Mumbo jumbo, hocus pocus, and naturopaths—Oh my!

Do I have the word sucker written on my forehead? I guess there's one born every minute, and I'm it. I fear my naturopath thinks I'm an easy mark. I love Dr. Tony, but I suspect he sees dollar signs instead of my face when I walk in the door. Another payment on the student loans, that's me. Is he taking advantage of my gullible, trusting nature? Am I just stupid? Maybe I'm just open to unusual experiences?

I went in yesterday for my tune-up. I'm used to the muscle testing now. He reads me like an open book he's read every two months for the past three years. He uses me now as a demonstration model for new students. I never know who will be watching me get worked over by the Doctor. Yesterday it was a geeky guy wearing poindexter glasses and a bright fuschia shirt: I was like, dude, tone it down, I'm trying to chill out here. I didn't say it, I just shook his hand politely and launched into a graphic description of my major complaint: constipation!

I lie on my back on the table, with my butt in a hole and my head canted awkwardly on an uncomfortable leather pillow. I hold my arm straight up in the air while Dr. Tony pushes on it and mumbles to himself. I can tell when he's found something. He gets excited and makes a-ha! noises. Then he laughs maniacally.

He consults his book of Chinese medicine. I can just imagine what it says: “For female round-eye with constipation: give snake spit!” He sends the student out to the other room for some lachesis. Sure enough, it's snake venom! A few granules on the tongue, and I'm good as new. Right. Well, a few more tests, just to be sure. Wait, what's this? My emotions are causing my digestion problems? Abandonment? Crying? (I couldn't figure out who I felt abandoned by and I said so, but I didn't have the guts to tell him I wept over Davy Jones.) I fall back on my usual MO: I don't need no stinking emotions! Just give me an extra dose of snake spit, Doc!

After some acupuncture and an admonition to drink more water, I stagger out of the place a half hour later, a hundred bucks poorer with an appointment to do it again in two months. When I get to my car, I check my hat to make sure no one has surreptitiously slapped a sucker sticker on it when I was having my out-of body-experience. I wouldn't put it past a guy who wears a bright pink shirt. Then I go home and go to bed.

Actually, in all honestly, I believe I'm alive today because of Dr. Tony and his hocus pocus muscle testing. Three years ago he told me with a kind smile, “Eat meat or die.” I didn't want to eat meat, but I didn't feel ready to die quite yet. So I finally started eating chicken. Then some salmon. And occasionally some juicy red free-range grass fed beef! (Yech.) I can't eat soy or rice or beans, and it would have taken a truckload of broccoli to get enough protein to rebuild my saggy atrophied muscles. If I want to live, I have to eat real food. That means protein. Three years later, my muscles have returned, I've lost a lot of extra weight around my middle, and I have the luxury of worrying about repairing my digestion through emotion management. How cool is that!

I owe Dr. Tony my life. Maybe that is why I lie passively while he experiments on me. Maybe that is why I don't care about being oggled by geeky naturopaths-in-training. I don't care if he somehow managed to magically have the word sucker tattooed on my butt. It may be mumbo jumbo, but it worked for me.

I'm so screwed

I edited six paragraphs of my literature review tonight and got stuck looking for a citation for one messy, murky statement I made in a moment of arrogance. Whoa, who do I think I am? I'd better cite a source, quick, before the thought police bust me for making an unsubstantiated claim. That's what I was thinking as I logged into the university portal and clicked on EBSCO Host, which recently was expanded with a huge database of business articles. Cool! I plugged in my search terms and found... nothing? What?

Well, not exactly nothing, but nothing that seemed to have the potential to corroborate my messy, murky statement. But I found lots of other interesting things: current studies and articles on my topic from all around the world. Norway! South Africa! Hong Kong! Connecticut! Plus lots of other neat places I will likely never see. I downloaded feverishly, hoarding the files into my folder, gloating gleefully—until I realized I am going to have to read all this stuff. And I'm still stuck on the messy, murky statement.

So I did what all intrepid scholars do when they find themselves spinning their wheels. I closed the stupid file, and opened this stupid blog. All I can say is, I'm so screwed. Oh, not about the messy, murky statement: I'll just delete the darn thing, who cares, not me. Nobody will ever miss it. And if it is any consolation to you, it won't be the only messy, murky statement I write in this dissertation. I'm sure there will be others.

Life is feeling particularly overwhelming. Next week is finals at the career college, followed by an insane Friday of grading, in-service, and prepping for the new start on Monday. (We like to pile up all our stress on one day at the career college, it's more efficient that way.) To make things more interesting, the past week or so, there have been some mucky-mucks in suits roaming the halls. Apparently one of the owners is selling his shares to an investment corporation. Look out, little backwater college. I predict things will be changing. New owners like to clean house. That usually means out with the old, in with the new. And judging by the way enrollment numbers have been headed over the past couple years (down), I predict faculty numbers will shortly be headed the same direction. Great. I just hope the job holds out until I can finish this degree.

Speaking of which, I have a phone call set up for next week with my new chairperson. I'm shocked at how promptly she has responded to my messages. It's unnerving. Now I guess I'm going to have to show up with the same level of commitment. No more hiding behind my flaky adjunct former chair. I guess that is what happens when the university assigns a full-time faculty member to be the committee chairperson: she is actually take the job seriously. (I'm not saying adjuncts are flaky; some of my best friends are adjuncts. I just know adjuncts don't get paid extra to respond promptly.)

Change happens, but sometimes it's slow. Sometimes it doesn't look the way I want it to look. Maybe I'll go to work tomorrow and find a padlock on the front door. Maybe... no, my brain only thinks of negative possibilities. Little Mary Sunshine I am not. I, the chronic malcontent, scoff at optimists. One thing I can say for sure: Someday this will all be over, one way or another. Right now the job feels endlessly boring, tedious, and pointless. This Ph.D. pursuit feels endlessly, excruciatingly messy and murky. I guess that is how we find out what we are made of. Me, I'm made of spit, snot, and malcontented stubbornness. And I don't need no stinking citation to substantiate that claim.

Words can hurt

Today I took time to take a trot in the park. A lovely spring day is not something to ignore around here, because we won't have one again for a while. Probably around July 5, if past performance is any indication of future events.

