This Mama DOES dance; though Bacon don't rock-n-roll.

Bacon and I have been child-free over the holiday weekend, which has been a blessing in many ways: 1) we were able to work, write, read, and think in silence; 2) we had 1/3 less mess to clean up; 3) we were able to carry on adult-sized conversations sans interruption; 4) we were able to complete other grown-up "tasks" (if you catch my drift, perverts).

Anyway, this post really isn't about Bacon and me. I'm really writing it to tell you all about the one major highlight of my weekend: Oldies Night at the Wayside. For those not in the know, the Wayside is a bar/dance club within stumbling distance of the CMU dorms. The Wayside itself has been in existence for at least 30-some years; Bacon's mom used to get drunk there as a freshman in the 1970's. Everyone parties at the Wayside in college, even if it's only one time. Before last night, I hadn't been to the Wayside in about 8 or 9 years.

I was happy to see that the place hadn't changed much... except for a few things. It's still horrible as ever; but, at present, the Wayside has been upgraded to a fancy/super-special level of horribility, which includes serving beer only in plastic cups. But the platinum stars of the present Wayside are the stripper poles and go-go cages in the middle of the dance floor, which gaucho-pant wearing sorority girls stick to like vomit on a fraternity-house toilet. It's a truly awesome and deeply disturbing sight to see.

I went to Oldies night with a diverse and totally fun group of new friends from Orientation: Ashley, Nate, Dan, Todd, and Josh. The best thing about this mix of people was that Ashley and I were outnumbered by four guys who actually liked to dance! We were out there for almost every song for two hours straight. I did have a bit of a bone to pick with the DJ, however. While he played true Oldies, like "Brown-Eyed Girl," and the GREASE soundtrack, he also tried to pass off "Like A Prayer" and "Heaven on Earth" as Oldies. Since when do songs from the late 80's early 90's count as freaking OLDIES?

I won't complain much more about the music. The rest of the songs he played totally rocked. There was the required butt-rock trifecta: AC/DC, Joan Jett, Def Leppard; the audience-participation number: "Mony, Mony"; and the songs that make people just dance their asses off, like "Footloose" and "Shout." He even played RUN-D.M.C. My only additions would've been The Violent Femmes, The Talking Heads, and maybe, maybe some ABBA to help free everyone's inner "Dancing Queen."

So, after all the cheap beer drinking and dancing and sweating was over, the group decided that they absolutely needed to eat some food. At this point, everyone is drunk but me-- that was how I'd planned it-- to drink two beers, dance it off, and lay off the alcohol for the rest of the night-- just in case anyone needed a ride home, etc. I can safely say it was my first time ever being the DD, and what an annoying experience that was!

We drove off into the humid 2:30 AM air, and everyone argued about which pizza place to call (FYI: there's no 24-hour pizza delivery in Mt Pleasant); and then there was the conversation from the back seat that went something like, "Hey? Who just grabbed my ass!? Hey! Take your hand away from my goods! You're definitely trespassing into pre-nut area, there..."

Our first destination was Ashley's house. I was supposed to drop everyone off there, and they were all going to sleep there. Then, Ashley decided it would be a bad idea to have four boys sleep over her house. In some step of rationalization I was too un-drunk to understand, she decided it would be preferable for everyone to sleep over at Todd's house instead. She packed an overnight bag, and then I ferried everyone to stop #2-- McDonald's. I parked and waited in the lot, because I didn't want to follow the yahoos into Mickey D's while they argued about chicken tenders or nuggets, Big Mac or Big Fish, etc. After about 25 minutes of waiting, everyone came back to the car with sacks of greasy goodness, and onward we went to stop #3, Todd and Josh's apartment.

There, I let everyone off. As I drove away, I sung to them out my car window, "Just a city boy, born and raised in south Detroit..." And they all sang back. What a send off.

It's a good thing to be alive in this world, to meet new friends who like to dance (and who can keep up with my manic dancing). It's a good thing to be alive in this world, to sing out loud and have a whole group sing back to you-- and not just any lyrics-- but the right ones, the exact ones, that follow joyfully, naturally, seamlessly after.

The Orientation Express

Sorry for lack of updates in the past few days. This was the first week I worked both of my seasonal, part-time, temporary jobs: busy from sun-up through sun-down. I admire all moms--well, all people, actually-- who work 8:00-5:00 and also find time to take care of their homes, themselves, and their families and friends. I tried to find time to do all that stuff, and by the time I felt I did it all adequately (not excellently) I was totally exhausted.

