...and a Happy New Year.

On this night, when all our friends and neighbors are celebrating the passing of the old year and commencement of the new, we, the Angry Family, are settling down for bed. Angry Toddler decided to skip her nap today. Hence the celebration will have to go on without us. This reminds me of the time we spent New Year's Eve in a cramped and chilly Paris hotel room. Instead of frolicking along the Champs Elysées, I chose to retire early with a mild case of indigestion. It seemed like the thing to do at the time.

Crazy Mother continued her Holiday tour across this swath of square states, stopping off at Angry Sister's home for a few days before returning home. I am simultaneously heartened and discouraged that her visit with Angry Sister was even more unpleasant than her visit with us. She and Angry Sister were reduced to screaming at each other. She again slept all day and lurked all night, and consumed an entire box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts in the middle of the night. She returned home yesterday after 9 days of travel having spent a grand total of 19 hours on Greyhound buses, not having bathed nor (don't ask me how I know this) having changed her underwear more than once.

Today I called Angry Brother and we discussed her possible dementia, and courses of action. The only really feasible one seems to be a long-term disability policy taken out on her behalf.

Ho, ho, ho.

I did a bad thing. I invited Crazy Mother into my home for the holidays. She has, within 30 minutes of her arrival, sucked out all of my holiday spirit, like some sort of leech-like holiday spirit-sucking parasite.

Crazy Mother goes to bed around 7 pm, and arises at 3 am. She skulks around the house in the dark, leaping out to surprise unwary bathroom visitors to ask wildly inappropriate questions for 3 am, like, "Where is the antibiotic cream?"

Crazy Mother is a snoop. She will look through any cabinet and drawer shamelessly, and if she finds anything interesting, she will ask you about it unabashedly. "What is this medication used for?" "I see your retirement funds are mostly in low-cap funds. Is that a good idea?"

Crazy Mother refuses to take a shower. Now in the third day of her visit, she is starting to look like a homeless woman. She takes quiet little sponge baths in the bathroom sink (at 3 am), but for reasons that escape me, will not avail herself of shower nor bathtub.

Crazy Mother lurks. Rather than joining us around the table or in the den in front of the television, she stands outside the room in the darkened hallway, arms akimbo, watching our little tableaus with inscrutable expressions on her face.

Crazy Mother suffers from diseases for which we must rush out into the night and purchase over-the-counter remedies. This visit, it is some creeping and contagious rash that, by her report, has now spread across the upper half of her body.

Crazy Mother never says "Thank you," not for anything. After Angry Baker plunked down $50 for a casual meal last night, and I paid for another meal the night before, she said nothing. Absolutely nothing. She must be taken care of, and she expects that we will pay and that no thanks or gratitude is necessary. Angry Baker is livid.

Crazy Mother talks in baby talk. And not just to Angry Toddler (who keeps asking me when Gramma is leaving). She has always done this. I am at a loss to explain it.

Crazy Mother takes things. Sections of the newspaper. Books. Last night my placemat at the restaurant. She pulls them out of the hands of her victim wordlessly, no "Please" or "Thank you." I am at a loss to explain this too.

Crazy Mother eats like a bird when seated at the table, pretending a delicate constitution and even more delicate appetite. But she shows no such hesitation if the food contains sugar. Candy, cookies, cake, pie, rolls, chocolate, nothing is safe from her at 3 am. Crazy Mother talks a lot about an imaginary metabolic disorder, trying to get sympathy for the fact that she is fat even though she eats so very very little. At least we won't be burdened with these leftovers next week.

But by far the worst: Crazy Mother derives her worldview from FOX news. This morning I endured some lame exposition on why the public school system was failing and why charter schools were such an excellent idea: Bad teachers. And school shootings.

I can't stand it. I'm going to grab my Christmas tree and spend the rest of the holiday at the hotel down the street.

Woo hoo!

Finally, some sign of intelligent life.

Vandalism in my evaluations.

I just received the statistics on my course evaluations. My return rate, using the web-based system, was 47% (over 50 students). I guess that's not so bad, considering how bad it could have been. My overall rating (the only number that really counts) was a 4.6 on a 5 point scale, about at the 75th percentile for similar courses around the university.