While I was standing by one of the open reservoirs, peering into the viridian water, wondering how well the filtering system screens out duck shit and tennis balls, I heard a voice berating someone for singing along to a Lionel Richie song. While I'm not a big Lionel Richie fan, I still am in favor of allowing a person to sing along to whatever music he or she enjoys. In this case, the singer was a boy, maybe ten or twelve, not yet pubescent, a bit on the pudgy side, with headphones and glasses. He and about six other boys were sitting on the warm pavement, resting beside their skateboards.

The berater of the singer was much older, a weathered, blonde man wearing a weird skateboarder wetsuit type outfit. He stood over the group, and made fun of the singing kid. And he just wouldn't quit. He called the kid a girl. (Horrors, god forbid anyone should be called a girl.) He said, “That song was shit the first time around!” The other kids laughed. The singer was obviously mortified, humiliated by the group leader in front of his peers.

I stood nearby, stretching my legs and glaring at the blonde man, wishing I could say something to him that would make him shut up, make him apologize to the group for being such a thoughtless jerk, but realizing that the boy whose creative self-expression I was wanting to support would not thank me, a pasty-legged middle-aged female, for intervening on his behalf in front of his crew. So I just walked away in disgust.

The incident got me thinking about turning points in the lives of young people, and how a few misplaced words can derail dreams. I can remember moments in my life when something someone said changed my trajectory—and not for the better. For example, I remember when my father told me, “Learn how to type so you'll have something to fall back on.” I was in my late teens, I think, still believing I could be an artist, still thinking the world was a friendly place for creative people. I didn't believe I would need a skill like typing. I rebelled. I didn't take typing in high school, but his words planted a message in my mind: Your art will not support you. Be safe, learn another skill. Why couldn't he have suggested welding, or horse-breeding, or something else outside the proscribed world of women? Sadly, I did eventually learn how to type, a skill which led to my impressment into the bitter estrogen-clogged army of administrative assistants, also known as secretaries.

Another crossroads moment came in college. It was 1975. One of my fellow painters told me painting was dead. It was all about conceptual art now, didn't I know, hadn't I heard? The tired world of physical canvases covered with paint was so pedestrian, so the opposite of avante garde. I was a very young 19. What did I know? Not myself, that's for sure. When I heard painting was a dead art form, did I think, hey, artists have been painting since the beginning of time, no way are they going to stop now? No. I had the same reaction I had when I was ten and my friends told me Mike Nesmith was the ugly Monkee. I tore all his pictures off my wall and cried my eyes out. When I heard painting was dead, I switched my major from painting to graphic design, and the rest, as they say, is the sad sordid history of my miserable art career.

I'm not blaming my dad. I'm not blaming my fellow classmate. I'm just pointing out that there are crossroads moments in the lives of young people, moments that offer them a choice, and if they are at all unsure about who they are, the words people toss out so carelessly can have a lasting impact. These people and their thoughtless words can change lives, and not always for the better.

So the next time you have a chance to tell a kid something, even if you think she isn't listening, please be careful what you say.

Embracing our quirks and eccentricities

At the career college, the term is winding down. Two weeks to go. In my Professional Development class, we are immersed in the tense and exciting process of mock interviews, three a day until everyone has a chance to be interviewed. For ten minutes, each student is in the hot seat, center stage, as he or she is interviewed by a panel of peers in front of the rest of the class. Everyone, including me, fills out an evaluation form on the “candidate,” the results of which I compile and give to the student a week or so after the interview.

These are the many, the loud, the medical assistants. In general, a certain type of personality is drawn to this helping profession. They tend to be extraverts, excruciatingly social, always talking, texting, moving, laughing. They mostly swarm together, like a flock of magpies, or maybe a coven of shiny crows is a better metaphor, yakking back and forth, perched across chairs and tables. And then suddenly, about ten minutes before the end of class, whoosh! They rise up en masse: class is over, we're outta here! I have to wave them back down to the ground, back to their seats.

The mock interviews proceed with many groans, sweaty palms, and fidgety knees. A few students, when placed in the limelight, behave the way I expect them to, ignoring the requirement to dress professionally, belligerently responding to questions with terse and sarcastic answers, obviously despising the process (and me). But sometimes I am delighted at the hidden personalities that emerge when the student is on the spot. Then I realize they don't all fly together. There are a few introverts in this swarm of crows. My people.

But just because they are introverts doesn't mean they are shy! Students who have said virtually nothing all term suddenly blossom when asked “Tell me about yourself,” exuding confidence and depths hitherto unseen and unimagined. It makes me love them and their secret lives, which they keep well-hidden and protected in a social setting that can be brutal and ruthless. Did you know crows eat smaller birds? It's true.

One of the students, an extreme extravert, had clearly had experience being interviewed, a lot more experience than her panel of interviewers had interviewing. She played them like the pro she was, tossing their questions back at them with a carefree, breezy style. The panel rallied bravely and dug deeper.

“If you could be a superhero, who would you be?”

“Wonderwoman, of course,” the candidate proclaimed triumphantly.

“What word would you use to describe yourself?”

“Fun-loving!”

“If your life were a book, what would be the title?”

“The quirky and eccentric world of [insert student name here]!”

I could feel myself cringing a little, imagining an employer's response to that declaration of individuality, even as I silently applauded her. She displayed her authentic personality like a banner, clearly proud to be a nut. (And she is a nut, I think—later she told me she has to take some pill before she can go on an interview, else she will be so hyperactive she'll be communicating from another time zone. Sort of a nut, maybe more like a wackjob, technically speaking.)

Every day, after the third interview, we take ten minutes to debrief. The extraverts are so excited, they all talk at once. I have to beg time for the introverts to share their insights. We discuss the potential benefits and pitfalls of telling an interviewer that one is eccentric, quirky, and fun-loving. The consensus is usually this: Why on earth would we want to work for an organization that doesn't appreciate who we are?

Why indeed?

If I sit on the sidelines, I don't get to play the game

I told myself I wouldn't interrupt my writing to update this blog, but I couldn't help myself. I was just swamped with an overwhelming feeling of despair, as it occurred to me that this process may never end. I may be working on this degree.... forever! I may be trapped in a literary version of GroundHog's Day, where I wake every morning no further than I was the day before! Oh no!

