I’ve learned a lot about myself in these months since I’ve graduated. Most importantly I’ve learned that I have severe and occasionally life-threatening problem with jealously. I like my friends, some more than others, and I want them to do well. However I don’t want them to do well until I’m doing well. That’s fair, right?

It takes enormous amounts of effort for me to congratulate a friend upon hearing they got a job. Literally, I have to type one letter at a time while I suffer from a self-induced panic attack. I practically have to have Xanax on hand 24/7 in case I get one of those excited voice mails (I no longer answer the phone, too risky having to fake enthusiasm) telling me that someone got offered a job.

I want to be happy for them. Rationally I know that they all worked hard and deserve it. Unfortunately I don’t think rationally very often and instead of sharing my friend’s enthusiasm I spend the whole time comparing myself to them. I run through everything they’ve accomplished versus my accomplishments and I always come to the disturbing conclusion that I’m more qualified for the job, no matter how unrealistic or untrue that may be.

Someone from class got an engineering job…I was very good at K’nex…I deserve it more.

Someone else got a teaching job…I had teachers…I’m not only qualified, but possibly overqualified.

And the list in my head goes on and on.

As more and more people get jobs, I notice the people left like me, unemployed, are growing increasingly bitter. We spend hours complaining about our joblessness. People who overhear us must assume that we have six kids at home to feed and a mortgage to pay off…why else would we sound so angry?

As I write this blog, I see how crazy this all sounds. I also see I might not be a very good friend. So maybe this week, when I get that inevitable e-mail about some friend being hired to be an astronaut, I’ll say congrats and almost actually mean it.

Even though I’ve eaten Dots: Ice Cream of the Future… and that makes more qualified for Nasa than anyone.

I’m not really sure who these anchor people are (or what this “network” is), but it’s the only video I could find that showed the story of one middle school teacher who got drunk and did a little naughty dance with her students. And clearly it had to be shared.

At least they stopped her before she handed out bottles of water and tried to hold a wet blouse contest.

And this is why I won’t become a teacher. It’s one of the few jobs where you can’t drink in the morning.

What do you mean it’s too late to drop a class? I forgot I was even enrolled!

If that’s part of the conversation you’re having with the registrar this far into the semester, you might be in trouble. But never fear. It’s not over until the fat lady sings…or the TA enters the grades. If you’ve over-slacked it this semester, there still might be a way to save your grade.

1. Talk to Your Teacher.

This is by far the most important rule of grade-saving. Talk to your professor. Apologize profusely. Throw yourself at his or her feet and explain why you suck at whatever subject they teach. As a former TA, I can attest that I was far more willing to help kids who actually came to office hours to ask for help than the ones who fell off the face of the earth, only to reappear during finals (or, in one case, after I’d left for the semester) and expect another chance.

2. Ask About Revisions, Re-Takes, and Extra Credit.

Many writing classes offer revision options, and, depending on the class and the prof, you might be able to finagle a test re-take. More and more frequently, classes are offering chances to drop your lowest grade. Pour through your syllabus, and see if you are elligible for any of these options. While you’re at it, it my be a good idea to revisit the attendance policy and see if any points are being shaved off due to the fact that you haven’t been to class since September. Then, follow step 1 and throw yourself at your professor’s feet, offering to do any amount of work just to scrape by with even a D-.

3. Cry N’ Lie.

This is the enhanced version of Talking to Your Teacher. Let the waterworks begin. Tell them any sob story about how this semester was so difficult. You had family problems, you haven’t adjusted, blah, blah, blah. Even if they are a total hardass, your teacher might relent enough to give you a low-but-not-failing grade, provided you come through for exams. If that doesn’t seem to work, turn on the tears at the registrars, or, better yet, Mental Health services. If you can give enough reason to have suffered a trauma during the semester, you might be able to drop at the last minute, or get a bye for exams and re-take them the next semester. This is very hard to accomplish, however, and, if you have any morals, should really only be used if you really DID have some crazy sh*t happen this semester.

