The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Parole Hearing Tomorrow

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Parole Hearing Tomorrow: Tomorrow during grand rounds the head honcho and his lackeys will decide my fate. Originally I was to be sprung from the pokey for certain e...

Parole Hearing Tomorrow

Tomorrow during grand rounds the head honcho and his lackeys will decide my fate. Originally I was to be sprung from the pokey for certain either today or tomorrow. Then the pesky matter of platelets, or lack thereof, arose. One or another of the lackeys has nothing better to do than to dream of scenarios in which I could conceivably bleed to death. I could assist him. her, or them if  his, her, or their imaginations are running dry. Perhaps I could suffer a gunshot wound directly to my aorta, possibly even in the interception of a bullet in a political assassination attempt. My jugular vein could be slit by a crazy person. I could suffer an abdominal aortic aneurism.  I could even be attacked by an escaped barrel of leeches.  The possibilities are endless. It's just sad that the lackeys are keeping me here longer than I need to be under false pretenses so that my aunts, Godparents, and other miscellaneous relatives and family friends will deliver food to the staff.

Platelets, schmlatelets. Get me out of this $(@#^%*  prison!!!!!!

Gung Hay Fat Choy, and think twice before kissing someone with whose health history you are not thoroughly familiar

Still Making the Nurses Crazy

My Uncle Scott, who has privileges at this hospital, says if I'm driving the nurses here crazy, it's the shortest trip any of them have ever taken in their lives.

I tweeted dear sweet Judge aklex to tell him that my aunt had passed the CA bar exam on her first attempt. I mentioned that my dad was typing for me because I had just undergone a splenectomy. He did reply, wonder of wonders. His reply was, :"Concgratulations (to her, not you)." I supposed he thinks undegoing a splenectomy is not worth of congratulations. Actually, I thought it was pretty funny.

My  mom goes home tomorrow. It will be lonely without here.  I'll stick around a few more days to torment the hospital staff, but should be home by Wednesday at the very latest.

Ciao, and be careful about whom you kiss.

Still Incarcerated

My mom will be sprung from this joint at some time tomorrow, but I still have until at least Tuesday. I usually have my own room in the hospital, but this time I shared with my mom for a couple of days. I must admit that it's been nice having my mom as a roomie. It's been much more convenient for my dad as well. He can make both of our lives miserable from one recliner. He actually made us waltch a PBS replay of Lawrence Welk for the sake of nostalgia this evening. Can you even imagine such a thing? I'm stil detoxing, as is my mom.

I have an idea which may prove my point that Judge alex is interested in increasing his ratings and in hearing just how hot women think he is. I plan to establish a couple of fake Twitter accounts with buxom blondes, brunettes, or whatever, all of whom are of age.  All will essentially proposition him. My guess is that my fake tweeters will receive some sort of response from him, even if it's only thanks, but no thanks; I'm married; but do please keep watching my show.

The judge didn't respond when I told him I had mono. He didn't reply when my Aunt Heather tweeted that I had my spleen removed, and he gave no response when I told him my PseudoAunt passed the CA bar exam on her first try. If my fake bimbos tell him he's hotter than the earth's core, that they frequently think about what he's wearing under his robe, or that they would love to be sentenced by him, his response rate will be between twenty-five and fifty per cent. I cannot yet do this because the equipment I need to scan profile photos is at home, but once I'm allowed to use a computer at home, I'll try it  in the interest of science. My guess is that he is every bit as big an opportunistic cad as I predict he is, but time will tell.

Thanks for the words of encouragement. I appreciate them very much.

Announcement

I'm dictating. My dad is typing for me. I'm a bit loopy from the narcotics I've been given, but I do have something to say. My PseudoAunt Jillian has passed the California Bar Exam on her first try. This was a major feat. She basically walked into the testing room and took the test cold with no preparation other than what she received from her law school courses. Most bar applicants study hours a day for months. Her plan was to take it with no preparation so that she would have a bettter idea how to focus her studies for her first "real" attempt at passage. She was further hindered by having attended law school in a state other than California. Some aspects of the law are common to all states, and some states bear more commonality in state laws than do others, but it was still impressive that she passed without a rigorous course of study after having attended an out-of-state law school. I'm still stuck in this hospital bed, but I'm celebrating with her and with her family and friends in spirit.

Congratulations, Auntie.