Everyday, I read with horror my half-baked literature review, full of anthropomorphisms, cliches, and subject-verb disagreements. Incorrect citation formats, non-peer-reviewed sources, one space after terminal punctuation instead of two! Argh. I had to take a break and tell someone. That would be you. Listen: I'm going crazy!

Today I got an email from a University employee I've never heard of, informing me that I now have a new chairperson for my dissertation committee. My former chair has been demoted to "Committee member #1." Oh boy. Now it begins. The highly anticipated "improvements" promoted by the University have now reached my little backwater.

My first thought was, oh no, Dr. G. will be pissed. I'm not sure why I thought that. Maybe I got the sense that she was somewhat territorial about her learners. Maybe because she called me "Sweetie," I don't know. So, if she is a disgruntled committee member, will she play well with the new chair, Dr. C.? We can only hope. I looked Dr. C. up on the list of mentors. She has a photo next to her name. She might be half my age. Sigh. These young people, they are so.... young.

It's funny that now I am ABD, and maybe in about a year I'll be a Ph.D., if everything continues to stumble forward according to plan, I realize that these people with a litany of letters after their name aren't necessarily any smarter than the average bear. (I'm an average bear.) Some of them are no doubt brilliant. But if you stop and think about it, by the law of statistics, in terms of intelligence, half of these docs will be above the median and half will be below. Somehow that is comforting. I can be below average for a doctoral learner, and still be considered a success.

Of course, we are all winners in the human race, right? Sperm, egg, you know what I mean. Anyway, here I am, ready to tackle the lit rev again, feeling a little better for having vented. Put me back in, coach. I'll try not to think about tomorrow, when it starts all over again.

Writing is like herding cats

Writing is like herding cats. Pulling teeth. Drinking vinegar. I'm trying to write my literature review. Forty to eighty pages is the goal. I'm at about twelve. My eyes are crossed. It's not even 8:00 p.m., and I'm totally bushed. Knackered. Wrecked. Why is this so hard? It's material I've written about for years. Academic quality in for-profit higher education. What could be more interesting? Zzzzzzzzz.

Yes, I'm bored with it. I confess. After five years of circling ever closer to this scintillating topic, like a buzzard honing in on fetid roadkill, I've got the smell of it, the taste of it, I know my topic. Easy to say, difficult to prove. How can I demonstrate to you that I know my topic, and further, that not only do I know it, but I also know a good reason for studying it some more? I need to sound convincing. But with my eyes crossed like this, I doubt anyone would take me seriously.

So, in the face of a literary headwind, I do what all writers do (when they have no ice cream in the freezer): I started a new project. Yep. When faced with extreme overwhelm, the downtrodden throw themselves under the bus. So, now, in addition to the five screenplays, two treatments, one novel, and sundry non-fiction books I have currently in progress, I now have another blog. Wait. Before I talk about the blog, let me just say that most of those projects I've got started are (a) ancient, (b) lame, and (c) unlikely to ever be completed. Just in case you were feeling a tad inadequate or something.

About the new project. Like most people, my life can be divided into phases or stages. Childhood, teenage, young adult, you know what I mean. When I was 20, I moved to Los Angeles to be a fashion designer. (Ha! Bet you couldn't tell that by looking at me now!) Well, it won't come as a surprise to find out I wasn't a huge success, but I did spend about 12 years designing and sewing custom-made clothes, one of the worst jobs of my life, which is really sad considering I was the owner of the company. My blog is about that experience and how to avoid a similar debacle if you possibly can.

You probably aren't interested in starting your own custom clothing design business, so I won't give you a link to the new blog here. I mention it just by way of explaining the difficulty I am having writing my literature review. It's not the act of writing that is distasteful. I'm writing right now, wheeee, look at me go. It's fun and easy. My brain just chugs along, spewing out lame cliches and trite phrases, my fingers chew up the keyboard, and voila: text! Who cares if it makes sense. Not me!

But the daunting, mammoth mountain of the literature review.... argh. I must cull a thousand sources for the ones that tell the story, the story of academic quality that no one cares about, no one will ever read, just so I can jump through the hoops and maybe someday cross the finish line. What will I do then? Thanks for asking. I will update my blogs, eat some ice cream, and take a really, really, really long nap.

It could be worse

While I'm avoiding writing my literature review, I have the time to obsess about other things. I'm feeling somewhat fragile. The best I can say today is that it is not raining. Whoa. Really? The best I can say? I need to congratulate myself on my approach to self-obsession, because this approach is working disconcertingly well. I'm so focused on self I forget that possibly 90% of the world population would give a lot to have my problems.

My problems are luxury problems. I don't have to worry about food (although I do despair over the state of the food supply). I don't have to fret over gas. (I actually think we should pay more for gas.) I have shelter (albeit nothing fancy, but it's a lot nicer than a grass shack or a tin shed). I have clothes (so what if they mostly were previously worn by others—reduce, recycle, reuse, right?). Really, my life is fine. Fine. I'm fine.

You already know how I feel about gratitude lists, so I won't bore you with that rant again. I'm not by nature a grateful person (although I have been known to smile on occasion). But really, if the best I can say is that it isn't raining, then I need to get out more, because my life is way too small.

I know what is happening. My brain is trying to kill me. I'm stuck in that peculiar paralysis mode where I can't quite get the gumption to open up my literature review and get down to work. I'm in that special state where I am almost, but not quite, ready to do something really crazy-distracting like... mop the kitchen floor or vacuum. This morning I had the urge to purge my closet—you know, pull it all out and start over. But then I imagined the horror of shopping for new clothes and quickly nixed that idea. But someday it has to happen. My closet is stale as a tomb, full of moths, spiders, art supplies, and a shop vac. I mean, really. Could it be worse?