Teaching goes fine. I think my students are slightly shocked by how much work a summer class is. They just turned in their first 5-page paper (and they have two more 5-pagers to go, plus an 8-page annotated bib); and while they're breathing easy for the weekend, I am not. I hated taking summer classes as a student. In graduate school, I did one summer course, and ended up with severe migraine headaches as a result of the stress. I do think that my students are slightly unaware of how much work a summer class is for the teacher-- they only have to write the papers; I have to mark and grade every single one. I was not up-to-the-minute on grading this week... (utter failure! But I did complete a few other tasks: watching the LOST finale, taking my kid to the park, and attending a cocktail party at my friend Kristen's house).

Academic orientation is another type of adventure. Teaching feels old hat compared to this. Why? Well, for a few minutes each orientation day, I have to speak to a large group of parents about how much the students themselves, and we as a university, appreciate their involvement in their students scholastic goals. I have to talk about how we, all the staff and faculty here at CMU, are dedicated to their students academic, personal, and social success. And while all those things are true, more or less true depending on the day, when I look around at that room of incoming freshmen, I can already tell who will make it and who won't.

Example: I was advising a girl about her fall schedule, and she mentioned that she wanted to go to Europe to get a culinary degree. After I spent awhile with her chatting about the BS in Business Administration with a major in Hopsitality (she liked the idea), I asked why she chose to come to CMU instead of first choosing to earn the culinary degree. She wasn't ready to be so far away from home, she said, so it made sense to do it in this order. How is coming to CMU any closer to home? What's the key difference between a three-hour drive and a six-hour flight when you're aching for home? The feeling will persist, no matter the distance, right? Anyway...

My orientation uniform is a khaki skirt, a maroon clip-on nametag-- it says ANDREA DEVENNEY, ACADEMIC ADVISING AND ASSISTANCE--, and a maroon polo shirt with the CMU crest on it. It's very preppy. I even wore panty-hose. And a belt. God, I hate those things-- both of them.

Evan is with my mom and dad for Memorial Weekend. I plan to catch up on grading and sleep, though not necessarily in that order.

Feeling nerdy

I've just finished the lecture notes for my class tomorrow. I'm teaching The Response Essay. In my mind, it's important for my students to know what a response essay isn't for them to understand what it is. It isn't telling a personal story related to a text; it isn't just a straightforward summary, though it will use some summary; it isn't an opinion or argument paper; it isn't a dog on a bobsled.

So, for them to grasp what a response essay is, I came up with this description of what writing one is like: Writing a response essay is like taking a pair of pants apart, piecing them together again, and making a jacket or a skirt. In a way, the new garment is still partially old pants: the fabric feels the same, the color hasn't changed, etc. Yet, the old pants are now also entirely different: their style, purpose, and wearer have changed, thus putting new dance into the pants.

I just dunno if my students can read deeply enough to raise questions, take issue with a stance, discover problems, uncovers connections, etc. And, I dunno if they can combine personal knowledge with text to illuminate their elaborations.

I love the response essay more than most forms of academic writing. To me, response forces people to think outside themselves, to begin to consider how disparate ideas connect. Grad school and poetry writing (but mostly poetry writing) have taught me how to articulate exactly, the tonal relationship between Otis Redding's "Hard to Handle," and the Black Crowes version of it, and how to recognize the implications of this in a social context. Given time, I could also write about how the use of enjambment rises and falls depending on what length of skirt women were wearing in a given year between August-October. I could easily get at least five pages on either of these topics. Probably more with a few weeks research. And, preposterous though the theses may be, they are very very academic.

I like to think that while I am acculturating my students into university-style thinking and writing, that there are practical applications to these thinking/writing skill-sets. That's what I try to foreground.

Hence the pants simile.

What came first-- learning or the grade?

My Intermediate Composition students have just finished reading an essay entitled "A Young Person's Guide to the Grading System," by Jerry Farber. I've just finished grading their summary essays of it, and am happy to report that the class average is a B+. They should be well pleased with this.

The main point of Farber's essay is that overemphasis on grades detracts from "true" learning. I asked my students which was more important to them: grades or learning. Learning, they answered almost in unison. Well, if that's the case, I replied, why do you all take your grades so personally? Like, if you get a C on a paper, but you have a new set of skills you can use in other classes or in your future career, why does it matter that you got a C? Because we worked so hard on that paper or project, they said.

