Moaning about math

If there is a god, it has a sense of humor. Why else would I be teaching a math class? I've been hopelessly incompetent with numbers since I used to cheat in Mrs. Corbin's second grade class. Now, 50 years later, I'm teaching a business math class—although we don't call it math, we call it 10-key Calculator. The students learn to do basic business arithmetic on a basic Sharp calculator. And I'm their teacher.

If the career college I work for cared about assigning teachers to courses based on the teachers' strengths and interests, I would be teaching marketing, management, and PowerPoint. But that is not how it works in the career college world. Are you warm? Are you breathing? Do you have the proper credential, according to the accrediting agency and the State of Oregon? Then you can teach the class. (Here are the textbooks! Good luck!) It's a good thing the person who hired me didn't know about my sad history with numbers. She might not have hired me. And I would still be driving the short bus in Gresham. (Another story.)

At age seven, I was confounded by subtraction. At age eight, I was demoted to the hallway until I could tell the story of the big hand and the little hand. In high school I survived algebra and geometry because I had great teachers. I swore I would never again tax my brain with numbers. Not long after, I overdrew my first checking account.

After I moved to Los Angeles in the late 1970s, I sidled up to numbers again when I started my own business. This was before computers, so I taught myself how to keep my records, track my inventory, and manage my checkbook. I was so proud. But apparently there was more to it than I realized. I was soon way over my head in credit card debt. After awhile I stopped balancing my checkbook. I figured, it wasn't my money, anyway, so why  bother. When I got close to the credit limit, I would just shove the balance onto a fresh new credit card and keep racking up more debt. All in the name of keeping my business running, of course.

When the whole thing tanked, I went back to college (on my credit cards), starting with introductory algebra, and worked my way up to calculus. I know, crazy, huh, me doing calculus. I have no idea what calculus is or what it is used for. I'm pretty sure I didn't know then, either, but I guess I learned enough to pass the class. I believe that was the pinnacle of my mathematical achievement.

I had a few more traumatic episodes (statistics, finance, economics, and operational management), but somehow I managed to fool everyone long enough to pass the courses. Eventually I came out the great meat grinder of higher education, AKA Cal State LA, with an undergraduate degree in Business Administration. Yay me. After graduation, I was like the runner who rests after cresting the hill. My brain relaxed and got fat.

In the years since, I would pretend to understand math, but it was all a sham, a masquerade to avoid shame. Every now and then I would get caught out in a math faux pas, usually something to do with calculating a restaurant tip. So embarrassing. Then my brain would shut down completely while my body frantically tried to remember how to breathe. Yep, there's nothing like a good public shaming to make you feel alive.

And now I'm teaching math. If it weren't so tragic, it would be hilariously ironic. It's tragic that my handful of students aren't being taught by someone who really knows and cares about numbers. But then, it is hilarious, because it is a self-paced class, where the students teach themselves from a cute little textbook. When they get stuck, I just read the words out loud over their shoulder. They don't take time to read the instructions, so when I read it aloud, they are, like, oh yeah, I get it now. I look like I know what I'm doing! Fooled them again!

Actually, compared to my students, I know more than I think I do. I can round numbers with ease, whereas they are perplexed by the whole idea. Round $9.39 to the nearest dollar? Wha—? Well, would you rather spend $9.00 or $10.00? As soon as I put it in terms of their money, they get it. Estimating, though, forget about it. They don't see the point, so they refuse to try. Why should we estimate, we have the calculator!

Last week one of my students, a tiny long-haired barely-post-teen girl whose parents I suspect are fairly well off, looked right up at me and said, “I can't do any math in my head. I don't even know how to multiply!” She sounded proud of it. I was thinking to myself, I can't either, but that's because my brain is old and fat. You can't do it because you are young and stupid. I didn't say it. At least I can say I used to know how to do math in my head. I even once could do calculus, whatever that is. I guess that qualifies me to teach business arithmetic at a career college.