Sure, it could be worse. I could have a job where I have to wear a uniform (been there, done that, no thanks!). Or a job where—god forbid!—I would have to wear pantyhose, a power suit, and pumps. (I'd live under the bridge before I ever do that again.) Seriously, who am I kidding? I can practically hear you say it (and you sound remarkably like my father, weird how you do that with your voice.) Well, all I can say in reply is that I'm entitled to my tantrum. I can feel whatever I want. But you are right. Eventually I must acknowledge reality—Reality, the big R, the one where I'm not the hub—and return to my right size. Eventually the floors will be scrubbed, the hairballs will be vacuumed, and the lit review will be written. Now if I could just keep it from raining...

Never fall in love with an Internet service provider

After weeks of Internet connection trouble, the monolith known as Century Link, arrived on my doorstep today and commandeered my Internet life. I could have opted to keep my Internet service provider, a local company I love, but I would have to settle for half the speed I'm paying Century Link for.

So I did the prudent, logical thing. I said goodbye to my ISP. I had to break up by email, because I was weeping too hard to speak. What the heck? I laughed even while I cried. I'm just a customer! Customers come and go. Why do I feel like I am losing a friend? I didn't weep when I cancelled my 24 Hour Fitness account. Why am I so sentimental over cutting my ISP loose?

After I wiped my tears, I pondered the question. It could be I'm weeping over other things that are lurking in my subconscious. Like the entire past six years of the graduate degree grind. That would be enough to make anyone gnash their pearlies and wail to the moon. It could be I'm grieving the loss of my eyebrows concurrent with the growth of a mustache. Argh, enough said. It could be I'm teary because, I don't know, because it's not 90 degrees, I'm not young enough, thin enough, or smart enough, and my car is over ten years old? Hell, the world is going to hell in a handbasket: It could be anything!

Except, I don't cry much anymore. Mostly my life is remarkably serene. There have been a few bumps—the deaths of my father, my friend Karen, and my cat Meme. I cried at those events, and still feel sadness when I think about them. I remember I cried when my 1987 Honda CRX blew its engine. (That was a sad day, let me tell you.) But I am not sure why I am classifying my ISP among that special group of angels. I've never even met the guy who ran interference for me with Century Link. It seems somewhat ironic and terribly unfair that all his excellent customer service just lost his company a customer.

What I've learned from this startlingly soppy experience is that business is based on relationships, and relationships are built on trust. I trusted my ISP. I felt great comfort when I received terse, polite emails from him, knowing he was handling everything for me. I pictured a geeky guy hunched over a computer, monitoring my Internet connection with one hand while waving a laser sword at Century Link with the other.

Oh mi gorsh. Can you believe it? My Internet connection just went down again. I really hope Century Link is working on the line somewhere, because now I have no one to turn to, no one to call. I have the Web equivalent of a flat tire, and nobody to call to come rescue me. I just broke up with my hero, my knight in shining armor, my beloved ISP. I'm stranded on the information highway! Curse you, Century Link!

You can change the world in just 15 minutes a day

So says my friend and coach (who lives in Phoenix where it was 85 yesterday, so of course she would be full of optimism). Actually, she didn't say I could change the world. What she said was, I could write a book. In just 15 minutes a day. But I think you could probably insert any huge, overwhelming project in that sentence, and make progress toward its completion in just 15 minutes a day.

Except maybe the literature review for my dissertation. (Am I whining again? I have to be careful of slipping into “I'm so special” mode, you know what I mean: I'm so special that the Universe has singled me out as the one exception, the one person on the face of the planet, out of almost 7 billion people, that the 15-minute a day suggestion won't work for.)

Fifteen minutes a day feels impossible when it comes to writing a literature review, because it takes a lot longer than 15 minutes to read what I've written and remember what I was trying to say. (We are talking 40-80 pages, after all, a veritable tome, a massive testament to my intellect, which if I ever do actually finish I predict no one will actually read.) I think my writing strategy needs some work. Tiny bites. Baby steps. That's what they say. Fifteen minutes a day.

So, here I am, I've got time, and what am I doing? I just spent 45 minutes clearing out my email inbox. That was productive. Not. Now I'm working on this blog. Super fun and totally useless as far as moving me toward finishing my literature review. I'm distracted by everything: my cat, the sunshine, my headache... how does one focus in the face of all these obstacles? I want to eat a gallon of ice cream. I want to spend money. I want to take a nap. Oh, wait, I already did that. Darn it!

I joined a LinkedIn dissertation discussion group, so I receive daily emails from ABDs just like me, whining about getting started, pleading for support from the group. (Do I offer any support? No, I'm an introvert and a chronic malcontent, remember? I just lurk and smirk.) Reading their posts allows me to feel superior. And maybe it motivates me a tiny bit to prove I'm not like them. We'll see.

Another motivation: The university just shuffled me into the next dissertation course. Even though I don't know if my concept has been approved, I'm now enrolled in DIS 2. Lucky me, apparently my performance in DIS 1 was satisfactory, and now I've been awarded the right to spend another $2,380 for three more months of torture. Oh joy. The next course doesn't actually start until April 30, so I have some time to do some laundry, maybe vacuum the hairballs off the rugs. And work on my literature review. All I need is 15 minutes a day.

How to lose friends and alienate people without even trying

My mother recently told me what to do to have more friends. “To have friends, you have to be a friend!” she said, using a tone of voice I remember well from childhood, the one that indicates she will always have the answers because she is, after, the grown up and I'm the stupid kid. Now she's 82 and half my size. I could take her. I'm not afraid of her or her voice anymore. But I have been thinking about what she said about friendship. I  suspect she is on to something.

Today I checked into my dissertation course room and discovered that my concept had been sent to the URR for approval. What is the URR? you ask. You and me both. It used to be the OAR. The something Academic Review. I forget what the O stood for. Now they have a new acronym, the URR. I think it's something like University Research Review... Google is no help on this one. (Although I was waylaid by the Google Art Project on the Google home page. Have you seen it? Art! For everyone! I am stoked. I couldn't get any images to load, though. Connection problems, as usual. Curse you, Century Link!)

Anyway, back to the URR. This is good news. I think. Apparently the committee deemed my prospectus ready for prime time. Just a few more days and I will know if my concept is approved. In the meantime, the university in its unfathomable wisdom has enrolled me in the next dissertation course. That was unexpected. I thought I had another week. The next course begins April 30. My question: Is my chairperson still on the job in between courses? Or is she parked in her recharging cubicle until it's time to reanimate?