I tell all my study skills students, grades aren't a measure of how intelligent you are. They're a measure of whether or not you mastered certain concepts or ideas; and, in some cases, grades are an exact measure of how much effort you put forth. No need to define your self-worth by what you earn. It's what you learn, not what you earn.

More preachiness on this same topic later. I have to go teach my little grade-mongers.

29...

I know I haven't updated in a few days. I have spent most of the week in training for my other part-time, temporary, seasonal job as an academic orientation advisor. This means that this coming Tuesday, confused 18-year-olds and their equally confused parents will arrive on CMU's lush green campus, and ask for directions to parking lots I don't know the location of, and then I'll sign these kids up for classes later that day.

There were a few training highlights to the rest of the week-- I already mentioned the ROTC sponge-guns-- another major highlight that comes to mind is learning country line dancing. I was previously unaware that the Electric Slide was a "country" line dance. I thought it was remedial organized wedding dancing, like the Chicken Dance or the Hokey Pokey. WRONG! The Electric Slide is officially country. It was brilliant to watch a bunch of fit and hot people in athletic gear dance together-- oh yeah, country line dance day was also "Athletic Apparel Day." This theme scared me a lot. I don't wear tennis shoes as shoes, as a general rule-- only to exercise. And, since I had to teach that day as well, I still had to look slightly presentable. I was able to find a pair of pink Puma sneakers that are slightly athletic, but cool enough to to teach in.
They were also comfortable enough to dance in.

Uhhhh, what else...

Well, I had a good birthday. I spent it in Orientation training. Everyone sang to me. Later, after I went out to buy a cake and a pair of earrings (in that order, BTW-- always dessert and then jewelry), Andrew and I went to dinner together at the Brass Cafe. I got smoked salmon. I ate all of it.

When we came home, we ate the cake with our friends Courtney and Dan, who stepped in at short notice to watch Evan, who was supposed to be with my mom and dad over the weekend. My parents couldn't take him because my paternal grandpa had a heart attack and a seizure last night, and my dad had to go to the hospital to look after him. My grandpa is OK at the moment. We all realize he is very old, and know that even though he lived through this that he probably doesn't have much time left. He has outlived two wives... and, for the most part, I think has lived a pretty happy life.

I hope to do the same.

Today I....

...shot an air gun filled with spongy bullets at some ROTC profs. This was part of my academic advising training. (How can I apply this in the classroom? Come armed?)

... got annoyed doing a team building activity which involved walking on a grid taped-out on a gymnasium floor. I hate puzzles. Especially group puzzles. I said I would facilitate the team-building activity for tomorrow: inebriated, unstructured conversation.

...tried to defend my opinion behind General Education: a well-rounded individual is someone who is also a well-rounded student.

...bought a cool pair of non-athletic trainers. I gotta have something to do my teambuilding activity in tomorrow... from what's listed on our agenda, we're doing country line dancing. I prefer dancing to gridwalking, any day, any time.

... let Evan walk around the store, instead of sitting in a shopping cart.

... bought a a cool pair of jeans with special lacy black detailing on the pockets: not sure if they look 1980's or not, though.

...counted down the days to my 29th...

....sort of planned what I will do this weekend, since Evan will be staying with my mom and dad, and it mostly involves reading papers.

Slightly disorganized, but not without success...

I had a marathon day. Well, in all actuality, it was probably more like a triathalon: I participated in a variety of events, some easier and more mundane than others, but I completed (ha! or competed!) all my tasks with vigor and emerged a winner... so I like to think, anyway.

It began at 6:00 this AM, when I realized that even though my body wanted to sleep until 7:00, my mind didn't. My to-do list seemed to be growing-- Meijer, Secretary of State, meeting with boss; running paperwork to and fro-- even as I lay there in bed, so I just decided to get up and start to-doing. I was out the door by 7:30 AM... looking perky and feeling pretty organized. My plan was going even more according to plan than it possibly could, because I had a head start on The Plan.

That's where The Plan began to crumble.

It seems the only people awake in Mt. Pleasant at 7:30 AM on a Monday congregate at Meijer. Worse yet, it's not even a productive congregation. It's all these old guys in net-backed baseball caps and saggy jeans, eating powder-sugar covered pastry, false teeth clackety-clacking in their mouths. There were like three people pushing shopping carts around the store, and two of them were cart attendants.