4. Study Your Freaking Face Off.

If your prof isn’t susceptible to excuses and extra credit opportunities, you’ve got no other option but to master a semester’s worth of lessons in a couple of days. You better hope your grade on that final is enough to pull you out of the sea of failure. It might not work, but if all else has failed, this is your one last chance to escape and leave that class behind you forever.

For more tips and tricks for college classes, join CollegeCandy’s Facebook group!

[Photo courtesy of unstained.files.wordpress.com]

They look at me with jealousy because everyone would like to be in touch with themselves.

I’ve learned a lot since getting in touch with myself. Like I’ve learned that I lack flexibility. So instead of becoming destressed and relaxed I’ve become very stressed and unrelaxed. If I had never signed up for Yoga, I never would have learned that I’m incapable of doing a simple Downward Dog, nor would I know that my body refuses to do an appropriate Serpent.

I can’t even think about the failure that was Praying Possum.

My yoga teacher often comes up behind me, presses on various parts of my body, and says things like, “tell your calf muscle it’s safe and it’s ok to relax,” as if talking to my calf muscle will suddenly let me place it behind my ear. I mean, I definitely tried while the whole class looked on waiting to see how well I could communicate safety to my calf muscle. I haven’t been that embarrassed in front of a class since I confused organism with orgasm in 6th grade.

The only reason I go to the class is for the last five minutes. For the first 55 minutes we do positions that I think are made up as we go along. The teacher simply puts an adverb in front of an animal and, before you know it, I’m doing the Sleepy Bovine and Sad Chicken positions. But for the last five minutes she instructs us to lay back on the mat and let go of all our tensions, our stresses, and our heartaches.

I’m a college student taking a yoga class midday, so you can only imagine the kinds of tensions, stresses, and heartaches that I have.

But the lights are off and there’s some kind of Enya Remix playing in the background and it’s the only class where I’m encouraged to fall asleep. And the best part is that it’s not called falling asleep. It’s called getting in touch with yourself.

The country is getting ready for a terrible recession. Banks are folding and getting bailed out by loans from the FED (which has federal in the name but is private). Scientists are trying to rip open space and time using the Large Hadron Collider. Someone like Sarah Palin is officially close to being involved in a presidency.

The signs are there: the world is going to end. And while I’m sure no one can get a godd*mn job right now (lord knows I can’t), we can at least look forward to the post apocalyptic job market that’ll present itself once the gaping maw of darkness spreads wide, and evil once again walks our planet.

Here are some jobs you may want to start building a resume for.

Motorcycle Pirate

Everyone knows two things run rampant in all post-apocalyptic scenarios: piracy and motorcycles. It’s only natural that these two things will be combined. The typical setting for piracy, the high seas, will naturally be off limits thanks to its new, boiling temperature and thousands of large squid (oh, they’re coming). Any experience using cycle-type vehicles, including ATVs, motorcycles with sidecars, and those weird three-wheel choppers is a plus.

These roving gangs of men and women will pray on the villages that remain after the world’s collapse, taking what they need to survive and possibly more — depending on their allegiances. With a myriad of guilds to choose from, it’s a worker’s market. Will you join the Diesel Apes? Or perhaps the more ecologically minded Ethanol Crusade?

People not comfortable with goggles need not apply.

Arena Warrior

When the end of time finally comes to fruition, most ‘applicable skills’ will be based around the lowest of human instincts. Can you channel your customer service experience into a desire to kill other humans? Or maybe mutated animals? Then arena warrior is for you. A life of bloody celebrity, fighting in the arena is only for those interested in true glory. Reality television stars who survive the atom bombs will fit the position well.

Fight for recognition and respect from your new demon overlords. Please send a color head shot, measurements, and whatever weapon you identify with most (trident and net).

Servant to one of the 8 Great Beings of Darkness

Feeling less then human since the apocalypse? Losing your ability to love and care? Were you upper to middle management / human resources before ‘the great fall’? Then demon servitude is for you!

