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Holy...brick?
At least my scrubs are cute.
Ahh...the pharmacy. A job entailing accuracy, math, insurance companies, doctors on hold, and addicted patients. When I walked in the first day, I knew I was in for it. A line the size of kids waiting for an uice cream truck, and a float pharmacist that kept to himself. "Here you are!", the store manager unlocked the door to let me inside. "Good luck!". Good luck? I had hoped to pass off as a trainee the first several days so I could follow around some of the other techs and get used to how things worked around here. Afterall, I haven't been a technician in two years. But the truth came out, I had the most experience out of the all the other technicians, which was two. So there will be no training for me. I had to jump right in. "You know how to fill, ?", Ebony inquired. "Yea, I think so." I hurry to the filling station already feeling rushed, and pick up the first prescrption. Xalatan 0.5% opthalmic. That's in the fridge, right? I try to figure out where it would be in the pharmacy according to what room temperature it needs to be stored in. I find it and put in a blue tote to send off to the verifying pharmacist. Next is azithroymcin suspension. 150/5 ml. I find the recon section and wak over to find the correct bottle. An empty space hovers above the label where it should be. No problem, I tell myself. I will just have to use the next strength up and calculate the quantity difference to accomodate the patients dosage needs. I rack my brain trying to recall the correct formula from my pharmacy textbooks. Then the phone rings. And rings. I take a deep breath and answer. "Walgreens Pharmacy, how can I help you?". "Yes, this is Olga calling from Dr. Craigs office. I a, authorizing refills for..." I type rapidly on the computer as Olga names off various drugs for numerous patients needing medication. I vaguely remember how to even pull up each of their profiles. I decide to just write it all down on scratch paper to deal with later. I hang to phone to see a myriad of red totes with prescitions wiating to be entered and filled. "Hey, nice scrubs. I'm Liz. A new face appears beside me to help with the pile. Thank God. "Thanks. I spent a fortune on them though." The truth was I had procrastinated buying scrubs until the Sunday afternoon right before my shift. I ended up having to drive to Robbinsdale where a uniform outlet was still open for business. Then after two hours of trying on every navy blue pair of scrubs the store carried, I realized none of them were going to fit me correctly. That is until I tried on the expensive "Grey's Anatomy" brand. The only ones that run in junior sizes. I felt pretty sharp wearing it, too. So I dropped to $60 to purchase them. Now I could be at work a regular fashionista of the medical world. So I couldn't really mind too much the business, loudness, craziness of my new job. I have two friendly colleagues, a funny plarmacy manager that has a Minnesota accent so thick I stifle a giggle when I hear her talk excitedly, and a cute new guy that works out in the front of the store. I wonder if it counts as dating someone you work with if he's not in the pharmacy? The one fear I have is messing up someones medication horribly. And I do hope of that happens my scrubs will save me. " "That new technician gave me Viagra instead of Zyrtec! Now I have a skyrocked libido to deal with." "So whats the problem?", I will ask him. "Its for my 11 year old son!" Then he will notice what I am wearing. "Are those Grey's Anatomy scrubs, by the way? Very nice..."
Ill have another margarita.
In less than two days, while the world was busy spinning around the sun, I was busy transporting my life to the middle of country. I started off excited and motivated as I put on Katy Perry's "Waking up in Vegas", and rolled my clothes up as tightly as possible to fit everything. I was slightly disappointed, though to learn that my entire life fit into three large packages. My going away party consisted of my grandma, mom, neighbor, and best friend, along with a few other stopper by's, helping me pack. Or better yet, watching me pack as they analyzed every item telling me it wasn't Minnesota worthy and they should keep it. When I finally finished stuffing all my thing into suitcases, duffle bags, and boxes, my cousin reorganized and repacked it all. "I'm anal about these things", she says. Then we drink margherita's and dance the macarena. "Your going to like living alone", my friend Darryl tells me. "But why are you going to Minnesota of all places?!" One friend leaves me with a bottle of Three Buck Chuck wine. Another creates a banner with signatures entitled "Go Jmac!" "Sorry, I'm just used to making basketball signs", she tells me. In the end, three of us are left to crash on the sofa and futon ans still there when I wake up in the morning frantic about getting ready in time. "Where's my comb? Has anyone seen my shoes? What time is it now?". I am a complete mess as my mom drops of JJ and I give an extra ling hug goodbye to her, her dad, and her dog. I make it back to car and ride along to the airport relatively sane. It hasn't quite hit me yet until my mom hugs m goodbye and I am standing in line at the security gate waiting for my assignd standby seat. Unfortunately, the movie playing on the flight was A-Team, which I already watched with the other night on a sort of forget about everything "date". So I doze as my head nods up and down with the drafts. I awaken to colder, familiar city. Or twin cities and I should say. The people are warm and the air is crisp. So much so that I got a nosebleed within the first six hours. My body physically was not used to the climate, the lack of altitude. I experienced withdrawal symptoms right away such as using "hella" and "potna" whenever possible. And refusing to wear a jacket. I keep calling lake street by Lakshore which is on Oakland. I want to smog proof my car. And then I remember I totaled my car while texting and driving into the rear end of a semi. That always snaps me back to reality.