However, bolstered my self-esteem was by the comparison of myself and these elderly gentlemen and slow cart attendants, and I proceeded to my next destination. My mind overflowed with positive self-affirmations... "You go, Girl! You're on top of your stuff today! SHA-ZAMM!" This self-congratulatory dialogue came to an abrupt halt when I realized that I was out and about too early for even the Secretary of State to be open. I was an entire HALF HOUR early... their office doesn't open until 9:00 AM.

So, since I wasn't about to sit in the parking lot for half an hour, on I went to my next destination--The Post Office. Turns out I was even too early for that-- they don't open until 8:30 AM.

What kind of town is this, I ask, that I managed to out-wake everyone but the donut-eating Model-T driving Mejer zombies? And the two cart attendants?

Do I look professionally developed yet?

I spent four long days last week at an English Dept training workshop. Long story short, the master syllabus for the second-level comp class has changed recently; and last week was spent "training" us about how to teach from it. It is a big change, and one that many people took quite personally. I went to the training without any preconceived notion of what teaching ENG 201 should be like-- my last experience with it was as a student... and, I'll have more experience with it when I begin teaching tomorrow.

YIKES.

I have to do something NOT work-related right now. I'm going to watch a movie and maybe drink a beer.

I feel stressed out.

I am a PIMP

... or, as one of my students told me, a Postive Individual Making Progress. I will remind myself of this consistently, as the next several weeks involve a flurry of CV-padding activity such as:

1. The ENG 201 Summer Institute: where lost comp teachers go to learn how to teach comp
(Unofficially: The ENG 201 Summer Institute Happy Hour Club, where lost comp teachers go to learn how to forget how to teach comp)

2. Teaching my first-ever section of ENG 201. God, it effin' sucks to pop your academic cherry on a summer class.... but I'll remind myself, "It's only six weeks long," and just treat it like a really hot boyfriend who I only find semi-interesting and who I plan on dumping after the honeymoon wears off.

3. Academic advising during Freshman Orientation season. The training week is Western, like "Howdy Pardner", themed. I know that one of the required "team-building" events involves country line dancing. This, and I get three meals a day on the university. My orientation duties aren't theme-related at all-- they involve helping freshmen plan their fall course schedules-- but, I do plan on telling incoming freshmen to "Get along lil' dawgies" if they're dawdling with selecting their classes and stuff.

(Sidenote: I love themed anything-- as most Americans do-- casinos, parties, vacations... Americans also like anything with rides-- Disney, Epcot; The Scottish Whisky Heritage Center, New Lanark; there aren't any rides in Ireland that I'm aware of, so maybe this is why I felt like some of the tourist attractions were sort of second-rate)

Yes, special things do happen in mid Michigan...

Today Evan and I drove to Lansing Airport to pick Andrew up. Andrew had been in DC since Thursday, looking at dissertation-related microfilm at the Library of Congress.

It's a gorgeous late spring day here today: sunshine, few clouds, no humidity. Even the drive to the airport (not too long, only an hour away or so) seemed to fly by.

On the way home, we stopped at Uncle John's Cider Mill so Evan wouldn't have to sit in the car for another hour straight. Evan played in the enormous sandbox and checked out the kid-size wooden train. Dada kept an eye on him while Mama went wine-tasting in the Fruit House Winery. Let me preface my next story by saying that Uncle John's is a moneypit, the "country" charm works especially well on suburban girls like me: I've only spent a significant amount of time there once before, earlier this fall, and I walked away with four bottles of wine, two loaves of bread, and some other treats. All made on-site, understand, so you gotta support your local growers and stuff...

Anyway, today wasn't much different. This time I walked away with one bottle of wine (let's hear it for restraint!), a plastic-squeezy bear of Michigan raspberry honey, a loaf of apple bread... and two pounds of fresh rhubarb. That last item came to me completely free.

On my way into the Fruit House Winery, an older farmer-y gentleman called out to me, "Hello! How are you today!" We chatted about the weather briefly, he wandered into the winery as well. We continued talking as I tasted.

Me: Hey, you don't happen to know where I can get some rhubarb, do you? Is it even the season, anyway?

Farmer: It's in season now. I mean, we have some here...

Me: Oh? Can I buy it in the shop here, like the asparagus?

Farmer: We have some here, but we don't grow it commercially, just in our private garden.