Your ability to bullsh*t, lie, and step on other people to keep your own job even in the face of incompetence will keep you alive. Necessary skills include groveling, serving a bizarre myriad of human and animal flesh, and interviewing incoming employees. Paid vacations and dental. You may be branded with the seal of the eight.

Crystal Farmer

Currency means nothing. Additionally, when the apocalypse comes, it will mean even less. The value of something is directly related to its shiny-ness in the eyes of apocalyptic demon lords, and so we too must adopt this system. Someone with money on the mind? You’ll fit in perfect toiling in the mines as a crystal farmer.

First you get the shinies, then you get the power, then you get the women (or men), then you use the various geodes and stalactites you’ve pulled from the earth to buy life’s finer things: water, food, and various types of ‘power armor’ that protects you from the new species of sentient mosquito/bear hybrid that inhabit the mines (Bearsquito). Accounts with strong backs wanted. Bring your own canary.

Village Leader

Did you have an important but thankless and overall financially unfulfilling job before the devil’s ascension? Valuable sh*t that nobody cared about because the roads didn’t involve camera time and a big pay check? Teacher? Doctor? Social Worker? Congratulations! You have the fortitude to take the shivering masses that remain since ‘the unCreation’ and form working and livable villages. You are officially important to people, and all it took was the MOTHERF*CKING APOCALYPSE.

Try not to let your righteous indignation get in the way of teaching people how to actually garden, ride bicycles, and do basic math.

…At least we won’t have to dress up for interviews.

I admit to not putting 100% into my academic efforts in college, but that was because I didn’t need to. I was writing papers with a buzz on and taking finals hungover, and still made Dean’s List. I knew that grad school would be different though, and I fully intended on being a legitimate scholar.

If you are considering grad school, you are probably doing very well in school. By senior year, you’re probably breaking the curves and tutoring your friends. You probably stand out in class for having thoughtful ideas and a firm grasp of the subject matter. Newsflash: Everyone in Grad School has gotten used to being a star scholar.

Often, PhD students and MA students will be mixed into classes together. I went from taking Shakespeare classes with business majors who didn’t know the definition of “iambic pentameter” to listening to a PhD debate over which folio edition was most likely the Bard’s original manuscript. WTF? My thoughts exactly.

Because college often mixes students of all different academic backgrounds, there’s a lot of information that slips through the cracks, even in a university setting. There were certain things that other MA students took for granted that I’d never been taught. A lot of research methods that PhD students had been using for years were completely alien to me. Even more embarrassing (for an English major, especially): I’d never written an abstract. Of course, writing an abstract was one of my first assignments in grad school.

I spent longer writing my first two-page abstract (a response to a critical article by one of the most renowned Shakespeare scholars in academia) than I did writing a ten-page research paper in college. Imagine my disdain when I received a “check minus” and a “Please Revise” comment on the damn thing. My professors in undergrad had always complimented my writing style, but my graduate professor tore apart my abstract. Comments like “wordy,” “colloquial,” and “strive for active verbs” littered the piece that I’d struggled with for hours.

As I continued through the semester, I continued to be disappointed with myself time and again. I ended up rewriting almost every abstract I wrote for my graduate Shakespeare class, and even my revisions usually didn’t get a higher mark than a “check.” Once a straight “A” student, I got a “C” on an easy response activity because I had two grammatical errors that involved a comma and a semi-colon. I had research paper proposals torn to shreds, and I was told to completely redo entire assignments for various reasons.

Of course, by the end of my grad school career, I was working with the same professor who had given me my first “check minus.” As my thesis advisor, she constantly reassured me that my writing style had become more polished, and the rest of my committee also complimented my word choice and tone. In the end, I stuck it out, and I improved, but it was never easy to handle harsh criticism and see my work take such a beating.

I’m not going to tell you that I finished grad school without a considerable amount of tears, rage, and near-nervous breakdowns. Still, I completed the degree and expanded my knowledge of English literature. Looking back, I think I may have been too sensitive to the negative feedback I received time and again, but that just goes to show that grad school isn’t for everyone. If you are planning on moving on, I suggest you grow a thick skin and check your ego at the door.