I wanna go shopping...you know for the weather.
A full scale of events are always bound to happen right before you embark on something big. Like losing my keys or my mind for example. After a week of pretending that this wasn't happening and indulging in frozen yogurt and sunshine for the last time, my chore list grew and expanded until I found myself on the floor unable to breathe. JJ and I had just gotten home from running an important moving errand. An errand that turned into side glances in the windows of clothing shops, to "going in for a quick minute", to browsing through racks, to the shop of a lifetime. Oh, and the errand? Forget it. "OK just deep breaths, J. You're gonna be alright," my friend consoles me. Of course I would be alright, I knew that much. But since when is that enough for anybody. I want riches, fame, and success. I should probably be moving to Hollywood instead put my drama to good use. But I am till on the path to the Midwest where my dreams will either come true or get frostbitten. As I lay on the ground doing my zen breathing the exercises I learned at Berkeley Yoga Toga, I over look a the the new boots I bought at H&M and decide that buying new clothes "for the weather" can no longer be justified as packing. Of course I am not entirely sure I would have an address to send my belongings to even if I somehow did get them in boxes by moving date. My future landlord is as flakey as a California hippie. "Yeah, no worries, Jackie...I'll get the lease to you tomorrow. But the apartment is all yours." Two weeks later...tomorrow still hasn't come. "You just can stay with me while you keep looking for a spot," my friend Ella tells me. "I just hope you don't mind sleeping next to me in bed, ha!" The ironic thing is that I was originally going to rent out the available room in her house. But I decided that I didn't want to live with housemates any more. Or with three cats. I was far beyond that stage. Now I am back to sharing a room like sisters in grade school. Maybe. Not much I can do all the way from Oakland, anyhow. They must think I am not seriously coming. My grandfathers BBQ birthday in Livermore wine country just yesterday confirmed this notion. "So where are you moving out again?" "Minnesota." "Oh! Its so cold there. When are you going?" "Saturday" "What?! So soon? I thought you would be leaving next year or so." The evening turned from granddads 79th birthday to "let's interrogate Jackie". Yet family is family and they left me with multiple toasts to wish me luck as well with tales of their wild adventures in their 20s. I learned that anxiety is nothing a little alcohol and laughter can't fix. And a pair of swanky new boots. You know, for the weather.
Oh, NOW, you tell me...
The last three days of my residence in California has been full of surprises. Ones that had I know earlier, I may have chosen to stay. 1) My job has a new boss. A great head honcho of a manager that is nice, relaxed, and actually remembers my name. He even bought me a going away card forcing Ms. Kaur (the old manager) to sign it. Even though she hates me. 2) There are actually a lot of people in the bay area from the Minneapolis. And a lot of them are minorities. Yesterday I met a girl that attends the University of Minnesota, A guy that attends Mankato State, two guys traveling there for their 22nd birthday party, a screenwriter originally from there, the guy that works at the storage company has family there, and @ women that moved here to go to Mills College. And all this time felt like an Alien. JJ keeps asking me if we all talk with "the accent" and have hoe-downs at the state fair. But then again, she is a rare specimen from the city of L.A. where the only surroundings she as required to be aware of was what everyone else was wearing. 3) I have acquired a big group of friends here. I had no idea that I would be missed so entirely as I have been receiving texts and phone calls from people to whom I haven't yet relayed the news. And word travels fast. I have had visitors come into my job from the neighboring businesses to give me their best wishes, advice on how to stay warm. And the biggest question of all...Why?? Unfortunately, I cannot quite answer that one without pausing to consider it. After all, I am not embarking on some noble mission to save the world or even better myself. The cost of living is cheaper and I need really need time to live on my own in an environment where I feel most comfortable and at home. I miss my old friends and father, and I could really use their support as I begin pharmacy school next semester. But that doesn't nearly as exciting as what it could be. So when the subject arises I quickly change it to the weather, or cute shoes.