Love,

Alexis

Uncle Steve Reporting

This is Alexis' Uncle Steve - not Uncle Scott, her "PseudoUncle" who is probably her favorite person in the world -  but rather her paternal biological uncle who is also her pediatrician. Alexis and I have had our moments in the past as she's not the world's most compliant patient, but we generally remain close in spite of it.

It was noticed that her spleen enlargement was getting worse and not better, and that the front wall was growing precariously thin. The decision was made to remove the spleen under optimal conditions before she rolled over onto it in the middle of the night and ruptured it, which would have necessitated much more perilous and less-controlled surgery. She made it through with flying colors. She's not complaining much due to the wonders of modern pharmaceuticals. She'll be fine, and her recovery time will not be much if any longer than it would have been without the surgery because she would have needed major downtime with the enlarged spleen anyway

Alexis' mom had a kidney stone removed, and her dad is with her mom, so I'm on night watch with Alexis over the graveyard shift tonight. If she were able to say anything coherent, she'd wish you all well  and tell you to be careful whom you kiss. Tomorrow she'll at least be able to dictate her own message instead of being at the mercy of whatever her crazy old uncle wants to share.

Matt, I believe you hit the nail on the head when you suggested that Alexis' former Twitter friend Judge Alex doesn't care a great deal about anything but ratings.

I hope you all sleep more comfortably than I'm likely to sleep in the hospital recliner next to Alexis' bed. In our family, we're protective. Most screw-ups in terms of misunderstood doctors' instructions and inaccurately dispensed dosages of medications occur in the wee hours of the morning.  We don't take chances with our kids even if it means spending nights in uncomfortable hospitals recliners.

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Relativity of Luck/ Hospitals

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Relativity of Luck/ Hospitals: i'm lucky in some ways. I'm not luky because my leg was mangked in a track and field accident. I'm not lucky because I was assaulted. I'm no...

Relativity of Luck/ Hospitals

I'm lucky in some ways. I'm not lucky because my leg was mangled in a track and field accident. I'm not lucky because I was assaulted. I'm not lucky because my appendix ruptured when a half-wit could've diagnosed appendicitis before it ruptured. I'm not even lucky because I have mono. Mono sucks.

I'm lucky because I'm not in a hospital. People with mono aren't typically admitted to hospitals, although I'm closer to hospital incarceration than most of my fellow mono sufferers because of an enlarged spleen, still, I'm not yet locked up in a hospital bed. Instead, I'm in my own comfortable room. It has a pink, white, and black color scheme. It has room for my baby grand piano. It has a flatscreen TV. It has a bed at least one hundred times more comfortable than the most comfortable hospital bed. It has awesome vertical blinds that can allow the room to be filled with sunlight or can be a virtual cave. I have multiple matching sheets, comforters, and rugs. The bathroom matches the color scheme of the room, and has towels actually thick enough to dry me after a shower, as opposed to my parents' cast-off towels to which I used to be relegated to using, which wouldn't have adequately dried someone standing outside during a drought.

My point here is not to boast of the generosity of my Godparents in creating my room. My point is that people with illnesses would recuperate faster and more cheaply if they checked into four-star hotels and hired registered nurses to care for them while there. Hospitals don't really make people well. Patients recover in spite of hospitals, not because of them.

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Announcing the birth of Chamomile Aphrodite, but n...

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Announcing the birth of Chamomile Aphrodite, but n...: My Aunt Christelle and Uncle Mendel are the proud parents of a new eight-pound-three-ounce baby. When they told us Christelle hadn't been to...

Announcing the birth of Chamomile Aphrodite, but not exactly . . .

My Aunt Cristelle and Uncle Mendel are the proud parents of a new eight-pound-three-ounce baby. When they told us Cristelle hadn't been to a doctor, then told us the baby was to be a girl, I don't know how we didn't put two and two together and end up with seventeen, as Cristelle and Mendel obviously had done. We thought they must have visited an ultrasound clinic or something of the sort, but no; one of their Wiccan friends had presided over some sort of ceremony where she determined the sex of the baby to be female in utero by dropping a white feather precisely six feet above cristelle's navel and observing where the feather landed; the results of the Wiccan ceremony were supported by Cristelle's and Mendel's strong premonitions, which turned out to be about as accurate ass the reults of the Wiccan ceremony.. Everyone had a fifty-fifty shot at predicting correctly, but the Wiccans were consistently aligned with the losing fifty.

