Algebra Final Today!

The dust bunnies are growing in size and number, and are discussing a coup. The wood stove has issues with its chimney and I haven't dusted anything in weeks. The filing cabinet is empty, but there are papers spread all over the dining room floor, and the dishes in the sink are . . . unpleasant to contemplate.
However, my bed is made, and the laundry is taking care of itself, thanks to the wonders of automation.
Therefore, like the good little logician that I am, I must conclude that we are less than three weeks from the end of the semester.
Next week, the housekeeping blight will have spread further.
Meanwhile, I feel as if vital parts of my brain have left for the coast. I can't find essential documents the Ethics professor handed us in class last week. And I keep thinking about mortality tables and the expected value of insurance policies. These are all symptoms of having to take the Algebra final at 1 this afternoon.
Prayer appears to be needed, since I can't figure out how to solve a whole group of problems. I swear I was in class and watched the professor solve a bunch of these, and even solved some in class myself, but that series of problems is now a complete mystery.
I am strangely calm, though. As one friend keeps telling me, all I have to do is pass.

Midterm Terror

We are about halfway through the semester, and I have survived my first official midterm. The Algebra professor did some numerical magic, weighting the in-class work, the homework, the haikus and the midterm exam appropriately, and gave me the highest grade I've ever received in any course even vaguely related to mathematics.

I am gobsmacked.

Exhausted, but amazed. If I continue the way I'm going, with the homework, the reading and re-reading, I may actually get an A in Math and Modern Culture. We are moving next into probability, so by the end of the semester, I should be able to calculate the odds on my getting that grade.

My other classes don't have midterms as such, but there has been a certain amount of reckoning going on. My English grades currently range from good to dismal, but a couple of term papers may put those right.

As for Ethics, we're launching our group project and adjusting to the idea that our professor admires Paris Hilton. Think about it; after a few minutes, it starts to make sense.

Or, I could be really, really tired.

Hobbes? Which Hobbes?

Mid-semester is a really good time to start facing down the facts. For one, I am not an intellectual. If some attractive man at a party starts a sentence by quoting Hobbes, there is a faint hope in my heart that he is talking about Calvin's tigerish friend, rather than the terribly serious philosopher. Usually, though, the extremely cute man is about to launch into a discussion of his personal political philosophy, based on a well-memorized paragraph that Hobbes published a long time ago in a very highly regarded (and rarely read) book. And while the charming gentleman may intend the discussion to be a vibrant exchange on political economy, he quickly finds himself in the depths of a monologue, while I mentally check my schedule for time to do the laundry.

I have further proof of my ranking just slightly below the top drawer of intellectual attainment: we had our first exam in Math and Modern Culture this week. My hard-working instructor says my test paper had "a few hiccups." I suspect charitable intentions on her part.

The problem with mathematics is that I started out my arithmetical career by trying to invest numbers with personality. For example, 7s were elegant, princely, and colored green, for some reason. Threes were cozy, gold, and a good number for pieces of candy from Aunt Martha's candy dish. Twos were red and romantic, like valentines, and 4s were spiky but prone to Victorian elaboration.

No wonder I find algebra somewhere between a challenge and a mystery. It almost makes me grateful for my Ethics class.

Side Effects May Include . . .

My retention rate for ethical syllogisms and their implications has not improved. I can tell a hawk from a handsaw, but Plato's finer distinctions are occult and Aristotle's criticisms of his mentor make my head spin, although at a slightly slower rate than last week.

All this hard mental work in Ethics and Algebra is having an unexpected effect. Throughout my entire journalism career, I was dreadful at remembering names and linking them with faces. During the '80s, I could make my self hyperventilate on demand by thinking about attending a city council meeting where all the nameplates had been left off the desks, or even worse, rearranged. Now, although I can't remember the formula for computing annual percentage rates or calculating the maximum amount for a home loan, I suddenly have the ability to remember the names of people I meet briefly.

Last weekend, I was in the men's department at a store in Bellevue. The clerk's name is Ray. His colleague in Accessories on the main floor is named Nicole.

So, why are these names occupying my mental furniture, that should be taken up by really old guys in togas? Maybe my brain is showing its appreciation for the unaccustomed exercise.

Or it could be that since I have bigger ideas to worry about, my brain now feels it can pay attention to things that don't make me as anxious as Algebra does.

Perhaps once I get past the math midterm exam, I'll go right back to forgetting names and misplacing the Facebook in my brain again. What do you think?

Try, Try Again

So, you're out in the driveway, washing the car, and you drop the sponge or rag or whatever on the ground. Most of us pick it back up, rinse off the gravel and go back to work. What if, however, you got frustrated and just left the sponge on the ground and used another one? How many times would you do this before you just gave up and went inside to check what's up on Hulu?

The suburban driveways of Western Washington are not filled with layers of dirty car wash rags and half-washed cars, so I assume that most people aren't that easily frustrated with routine chores. College for me has been the half-washed car. Logic and Algebra, including the irredeemable remedial classes, have been the car wash rags of my life: I get to the difficult parts, anywhere from a week to a month after the start of the new school year and I drop them. I pass the other classes, but since I can't get around the math requirement, I go on to things that are less demanding, like writing news releases, meeting the every-five-minute deadlines of radio news or maintaining sobriety.

It's about time I got the figurative car washed and put in whatever it takes to pass Intermediate Algebra. An authority figure at St. Martin's tells me this is the last time I'll have to take any form of algebra, if I can just pass it this semester. Oh, let's sincerely hope so.