Waxing Poetic

To wax or not to wax, that is the question, especially as it applies to, you know ... the beaver.

We're not talking about the large, furry, amphibious rodent with two sharp front teeth and a flattened tail — no, we're talking beaver — the glorious vagina.

There, I said it, so get over it already.

I'm no expert when it comes to the topic of feminine hygiene or fashion, but in my opinion, that whole bushy-beaver look is so passé. Yet some women in the locker room — and you all know who you are — prance around in the buck, making their business everyone else's.

Look, if you want to sport a full-out mass of hair in the nether region, that's your prerogative. I just don't want to be forced to bear witness to it.

Sure, that hair is God-given, but it commingles with one's perspiration, and well, you get my drift. Trimming the trim helps, in my opinion, as does shaving, but that can be dangerous. Nair® is better, but these options require frequent removal.

So I recommend waxing, and my preference is the Brazilian. It's clean, sexy and erotic. You can even choose to leave a little landing strip or ask for a mustache-shaped design but, as "The Girls" say, "Why bother, unless you need a reminder that you actually have hair down there?"

"The Girls" are Vada and Yuba — my Brazilian-wax consultants from Russia with love. You'll find them at Roehm's Day Spa (517.485.9820), located at 2800 East Grand River in Lansing. They're good and, with the exception of only my husband, I wouldn't trust my womanly goodness to anyone else. It's a very intimate relationship. Besides, they're medically trained and licensed.

Does it hurt?

Well, yeah, and that would be the biggest down side. At least for the first few times. But the very first time — that's the worst. On that initial pull, I bolted upright, looking at Vada in complete shock.

"Oh my God, am I bleeding?" I demanded.

"Tsk-tsk," she answered with a smirk. But I'm telling you, it felt as though the nerves in every follicle hole out from which my hairs were just ripped were on fire and twitching involuntarily, anticipating the next pull. Beads of perspiration trickled between my breasts. My armpits were damp. I wanted to grab hold of that bitch's busy little hands and break 'em.

"Wait, wait, wait!" I said instead. I just needed a moment to catch my breath ... to collect myself so my next knee-jerk reaction wasn't to deck her. I was tempted to call it quits and walk out of that hell hole, even with a half-bearded and still very sticky mess. It would grow back, right? And Goo Gone® would handily take care of the wax, I was certain. But even as these thoughts raced through my brain, I dug in and endured the pain. When Vada finished, I left puffy and swollen. And I was prepared. I had my husband take me, in case ... you know, I somehow couldn't manage to drive afterwards. He arrived with this shit-ass grin on his face. Clearly, he couldn't wait for me to drop my drawers and show him the results. In that moment, I had half a mind to deck him, too.

But later, in the privacy of our bathroom, I couldn't help but stroke it and marvel at its baby-butt softness. I admired it in the mirror from as many angles as possible. Then I pranced out of the bathroom with nary a stitch and let my husband inspect. Sure, one thing led to another, but I digress.

With each subsequent visit, the pain lessened. By about the fourth or fifth visit, the Brazilian was completely tolerable.

Recently, Kate announced that she'd like to have a go at it.

"It's worth it, but it'll hurt," I warned. And do you know what she did, that brave, brave soul? She called Yuba and asked, "When can you get me in?"

That was last night. I suggested she first call her sister, Annie, who's an ER nurse.

"See if she can anesthetize it for you," I suggested. Instead, she popped a few Ibuprofen, and into that dark madness she did go.

Alone.

A half-hour later, she calls.

"DEAR MOTHER OF GOD, THAT HURT LIKE A MOTHER-FUCKING BITCH!" She was semi-hysterical.

Did I not tell her?

Then came the empty promise: "If having children hurts worse than that, I'm not having any." (Honestly, I don't think I've every experienced a pain worse than the Brazilian — childbirth included.) ...