So I now have a new cousin. His name is Blitzen Manx. The Manx part comes from his having been born in the Isle of Man. The Blitzen part comes from God knows where. Perhaps either Cristelle or Mendel has a particular affinity for Santa's eighth reindeer. They  claim not to practice Christianity, but maybe the Santa part of the Christian-related holiday is exempt from the Wiccan system of non-belief.

Blitzen was born in a hospital, as I think I announced earlier would happen. My dad had persuaded Mendel and Cristelle that such was an absolute necessity.The poor child faced more than  enough obstacles working against his favor simply by virtue of being the result of the union of Mendel's sperm and Cristelle's egg, never mind compounding the odds against him that would be endured by any baby being delivered anywhere other than in a competent medical care facility. Labor was proceeding very slowly, as in Christelle thought she was at death's door when only the most sensitive of monitors could detect even that a contraction was occurring. I metioned i all seriousness in an earlier blog that Cristelle cannot suffer through a paper cut without an extra-strength Vicodin tablet..

Cristelle was two days overdue. Labor was clearly in progress, slow though it might have been. The doctor decided that the baby was clearly on its way and that Cristelle wasn't going to be anymore rested for the big event if  nature were to be allowed to crawl along at its own snail's pace, so the doctor ruptured Christelle's membranes.  Rupturing membranes, otherwise known as breaking the water, often spontaneously accelerates and intensifies labor. At that point all Hell broke loose. My dad and I really should have (and would have if we weren't related to a bunch of total buzz-kill Mormons on that side of the family) created a betting pool related to the number of full-scale contractions Christelle would tolerate before throwing plans of a natural childbirth to the wind and demanding painkillers, be they demerol, stadol, whatever is given in an epidural, or  rock cocaine in its purest form.  Dad and I would've made a killing on the gambling venture. Christelle was threatening medical personnel with bodily harm if they didn't produce an anaesthesiologist and get an epidural going pronto. One of the hospital personnel who incurred her wrath and threats was the janitor who came in to mop up the mess after Uncle Mendel tossed his cookies on the floor following the breaking of the water. (Perhaps it's a Wiccan tradition.) Imagine the nerve of a hospital custodian janitor  not to immediately cough up the goods required to propel Cristelle into epidural-induced all-time high!

An epidural didn't happen when it was demanded, but the doctor did give Cristelle demerol through her IV. This caused her to be incredibly loopy. She would grab at the arms of anyone who was foolish enough to walk within her reach during a contraction and beg them for more drugs because she seemed to seriously believe she was dying. At the immediate conclusion of each contraction, she would fall into an almost coma-like sleep, or in as coma-like  state of sleep into which one could fall into in just three minutes. After about twelve hours of this almost comedic repetition, (I say "almost comedic" because I could never consider the pain experienced by a laboring mother-to-be, as exaggerated as it may have appeared to observers,  to be a source of genuine humor. From most accounts, giving birth is painful, and I will not laugh about anyone's discomfort incurred in  the process.) Cristelle was dilated to a whopping four centimeters, which might have been sufficient to allow her to give birth to a gerbil if forceps were used.  Pitocin was administered. The only thing this accomplished was that Cristelle transitioned from begging for more drugs to demanding them while hollering out the most graphic expletives imaginable.

When Pitocin yielded no measurable results after two hours, the doctor decided that the baby wasn't coming out in the traditional way. Forty-five minutes later, Blitzen Manx was born via Caesarean section. One aspect of Cristelle's dream childbirth experience was realized. My mother had purchased a sheet that was a rose petal-covered print. She had it hospital-sterilized and sealed and sent it over to the Isle of Man. It was placed upon the O. R. table before Cristelle was lifted on. In a convoluted sort of way, Cristelle was able to give birth on a bed of roses.

I won't get to see the baby anytime soon because I won't be healthy enough to travel in the near future, plus there's the pesky matter of school. I ordered an outfit for Blitzen and had it sent to him on the  Isle of Man. Mendel's parents are no longer on the planet, and Cristelle's parents (my paternal grandparents) have  had so many grandchildren already that they cease to be excited about any new ones, which makes me a bit sad for Cristelle and for the baby. Every baby deserves to have grandparents excited about his or her arrival. My Uncle Steve and his wife, my Aunt Heather, are going to visit the new little family next week, and will stay for ten days or so to help with housekeeping tasks and to take care of the baby and Cristelle while Mendel works a few hours each day. Uncle Steve is a pediatrician, and Aunt Heather  is a nurse practitioner, and they have two children of their own, so they should be of much practical assistance. My parents plan to visit right after Christmas. I wish I could go, but it's not in the plans right now. Maybe either their family will visit the U. S. or I can go there during the summer. I'm excited to see and  touch and hold little Blitzen Manx even if his parents did burden him with a rather strange name.

