"Schadenfrau Cracks Open The Office Door..."

A student found an office and came to office hours to discuss academics? How? Why? In my building, the directory lists my office as still occupied by the garrulous Dr. Verklempt. It’s a grand ploy and one I’ve brought to the attention of no one during my employ here. In class, I tell my students they can locate my office by the fragrant trail of gin, patchouli and the pong of my unshaven feminist armpits. A few actually make it past Cerberus, traverse the river Styx and manage to find the door with Dr. Schadenfrau on the plate.

Generally, my weary neo-Homers slump into the uncomfortable guest chair and moan about the journey to office hours. I remind them Charon’s on furlough and has to cover Acheron every Tuesday for the rest of the semester. Tough times all round…tough times. I offer a drink of crisp bottled river water secretly hoping the nine years curse might apply to mortals. Alas, no…and there’s a confession coming during these office hours; I’m the patchouli anointed, vermouth-abstaining, cat-fur covered high cleric poised for the traveler to tell me his gins…er, sorry, sins. I meant sins.

I’ve never known what to do during these close encounters. This isn’t Dr. Phil and I’ve nary a hackneyed-hick phrase at the ready. I suppose I could tell them how many “Hail Harry’s” they need to say. Harry, by the way, is our institution’s regent and a hearty “Hail You, Harry” is good for the soul especially on mandatory furlough days.

Over time, I’ve learned office hours have two purposes: health crises and meaning of life crises. I get health…always health. Does my pallor and Jabba the Hut physique infer I’m that much closer to the great beyond? I don’t know. Why anyone would discuss their maladies with a middle-aged woman who’s covered in cat hair and spouts post-modern critical theory remains a mystery to me. Yet, they come. They sit. They talk. While their mouths move up and down, I try to, as my therapist suggested, think pleasant thoughts…like being abducted by aliens and anally probed with a Roto-Rooter.

The confessions I hear relate to medical conditions strung together like a double helix. No M.D. ever gets this litany, I’m sure. But, once you’ve got the honorific “Dr.” because you’ve got a Ph.D., you’re ripe for the unvarnished details to spew forth. You’re in for it when the student starts to talk about how they’ve been “feeling” as of late. It goes something like this:

I just wanted to let you know I’m taking a number of drugs to help me with my [add 3 items from List A]. They make it difficult for me to [add 2 to 5 List B items]. I just can’t [add up to 6 items from List C], but I really want to get an A in your course.

• List A: ADHD, OCD, anxieties, incontinence, consumption, narcolepsy, lactose intolerance, bone density, cholesterol, erectile dysfunction, flatulence, insomnia, thyroidism, high blood pressure, tinnitus, lockjaw, constipation, dowager’s hump, blurred vision, boils, delusions of grandeur.
  
  
• List B: focus, stay awake, see, sit still, urinate, breathe, hear, fart, concentrate, read, drool, type, ejaculate, think, eat, walk, digest.
  
  
• List C: stay awake in your class, read the texts, make sense of what you say in lectures, work with others in the class, come to class, write notes, speak, function as if I were alive.

So, you’re suffering from drug side effects related to the treatment of your flatulent cholesterol boils. The drugs make it difficult for you to focus, walk, and ejaculate; therefore, you can’t read the textbook or come to class, but you’d really like an A? Oh…and you have no documentation because you’re from a culture where the healers are still following the oral traditions? And, you’d like me to whip out my stone tablet and chisel, and scribe forth an entirely new set of course regulations for persons with undocumented flatulent cholesterol boils?

Well, I'll get right on that. NOT!!! Thanks for stopping by and don’t let the three-headed dog nip you in the arse on your way out! Ta-tah…..[furtive rummaging in desk drawers…bourbon, where’s that flask of bourbon?]

Another Time When "Good Luck" Just Means "Go Fuck Yourself."

Hello, I'm sorry for missing so much class, but I've started a new job at night and I'm having issues juggling home life,work, and school (You mean you have normal adult responsibilities?).

It also doesn't help when I do not really understand math (or bother attending class).

Frankly I'm having troubles remembering formulas etc... and the processes it takes to get the answer! I'm not good with math, it's one of my worst subjects ever! (this where attending class might be useful).