Hell, it beats driving the school bus.

My slip is showing again

It's been too long since my last confession, uh, I mean, post. I'm not Catholic, I don't know why I said that. I'm not anything religious, but that is another topic. What is on my mind today is—dare I say it, yes! I'll dare to say it. It's the wretched, beastly concept paper! This maggot-infested zombie of a travesty that simply will not lay down in its fetid grave and die, already. Argh! Now I know why people don't finish their fricking doctorates! The glacial pace of feedback, the millimeter per year of forward movement... I feel like the San Andreas. We all know what lack of movement leads to, and I'm not talking about constipation. Earthquake!

I have felt on the edge of something for a few weeks now. In strange moments of delirious tedium I find myself lurking at the back of the computer lab, doing deep knee bends while I watch my students pound on the keyboards. Maybe it's just a cold, but I suspect it is another bout of chronic malcontentedness, urping up from my depths like the cold roasted beets I had for lunch. I now associate inching through the term with inching through my concept paper. Interminable, endless monotony. I generally walk around wanting to scream. It's beyond malcontentedness now and into the spontaneously combustible zone. Don't get too close, you wouldn't want this to get on you when it blows.

Har har. Just kidding. I think. TGIF. I've spent the day blearily replacing my too-ancient (2006-2008) sources with shiny new ones, making sure all my sources are squeaky-clean (peer-reviewed), updating my annotated bibliography, and generally polishing this half-assed excuse for an academic paper to the bone, hoping it will finally pass muster. I've got two weeks.

Now I'm taking a break from the monotony to step back and engage in a well known teaching ritual, namely reflection. Look at me go, look at me reflect. It's not my normal state, self-introspection. Usually I don't like being that close to myself. I guess I fear I'll catch my own cooties if I peek around inside my brain too much. And I might rile up the evil dwarves that lurk in my mental caverns, who will then poke me with pick-axes, thereby reminding me of the excruciating painfulness of being alive. Poor me, I'm alive.

I am old friends with this feeling of frustration. This is nothing new. Every job I've ever had imploded because of this feeling. After nine years at the career college, I thought I'd escaped the meltdown, but it seems to have caught up with me at last. The only difference between then and now is that I was a lot younger then. My job prospects weren't nil ten years ago. Now I'm moving into the crone stage—you know, where my skin gets all thin and papery, and I can see the veins in my hands under the brown spots. Even more than the physical decrepitude is the mental yawning, the utter disinterest in pursuing anyone's dream but my own. The sure sense of entitlement that says, I'm old, I've earned it, so back the F off. Yep. Crone. And so what, you ask? Let me translate: One word: Unemployable.

I'm balancing on a sharp edge. If I slip, I die. Slipping looks like not finishing this degree. Slipping looks like being fired from my job. Slipping looks like living in my parents' basement—except dad is gone and mom doesn't have a basement anymore, so slipping looks like living in my car, which will be really hard because it is an old Ford Focus hatchback. Slipping is unacceptable. I can't slip. But if I do, what then? Freefall? Or freedom? Hmm.

Axe me no questions

I'm flogging the concept paper again. It just won't stay dead. The wretched tome was returned to me with a few relatively minor revisions from my esteemed chairperson. I thought, no sweat, I'm home free. And the next day, bam! She sent me a document with my reference list, which someone (an anonymous committee member) had taken the time to shred with Word's nasty yellow highlighting tool. Too old! Not peer-reviewed! Idiot! Fool!

Well, I confess, I should have caught it myself. I've been wrestling with this topic since 2006. Some of my sources are getting a little ripe. According to the rules laid down by the institution, sources that are older than five years should constitute no more than 15% of all my sources. Did I really have so many old sources? To find out, I copied all the sources into an Excel document and whipped up a few countif functions to calculate the number of sources for each year, and found that sure enough, almost half of my sources were older than 2008. Sigh. And by next year, a whole bunch more will be too old to use. Argh.

