Sometimes, I find a song that touches me in a pretty profound way. There are days that I listen to it and think “this is a great song” and then, the same song on another day takes on a completely different meaning. Today on Facebook, Adam Duritz of Counting Crows posted up his song “Barely Out of Tuesday”. This particular song is not new to diehard Crows fans. It’s a song that never made it onto any of their albums which is a damn shame. Yesterday, I was under an enormous amount of stress and seeing as it is about 4am right now…and I am barely out of tuesday myself, I thought I would share it.
Relative to nothing I have said thus far, I think I might have bitten off more than I can chew this semester. I am taking an algebra course, an intermediate algebra course. I have managed to get through many years of college and test out of having to take math courses. This time, I was not so lucky. As a pre-requisite to getting into the Bachelor’s program I am looking to get into this fall, statistics is required. I’m not concerned about that because statistics really have very little to do with actual numbers. However, this algebra course is required to be able to get into the stats class. So, my suave manipulations of the system will not get me out of this one this time. I suppose the luck had to run out eventually. I probably did myself a grave disservice by not taking the intermediate course directly after taking the “pre” and “elementary” courses that preceded it. Now it is eight years post degree and I have very little recollection of the “order of operations” or “distributive properties”, “associative properties” or “inverse/reciprocal properties”. I did a lot of research on “Rate My Professor” type websites before settling on this particular teacher. I knew I was going to need my hand held on this one and by all accounts, she is just that type of professor. She allows scientific calculators in class. She allows you to do your homework over and over again online until you max out your score with a perfect grade. She even allows you to bring a “crib sheet” with notes into her exams. One page only, handwritten notes. “You write small enough, you can probably fit everything I teach you onto your study guide,” as she calls it. “Write too big though and too bad. You lose.” Okay. Fair enough. Actually, well beyond fair and with a six point font type of handwriting, I can really make this work in my favor.
However, she did stress that you, the student, will only get out of the class what you put into it. “Don’t bother to open a book until test day and your grade will reflect that,” she said. “Study for at least one hour every day and you will do just fine.”
By nature, I am a procrastinator. I am also one of those really cocky students that truly believes she works best under pressure and at the last minute. Math, I think, will be the end to this notion and probably the end to my perfect GPA as well. On Thursday, after class, I told the Hotband that I am going to just “relax” for the night and give myself Friday off as well. Since it’s a long weekend, I will have Saturday, Sunday and Monday to do homework.
Best. Laid. Plans.
I do nothing on Friday. Nothing. Don’t even crack open a book to do some reading in Applied Ethics or my humanities course. Why bother? I have this nice long three day weekend. I have all the time in the world. I have more than an ample window in which to get all my work done. I have…
Friday night, my hubs ordered in from our favorite italian place. Normally, I just have some pasta and meatballs. This time I thought it would be nice to try their eggplant. As I was eating it, I thought it tasted peculiar to me. My husband tasted it. He said it didn’t taste strange to him, so I just assumed it was me and continued to eat it. Halfway through the dish, I decided that I really was not enjoying this meal at all. It still tasted odd and a bit sour even. About five hours later…I was vomiting my guts up. At one point, I vomited so hard that the content of my bladder erupted. Seeing as my face was occupying the bowl, I could barely swing my fat ass around in time to find the hole on which to set it upon. My husband walks in to find me covered in puke from trying to twist around in time to pee in the bowl…and sitting in a puddle of my own urine. I was shivering, felt like my body was ice cold while simultaneously sweating from every pore. My husband helped me get up, clean myself up, change into fresh pajamas and sent me to bed. Bed…where I proceeded to stay for the next 32 hours, completely obliterating Saturday as an option for homework and studying.
I finally awoke on Sunday around 2pm, feeling like utter shit…like I had been hit by a bus. I had a throbbing headache. So, the hubs being the angel baby that he is, set me up in style. A bunch of pillows, fresh t shirt and undies and some warm socks. A nice cold glass of water on the nightstand. Remote in my right hand, cellphone in my left. My laptop plugged in so I could blog, facebook and tweet during the Jets game, the Golden Globes and of course, The Real Housewives of Atlanta. I was in social networking heaven. He also bought me a slew of gorgeous gourmet cupcakes for me to devour once I was feeling better.