But I think this is taking dedication too far.

A 37-year-old Alabama middle-school teacher is being accused of sleeping with 8 members of her middle school’s baseball team. 8 members. All under the age of 17 years old.

Julie Pritchett was apparently already having an affair with one 15 year old boy on the team when she woke up and decided that one little boy wasn’t enough. She wanted 7 more! Because who isn’t into having their own little coven of teenage boys? It’s like Snow White! Except instead of dwarfs and singing animals, you get a possible 20 year jail sentence for being a sexual predator! Yay!

As someone who finds men her own age alarmingly immature, I will never understand the issue of grown women boinking teenage boys. Obviously, there’s some mental problems there, but doesn’t she have a memory? Aren’t her own awkward high school experiences still bouncing around somewhere, begging her to remember what teenage boys are like? But perhaps that’s the problem. Maybe she never got any in high school. Maybe she’s trying to relive her teenage days 20 years too late. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. It’s still so. very. WRONG.

No, but really, this happened. Apparently, a science teacher in Ohio had a high frequency generator, which he used to burn the image of a cross into the arms of several students.

The article (and the other articles I’ve read on the topic) goes on to say that this teacher failed to comply with various separation of church and state things; for instance, he taught creationism, and according to another article, he displayed the Ten Commandments and gave out free bibles.

And all that sucks and is ridiculous, but, um, more importantly, HE BURNED HIS STUDENTS! Is anyone else finding that very odd? The article says the burn mark (which happened to be a cross, but, frankly, I don’t even know if that matters) lasted for three to four weeks. That’s some burn, man. Shouldn’t this man be booked for assault?

Which is not to say the violation of separation of church and state isn’t totally creepy. I have a lesser story of my own in that vein:

When I was a senior in my Long Island, New York public school (which is to say, at least relatively liberal), I had an overbearingly religious AP English teacher. One day, he told us that we all had to read the New Testament to understand anything. This turned into a huge debate that I, as the only Jew in the room (and one of maybe 6 in the school) decided to actively stay out of, although many of my classmates kept trying to drag me in. One of my friends was so upset that she stormed out to the Vice Principal’s office. Next thing I know, I’m getting called to his office and he says he heard about the problem and was I, as a Jew, offended?

I’ll tell you what I was offended by: being singled out as the minority. That incident has stuck in my mind all these years as a reminder that the majority is always secretly aware of those not within its ranks and that, ultimately, the US is a Christian nation. Which is fine. But it really should not be made apparent in public schools. It was an unfortunate incident.

But, um, yeah. No one was burned.

Someone arrest this jerk and keep him from burning any more of his students.

[Image courtesy of CNN]

Had I known then that I could have been sued for such a disagreement, I probably would have thrown independent thought out the window and nodded my head in agreement like the rest of the class.

Thankfully, my teacher just excused herself to cry alone in the bathroom, unlike one Dartmouth lecturer who took it to a much more serious level: by seeking legal counsel.

I actually got my degree in education, so I can say from experience that teaching is a very difficult and thankless profession. You spend 16-18 hours a day either with the students, preparing for the students, or grading their crappy work. Then you come into the classroom where they are disrespectful and often times annoying. It is a job that drives you to drink countless glasses of wine and wonder why you ever wanted to do it in the first place. (Note: It is also incredibly rewarding!)

But, that is all part of the job and something you surely expect getting into a profession that deals with ungrateful children. (Don’t hate; you know you made your teachers’ lives hell back in the day.) Surely this woman cannot be naïve enough to think that Dartmouth kids would be any different?

They are at one of the country’s most esteemed institutions! Those children have been taught their whole lives to challenge ideas, read between the lines and analyze everything. Is this woman – who was a Dartmouth grad herself – so insecure that she can’t handle a little criticism? Is she that immature that not only is she going to tattle on the bullies, but she is also going to sue them?