I would like to go on record as saying I have never experienced labor or childbirth, and I cannot guarantee that my performance during such won't be every bit as dramatic as Cristelle's if not more so. My dad said if it is, he will disown me.

Still Battling the Kissing Disease

The Mono hasn't gone anywhere yet, not that anyone ever guaranteed  it would be gone by now, Someone suggested that resting now would probably ultimately reduce the time I'll need for recuperation later. if such is the case, I'm going to be the fasted damned recuperator in history. My parents will barely allow me to lift my hed off my pillow except when I need to visit the bathroom. I'm allowed to use my computer for fifteen minutes a day, which sounds Draconian, but's it's all I can manage anyway.

My mom was attending classes and taking notes for me, which, while very sweet of her, was mortifying to me. In my music theory class, someone didn't understand something, so my  mom explained it to him, which resulted in the professor asking about my mother's academic background. She has doctorates in music, as well as educational and clinical and psychology. To make a long story short, my professor handed his dry erase marker over to my mom, who finished his lecture for him. The only thing that might have made it worse was if I had been there. I am much relieved that all of my professors told my mom I was doing fine in class, but that they would email their lecture notes to me so that I could be prepared for final exams without the mortification of her sitting through anymore of my classes

I'm mostly too disoriented to even watch TV. My mom turns on music for me to hear, but since I'm too weak to get up and turn it on myself, I'm totally at her mercy. I'm not fond of Tchaikovsky. I'm fairly certain that listening to it has made me substantially sicker.

My dad came in with his guitar. If I had to listen to one artist for the rest of my life, it probably wouldn't be my dad, but I'd rather hear him than Tchaikovsky any day. He at least plays what I ask him to play, and he doesn't perform "Waltz of the Flowers" or anything else from "The Nutcracker Suite."

Tomorrow if my mom trries to turn on music, I'll ask her to play my parlour grand piano that now fits in my new room. She doesn't play that mush Tchaikovsky, so that aspect will be good. Perhaps she'll even take requests like my dad does. my mom was a dul voice-piano enphasis i her doctoratre, so she sings well inadditin to playing piano beyond proficiently. If I askhe to sing something by Andrew Lllod Webber, or even sometihing from "Fiddler on the Roof,"  "Brigadoon,"  or "Wicked," she'll forget all about Tchaikovsky. My favirite thing that she sings is actually "pie jesu" from Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Requiem." It's perhaps a bit morbid as it's from a funeral mass, but I can never hear it too many times.

Even though I did not contract this illness through oral contact, I'd advise anyone who happens to read this not to kiss anyone just to be safe.

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: The Kissing Disease

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: The Kissing Disease: Yes, I have it. Mononucleosis. The dreaded kissing disease. I haven't kissed anyone since early June, and the incubation period is far short...

The Kissing Disease

Yes, I have it. Mononucleosis. The dreaded kissing disease. I haven't kissed anyone since early June, and the incubation period is far shorter than four months. I have no clue as to how I could have contracted this ailment. I don't even drink from drinking fountains.

I came down with a fever on Tuesday. I went to school anyway because that's what I do. On Wednesday I was able to get out the door and on my way  school without anyone noticing. By Thursday, the symptoms were so obvious  that even my parents couldn't miss them. One exam and a blood test later, and I've been branded practically a slut.

I had to take Thursday and Friday off. This week I probab;ly won't be allowed out of the house, either. Fortunately I'm way ahead in my classes. Nevertheless, my mom will attend my classes and take notes for me. Even though it somewhat embarrasses me, I don't want to seem ungrateful. It's a very nice thing she's doing, and few mothers would go to such lengths for their kids. (Can you hear the propeller or the purr of the helicopter motor from where you are?)  I'm desperately needed to babysit two little kids whose mom just had surgery, but I'm not allowed anywhere near them just in case I might drool on them or something like that.