I also have a few non-peer-reviewed sources. These include government sources, current articles on the political situation, and studies that are out for distribution to the scholarly community before being published. According to the highlighting troll, they all must go. Yep. The highlighting troll even highlighted my government sources. Since my study focuses on the U.S. government's proposed Gainful Employment rule, it will be pretty hard to write this paper without mentioning the U.S. government! I sent my chairperson a question to that effect, and received a prompt response: government and seminal sources are ok! Whew. I'm fairly certain she is not the troll. I suspect my former chairperson, the adjunct faculty member who was demoted from chair to rank and file committee member.

It's Friday. I haven't opened a door or a window except to get my mail (my ballot arrived in my mailbox, yay, I love Oregon's vote by mail.) I spent the day researching new sources to update my old ones, stewing in my own cold sweat. I'm a wreck. The only breaks I've taken are to pee and to eat dinner. And talk to my mother on the phone. I'm feeling the strain. I don't have a lot of hope that I will finish by the end of the course next week.

Replacing so many old sources is a lot of work. On Wednesday I culled through my 1,000+ sources and eliminated the ones that were 2008 and older. I also eliminated the ones that weren't peer-reviewed. This brought my total to less than 400 sources. Then I opened up my concept paper, saved a new version, and performed a search-and-replace on all the sources that were 2008 or older. I formatted the results in red. Then I searched for all the sources that weren't peer-reviewed (based on the troll's highlighting) and formatted them in red as well. So now my paper is splotched with red. It looks like I took an axe to my throat and aimed the spray toward the computer monitor.

Today I started at the top. I have to go line by line. I can't just do a search and replace—search for Joe Blow, 2007, and replace it with Jane Blow, 2010. I'd like to think it would be that easy, but I fear a search and destroy blitz approach will backfire big time. I'll end up with something that makes no sense. Well, less sense than it does now. Like it was written by a robot. And so I've been dredging through the electronic stacks of EBSCOhost, searching on terms like for-profit, student as customer, stakeholders, academic quality, TQM, accreditation... I feel like I went swimming in a very deep, very murky muddy pit. I gamely caught a few pdfs and saved them to my folder. And in case you were wondering, no, I don't use EndNote, or Mendeley, or any other fancy software to organize my files. I have a simple coding system that works with Windows 7 Explorer search feature. Year, peer-reviewed, empirical study, method, higher ed or no, country, topic, and last name of the first author. As long as I have my list of topics at hand, I can search pretty fast for anything that meets my criteria. Crude, but it works.

I won't have much time to continue this editing nightmare tomorrow. Tomorrow morning is our career college's graduation. Again. Seems like we were just there, seems like only last month I was writing about the massive church, the crowded foyer, the huge auditorium filled with shrieking adults and whining children. I must dig into the back of the musty closet for my cap and gown, the polyester costume that will be around long after I am gone, stiffly waiting out eternity in some steaming landfill. And tomorrow it will be pouring rain, of course. It's fall in Oregon, after all.

Argh, where's that axe?

The committee is AWOL: I didn't cause it, I can't control it, and I sure can't cure it

Despite the gloomy fact that it is pouring rain outside, and despite the equally gloomy fact that the pouring rain feels completely normal to me even after over three months of glorious sunshine, I have some good news to report. Some. Not a whole lot, but then, what would it take to make the chronic malcontent truly happy? I really can't say. Anyway, my chairperson gave me some good feedback on my concept paper. That was the good news. The bad news—you knew that had to be coming, didn't you—is that apparently my dissertation committee is AWOL. My chairperson said the “issue” is being addressed. I have no idea who the committee members are, so I cannot help to track them down and wrangle them back into the fold, as it were. So, as gratifying as it is to get some good feedback from my chairperson, the comments from the anonymous AWOL committee are still hanging out there. I fear any one of them has the power to quash my concept and send me back to the drawing board.