Back to the topic. The grindingly relentless doctoral journey has taken a toll on me in many ways. While I admit I would be 55 even if I weren't stuck on the this Z-ticket ride, I might not be so... wrinkly? pasty? saggy? The truth is, physically I'm weak as a used tissue. Mentally I'm not in great shape either. I could blame menopause or my vegan debacle for my lack of mental acuity but I prefer to blame higher education. (It's so fashionable to do that these days.) But what I'm really talking about here is the toll this academic pursuit has taken on my social life. I have no friends!

So, in case you want to avoid being in this sad situation yourself, here are some things to avoid doing. On the other hand, if you are a chronic malcontent and you want to hone your whining skills, just follow this short checklist and you'll soon see the results you seek.

To lose friends and alienate people, do the following:

1. Only talk about yourself.
2. Interrupt other people.
3. Roll your eyes when other people are speaking.
4. Turn your back and walk away while saying something particularly snarky over your shoulder.
5. Miss appointments and don't apologize.
6. If you are a teacher, say to your students, “You are in college now, and in college we ________ (fill in the blank with the opposite of whatever stupid thing your students are doing).”

It really takes very little effort once you get the hang of it. You'll soon find yourself alone. Except maybe for your mother. You can always count on mom to say, “I told you so.”

Make sure your paragraphs are straightforward and reasonably short

I'm working on an outline of the literature review section of my dissertation proposal. The project is daunting in scope. I have to take frequent naps. What is my topic? Thanks for asking. Faculty perceptions of academic quality in onsite Gainful Employment programs. I think. You are probably going, what? Faculty perceptions of what? Right, I know. I feel the same way.

Every now and then I am assigned a class to teach, in which the students are required to write essays. Right now I'm teaching an ethics course to a group of seven paralegal students. Remember, this is the Associate of Applied Science degree in Legal Arts, so we aren't talking about capstones, theses, or dissertations here. I ask for five paragraphs. Count 'em. Five. That's all, just five paragraphs per essay. I give them a choice of topic and remind them to use the textbook as a source.

Then I proceed to draw my famous OreoÒ cookie diagram on the board to describe how they should set up their five-paragraph essay. The top layer of the cookie is the introduction, with at least five sentences. The first sentence of the introduction is the “hook,” that is, the story or statistic that will get the reader's attention. The next three sentences are the three “preview points,” previewing the topics of the following three paragraphs. The fifth sentence is the thesis statement, the claim they are attempting to prove. I tell them to write the introductory paragraph after they have written the three paragraphs of the body.

The body of the essay (the creamy filling) consists of three paragraphs on three aspects of the main topic. Bla bla bla. I tell them to make sure each paragraph is focused on one aspect and roughly five sentences. And then, using the whiteboard marker, I draw some lines to connect the topic sentences of each paragraph back to the preview points in the introduction. I assume that because I am a visual learner, everyone else is, too. At this point, I usually turn and look at the students. Are they drawing my diagram in their notebooks? Yes! My work is done. Are they texting on their smart phone? Give up now, it's hopeless.

I tell them to cheat on the closing paragraph. “Just copy the introductory paragraph!” I smirk. “Rephrase the three preview points, reaffirm your conclusion about the claim (did you prove it?), and wrap up with the hook you opened with. Voila!” At that point, they look at me like I'm insane. Probably they didn't take French in high school.

“And don't forget,” I warn them, “Your works cited page is always the last page of your essay! Not a separate file, not the next paragraph, no! Insert a manual page break! Hanging indent! Use the OWL!” I'm sure you agree, after seeing the cookie diagram, the five-paragraph essay should be a piece of cake. Cookie. Whatever. The five-paragraph structure should be clear, right? But what do you think happens?

The brutal truth: It's a good thing I'm not an English instructor, because I'd have to kill myself. The results this term have been less then stellar. Typically, I'm getting a four-paragraph essay in which the writer takes off on a personal rant in the introduction. Preview points: non-existent. The body: random thoughts and uncited quotes stolen from Web sources. Closing paragraph: missing completely. Works cited: starts half-way down page 2, consisting of all two of the Web sites visited, perhaps with URLs, and displaying grievously incorrect formatting. In one case, the hanging indent was imitated using spaces, a novel solution requiring many unnecessary keystrokes, but when you are getting paid by the hour, who cares.

Confoundingly, out of six people, two have turned in nothing. Nothing. Apparently the task of writing five paragraphs is so overwhelming they chose paralysis over mediocrity. Can't say I blame them, been there, done that. But this is college, I'm the instructor, and it's my job to motivate/beat/shame/bribe them into doing something. Anything. Who cares if your paragraphs are straightforward and reasonably short. Just write something!

It's cool to be old!

Even though I haven't yet received the thumbs-up on my concept, I'm forging ahead with the dissertation proposal. Some of the proposal material is just recycled concept paper material: the problem and purpose statements and the research questions. A minute ago I was working on the outline for the literature review section. I hit a wall. My brain veered off in another direction, my eyes followed, and on my desk I saw the envelope I received from AARP today.

If you are under 40, you may not know what AARP is. Nor should you. AARP is for old people—like me. At least, that is how it feels. I started receiving letters from AARP about two weeks before I turned 50, and they haven't let up since. They are a relentless marketing machine, cranking out their fake plastic cards with frightening efficiency. I fear, though, that they have no idea how their marketing campaigns are being received.

Hello, AARP! Marketing 101: know your customer. All AARP knows about me is that I'm over 50. They don't care who I am, what I'm like, or how little or how much I enjoy the prospect of growing old. (Does anyone actually enjoy the prospect of growing old? Can you picture a 30-year-old sighing and saying, “Gosh, I can't wait until I turn 50!”? No, I can't either.) If AARP bothered to ask, they would know three things about me. One, I may be 55, but I act like I'm about 12, ergo, I'm not old. Two, I don't care about getting discounts on places like Disney World, because (a) I have no time for vacations, and (b) all my disposable income goes to pay tuition. Three, the idea of receiving a magazine sporting denture-wearing, white-haired, trail-hiking seniors on the cover makes me want to hurl. Dentures are stupid, white hair should be colored or pulled out by the roots, and who has time for hiking when retirement is an impossible dream? Get real, AARP.