... followed by her recollection of the event's most memorable moments: "Every muscle in my body was clenched so tightly," and "... when she tweezed the teeny tiny strays, oh my God!" She crossed her eyes as if she was about to go comatose. ...

... and finally, the denouement: "Yuba was so nice and gentle, I really liked her a lot."

Kate's boyfriend, Tony, promised, "If they hurt you, I'll kiss it and make it all better." Kate thought he needed to experience it for himself in order to truly appreciate her pain — I know, because that was my exact sentiment toward Dane when I was first initiated into the Brazilian way.

But a few beers and a lemon drop later, and Kate was on her way home to recuperate. I recommended a cold pack.

I'd send her flowers and a get-well-soon card, but she'll be up and about early in the morning, petting herself and making sure it's still baby soft and bare. Then, in about a month — maybe two — she'll turn around and go right back in for more.

In the meantime, I can't wait to down a couple more beers and throw back another lemon drop. What are friends for, after all?


Brazilians are $45 at Roehm's. Also available at Douglas J Institute in East Lansing for $60 at 517.349.5271.

A Night to Remember

I'm finished, done. I've washed my hands clean, and I walked.

Well, I took a shower, too, and then I walked — in my commencement ceremony. It was a memorable occasion, more so than I'd anticipated.

I didn't sleep much the night before. The truth is, I didn't sleep at all the night before. I turned in around 9 that morning, wanting to make sure I finished my marketing plan for a prospective employer — it's part of the interview process. Which meant I was screwed — no, not because of the interview, but because I'd end up wanting to sleep all day, except that I didn't, because I couldn't. I had commencement to get ready for. So, with only four hours of sleep, I dashed out the door to get my nails done and grab a bite to eat. Interesting, isn't it, that when it all came down, my priority was to get my nails done. Then I rushed home with only an hour and a half to spare, and that's where the shower came in. I got dressed as quickly as I could, and dashed out again with my girls in tow to meet my colleagues for the procession.

We promised to sit together, and we did.

It was so special, because my beloved husband and daughters were there, and they were all really proud of me. So much so that I'm teary-eyed just thinking about it. And Kate — who's suffered through it all with me — the late nights, the exhaustion, the cursing and the mad rush and panic — Kate, who since January 2007 shared in my every success along with her own — my college partner in every group assignment and now my lifelong friend — she was there, too, sitting with my daughters, because she's now officially part of the family. I only wish my son was there, but he is in New York making his own way.

I sat next to Nicole and Taren, who entertained me to the point where it hurt to laugh. They are both Chris's age — so vibrant, bright, beautiful and fun. Ketaki Pange, my assistantship partner, sat in front and just to the right of me. Together, we stood for pictures and waved to her family. They were immensely proud of Ketaki, and rightfully so, she's so brilliant. Laura and Danielle sat nearby, smiling and reserved. Sha Sha was there, too, as was Deana, both of whom I'd partnered with in ADV 860.

Oh, and the lovely Teresa Mastin graced us with her presence, adorned in her doctoral robes. We all shouted, "Dr. Mastin!" and waved like unruly little children, but we didn't care — it was our night, and everyone was in the best of spirits. Mr. Kolt was also present, as was Dr. Cole, who gave us all two thumbs' up and a hug at the end.

We text-messaged our families and friends who looked on above us. We joked and giggled like ... well, like school girls ... and every once in a while I'd look up to see my husband aiming his camera lens at my friends and me. I'd see Sachi blowing me a kiss. And there was Kate with the biggest, brightest smile, waving and brushing away a tear.

Dinner was fabulous at Dusty's — the best company and the most delicious food and a couple of glasses of pinot grigio (excellent by the way). And Kate and I went out on the town afterwards to dance, and she wouldn't let me pay for a thing. We met Nicole and Dominic there, and Nicole's awesome friends.