Honey...I shrunk the keys.
The day started off looking like it might be nice Saturday. Sun shining outside, birds chirping their melodies, the smell of fresh bacon sizzling in the apartment upstairs. So I didn't mind much being woken up for a trip to the frozen yogurt shop for breakfast ( they open early). I begin rummaging through my bag making sure I have everything so that I can at least buy once we get there. "Don't worry. I've money my Ingy tells me." So I leave the bag. As soon as we walk out of the door..."Crap...I left the keys." She didn't even miss a beat. Of course she has her door set to lock automatically behind you. So this is a problem. Normally I would expect something like this to happen to someone like me. Or least for it to be my fault. I am what I like to call "differently organized" (most people would call me disorganized but that bothers me). Therefore I am ALWAYS losing something. It was rather gratifying to watch an anal-retentive person such as my my step-mom get flustered over a silly mistake. Welcome to my world. I convince her that all is well as we continue on our way to yogurt shop down the street carrying no cell phones, car keys, or house keys. Just 10 dollars and the clothes on our backs. The yogurt was delicious and on the way back home we decide to borrow a green plastic chair from the front of my hair salon. "Excuse...I know this is crazy, but can I borrow your lawn chair for a minute?", I plead. Shortly after that I am holding the chair down to the ground while Ingy balances on her tip-toes to maneuver the window ajar. I won't budge. Not even a little bit. I wondered how we looked trying to break into a house. I also wondering why no passerby seemed to find this odd. One melted yogurt, bruised elbow, and exasperated sigh away, and we were on way back to Lakeshore. This time the plan was to go to my job at Walgreen's and use the phone to try and call for help. "And what did we learned from this mistake?", my co-worker Jill teased after I explained the predicament. Fortunately, she allowed me to use her iPhone to call my friend whom I remembered was off work and could pick us up and drive us to an hour to San Jose where to spare keys were located at another friends house. At least that was the plan until I realized that I did not have her phone number memorized. (Thanks a lot technology). "But she's your best friend!", I Ingy threw up her hands. So after some coaxing she convinces me to call her brother for the phone number...who also happens to be my ex-boyfriend. "Uh, hey Drewbie, I mean Andrew. This is Jackie. Not your sister Jackie the other one. (We also share a name). Can you call me back on this number? I mean if you aren't busy pf course. OK. Thanks. Bye." Click. God...dammit. Well maybe we should send some people an email. I know those by heart.". "But no one sits at home on their computer waiting for emails. Its a fat chance. Let's just go sit outside and wait", I suggest. Which is when we run into at least four people we know shopping and running errands. All of which have a car. Of course neither of us knew them closely enough to ask for such huge favor to drive us to Sam Jose. But they could have offered when I told what was up. Right? One "friend" however, does allow us to use her iPhone that wasn't really a phone it was an ipod touch but an iPhone so that we can look up the number to a locksmith. So I scramble to find a wi-fi from a business that doesn't require you to buy a double-shot grande latte and scone. Then I learn that locksmiths works by appointment and are booked until Monday. They would be happy to come and then. "But I have money!", I explain. I can feel the heat of sun rays poring through my skin and I sweat running from shop to shop looking for pens, scraps of paper, phones to borrow, and my sanity. Finally Jill calls saying that my friend JJ received the S.O.S. email Ingy finally sent her earlier as I was running around. She is on her way. "So you were on your computer", I ask her when she arrives. "No, goofy. I have a smart phone remember. My emails show up on the screen like an Instant Message." I feel like one of those anime characters that just realized the obvious and dramatically falls flat on her face. So as we all prepare for the drive to San Jose, bless her soul, Terrell, the neighbor with the spare key comes to Lakeshore Trader Joe's where we are leaving. "Hey T, we're locked out!", I call for his attention. " I know", he responds." I just got your email."
Wait. You're legal right?