After a week of virtual quarantine, which at least will happen in  room that's the one-bedroom equivalent to a five-star hotel, my dad and my doctor will re-evaluate. I have a dorm room on campus. I can probably go to class, then go to my dorm to rest between classes. My dad may even ask the enablement office or whatever office it is that caters to those with disabilities to transport me to and from class by wheelchair. Won't that be cute? I'm not already enough of a freak because I look like I'm in middle school; I can now be a freaky looking middle school student in a wheelchair at my university. Send in the clowns.

This, I've been assured, is temporary. The plan is for me to meet up with my love interest over Christma break. i probably can't kiss him now. Maybe he'll just think I'm playing hard to get.

In the meantime, my throat hurts, my neck is sore,  my head hurts, my midsection hurts, and I feel like sh--.

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Halloween in Isla Vista

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Halloween in Isla Vista: Isla Vaista, a small unincoporated community located just across a bridge from UC-Santa Barbara and consisting almost entirely of university...

Halloween on Bourbon Street

"Bourbon Street", a small unincoporated community located just across a bridge from my university and consisting almost entirely of university students, is surely the Halloween Capital of the World. I had the privilege of being present on "Bourbon Street" for a very short interval. "Bourbon Street" Drive, the Isla Vista street closest to the ocean, was the hub of activity. "Bourbon Street" is the hub of most social activity in the greater UCSB community, Halloween or not.

I'll try to decsribe what I saw using an analogy of a TV program I once saw. Once when I was injured and couldn't reach the remote control for the tV, an episode of  "Cops" aired that was filmed on Bourbon Street in New Orleans on the night of Mardi Gras. The law enforcement officers being filmed only took ten steps maximum before coming upon another person committing some obviously law-breaking act for which he or she had to be arrested. It was one arrest after another. The officers had to request additional handcuffs several times.

"Bourbon Street"  Drive  on Halloween wasn't quite then seen of drunken debauchery as Bourbon Street on fat Tuesday, but it was damned close. I didn't see as much as I might have, because my PseudoAunt Jillian's brother timmy, his cousin Peter, or his cousin peter's firend Peter kept putting their hands over my eyres everytime the saw a male exposing parts of his anatomy that should not have been displayed. Once when they weren't properly vigilant, howeverm I did see a male approximately twenty years of age attempting to take a leak into a beer bottle from ten feet away. His aim wasn't as good as he thought it was; he ended up dousing a jacket or sweatshirt that was left lying next to the beer bottle.

I spent much of the thirty-minute sojourn down two streets hidden under Timmy's jacket. Anytime a law enforcement officer was near, the guys with me hid me because even though none of us was doing anything illegal, the guys didn't want to explain what they were doing there with an obviously underage female. Cousin Peter, in particular, was concerned that someone might be charged with some sort of conspiracy to commit statuatory rape. cousin Peter is a doctor and can't afford to have such a charge on his record.

It was all pretty funny. Intoxicated people are entertaining to watch. If you were there, I hope you had a good time. I certainly had fun watching you.

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Halloween at My University

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Halloween at My University: Hallooween is celbrated with intensity here. It's not merely a one-evening or even a twenty-four-hour celebration. The drunken revelry has ...

Halloween at My University

Hallooween is celbrated with intensity here. It's not merely a  one-evening or even a twenty-four-hour celebration. The drunken revelry has been going on for the better part of a week. Monday night it will supposedly escalate to the level of Mardi Gras in New Orleans.

My pseudoAunt's brother Timmy said he will take me so that I can at least see the celebration. He said we won't stay for long because the drunken revelry is somewhat dangerous, but that he will at least let me get a look at the parties. The closer one gets to the ocean, the more exciting the parties become. The very last street before the ocean is the rough equivalent to Bourbon Street. It's already in full celebration mode.

Timmy said no one sober enough to notice would be comfortable with me in attendance at his or her party because my youthful appearance would likely attract the attention of law enforcement personnel. still, he thinks we can pole our heads into a couple of exciting events during a thirty-minute-walk down Bourbon Street.

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Held Against My Will (sort of)

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Held Against My Will (sort of): My Pseudoaunt and Pseudouncle showed up at my house unexpectedly today. I wasn't expecting them, anyway. My mom apparently was. As soon as t...

Held Against My Will (sort of)

My Pseudoaunt and Pseudouncle showed up at my house unexpectedly today. I wasn't expecting them, anyway. My mom apparently was. As soon as they walked in the door and told me of their plans to kidnap me and keep me overnight, forcing me to miss four of my university classes tomorrow,  my mom handed to my Pseudoaunt a bag packed with what she thought I would need for an overnight trip. I attempted to politely decline the invitation, but my Pseudouncle used his size and strength to force me into their car.

