Textbook costs really are ridiculous.
Yes, I realize that textbooks are how most schools make a little extra dough to subsidize their meager earnings from the government and all, but…honestly. Does my analytical geometry text REALLY need to cost $120? It’s not like I’m going to school to become a math genius. This isn’t even a class for math majors (the catalog was very insistent upon this fact, noting it a whole three times in the class description alone) and yet I’m supposed to happily shell out a hundred and twenty bucks (not including tax and shipping) for a book that I will get one use out of and attempt to sell back at the end of semester, only to be told that they’ve gone to a new edition and won’t be buying it back after all. (which is what happened to me the first time I took a math class in college. First semester of college and none of my books were bought back because they had all gone to new editions. $500 in texts down the drain for gen ed classes. Fuckers.)
Please don’t pipe up to tell me that I can easily get the books for a fraction of the cost at Half and Abebooks
, the latter of which I use so frequently, they’ve taken to sending me discounts and lauding me as a “Premiere Customer.” Ffft. This particular math book was actually tailored specifically for my school. So I can’t just buy the off-the-shelf version. And yes, I’ve already checked numerous online bookstores for someone else selling theirs from last semester. No go.I shouldn’t complain so much because I do get tuition reimbursement through my company (up to 75% tax-free for about a third of the classes I take; the rest gets taxed heavily…assholes) but still. The bite up front stinks something awful. Especially coming out of the Christmas season where the Almighty Dollar got passed around most heavily and left my pocketbook smoking at the end of it all.
The folks I feel most for are the younguns still trying to get their sea legs with this whole college/adult life thing. I remember how tight it was working and paying for my own school, and I lived at home for three years of it! Had I been paying rent and utilities on top of that, I would’ve probably ended up giving handjobs in public restrooms to cover my living expenses and hopefully have enough left over for a decent meal, (money, people! I mean using money to buy a decent meal of food! You perverts…) the unexpected bonus of which would be nicely-toned arms. w00t.
I feel like I’m coming down with something. No surprise there. The Roommate spent most of Christmas vacation having bizarre Bubonic Plague symptoms that threatened to send his innards outwards. Which would have pissed me off because the house is currently spotless and I didn’t spend all that time and elbow grease just to have blood and mucus strewn about, leaving stains in the carpet and upholstery.
We momentarily assumed The Roommate was suffering from food poisoning since the symptoms arrived less than six hours after his department’s holiday luncheon. He spent several days sick at home, during which time we continued our assumption. Unfortunately upon his return to work, it was discovered through conversation with coworkers that two of them had also been suffering the same fate, and one of them hadn’t even been at the luncheon. They all came to the same conclusion. The goddamned flu. Grrr.
I don’t want to hear it about any flu shot. The Roommate’s coworkers both received their flu shots and still got sick. So that’s bogus hoodoo. I’ve been biding my time waiting for this phantom illness to strike. And I think it’s making its move, mercifully waiting until the holidays were through. Bless its little heart. But I have plans this Saturday night to meet up with Izzy and Jette for some dinner and QT. Manda Sick = No QT For Me. Last thing I want to do is send Jette home with a viral present for her daughter and husband. See what a great human being I am?
Can’t. Stop. Listening. To. Depeche. Mode.
Send. Help.
Or. Tequila.
In other news, I wore my “Wolfman’s Got Nards!” t-shirt to the grocery store the other day, and for the first time since I got it three months ago, someone actually recognized the picture and quote. It was such a refreshing change from having folks trying to discretely read my shirt, only to give themselves away by being unable to disguise the look of complete shock and horror that inevitably crosses their faces.
The guy was standing across the open freezer from me as I inspected the frozen pie shells. He’d been poking at bags of frozen mixed veggies when he glanced up at me, did a magnificent double-take, and stared at my tits for what seemed like forever before chuckling and telling me “great shirt!” Only half-paying attention, what I heard was “Great shit!” I thought he was excited about vegetables. I looked up at him and he pointed at my tits. I was understandably annoyed until the light bulb went on and I remembered what I was wearing. At which time I managed a wry grin and told him “Damn right. Bettah recognize.” He countered with “Wolfman’s nards all up in this hizzy, yo.” Seriously, had he not been mildly ugly and sporting a wedding ring, I probably would have adopted him as my pop culture sex slave right then and there.