And then I fizzled out. My left ear began aching, and I wanted Dane to come and fetch me, which he did. He whisked me away, and tucked me in bed. Kate called me around 2 a.m. to let me know she was on her way home and to share with me the rest of the fun night. I drifted off, thinking how perfect it all was — my silly life filled with silly goodness and a family full of love and the best-ever friends. I didn't wake until 4 p.m. the following day, but when I did, it was with a smile on my face.

I'm still basking in the glow of my neat little accomplishment, thankful for the experience, thankful for the support and unconditional love of my family, and thankful for so many new friends.

Now, if I can only find a job. ...

4.0, Bloody Marys & Sushi — Does it Get Any Better?

Well, the hard work paid off.

Kate and I gave our presentation Monday night — a public relations campaign for the Lansing City Market, our client for a major class project. After 48 straight sleepless hours with a one-hour nap somewhere in between, I don't know how I managed to get through the process, let alone contribute anything positive. But Sunday we had our proposals printed in full color and spiral bound with a cut-diamond-patterned cover. Sharp. Hell, at $50 a pop, it damn well better be sharp. Hungry and exhausted, we took a dinner break at Dublin Square and washed it all down with a Bloody Mary ala Grey Goose (Note to self: One of the best Bloody Marys I've ever downed). Then we headed back to Kate's office to put the finishing touches on our PowerPoint presentation.

Yet, even with the hardest part of the work out of the way and as exhausted as I was, I couldn't sleep that night. I tried, but my hip started bugging me. At some point I did drift off, only to wake too soon to the 7:30 alarm. And instead of reconnecting with my pillow, I was up checking my e-mail and finishing a proposed strategy for increasing membership for the MSU Alumni Association — part of the selection process for a job I'm applying for there.

The good news is, we pulled it off, and the client clearly appreciated our recommendation to re-brand them as an International Marketplace. Best of all, Dr. Mastin told us post-presentation that we'd done a great job. Now, in just a handful of hours, we'll meet with her for lunch, and I'm expecting her to deliver the news we've been waiting to hear: That we four-pointed the class. To top it all off, we'll be lunching on sushi and hot green tea at SanSu! Surely it can't get any better, eh?

Sure it can, starting with a long, uninterrupted run to my favorite tunes on my iPod, followed by an incredibly relaxing two-hour massage, and quiet time with my beloved Dane, and laughing with my four beautiful children. And reading books for leisure instead of learning. And getting good use out of my kitchen instead of eating out every night. And cleaning my house from top to bottom. And movies and hand-holding with my baby. And long walks. Sleeping in.

Mmm. I'm getting that heavy-lidded feeling. Maybe after I sleep like baby I can finally try to squeeze in all that relaxation.

That Kinda Girl

Kate kicked my ass tonight.

No, no, no, not in a violent way — she's not that kinda girl. And no, it had nothing to do with those occasions when she'd beat my grade on a paper or test by a half or a full point, then proceed to rub it in with a mischievous giggle and a "Ha-ha, I beat you!" (Yes, she's that kinda girl.)

No, tonight she just cracked me up with the text messages she exchanged with Anthony, her more-than-a-friend-but-not-quite-yet-a-boyfriend friend. They were going back and forth, you know, because she's in Michigan and he's in Florida.

"R u done with ur paper?" he asked. "Not yet," she wrote back. OK, that was the slow part of the conversation. Then there were silly parts: "Ur not 2 skinny, ur 2 hot," "No u r" and "Ur sexy." Then there was the "R u coming 2 C me?" and the "No, cuz I don't have a plane." And at some point, Kate ended up calling Anthony a V-tease (V as in ... Vagina). Yep, she's that kinda girl.

OK, so maybe you had to be there, I dunno. The thing is, I was there, and I laughed my ass off — so hard, in fact, it hurt. It felt like a rock was stuck in my throat and a hundred cramps seized my gut. The tops of my cheeks were moist with tears, and the skin covering my muscles in my face and the area around my mouth were stretched so tightly for so long, I was sure there'd be permanent damage.