Someone was mean to you? Fine, go home and cry into the soft, luxurious fur of your three cats. Throw back a few beers and dance to really loud music. Take a walk outside to regain some composure and come up with a plan for the following day.

But stick a lawyer on the students?

You have got to be kidding.

It’s obvious that this Professor has some self esteem issues to deal with, so maybe she should cancel the attorneys and find a few therapists instead. Because if she thinks people were disrespecting her before, she is definitely not ready for what is coming now.

Days as a Freshman: 113

Mood: Smiling

“There’s a bench back here.”

I pushed the last couple of bare branches out of my way and walked into a man-made clearing in the back of the campus woods. Justin was sitting in the middle of the small space, sitting on the bench, his eyes on the stars.

The way his sweatshirt was pulled around his head, the way his mouth was slightly open in concentration, the way his eyes traced the clear night skyline above us, made it easy to see what he must have looked like as a boy. Skinny and sweet, adorable because he didn’t know it, innocent for longer than most other kids. Maybe I was making it all up, maybe the dark was making me seen things that weren’t there, but in the moment before he looked at me, I really thought I had seen all I needed to know about Justin.

“Come on over.” He smiled. “The stars are awesome.”

Most people couldn’t say something like that and not sound stupid, but somehow Justin could. I walked over to the worn wooden bench and sat down next to him, looking to a part of the sky he was pointing at.

“See that?” He asked. “That is probably some big kind of constellation.”

“Some big kind of constellation?” I laughed. “So scientific of you.”

“I actually took astronomy the first semester of my Freshman year,” Justin leaned back on the bench, squinting. “I thought it was pretty cool, but I don’t remember a single thing.”

“What’s your major, anyway?”

As soon as it was out, I regretted bringing something so generic and boring to our soft conversation. Long-lost relatives asked about majors. Acquaintances asked about majors.

“Science, actually.” Justin turned to me, hunching his shoulders a little from the cold. “I’ll probably be a teacher.”

We locked eyes for a minute and I had to look away. I tried to make it seem like I was searching the sky for something, but really I was trying to keep my thoughts from jumping into each other and buzzing out like television static. Being so close to Justin was starting to break down my concentration.

“I like kids enough to not kill them.” His boots scratched the dead grass around us as he chuckled a little at his own joke. “And I don’t really have the dedication to be a scientist or anything. My Dad’s a teacher. He likes it a lot. Sometimes I substitute over break…it’s a lot more fun than working at a gas station.”

Justin stopped moving beside me. I thought I felt him stiffen.

“I’m talking like a jackass.” He looked back over at me. “Feel free to tell me to shut up anytime.”

“I like listening.” I did my best to breathe through a thumping chest. “At least, to you.”

Justin laughed again and then stood up. “I’m sorry, I’m freezing.”

“You want to go back?” My hammering heart suddenly pounded its way down to my feet. The idea of going back to my room was horrible. I didn’t want to leave. I’d stay here until I froze, until ice covered me from top to bottom—as long as Justin stayed here too.

“Nah. I’ll just jump.”

And then he started to jump in place, keeping his hands firmly in his front sweatshirt pocket. It was one of the funniest things I had seen someone do in a long time.

“Justin,” I tried to keep my laughter to minimal, in case he wasn’t trying to look stupid. “We can go inside. Seriously.”

“Nope. I like jumping. You should try it. It’ll keep you warm.”

He reached for me, but I slid a littler farther down the bench. “No way. I’m warm enough.”

“It’s freezing out here, Grace. You should really jump.”

Taller and faster than I was, Justin lunged for me and somehow dragged me to my feet, holding my shoulders and trying to get me to follow his lead. He raised his eyebrows and smiled, daring me to look as stupid as him.

“You’re weird.” I started jumping, matching his rhythm, my hair flying into my face. I felt like an idiot. I felt very uncoordinated and un-sexy. I felt like a little kid.

And I couldn’t stop laughing.