Me (must be looking dejected): Oh.

Farmer: They certainly should have it in the supermarkets.

Me: I've looked and looked... they don't even have it at Meijer. (Farmer finishes his "sample" of Pinot Gris, smiles, and leaves. Returns with a plastic shopping bag and a long serrated knife).

Farmer: When you finish tasting, don't rush now, you can follow me out to our garden and I'll cut you some.

Me (I finish my wine): Excellent!

Evan, Andrew, and I follow the behind the old farmer's golf cart for three or four minutes. We drive across the entire Uncle John's orchard, and end up in what looks like a pile of weeds near a house. The farmer motions me out of my car.

We chat as he cuts the rhubarb for me-- "Here you go, just another handful there..."

Me: Well, let's go on back down and weigh this, and we can see how much I owe you.

Farmer: No, it's on me.

Me (stunned): Are you sure?

Farmer: Yeah. I'm Uncle John, by the way.

(In my head: this is hilarious... so quaint... this is the kind of stuff people travel to fucking IRELAND for... and come to find out it happens right here in my own backyard. Ain't rhubarb sweet?)

The Apartment

I know you were probably hoping for an engaging discussion about that classic movie, one of my all-time faves, starring Jack Lemmon and Shirley "So-Cute" McClean (sp?), but you're not going to get it-- at least this time.

Instead, I thought I'd take you on a brief and self-indulgent tour of my since-I've-been-married addresses, noting the perks and pits of each. At the end of my discussion I will come to some general conclusions about apartment-living, my style.

1. September 2000-May 2001. 81 Miller St., Canada Court, Glasgow, Scotland. This flat was the size of the thimble a gnome tailor would use to repair buttonholes. Everything in it was blue, from the wall-to-wall carpeting to the overstuffed furniture to the fecking drapes on the windows. It looked like jillions of Smurfs crapped and spread it everywhere. And the heating sucked so much that I used to wear a hoodie and two pairs of socks just to sit on the couch and read a book-- in fact, sometimes the heating was so bad that it was warmer outside than it was in my flat. The upside: location, location, location... walking distance of anything I cared about-- gym, museum, train, creative writing group, shopping, restaurant, TESCO. George Square. Pubs. Library satellite center.

2. June 2001-May 2004. Northwest Apartments, on the lovely campus of Central MI University. Amount of space seemed kingly to what we had in Glasgow: an upstairs, with two bedrooms and a bathroom, and downstairs a combination living/kitchen area. Everyone said they were sort of institutional looking-- I didn't care. Instead tried to capitalize on this by creating a sort of "urban" feel with decor (having said that, there's not much to be done when the furniture comes with the place, and said pieces aren't urban-chic, but rather college-chic-- read: no matter how many drunk students abuse it, it is completely indestructible). I liked this community a lot. At the time, America still thought it OK to allow foreign students into our universities, so I had a load of exchange student friends who were a total blast (nothing funnier than hearing a bunch of non-native English speakers speak to one another in English, and then tear each other new ones when they don't know a certain word or turn of phrase). Again, it was all about location. Can't get much closer to campus than living right the hell on it.

The downside of NW Apts. came when we had Evan-- and also got all Evan's stuff. It became just too small.

One more upside: there was a sofa bed.

3. October 2004-July 2005. VA101, Postgrad Residence Bloc A, Dublin City University. This flat was the grand mammy of all apartments I'd lived in to date. Not only were there two bedrooms each with their own bathroom, it was also across the street from a good park with a fenced-in kids play area. We had a great view. Evan loved looking out our wall-o-windows in the kitchen/living area and waving to people, birds, trucks, whatever. Quiet place. Came with a vacuum! Downsides: expensive for poor people, small refrigerator, one time the water got cut off for two days and I had to wash myself in the kitchen sink. Laundromat: overpriced and too crowded. No restaurants or cafes of note close by.

In retrospect: I realize it's pretty hot when Dubliners say anything with a hard "t"... like "tunder," or "tanks a million."

4. August 2005-present. A non-descript ground-floor apartment, Mt. Pleasant, MI--fairly new, all amenities I've never had-- AC, washer/dryer, dishwasher. Lots of storage. Close enough to walk to work. No view... just a green dumpster, a parking lot; and, outside, all the dog poop littering the lawn. I hate dogs. Sort of loud: last night I heard my upstairs neighbors having sex. I saw the guy this morning when I was taking the garbage out and had to refrain from saying something like, "It sounds like you had a good time last night." Same upstairs neighbors turn into elephants after 10:30 PM every night. I don't know what they eat for dinner, but it has serious side effects.