The catastrophe in my previous scenario was one large enough to make me want to go out get drunk and forget it all. I call Sega, the boy from the party, and have him swing by to escort me for a night on the town. He takes me to a small Ethiopian bar in East Oakland which featured loud reggae blasting through the curtained windows. The bar had seemingly closed for the evening but 2 knocks and a special handshake later, we were on the inside. I follow him towards the back where the kitchen is and he picks up a plate of a juicy hamburger and fries. "Anything to drink?", he asks me. "Vodka and tonic. Thanks". We go to sit down near the deejay in a secluded lounge area. He cuts the food in half for us to share but I politely decline. Moments later after he scarfs down the entire plate alone (he was really hungry), he looks at me. I sip my cocktail and smile coyly. I wasn't really in a talking mood. Not after the death I had just witnessed less than an hour ago. I let him do the talking. I sip my drink. We bob our heads to the music. Finally, he goes to the bar and orders himself a dry gin. "Ever try?" And that's when I become tipsy to the fullest. Not quite drunk, but definitely acting ditsy. I laugh a little too loud at his jokes and lean in closer when he puts his around me. I giggle non-stop. "There's an after-party at the warehouse if you want to stay out longer." Absolutely. It's as we are walking to the car that I realize we have both been drinking. "Wait! We're drunk. You're drunk. We can't drive." "Nooo...you can't. I'm fine." I stop in my tracks. He turns around. Then I spill everything to him about the nightmare on Lakeshore avenue. The car, the woman, the 911 call, everything. I am rambling a mile a minute and I cant stop. I stop to breathe but I cant seem to catch my breathe. Suddenly he interrupts and grabs me by the waist and lifts my chin up to meet his eyes. "Everything will be fine, sweetie". Somehow I knew this was bad news bears, but something about his security and my intoxicated state made me trust him and get into the car. Fortunately, we make it safely to the Warehouse where I find out that we have to sneak him in because he isn't old enough to drink. "You're how old?!", I demand. "20. Ill be 21 in November though." Grreeaat. "You know what? Let's just go get some food and call it a night." So he puts inserts the key in the ignition and we both listen as it coughs and dies. "Umm...can we stay just a little longer?" Needless to say, I spend the evening with the last guy I will probably date in California. At least for awhile.
A Walk to Remember
Its funny, the lessons you can learn at random yet very significant moments in your life. I had no idea that I would be berated with feelings of wrath, pain, and fear, all at once while hurridly walking home from my job at Walgreens late one one evening. In that instant, I went from trying to decide whether to wear the trendy silver flats with rhinestones or the sexy black stilletoes, to whether to call 911 or pray to a God I haven't spoken to in years. Just before deciding on the shoes and switching my thought process on what to do with my hair, I stepped into a cross walk 12 meters away the cracking sound of a woman thrown violently atop the hood of Volkswagen bug and then falling head first onto the pavement. The vehicle slowed down as a crazed driver and hysterical passenger peered down at unmoving body. When the woman flinched, confirming she was not dead, the bug sped screeched sharply and sped away into the night. "Sorry..I'm so sorry", the driver shouted. My heart pummeled put of my chest. I looked around at the bouncer at the bar nearby and the man pumping his gas at the 76 down the street who may or may not have witnessed the event, but in any case were not reacting. Meanwhile, the woman sits up and steadies herself. "Are you OK", I run up to her not knowing what else to say. She stands up. "I just got hit by a car!" After the ambulance, paramedics, police cars, and fire squad hit the scene, she is frantic, fully alert, and pissed. " Who the fuck do they think they are?! He was clearly drunk..."I was still stunned at it all. Oakland, California has taught me the people can react all sorts of ways in a situation. After giving my witness and wishing the woman a better evening, I wonder home not quite as concerned about the date I planned for the night. I hug my mother and thank the goddess that it wasn't me and that no one lost a life.
Dude...where's my pod?
Now that I have finally the made to agonizing decision to relocate across the country, I had wonderful task of telling my friends and family. The news was followed by an array of comments ranging from "You're going where?" (as if they didn't hear me the first time) to "But its so cold there"(as if I wasn't aware) to my personal favorite... "So what...you just didn't like California anymore?"(as if it were about them). Moving really is a bitch. My family nearly had a meltdown yesterday as I relayed the good news. My friend though I was abandoning her and almost had a panic attack. Even my ex called me up to see if it were really true. I told him yes and elaborated upon all the great opportunities I had lined up for myself. He told me that was wonderful and then added that California just isn't for everyone. To add to my plate, I have a giant storage Pod containing all my belongings and I need to retrieve it somehow. Its quite humorous actually. The fact that the Pod system somehow got one over on me and ended up charging huge amounts of hidden fees and taxes making their services not such a worthwhile investment in the end. I vaguely remember this horror movie happening to me two years ago when I first arrived in San Jose. There is still much to do and people to visit and shifts to cover at my old job. But success comes with a price. Which reminds me...I should probably drop that Chemistry class that I am suppose be in at Northwestern in Minnesota. The one that started 2 hours ago? Yea that one.Now here is the big news. My good friend Ella is also moved to uptown from Ecuador where she taught English to children. She is living in a nice house with another roommate and would like me to be the third chic to fill the vacant spot. But then I would have to forfeit my dream of a quaint studio. The choice is tough. A sorority house with girlfriends, bonfires, and late night gossip or a studio in the heart of everything, where I can have things my way, and as many cute guys in and out as like. It got me thinking...will I ever be ready to live on my own.Will I be able to tolerate myself and my own annoying habits? Or am I more comfortable around other people as they force me to be an adult and responsible?I called Ella to complain to her about my fears, hopes, and dreams. It was then that I realized that she spoke with such a thick Midwestern accent I felt as though I had been sucked into the depths of Fargo. Not that there's anything wrong with that, as Jerry Seinfeld would point out. I just never noticed it before. California after all is the land of neutral accent. Everyone else is talks weird. Before I knew it I had ended the phone conversation with "Ya sure!" and "You betcha!" These swedes would be proud. Now all I need to do is gather some swedish meatballs, Swedish Fish, and whip up a side of isterband.