“Our records show you haven't yet registered, even though you are fully eligible.... Your admission is guaranteed as long as you're 50 or over.” Oh brother. I know marketing-speak. Let me translate for you. “You are fully eligible” means You are old and “Your admission is guaranteed” means you are getting older by the minute, so better register now before you drop dead and it's too late. Argh, AARP! Rub it in, why don't you. Can't you think of a better way to recruit?

AARP, you gotta make it seem cool to be old. Your product has a perception problem, because you've positioned yourself as a service for old people. Nobody wants to admit they are getting old, certainly not the eternally young baby boomers. If you don't believe me, just check out the clientele shopping at Forever 21. We will be pretending right up to the end. I shed tears when Davy Jones died, for god's sake. I'll always be about 12. OK, so that's 12 in dog years, but you get my drift. I'm not going gracefully into this dark night. My butt may be dragging on the ground when you haul me to the nursinghome, and my voice may be thin and screechy, but I'll still dress like a nut and demand internet and organic vegetables. Because that is who I am, AARP, and growing old is just going to make me more me!

Take a little advice from a perennial student of marketing, AARP. Put some wackjobs, weirdos, and freaks on your magazine covers. Offer discounts to places like the 24 Hour Church of Elvis and Darcelles. Don't scare me by talking about social security—I know it won't be enough for me to live on. Tell me instead about how great it is to finally not care what anyone thinks about me. Tell me that I can finally say what I want, dress how I want, and eat what I want. Tell me it's cool to live alone, to go to college, to make art, to just say no to cosmetic surgery—and cosmetics! I want to be part of “the vanguard of a movement to change the way society looks at and deals with growing old.” You can do it, AARP. If you need some copywriting help, I'm available. I'd even pose for a cover, although I draw the line at showing skin. Just so you know.

Thanks for the condolences

I'm feeling a little fragile. Thanks for the condolences. First Davy Jones and now Thomas Kinkade. I can hardly write, I'm so overcome. With what, I'm not sure. Something, I'm feeling something, anyway.

I got home from work on Thursday and found a manila envelope on my front porch. Inside was a recent copy of People Magazine. On the cover, you guessed it—Davy. Sigh. My brother's girlfriend expressed her condolences by giving me something to remember him by, a sleazy tabloid magazine. So thoughtful. I called to thank her. Speaking through my brother (after fourteen years together, they have a polished ventriloquist routine), she said I would probably like to hang them on my bedroom wall. So perceptive. That's what I did when I was ten, so probably I would still do that now. Right.

The day after Davy died, my former significant other from Los Angeles emailed me to offer his condolences. He was being snarky. (I don't blame him, we didn't part on the best of terms.) But I took it at face value and wrote back a short acknowledgement. It's funny, I felt sort of sad when I heard the news, but not all that upset. After all, Davy was never my Monkee.

When I was a kid, there were four girls in the neighborhood gang. Four Monkees, four girls, what could be more perfect. Since Karen had all the Monkee records and the hi-fi stereo, she got first pick, and she chose Peter. Laurie was oldest. She got first dibs on Davy. Susie, her younger sister, chose Mickey, so by default, I ended up with Woolhat. At first, I was disappointed, but like with any disappointment, you learn to accept it and eventually love it. In time I came to believe that I chose Mike. And yes, his pinups were on my bedroom wall for awhile.

Once we all settled into our roles, we never switched. When Laurie wasn't around, the role of Davy was played by my younger sister, Diane. It didn't occur to Karen, Susie, or me to give up our characters to play Davy. We identified with our Monkees. So, when I say Davy was never my Monkee, that is what I'm talking about.

Having said all that, though, I confess that when I heard a Monkees song on the radio, sung by Davy Jones, I shed a couple tears. Not for him, but for my lost childhood. Davy was only eleven years older than me. I wept for the days when I was still ten and my little world embraced my creativity. I cried for the days before I was relegated to the role of second-class female. The days when my body was still my trusted friend. When I was confident in my conviction that I knew exactly what my life was for: to write, to make art, and to deliver it to the world.

Which brings me to the second death, that of Thomas Kinkade. I disparaged the man's art in a few of my earlier posts. He was apparently on a mission to bring light to the dark gloomy Satan-infested corners of the secular world. That deserves some respect, I guess. I certainly can't lay claim to such a lofty ambition. Most days, the closest I come to a mission statement is “Survive, then die.” So, while I can't say I'm feeling terribly sad that Thomas Kinkade, my personal nemesis, is gone, I am feeling sort of bereft. Who will I denigrate now? Who can I hold up as the bane of artists? There is a void now. Maybe it's my turn to carry on the legacy. Maybe I'll start painting on velvet.

Beware the frothy emotional appeal

After the wettest March on record, the temperature has plunged. It feels like winter here again. A little snow, some hail, a funnel cloud or two, and some sunbreaks... yep, it's spring in Portland. If you don't like the weather now, wait five minutes. Did you know Oregon actually had an anti-tourism campaign in the 1980s? I remember a postcard that proclaimed, Oregonians don't tan, they rust. Har, har. There was another one about Oregonian bicyclists falling off their bikes and drowning. Yikes. Apparently we were having trouble with Californians overstaying their welcome. As I was living in California at the time, I thought it was fairly hilarious.

This evening, after grading Access tests and several five-paragraph essays from paralegal students who would rather eat dirt than write, I needed to get out of the house. In lieu of a dog (or a person), I took my cheap digital camera to the park. I'm lucky enough to live near Mt. Tabor, an extinct volcano in Southeast Portland. I took some photos in the dusk with a shaky hand, more studies in texture than glimpses of Mt. Tabor's panoramic vistas.

While I was trekking the muddy trails, listening to The Associates, Bowie, Xymox, and Depeche Mode on my mp3 player, I pondered my bedraggled career. In other words, what the hell am I going to do when I finally finish this doctorate? Get a different job? Stay where I am? Start my own business? Jump off a cliff?