I can't wait to meet him, not just because he's supposedly hot (Kate's words, not mine). It's just that he does something to her. She's different somehow. For example, there's the way she talks about him, compared to others before him. They bugged her when they called to ask what she was doing or where she was.

"He's so clingy!" she'd complain about pretty much each one.

But she smiles and gets giggly when Anthony asks her what's up.

"It's how they ask," she explained.

Then, there's the fact that she actually still digs the guy, even after, like what, a couple of dates? Now, I'm not saying she's picky, because I really don't believe she is. The way I see it, Kate knows exactly what she wants but, until recently, just hadn't found it ... er, him. But this Anthony guy, well there's something special about him. He makes her blush, and crack up, and she gets that faraway, zoned-out look before she tells me something she remembered about him.

There's something very ... je ne sais quoi ... about her lately, and I happen to think it's Anthony, which would make him one lucky fella.

And all I can say is, I really hope he's that kinda guy.

Pomp and Circumstance

December 7, 2007. G-Day — as in graduation.

I'll share it alongside my academic colleagues — some, lifelong friends, I hope.

Funny how waiting for commencement while simultaneously trying to wrap up final projects feels a bit like the final stretch of a long pregnancy — carrying a heavy load, fatigued from the blur of 498 back-to-back sleepless 24-hour periods all rolled into what now feels like the longest-ass day I've ever experienced. The result: I'm scrubbed out, stressed out, pigged out, freaked out, whacked out and so over-and-out of it. But it was worth it.

Counting down ... today is Friday, November 30. Seven days to go, each day another page to be turned. December 7 will mark an end and a new beginning.

Dah, dah-dah-dah, dah-dah, we'll all march to "Pomp and Circumstance."

I can almost imagine it now — walking through the Breslin, choking back the lump in my throat and tears of relief, joy, exhaustion, disbelief. A sea of tasseled black caps and billowing gowns will move about me as if in a dream; the soft rustling of their fabrics will betray our every movement. The air will fill with electric excitement. We are wiser, stronger, more worldly ... exhausted.

As the celebration drones on, I'll sit among my peers, contemplating the friendships, the accomplishments, the celebrations, fond memories.

"Would you do it all over again?" I'll wonder silently as I look forward to all the promises the future now holds.

Amidst the ceremonial splendor and profundity of the moment — even before I will have fully taken it all in, the answer will spring forth from the very depths of my soul, compelling me to ask yet another pointed question: "Are you out of your fucking mind?!"

Insomnia

It's going to the be death of me — this inability to sleep.

I meant to turn in early — around 1 a.m. But habit has robbed me of the pleasure of drifting off to sleep. And before I know it, it's 3:29 in the morn. The snore's emitting from my husband's mouth (or is it his nose, I can't tell?) project loudly, as though coming from an invisible megaphone that extends from his face.

I give him a jiggle, annoyed. "Babe!" I whisper very loudly.

He responds groggily ... unable to articulate his annoyance at this rude awakening.

I sigh ... nay, it's much more a groan. I toss and turn. I stare into the darkness; click on the TV, but the infomercials bore me. I count sheep; then seconds, minutes, hours. I sing myself a lullaby.

Ah! Perhaps I can drown out the snores by pretending to snore myself, I think, suddenly hopeful. I give it a try, but after a minute or two, I'm already out of sync, inhaling as he's exhaling. My fingers drum against my chest. Thumpety-thump. I wait, wait, wait for sleep to rescue me from this tortuous night. Where the hell is that damned sandman anyway?

Alas, I seek comfort in an old friend — my laptop. I push its buttons and make it light up. Its gentle glow envelopes the space around me. I think without actually thinking. Clickety-clickety-clack, clickety-clickety-clack, I commiserate with thee. Soon enough, I grow tired. My head nods, longing to rest upon the coolness of my pillow.

Finally powering off ... zzzzz ... just in time for the 7:30 alarm!