So, that's it in a nutshell, as you can see, my powers of description went a bit limp-dicked after the Glasgow section. This isn't because I'm lazy. It's because I have a rhubarb crumble waiting for me, and I find it more appealing than I do this topic.

If you ever have the chance, though, do go see THE APARTMENT at the GFT on Rose Street in Glasgow.

Po' Bastard's Jiffy Pizzeria

About two years ago, I toured the Jiffy factory in Chelsea, MI with my mom and sister Angela. So long ago was this adventure that I was only about 10-12 weeks pregnant with Evan, Son-of-Bacon. Anywho, for anyone who cares, the Jiffy factory tour is free, and you get a souvenir hairnet and assorted Jiffy-related trinkets, plus two free Jiffy mixes of whatever you want. That day, I chose the Jiffy pizza crust-- and today, I do the same.

Po' Bastard's Jiffy Pizza(s)

Ingredients:
-1 box Jiffy pizza crust, prepared according to package directions
-1 small jar marinated artichoke hearts, sort of drained and chopped
-1/2 can diced tomatoes, very well-drained
-1/2 small log goat cheese, thinly sliced

Arrange. Bake.

OR, option #2, from this evening:

-1 box Jiffy pizza crust, prepared according to package directions
-big handful of mixed chopped olives (like kalamata, and big green ones stuffed with garlic or bleu cheese)
-drizzle of olive oil
-shredded mozzarrella, enough to cover the pizza

Arrange, cheese on first. Olives second. Bake.

I love pizza. I love it so much that I could eat it every day, and might try to do so while Andrew is away this weekend in DC.

Implants and Minis

I've decided that two things would make my life 111% better than it is at present. These two things are: 1) breast implants, and 2) a Cooper Mini.

It seems like the most successful people in the world own one very large thing and one itsy-bitsy thing. For example, a big big house and a tiny dog; a stretch limousine and a midget chauffer; an Olympically-deep pool encrusted with zillions of tiny diamonds, etc.

It's probably pure power to own things that are complete size-opposites-- to do so means you are one, maybe three, steps closer to unifying all that is diametrically opposed in the world. I find that prospect very alluring.

In fact, as soon as I finish another half hour or so of computing final grades, I'm off to make this dream a reality. Since I only have about $20.00 in my pocket, I'm going to go to Goodwill to buy a pair of very large men's shoes, and then I will walk home in them while eating a very tiny ice cream sundae.

Trump that.

Darkness falls across the land

Unfortunately, I've computed more final grades in the last hour. The results are equally bleak as earlier today.

Not good.

Who needs a drink?

I foresee lots of student whining in my future. Or, worse yet, no whining-- which means students like mine fall off the academic map into other less favorable arenas of life--like working at Taco Bell-- where they'll never learn how to motivate thmselves, or how to think independently; or even how to think or DO inside the box.

Fortified...

...by chocolate yogurt mixed with brownie bits, I begin phase Dos of grading for today.

These results better be better, or else someone will pay direly.

It's not going to be me.

Finals week... some totals are in

I was in my office this AM grading my first set of exams. While the exams themselves were mostly more than adequate, and some of them were quite good, as I began computing my students semester grades, a very disturbing trend emerged.

Many of my students will fail the class earning stunningly low percentages. We're talking so bottom-of-the-barrel that most people don't even know it's humanly possible to earn such a low score in a college course. Many average students have failed exams or classes by earning at least 50%; and if not 50%, then at least somewhere below it that is still in a positive percentage range.

Today's semester grades were so low that you have to admire the choices one must make to fail so greatly. Failure, at this level, is a deliberate choice, a mode of being, an essence of the individual... where the person is tied so closely to his/her failure-success that it becomes an integral part of who he/she is-- it defines the identity, completes it, even. You have to be a very inventive person to come up with all sorts of things to do OTHER than go to class and study. You have to be a creative problem-solver, developing alternative options in any type of situation. Such failure-success is the result of extreme dedication to a task. You have to be focused, driven, and aware of yourself.

Some people might call it failure, but I say underachieving is the key to ultimate happiness: no expectations + no rules = complete freedom to be you and me.