What seemed like a full five minutes later, I was on the ground.  The classroom was as silent as a tomb.

I quickly popped back up, laughing, and saying something like "Oh geez, that was strange!"  My students returned my attempts at laughing off my embarrassment with looks of total horror.  One girl even looked disgusted.  I can only imagine what they must have been thinking.

I made a snap decision and, popping my hands on my hips, said, "Note to self:  No more tequila for breakfast!"  24 of my 25 students started laughing hysterically and then relaxed, and their looks of concern for my mental health were replaced with looks that said "She is a funny lady."  One student kept her look of concern.  Well, 24 out for 25 ain't bad.

One of my peers helpfully suggested I see a doctor due to a possible problem with my inner ear.  I didn't have the heart to tell the poor dear that two falls in three weeks was actually a huge improvement for me.