The Monkees

So, I'm a dork, I admit it. I was raised on The Monkees, and I still love them. Mickey Dolenz, Peter Tork, Davy Jones and Mike Nesmith. Mickey spawned my lifelong appreciation for a good beat and percussion — or was it Davy Jones shaking his tambourine?

Funny thing is, they weren't real musicians at all but, rather, the fictional product of a hit '60s TV show of the same name.

I lived in Japan at the time, so I learned of The Monkees' only after my mother bought a 33 rpm vinyl record. In fact, we likely owned every Monkees record ever made. My sisters and I knew the words to all the songs — from The Monkees' television theme song and I'm a Believer to Last Train to Clarksville and Aunti Grizelda.

The way I saw it, The Beattles were the '60s band for my parent's generation. The Monkees were the '60s band for mine.

Graduate School Sucks

That's not entirely true. Well, not always. I've had some memorable moments, really. And I've met some of the most beautiful, fun people — professors (well, Dr. Mastin, for certain) and people — classmates — who'll be my lifelong friends (like Kate and Nicole, both of whom I adore).

But tonight, it sucks, because we're headed into finals. On December 7, I'll graduate. And the irony of it all is that I'm really going to miss it.

Things/people I'm really going to miss:

• Clowning around when lectures get boring
• Hearing Kate and Nicole make fun of me for overachieving
• Flaster telling me I'm friggin' "brilliant"
• Kate referring to herself as my "other significant other"
• Kate calling it quits because she has to get up at the "butt-crack of dawn"
• Nicole's always-pretty smile, positive attitude and inner beauty
• Michael Freeman kissing my ass with, "Aren't you, like, 20?"
• Italian wedding soup from the Cyber Cafe
• Saving a seat for Kate
• Passing notes like we used to in high school
• Making fun of the geeky guys who were always crushing on Nicole
• Carpooling to Novi and seeing how fast we could get there
• Having conversations with Kate where we both dropped the f-bomb between every other word, and actually still understood each other
• The opportunity to have gotten to know awesome people like Laura, Danielle and Taren a little better
• Long, philosophical chats with Ketaki
• Dr. Teresa Mastin's grace, inner and outer beauty, and genuine desire to help students realize their dreams
• Pamela Brock's cheerfulness and encouragement — and that note she sent me: "I am happy to inform you that you have passed the Comprehensive Exam for FS07. Congratulations and good luck in your future endeavors! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!"


Things/people I absolutely will not miss:

• My assistantship work
• Excessively competitive and difficult-to-like classmates
• Former student group mates I was forced to work with who regularly demonstrated control issues, lack of self control issues, issues of intolerance for those who are different, Republican/ultra-conservative viewpoints ...
• Staying up late because I had to, not because I wanted to
• Somewhat limited income-generating potential (but those huge checks from clients were sweet!)
• Flaster spit-spraying my face whenever he spoke
• Flaster treating LaLeah in a patronizing manner and hurting her feelings ... did I mention that he'd spit on me?
• Cole's ADHD, toxicity, arrogance, poor leadership, compromised program, dysfunction, unhappy employees
• Research professors who attempted to teach us how to write/conduct research without ever having learned how to teach anything, let alone something as complex as ... well, research
• Having to spend so much of my time on studying and homework at the expense of my family (without whose patience and love I could not have survived and for which I am eternally grateful)

I'm sure there's more I could add to each list, but to be perfectly honest, I have so much homework I really have no business blogging tonight. LOL!

What will you miss?

Preface

In Tom Clancy's "A Clear and Present Danger," a contemptuous White House aide shouts at Jack Ryan, "You're such a Boy Scout!" It was a criticism, of course. Ryan, appointed as Acting CIA Deputy Director of Intelligence, insists on doing what's right, despite the pervasive corruption all around (and especially above) him. But doing the right thing is a cake walk for Ryan. He is, after all, a fictional character. Out here in the real world, it's a jungle, man.