LSU has a set of boilerplate questions that I have never modified, including "well organized," "well prepared," "interested in helping students," etc. For the most part my ratings were positive, as they always are. What has me scratching my head are the two students who ranked me as low as they possibly could on every single item, even the "interested in teaching" one.

Who are you guys? Were you even in my class? How could you have gone to even one lecture and come away with the idea that I wasn't interested in helping you or teaching you? If you knew which car was mine, would you key it? What keeps you from spray-painting my office door? Why don't you just head over to ratemyprofessor.com? I hear they don't have enough of your kind of people over there.

Evaluations are in!

For the first time, I used LSU's electronic course evaluation system, so for the first time I actually got to see the student comments.

My favorite comment: "[AP] is one of the best professors I have ever had in my entire life and I have learned so much from her and will continue to apply the information I learned from her for the rest of my life."

My least favorite comment: "when test come up give us an outline of things to study so that we won't have to study for thing that are not on the test" [sic].

Oh well. You win some, you lose some.

I should just disappear, like everyone else.

For one extra credit point:

What is your instructor's name?
Some (incorrect) responses:

Laura

Dr. Lashley

Dr. M

Vanessa

Kazuku

Paula

McC...

Karen

Theresa

Sanchez

Ellen

Teacher

Final grades are in.

(6 p.m., two days after the final)
Dear Angry Professor,

Three days before the final something really really bad happened. I thought I could handle it and I took all my finals anyway but I just feel terrible about my performance and I need to know if there's anything else I can do to raise my grade. I'll write a paper or retake the exam, anything. I needed to get an A in this course so that I can get into graduate school. I really wasn't performing at my best and I was trying not to cry in front of the TA but I can't stop crying now. Please, please help me. I'll do anything.

Sincerely,
Upset Student

(6:30 p.m., two days after the final)
Dear Angry Professor,

I see that my grade on the exam was only a C. If I get my mother to write you a letter verifying this terrible thing that happened to me, could you please please let me retake the exam? Or I'll write a paper, or anything. Let me know. I guess I'm counting on a miracle.

Sincerely,
Upset Student

(9 a.m., three days after the final)
Dear Upset Student,

I'm am very sorry that you are going through a difficult time right now. Unfortunately, I don't know how to help you.

I have your grades in front of me, and I see that you had a D in the class before the final. You actually did very well on the final and you managed to raise your grade from a D to a C. To get even a B-, you would have needed a perfect score on the test. Did you really think it was possible to raise your grade to an A? Indeed, you would have needed a miracle for this to happen.^*

Sincerely,
Angry Professor

No response.

^*Edited to add: My actual response was much longer than this. When the soft and sympathetic words were stripped out, this is what it said.

Sign me up?

One of my students pointed me to www.bmezine.com, a fabulously disturbing e-zine. No, the "bm" doesn't stand for that, it stands for "body modification." And no, we ain't just talking pierced ears here, folks.

I have no problems with piercings. I have one or two myself. Angry Baker has some nice tattoos. (Angry Toddler, if you even think about piercing or tattooing yourself I swear to Sweet Hairy Jesus I will find out about it and lock you in the attic until you turn 40. With no television.)

It's not news that people do stupid things to their bodies. They color them and stick holes in them and "sculpt" them and cut them up. But this was a new one for me. I'd love to hear Orac's opinion on this idiocy.

A little quote, to pique your interest:

This weekend I had a hole drilled through my skull. I read that this increased one's consciousness permanently. I read about the supposed de-conditioning properties. I read about more parts of the brain working simultaneously as there would be more blood up there to help this happen. The arguments for it all seemed to be quite lengthy, quite detailed, thought out and researched, and very intelligent. The arguments against it were based solely on the opinion that it is 'crazy' and talk like, "What's more conscious than conscious?". I heard from an acquaintance on telephone that she was glad she had done it, felt more mental energy, and had days of brilliance. I came to believe that the key to a permanent consciousness increase was a hole in the skull, to restore the full brain pulsation of infancy. After several months of research, discussion, speculation, watching surgical videos and trepanation documentaries, and even an actual viewing of a trepanation, I decided I certainly did want to be trepanned, and sought a way to do it.

And, from the same site, dig this sterile field.