By the way I never mentioned that I have a "learning disability" and understand information differently then others at times and are slower at understanding then others at times (again, how does this make you special?).

So needless to say I need a lot of help! I've tried to get help online and have not gotten anywhere with that, I've asked for help from my girlfriend who knows how to do it, but for me I just don't get it (well, sucks to be you).

Do you have any suggestions on ways to help me learn and be successful? (yes, attend the friggin class).

Have my absenses dropped me from the class yet? (now there's an idea).

I won't be in class tonight, but could you please gather all homework I've missed and anything else you think might assist me with my studies? ($&%*$ NO WAY. I'll put in as much effort in helping as you have put effort into the class so far...ZERO).

I do not want to fail the class, but I realize I will if I don't get help (.....and maybe attend class every once in a while too).

Please let me know what my status is? (Your "status"? This is a tough one. I guess I'd have to categorize your status as "a waste of space and breathable oxygen." If it is not clear to you now on what you need to do to pass the class, I don't think it ever will be. Fortunately for you, your McDonalds career will provide you with a register that will do all of your math for you. Good luck.)

Hank the Homo Nearly Breaks The Email Meter. Larry from Laconia Is First To Fire Up the RYS Spanking Machine.

I have taken a few candidates out to dinner for an opening in our department. I have never asked about a spouse, partner, significant other, or fuck buddy because I don't care. I don't care what you do on your time. I do care about what you do on my employer's time. All my questions and comments are directed toward what I care about.

The culture of my department appears reminiscent of the New York Yankees of the middle to late 1970s. Twenty-five guys getting into 25 cabs after the game. However, during the game, they are the best you will probably see; each contributing in their own way. At that dinner, I need to know how you perform on the field, not what you do off the field.

At dinner, I want to hear about your stream of research. I want to hear what you have been working on, what you are working on, and what you will be working on should you get a job here. I want to hear about assignments that did and did not work in the classroom. I want to hear your thoughts about why you think those assignments did or did not work.

What I don't want to hear about? Your tomato crop. Your cats. Your trip to a rustic cabin where you churned butter. I don't care.

I don't care if you are fucking the captain of the men's or women's basketball team. Unless, they are enrolled in your class at the time of said fucking. Then, I care. Short of that, I could care less whether you go home to John, who breaks you down like a gun every Saturday night, or to Jane, who is a former haute couture model. D.O.N.T. C.A.R.E.

When we are at dinner and you have figured out that I know you will never get the job done in my department, you need to mention something - anything - that you think makes you interesting. Some faculty throw out how much they travel. Others mention the fabulous section of town and/or utlra cool house they live in. You? Your only thing of quasi-interest is your sexuality.

Yawn.

Make sure you get the tiramisu here, Hank the Homo, because this dinner is the last meal you will eat in this town. And, no, you didn't blow my mind. You did, however, bore the crap out of me.

The Return of Topeka Tina, Our Fave Student Correspondent Ever. On Office Hours.

Do office hours really help raise student grades or are the students who use office hours simply more likely to study harder?

[+]

Actually, thinking about that makes my head hurt. But my purely ancedotal evidence suggests that it probably depends on the individual professor. I know this because I've had a lot of professors in my six years as an undergrad student.

My first ever office hours visit was to inquire about my grade. I didn't burst into tears, but my professor was kind enough to convince me that dropping out of school to become a long-haul truck driver was not in my best interest. (Two years later, it was an organic farming commune.)

I had another professor that I would go visit weekly (or so) in her damp, dimly lit bat cave. I liked her and she seemed to like me. We'd make small talk before going over (insert science-y type stuff here). The best part was that she would direct my attention to what topics would be heavily covered on the next test. I easily aced a class that many of my peers struggled in because I took the time to go visit her.

The last class that I felt compelled to go to office hours was also a science class. And I was struggling. I came prepared with specific questions and reference materials (my notes and the textbook, specifically). The professor, in all his wisdom, simply told me that I needed to "study harder." Then he rattled on about his sleep apnea and his wife's cancer before offering to drive me home. I politely declined, but I'm pretty sure that I could have slept with him for an A in the class.

I'm not certain what this all really means. Life's a crapshoot?