Flop

The woman who is the manager of the hoo ha expensive restaurant gave me some quizzes from a previous class. In the immortal words of Sandra Tsing Loh, my bowels turned to ice.

I KNOW NOTHING. I KNOW NOTHING. I KNOW NOTHING.

I said this to a temporary acquaintance (temporary, as in our acquaintanceship was like the life span of a butterfly, a mere fluttering of powdery paper-thin wings--though our first meeting took place only a week ago, we have already parted ways because I felt myself becoming cranky every time we spoke, not because there is anything wrong with him, God bless him in perpetuity, but because the Who He Is simply annoys the Who I Am, and sometimes it just bes like that, next!) last week, and he said in what I interpreted as a cavalier and dismissive fashion, "Oh, you'll do fine."

Um. Not necessarily, and from which of the whimsical gods of fate did you get that news? I was tempted to ask in the crankiest manner possible.

Because when I sit down and study, I look into the vast gaping maw of ignorance, and it is mine.

I do have a strategy: concentrate on the essay questions, of which there are four, and on the blind tastings, of which there are also four, and then just try not to be a complete and utter nincompoop with the 100 multiple choice questions.

[Dunce cap by Arnold Tress.]

P.S. I adore Sandra Tsing Loh, and all the more because I just discovered that she is a great big fan of Jonathan Kozol. As am I. Feel the love.