So, maybe I am a Boy Scout

Doing the right thing. Isn't that the definition of "integrity?"

Well, I don't always get it right, but I do try. If that makes me a Boy Scout, so be it. It ought to count for something, right? Temptations? Sure, they're plenty. More than once, I've found myself thinking, "Is it really wrong for me to do this or that?" Or I might argue, "My situation is different."

Mostly, I just try to be a good person; a good example to my children and others who might need a little direction.

Doing the right thing works, most of the time

One day in high school, I was on my way to class — journalism, my favorite subject. I was eager to take advantage of the last few minutes before the bell so I could review my notes before a big exam.

On my way in, however, a kid in my class grabbed my arm and said, "Hey, here are the answers to the test," then just as quickly, he shoved a sheet of paper in my hand and turned to walk back into the room.

"But ...," I protested, turning to follow him, evidence in hand.

That's when I bumped into her. Mrs. Greer. My teacher!

She didn't say a word. She simply glared at me, then the sheet of paper in my hand. She turned and asked everyone to take their seats and clear their desks. Once all the students settled in, she distributed the exam — one student at a time. She walked down my aisle first, placing a test on the desk of the kid who sat in front of me, then on my desk, and so on. Certain she could feel the heat from my embarrassed cheeks, I instinctively placed my palms against them as a shield.

"She thinks I'm cheating," I worried. My thoughts were racing, my heart pounding. "She thinks I actually planned to get those answers." In my brain, I was screaming at myself so loudly, I was subconsciously aware that Mrs. Greer was talking, giving instructions.

"... guilty of academic cheating," I heard her say, "should place their unfinished exams on my desk and report to the principal's office to face the consequences of his and/or her decision." She returned to her desk, again walking by me, only this time much more briskly.

I heard a defeated sigh, followed by the sound of the legs of a chair scraping loudly against the tiled floor. Just behind me, someone bustled about angrily. It was the kid who'd given me the unsolicited answer sheet. He collected his backpack and books, walked toward Mrs. Greer's desk, slammed his test on her desk and walked out.

"Anyone else?" she demanded, scanning the room. She did not look at me.

The fire in my cheeks spread throughout my body.

"What should I do?" I silently pleaded with my God for answers. "Do what's right, do what's right, do what's right," I heard myself think.

I picked up my belongings, along with the test, and walked toward my teacher. Hot tears started welling in my eyes, and I fought hard to keep them from spilling over the brim. I'd done nothing wrong, I knew, but I would have to prove to her that I'd earned every point in her grade book on my own. The few feet from my desk to hers made up one of the longest journeys of my life. As I approached Mrs. Greer's desk, I felt my classmates' stares, I saw their gaping jaws. But Mrs. Greer's bright blue eyes shimmered behind her gold wire-framed glasses. Suddenly, she wasn't angry at all. No, her expression was gentle and kind.

I handed her my test, along with the now-crumpled cheat sheet. Glancing over each piece of paper, Mrs. Greer's frizzy blondish-brown hair swayed back and forth, like the leaves of a tree on a windy day.

"But you haven't answered a single question," she said, pretending to be puzzled.

"I know," I said. "I can't take that test knowing you think I cheated."

She looked me dead straight in the eyes, handed me a tissue without looking, and said, "Young lady, I know good and well that you didn't cheat. Other students had already warned me that he made photocopies of the answers and was passing them out. More importantly, I know that you have integrity — as a journalist and as an individual. I heard and saw what happened, and I know you had no idea what was going on. So, do you still want to walk out that door?"

The journey back to my desk — all eight steps of it — was uneventful, except for the wave of relief that engulfed me.

As expected, I did exceptionally well on my exam, but suddenly, it didn't seem nearly as important to me as it had an hour earlier. "You have integrity," Mrs. Greer had said. It was a definitive moment for me, one that would forever shape my character and, to a great extent, who I am today.