My sister admonished me to find out who the committee members are. She said at the doctoral level, there should be no veil of secrecy, no cloak of anonymity. We are colleagues, practically. It's unprofessional to claim the role of anonymous reviewer, when one's job is to support and mentor the doctoral candidate. Based on my sister's admonishment, I think I will ask my chairperson if she will reveal the names of the committee members.

In the meantime, I will make the changes the chairperson has suggested. Progress of sorts. This dissertation course ends in a couple weeks. If the past procedure holds, I will be granted a two week hiatus, call it a vacation, before the next course begins. I am now officially into extension territory. In December of 2005 when I started this ridiculous endeavor, I anticipated that I would be finished—phinished!—by the end of October 2012. Now, almost seven years later, I'm so tired of the process I don't have the energy to muster an increased sense of disappointment. I'm already at max disappointment. But who cares. When you get on the Ph.D. ride, you are on it for the duration, no matter how long it takes, no matter how many times your concept is rejected by nameless, faceless mentors who after rejecting your concept drag up and disappear.

It's ok, really. I'm disappointed, but I'm not angry. If I could do it over, I'd probably choose something else, but it hasn't been wasted time and money. I've learned a lot about a lot of things, including myself. Priceless.

Why I hate Linked In

I check my email pretty much every day. Today there was an invitation to link up on LinkedIn from a colleague at work. Without thinking, I clicked the happy blue Accept button and was instantly transported to a page that overwhelmed me with networking possibilities. There was a list of smiling people LinkedIn thought I might know and should link to. There was my new “friend's” smiling face: isn't it great, now we're linked or connected or whatever you call it. And then I saw how many friends, buddies, colleagues he had, and I started to sweat. Two-hundred and forty. I have, like, 35. Now I'm connected through my new friend to all his friends.

I feel like I just stood in my open window and took my clothes off. Two-hundred and forty people! A crowd of people who will now receive updates on who their colleague is newly linked to. They will see my insipid picture. Some of them in a moment of boredom may actually click on my link to find out who I am and then laugh derisively at my pathetically puny profile. I've lost my anonymity, which is way more precious to me than any other -ity I may have lost along the way.

I like the guy. And in principle, I see the value in networking. But I'm such a rabid introvert, I cringe at the thought of connecting to any group of strangers. Stranger danger! I feel like my quiet burrow has been invaded by unseen voyeurs.

That is why I treasure this blog. Sure, no one reads it except my sister and my friend Bravadita, but there is an upside to anonymity, and that is I can feel free to be me, to say what I want, to draw what I want. Just me, sitting in the dark in the Love Shack, another faceless bozo blogging on the bus.

Hmmmm. Why don't I feel free to be me in public view? Good question, thanks for asking. Someday, if I want to grow my writing and artistic endeavors, I may have to come out of the cave. Is that what LinkedIn is for me, a foray out of the pseudo-safety of my cave? Apparently I don't associate a professional networking tool with art and writing. Huh. Well, it doesn't matter. Even if there were a LinkedIn for artists and writers (which there probably is), I would still be reluctant to join. I'm an introvert and a chronic malcontent. Just leave me alone in my cave. I'll figure it out someday.

I'll keep using LinkedIn, I guess, mostly because I don't know how to stop. Once your life is on the Internet, it's not yours anymore. I guess that is the answer. I have to proactively embrace networking, because it will happen with or without my consent and participation. I want to have some influence on the shape and direction of my personal networking hell. Maybe I'll change my LinkedIn photo to something obscene or disgusting. A cockroach. A clown. A slut with a cigarette. I wonder if anyone would notice.

Are you a victim or a creator? Sometimes it's hard to tell

Last night in the College & Career Success class, I gave a little demonstration to my four students on how to structure a five-paragraph essay. I'm certainly not a writing instructor, as evidenced by my use of my infamous Oreo cookie essay design—you know, a cookie on top (the introduction), creamy white filling (three paragraphs for the body), and a cookie on the bottom (the closing). Five paragraphs. A big fat cookie. Yum. What could be easier? I guess I was getting into it, because one student suddenly held up her hands in a back-off sort of way. She's young, maybe late-20s, thin, with long hair that I suspect would not be so blonde if she let it grow out, and judging by her reaction, she has a low tolerance for drama and enthusiasm.