I'm beginning to accept the sad fact that I am not really employee material. The only reason I've lasted eight and a half years at the for-profit college is because they leave me alone. (Don't mess with a chronic malcontent.) I fear I need to start my own business. But having an entrepreneurial seizure is what dumped my life into a hole of debt. It took me two decades to claw my way back to zero net worth. I am loathe to go through that again. So not fun. And yet, every time I imagine myself preparing resumes and cover letters, sitting through interviews, being hired, showing up... I feel sick.

I don't trust my gut. Am I feeling queasy because it would be good for me to get a real job, be a grown-up, be a worker among workers, just bow my head and take it? Or am I feeling nauseated because self-employment represents a risky but exciting brave new world where I can spread my wings and fly? Well, when you put it like that...

I know there is more to say, but I can't think of it. My mind just shut down. I saw the words "spread my wings and fly" and I had a brain fart, apparently, because now I have to turn off the computer and go watch TV. Zombie-time. Beware the frothy emotional appeal.

The fine old tradition of abusing adjunct professors

Today a colleague showed me a recent article from Salon about the “disposable professor crisis” in American higher education. In the article, the author s.e. smith, an interesting woman who writes for AlterNet and other alternative Web venues, accused institutions of relying on cheap adjunct teachers to cut costs, to the sad detriment of students. (s.e. smith is also a poet.) In the article, Ms. smith did not mention for-profit colleges; however, having worked at one small one for going on nine years, I can say my experience supports her claim. Leaving aside the question of whether you believe for-profit colleges should be included in the hierarchy of higher education institutions, the bottom-feeding for-profit institution I work for seems to be abusing adjunct faculty along with the best of them.

I find it fascinating what people believe (and don't believe) about college. But I want to know, what is college, anyway? The federal student financial aid Web site obliquely defines college as any education after high school. Not everyone believes for-profit education should be considered “college.” Tech school, trade school, career education, maybe, but not college.

Not everyone believes college should be the next step after high school. In the Salon article, s.e. smith linked to a speech by presidential candidate Rick Santorum, who said, “there are lot of people in this country that have no desire or no aspiration to go to college, because they have a different set of skills and desires and dreams that don’t include college. To sort of lay out there that somehow this is... should be everybody’s goal, I think, devalues the tremendous work” of “people who, frankly, don’t go to college and don’t want to go to college.”

His argument sort of reminds me of the “Poverty is a virtue” mentality I grew up with. Like, education? I don't need your stinking college education! Living in squalor, thumbing my nose at the elitist college-educated snobs, was good enough for my dad and his dad before him, so it oughta be good enough for me. By gum. Of course, I will be the first to admit that a college education does not guarantee a job, a steady income, or decent housing. But it's a start. Assuming we agree on what college is and what it is for.


I downloaded out the spreadsheet created by Joshua Boldt at the Adjunct Project. It was enlightening to see the comments by people who work at higher education institutions in Oregon. While the college I work for was not mentioned, several local community colleges were. Their pay scales, benefits, and attitude toward adjuncts were noted. This anecdotal information can’t be assumed to apply to all the adjuncts who work at these institutions, but it certainly opens a window on a world that has been closed to me. When I first started working on this Ph.D., my objective was to teach online for some higher education institution somewhere... now it looks like that may be a disappointing proposition. Unless you believe the claims of Dr. Dani Babb.


Even though I work at a crummy for-profit college, I still see most of our students learning, graduating, finding jobs, and making better lives for themselves and their families. In spite of the Santorums of the world, in spite of all the for-profit college bashing that is popular these days, I still think we do some good. Yeah, maybe we do treat our adjuncts like second-class citizens. But we are just emulating our betters. It's a fine old tradition for management to abuse labor. That's one thing our little college does well. You know what they say: If you want to run with the big dogs, you gotta get off the porch.

Life before Google is not worth remembering

I posted the third revision to my concept paper a few days ago, and I've been checking my learner home page a couple times a day for a response. Today, there it is. (She's alive, alive!) The response was short: "Confirming receipt and sending to committee NLT tomorrow."

Here's where I get to reveal how naive I am when it comes to text messaging. You probably know what NLT means. I didn't, so I did what I always do when I don't know something (at least when my internet connection is working): I google it. (Is it grammatically acceptable yet to use Google as a verb?) I typed NLT into the search box and pressed enter. I got quite a list of possibilities. Here are a few.

New Living Translation. My hair stood on end, so I didn't click any of those links, but it's clear that this is biblical stuff. (Making universal crossed-fingers sign for warding off vampires.) It's true I don't know my chairperson very well. Maybe she is invoking a higher power? I'm OK with that. I need all the help I can get. Although it might not be a good sign for me if she is calling upon god in reference to my concept paper. If it is OK with you, Brava, I'm not going to link to any websites in a futile attempt to avoid giving them more Google ranking power.

NLT Building Products. The link took me to a funky little website for a Martinsville, Virginia, company that makes some special concrete blocks. "If you're a block molder interested in franchise opportunities, contact us!" Wow. What's a block molder? Does that job pay well? Do I need a Ph.D. to do that job?  Somehow I don't think my chair was referring to masonry. Maybe it's a metaphor, like, you need to build a better theoretical foundation.

Nonlinear Transmission. When a voltage waveform travels along the NLT, it apparently gets distorted. That means the waveform becomes sharper and you get faster transition times. (Are you following this?) "One application of NLT is a comb generator." If she is referring to this definition of NLT, she could be referring to how my brain processes information—or doesn't. Or she could be suggesting I need to focus on grooming, which is always a good idea (I do have a comb somewhere, although currently I have very little hair; see previous post). Or, because NLT is related to microwaves, she could be sensing my tea is cold. Time to heat it up in my monster microwave. Back in a sec.


Not Like Them. Hey, who knew? NLT was a boy band from the mid 2000s. I've never heard of them, but Wikipedia authors informed me that one of the members played Artie on Glee. (He's the character in the wheelchair.) I've seen that show before. Could my chair be making an obscure reference to glee, as in, be happy, I'm sending your concept paper to the committee? Or maybe she is obliquely indicating I'm a mental cripple? (Wouldn't be the first time that has happened.)


National Literacy Trust or Nepal Leprosy Trust. Take your pick. Either one works equally well. I'm either illiterate, or I have leprosy. Possibly both! I'm beginning to think my chairperson is remarkably perceptive.