Minne-WHO-ta??
Its been a gas, life in California. Palm trees. Sunshine. Cultural people wandering in farmers markets. Weekend trips to LA. Frat parties in Berkeley. Too many drinks on my 21st... and my 22nd. And most Thursdays. Of course of all this is enjoyable in a cozy little home with your family. That is until your family decides to move forcing you to find your own cozy little spot. But not to worry. Craigslist has a blessing as well as a curse. In a matter of weeks I discarded the notion of living on my own in the Bay Area with a pharmacy technicians salary. So I swallowed my pride and the roommate search began. I interviewed with a co-op in Berkeley whom advertised a huge bedroom and free meals every night given you cook for a house of 11 at least one every 9 weeks. I figured although my idea of cooking is throwing whatever is in the refrigerator into a skillet and calling it scrambling it into a heap is pretty rudimentary, I'm sure they wouldn't mind. Of course I was the one surprised when I arrived to the mansion and they explained to me that their favorite hobby was savaging for dumpersted food. And how everyone in the house must participate in this "chore". So maybe the granola folk weren't for me after all. Next please. Two college students whom I had interviewed on the phone for at least an hour were excited at the prospect of having me aboard. I wasn't too keen a living with fellas I barely knew but they seemed so clean-cut. Honor society, class president, organizing volunteer events, and running student support groups for their own personal enrichment. I agreed to meet them at the house the three bedroom house in West Oakland. Of course as soon as I entered West Oakland, the scenery changed dramatically like in a movie script. People stared at me with blunts in their mouths, one men carried a brown paper bag and exchanged money with a parked vehicle while one kept watch. Two prostitutes strode down the sidewalk waiting for the next customer. The liquor store on the corner was surrounded by a group of people throwing dice and cash on the pavement. And then there was the house. I immediately turned around and called the students to explain that I was very sorry but my mother is sick and needs to be taken to the hospital. So after careful consideration and weighing all my options, I agreed to room with a young woman who lived by the lake. I was instantly attracted to cute apartment and her roommate, who would be moving out. The roommate offered me the room and I began buying furniture to load up in my new space and telling everyone the good news while corresponding via email to my new roommate Nancy, whom I had not yet met. It was during one of these exchanges a few weeks later that she dropped the bomb that while she has enjoyed our emails she has chosen someone more suited to her aesthetics. This really stung since I was already living in an empty condo where my family had left me to my own devices. So I decided to pack up and drag myself to go visit my father in the Twin Cities. He was really supportive about my change of circumstance and offered to let me stay in his home while I sort things out. In fact, up until the first 24 hours I was considering his offer when in fact my worst fear came true. He began treating me like a child. And not just any child. A child with an IQ level indicating a borderline deficiency in intelligence. Great guy though, really. But kicks one day I decided to check out the housing market on Minnesota Craigslist. My jaw nearly dropped to the ground as a read posts featuring large studios and one bedrooms not located in the ghetto and not costing a kidney transplant. So I offered to drop old pops off at work the next morning as I scouted the Calhoun area for gold on the form of a home. Then I applied to local pharmacy, who not only considered me, but offered me a job. Then I drove to Bloomington and applied to Northwestern Health Sciences University and they enrolled me in classes starting the following week. I was enamoured as well as angry. Why can I do so easily in the Midwest what I've been trying to do on the West Coast for months. It would be stupid to turn down such great opportunities. And what do the words approved, accepted, and hired spell? AAH...Is it a Table or a Bed?