No integrity in plagiarism

My daughter, Jennifer, is 18 — a senior in high school. Recently, her principal called to inform me that he'd suspended her for plagiarism.

"Plagiarism?" I repeated, dumbfounded.

"Oh, yes. Yesterday a classmate forgot to do her homework and asked Jenny to see hers. Apparently, the classmate copied Jenny's work, word for word. The next day, the teacher discovered the two identical papers, put two and two together, and turned them in." Then he added, rather defensively, "We've already spoken to Jenny about it, and she's admitted everything. I really have no other choice."

"Hmm," I responded. "Well, I agree — it's best that she learn this lesson early on. I'd rather have it happen today in high school than in the future in college or as a professional. I wholeheartedly support your decision to suspend her, and I'll be sure to talk to her about the seriousness of the offense when she gets home from school today."

There was a long, silent pause on the other end. "Th-thank you," the principal said. "Thank you very much. Why, I can't tell you how much we appreciate your, your ... support. That's certainly not the kind of reaction we typically get from parents, under the circumstances."

"It's a good lesson," I said. I smiled as I hung up the phone — not because I was planning to beat her ass when she returned from school. The whole affair reminded me of that fateful day in Mrs. Greer's journalism class.

The dictionary defines "plagiarism" as the unauthorized use or close imitation of the language and thoughts of another author and the representation of them as one's own original work.

Which is a good point, because Jenny didn't plagiarize. But facilitating plagiarism is at least as bad as, if not worse than, committing it. And I wanted her to learn to be accountable for her actions and choices.

Plagiarism, anyone?

"Did you talk to my principal?" Jenny asked me later.

"I did," I replied.

"Oh, OK," she said, looking down at her feet.

"Anything you'd like to add?" I asked.

"No, I just wanted to make sure you knew about it, I guess," she said, still enamored by her sneakers.

"He told you about the seriousness of plagiarism ... why it's important that you not plagiarize, right?" I asked.

"Yes," she whispered.

"And ...?"

"And he said I could get in a lot of trouble, like getting kicked out of college or fined lots of money and stuff," she said more loudly, finally making eye contact.

"And ...?" I insisted.

"And ... so, I won't do it again," she promised, averting her eyes once again.

"So, why'd you do it in the first place?" I asked.

"I dunno. I guess because she asked him — the teacher — like, a bunch of times, to help her with the assignment and he wouldn't. She has a hard time, and he just doesn't teach. He kept telling her to figure it out, and said, 'Look on the computer and read the instructions.' She told him she already did, and she still couldn't figure it out, and he ignored her. So when she asked to see how I did my work yesterday, I was in the middle of trying to finish another assignment before the bell rang, and I just wanted to hurry and get it done. So instead of showing her how to do it, I just handed her my assignment. I didn't know she was going to copy it. I was just trying to help," she explained.

"Hmm," I responded.

"Hmm, what?" she said, spying the smile on my face; preparing for the inevitable "You're grounded until I say you're not grounded anymore!"

But I surprised her: "I was just thinking how nice it was of you to want to help your friend out," I started. "Granted, it wasn't smart to give her your homework, but I'm proud of you for your compassion. I'm glad you did what you thought was right, especially when others fail to. And I'm glad you're not lying about what you did."

"OK," Jenny said, a bit embarrassed. She was still looking down at her feet.

"OK, then," I agreed.

In retrospect, I really don't know whether I did right by her with that conversation, but I know I did my best. I know a lot of professors in my college who tell students what to do, but don't teach them how to do it. I also know that Jenny did what she thought was right, if only because her teacher didn't do what he should have. She had no malicious intent. She had no intention of breaking rules. She reacted to assist someone in need. More importantly, she did what she thought was right.

To that, I can only say, "That's my girl."

The plagiarist? I understand she was never disciplined.


"Integrity is one of several paths. It distinguishes itself from the others because it is the right path and the only one upon which you will never get lost." — M. H. McKee