Not Later Than. Oh, duh. LOL. ISS (I'm so stupid.)

What did we do before Google, I want to know? I don't remember life before Google, any more than I remember life before ATM machines, cell phones, and anti-lock brakes. Lying... I'm lying. You already know I'm 55. I'm lying when I say I don't remember. More like I don't want to remember. But how can I forget? 


I remember card catalogs and the Dewey Decimal System. I remember analog phones and party lines. I remember black and white televisions with tubes that you had to smack to get an image, and knobs you turned to stop the picture from flipping end over end. I remember the odometer on our 1960 Oldsmobile Delta 88 turned red when you hit 70 mph (Go, Dad, go faster!) I remember when you had to go inside a bank and talk to a live person to get your cash. I remember when girls couldn't wear pants to school. I remember Vestal Elementary, where Pat Carroll was my only African-American classmate (we called her a Negro back then), and Ronnie Lee was the only Asian. I remember when there was no such thing as soft contact lenses. I remember when to wear any jeans but Levi's 501s meant you were a loser. I remember life before toaster ovens and microwaves. 


I remember eating Play-doh in Sunday school and wishing I was anywhere but there. Good news. I am pretty sure Play-doh still exists, and I'm sadly all too certain that Sunday schools still exist, so if you want to experience a 50-year old memory (sort of like a re-enactment of pioneer days), you still can. I'm sure it will leave a lasting impression on you, too.

Happy people don't make gratitude lists

During the late 1990s and early 2000s I was enamored with self-help books targeted at creative people who were having trouble expressing their creativity. You've probably heard of The Artists Way by Julia Cameron, the classic tome for wannabe visual artists and writers. Another good one is Finding Your North Star by Martha Beck. And don't forget the self-help veteran Barbara Sher, author of Wishcraft, I Could Do Anything If I Only Knew What It Was, and many other books.

I was a big fan, I admit. I even did some of the writing assignments. (I hear it works better if you actually do the work.) One of the assignments I recall was to write a list of all the things I was grateful for. Back in 2001, I scratched out a list of "blessings": grateful for my cat, for my car, for my teeth, for the fact that only 1,000 feet above the clouds overhead is clear blue sky. I dredged deep. Well, I tried. The ostensible purpose of a gratitude list is to thwart the self-centered ego by focusing on the positives rather than the negatives. My self-centered ego at that time was big as all outdoors, and I was fully invested in the negative.

I guess I still am. I've done a few gratitude lists in my time. It never worked for me, but I didn't know why until I read one sentence by Barbara Sher in her I Can Do Anything book: "Happy people don't need to make lists." Hmmmm. That claim has interesting implications. First, I'm obviously not happy. Duh. Second, making a gratitude list does not necessarily lead to happiness. Third, happy people are too busy living life to make gratitude lists. Four, only cranky, malcontented people believe making a list will lead to happiness. And finally, happiness precedes gratitude. Acting as if I'm grateful is sort of like holding a pencil between my teeth to make it seem like I am smiling. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn't. If I really wanted to be happy I would try it. Nuff said.

Apparently there is actually a science of gratitude. Who knew. In perusing the Web, I came across a suggestion left by a commenter named Alice:  "Pray without seizing." I think she meant "ceasing." It made me laugh, though. For just a moment, half a second, wow—I felt grateful. For what I am not sure. But it felt good.

Appearances are everything

I revised my concept paper according to the suggestions offered by my chair and resubmitted it, a process which took less than an hour. While I wait for a response, I am pondering yet another odd aspect of life—the inordinate power of appearances. That is, how things look often seems to have more impact than how things really are.

Let me give you some examples. People sometimes say I look tired. They don't ask if I am tired. They assume that I am tired based on my appearance. (In most cases, they would be correct.) Here's a better example. People often say I look angry. Because I am a chronic malcontent, over the years my bad attitude has carved a deep fissure between my eyebrows. You know how some people have laugh lines? Not me. I have a permanent scowl. My former significant other called it stinkeye, just one of the reasons we are no longer a couple. This vertical groove is present whether I am happy or sad, angry or elated. It is now a permanent topological feature on the landscape of my face. Only cosmetic surgery will make me appear happy.

But that is what I mean. It's just an appearance. On the surface I may look angry, but inside I may be happy. Well, if not happy, at least neutral. But you will never know if you don't ask.

In my family, success was closely tied to appearances. No one cared how you felt. It only mattered how you looked. If you looked good, then you were good. So simple, yet so destructive. My father wanted me to look like a girl. "Why don't you wear some of those nice Ship and Shore outfits," he asked me once. Now I know he just wanted me to be happy, and the path to happiness was to look good. At the time I interpreted his request as a demand for me to be someone else, some perfectly attired, traditionally coiffed creature that I could never be.

I spent a lot of time trying to look good. When that didn't make me feel good, I moved to Los Angeles and started wearing the most bizarre outfits I could create on my little Singer 503A. Think shiny black vinyl capes over jumpsuits with padded shoulders the size of small turkeys. Picture pale Oregon skin, spiked hennaed hair, and black-burgundy lipstick. Since then, anytime I feel like I'm losing my sense of self, I shave my head. It's my way of reclaiming my identity.

I have a co-worker I will call Sheryl. She and I are often mistaken for one another. Because I had a sister, I know what it feels like to be mistaken for another. I'm used to it. When students call out for help, I answer to Carol, Sheryl, and everything in between. It's odd, though, because Sheryl and I look nothing alike. Apart from the obvious facts that we are female and on the downside of middle age, we have few similarities. Sheryl is blonde. I wear a black cap, so who knows what color my hair is. Sheryl wears brightly colored clothes. I strive everyday to impersonate Johnny Cash. I'm pretty sure Sheryl doesn't shop at Goodwill. The only things I buy new are underwear, socks, and shoes: Everything else I wear has been well broken in by someone before me.

In temperament we are dissimilar as well. Sheryl is goodnatured, committed to her job, and devoted to her students. I, on the other hand, am a chronic malcontent, committed to nothing, and devoted mostly to getting enough light. But I do my best to show up and maintain the appearance that I care. After all, I may feel chronically malcontented, but I can look good doing it.