Its been awhile since I've last been to a doctor clinic for a visit. It was probably at a pediatrician, in fact. So I guess I may have forgotten how things run around the place. For example, when my name is called from the waiting room, the first thing I am told to do is stand on the scale. My numbers then flash before my eyes mocking me as the nurse jots down the data. I am then led into the office where I am asked to sit on the table with the giant toilet paper looking cover. The nurse proceeds attach various things to me in order to obtain my blood pressure, temperature, and heart rate. All standard procedure, I suppose. What kills me is the next question. "First date of your last period?", she asks me without looking up. I never know the answer to this one. Why on earth would any woman choose to remember anyways? It can be a very traumatic time of the month. "Hmm...I can't seem to recall. But how about the last date of my first period?", I offered in replacement. "Oh, no thank you, dear. The doctor will be with your shortly."
After 25 minutes, still had not arrived shortly. I was due at work in about an hour or so and I called to let them know I would be late. The manager didn't seem to mind. He just cared about a healthy employee so I live up to my full potential on the job. I am thus amazed at a doctors power to stop time in its tracks. There I was sitting on the table in some kind of limbo where I was not being treated and not in the outside world, waiting for Dr. Fisher. For all I know, she could have been helping other patients in need, out shopping for a new dress, attending her son's bar mitzvah, or or pondering over a menu at the new French Bistro. I considering giving her a ring to place an order for myself if she was in fact grabbing lunch. I too was hungry afterall. Instead, I made a mental note to go to medical school. I want to be on charge of all time, also. Just think of the hundreds or thousands of patients sitting on tables, waiting or their doctors to arrive. They have no fear of being late for anything because check-ups are crucial and you absolutely must wait for them. And while my patients are happily waiting, I, as a doctor, can pick up my dry cleaning or catch a matinee.
I contiuned to wait for the doctor as I pulled oumy ipod to listen to some tunes. Then I laid back and closed my eyes. Finally, I got up to cut the lights before returning to my bed, er table. I heard a light tapping on the door as it was opened. "Jorie?", Dr. Fisher asked. I sat upright when the lights flickered on calling me nack to reality. "Well, it's nice to see you're making yourself at home", she says. Nice joke. But then she gets down to business. I painlessly listen to her discussion of my medical records and medications and why its all relevant to me. Why wouldn't it be? Yet, halfway through the seminar I have a burnig itch to remove myself from the table. I was beginning to feel like a speciman. It should at least be called a bed, not a table. The word alone promotes a certain comfort and familarity. I'm not asking for 200 thread count or anything of that nature. Just a little incentive to come back here. At the very least, we can surely find some replacement for the toilet paper covering, I think. Maybe Charmin or Angel Soft would do the trick. "Any questions?", I am asked.
"Not at all.",\I responded jumping gleefully off the petri dish table.
"See you soon, then."
And then she is off to save another citizen from the world of time and deadlines. I, on the other hand decided to lay back down and relax on my table. After all, I do need to be healthy.
The Top Clock Hat
Back in 9th grade I was assigned a project in which I had to invent something useful. I could not for the life of me come up with an invention. Eventually I just partnered with someone else and mooched off of their ideas. I wish I had that opportunity again because I could probably make millions now. The idea came to me in my Freshman English class this morning. Mr. Goldstein had during our previous class made a big deal about not giving us breaks during the two hour lecture because it takes away valuable learning time. He did point out, however, that as compensation we would end lecture 10 minutes early. Since Goldstein happens to suffer longwindedness, I just know I can't be the only person staring at the clock as it passes the marker for the end of class. I vaguely remember him rambling about the grammatical errors or something from our assignments as I wonder what time the next bus will arrive. After four more long minutes, it hits me! He has no clue what time it is. I slyly glance over my shoulder and scan the back of the room where the professor is facing. Sure enough, no clock. Not even a shadow from the sun to announce that the hour is done. It all makes sense now.The professor is trapped in a time warp of lecture and cannot escape. And how could he with no indication of real world time anywhere in his line of vision? As the his teaching continues, I have the flashback to my high school project. I would invent a Time Top Hat. It would be a tall top hat like gentlemen used to wear back in the day. To use it I would front and center in any lecture hall containing a time challenged professor. The front of the hat would have a huge digital clock in the red numbers. Five minutes before the end of class, the numbers will become gradually brighter. The minute class in scheduled to cease, the hat will turn complete neon red, a fat lady will sing, and confetti and streamers will explode from the interior. Now if I could only find my 9th grade teacher...
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