Now we're at a hotel located close to an amusement park. Tomorrow morning, when I should be on campus attending class, I will be forced to visit an amusement park and ride roller coasters. Whoever heard of such a thing? If a kid screws up and gets a lousy grade in a course, which I've never exactly done, everyone in the world is angry with the kid. Once I did get a mid-quarter progress report that had a minus after the A. I lost computer privileges for three weeks until the teacher got around to letting my parents know that my average in the class was, with the extra credit that I did, back  up to 104.8%.  Now the people in charge of me are forcing me to miss an entire day's worth of classes.

The supposed reason for my adult-enforced instance of playing hooky is that I am now taking my studies too seriously and am stressing out over my courseload.  I'm taking 21 quarter units. What sane person wouldn't be stressed out?  The answer to my being stressed about classes and grades, they think, is to take me away from the courses and everything associated with them for a day. Won't my anxiety be even greater on Tuesday night, just before I have to return to the classes that I skip tomorrow? The logic, or lack thereof, displayed by certain people close to me is mind-boggling.

So tomorrow, while most of the world is toiling away, I will be engaged in the forced merriment of riding roller coasters in the name of mental health. Happy Monday, everyone.

Fairly Odd Professor

I've finished five of six mid-terms. My last one is on Friday. I continue to tell myself, "This, too, shall pass."

One of my professors, whose couse shall not be identified because one never knows for certain that she's not an insomniac googler, is weirder than hell. She rides her bicycle to class for each session, lugging her cat along in her cat carrier each time.  She then lets the cat out in the classroom; each time the door opens and another student enters, she shrieks, "Don't let the cat out!" The cat, clearly unhappy with the arrangement, paces the room meowing loudly and occasionally jumping onto a desk. Sometimes the cat hisses at the person on whose desk she jumped. One girl in the class is really freaked out by cats. She has to take Ativan, prescribed by some practitioner at the student health center, before each class. A guy in the class is quite allergic to cats. The doctor he saw at the health center wanted information regarding what professor was repeatedly bringing her cat to class when at least one of the students  has obvious issues with the presence of a cat. The guy would not tell the doctor because he feared retaliation; grading is generally subjective.

If bringing a cat to class were the only odd thing about this professor I could more or less ignore it, as I'm not personally affected either by cat anxiety or by allergies; however, this professor is a Tea Party proponent and a birther. How she ever got hired here is a mystery to me. My university is probably the number two bastion of liberality on the west coast, second only to U. C. Berkeley. A person who finds a way to work into her lecture each session a topic related to the foreign birth and, hence, illegal presidency of our nation's current president has some inherent gifts in creativity.  I cannot disclose the course name or description, but, believe me, it's not in any way related to U. S. government. The professor's briefcase bears a photo of Michelle Bachman crudely taped on with duct tape. If I were going to carry a briefcase with a picture of Michelle Bachman, which I wouldn't -- ever -- even if I were paid to do so, I would find a way to attach it that didn't involve silver metallic tape.

As strange as this professor herself is the product she peddles. None of my other professors uses class time to attempt to profit finacially from his or her students. Doing so would seem to pose a potential conflict of interest, or possibly even the hint of impropriety.This lady sells  essential oils.. I can't disclose the brand name here, but it's highly unlikely that you've ever heard of it; the FDA hasn't, either. The professor's cousin allegedly manufactures the supplements in her garage lab. I'm certainly not going to jeopardize my health, much less part with my hard-earned cash, for some dubiously produced and unapproved greasy substance, even though she guaranteed that I would grow two inches and gain twenty-six pounds if I used the crud. After the guy had his first allergic reaction to her cat, the professor tried to sell him a bottle of compound vitamins that she said would take care of his allergy in no time.  One would think she could have given him the stuff when her cat caused his allergic reaction, but the price she quoted to him ($29.95   for a single vial)  didn't seem to be even a discounted price. The allergic guy appears not to be a total idiot; he didn't buy the product.

We've only turned in one assignment for this course, which has not yet been returned to us even though it was four weeks ago that the assignment was due, and will take our first exam on Friday. If the professor's judgment in grading is as compromised as is the rest of her teaching style, I will be seriously upset. If not, I'll chalk this one up to experience and simply be glad when the experience is over.