“What's wrong?” I said in surprise. “Is this not pure genius? It's so simple! If you use this method, I swear to you, your readers will be eternally grateful, your audiences will swoon at your feet!”

“Calm down!” she shouted.

I put the cap end of the whiteboard marker in my mouth so I would stop talking. I held still, thinking, oh no, here it comes, the statement that will reveal that I'm a crappy teacher to the other three students in the class. Darn it. I knew I should have had a lesson plan! It's all I can do to read the book! Argh!

“I'm confused,” she said accusingly. “I've started my paper already. Now you are telling me I've done this all wrong?”

“It's just a suggestion,” I said weakly.

Tears welled up in her eyes. She was mentally flagellating herself. Loser. Loser. I could almost see the stick. And then her eyes got all fiery—F--k this sh-t!—and she turned her fury on me. I flinched, but gamely tried to resuscitate the now-comatose learning experience as the other three students studiously busied themselves in a discussion of pencils and paper clips.

“Would it help to think of it as a process, rather than an outcome?” I tried carefully. No smile. “Uh, would it help to know you will get an A on the paper even if it is utter crap?” I said. In retrospect, probably not the best thing to say. “What you've written is awesome! All we need is a bit of structure, maybe an outline.”

“I used to know how to outline, but I don't remember now,” she wailed, dabbing at her heavily made-up eyes.

“No worries! No writer writes a perfect first draft, take it from me, the author of many crappy first drafts... and second and third drafts... perfection is unattainable! Not worth chasing!”

I could see she wasn't buying it, and we were out of time. She hastened off to another class, and I was all too ready to pack up and go home. As I exited the building and headed across the dark parking lot to my car, I berated myself. You're a crappy teacher. This episode proves it. And I don't really care. She's got more problems than my half-hearted pep talk can solve, and I don't care. It's not my job to fix what is wrong with her, even if I could. She's got this idea that she has to know everything already, and we are only two weeks into the term. With that misconception, she won't last three more weeks. And I don't care. She'll either figure it out, or she won't.

Some teachers will hold her hand, empathize, and offer reassurances, while other teachers will give her the tough-love treatment: This isn't high-school, this is college. You aren't a child, you are an adult. So man up and start taking responsibility for your own learning. No whining! What kind of teacher am I? I'm soft on the outside, I guess, and hard on the inside. I don't say what I really think anymore, because it only gets me into trouble. It makes everyone feel bad, including me. So, I aim for empathy. A sort of teeth-grit empathy laced with sweaty fear that my evaluations will be so bad that I'll lose my job and have to quit school and live under a bridge. (Luckily we have a lot of nice bridges in this city.)

What kind of life has she had to cause such dread of making a mistake? Her anger is just a mask for her fear. I've seen this fear before in students, but rarely so close and in my face. Sure, students weep when they are under pressure. But usually it happens at the end of the term, not two weeks in. If she is already unraveling, I don't give her much odds of making it. I think if I practiced tough-love on her, she would crumble. I've seen my boss do it to students, ream them a new one—Show up on time or you're outta here!—and a few of them don't come back. Usually young thin blondes. Not sure why that is. Maybe their precarious self-esteem comes from a bottle of hair bleach.

But you never know about people. Some of the weepers, if they stick around, find out they know more than they thought, and they graduate with a confident swagger that is something to see. Maybe this girl will be one of those.

Next week we get to talk about being victims and creators. That ought to be interesting.

Fallout from flunking students

After I flunked the two Wilsonville students, Gina and Jimmy (not their real names), I retired back to the Clackamas campus in relief, hoping that would be the end of it. I wasn't surprised, however, when I received emails from their respective program directors, minutes apart, asking me to provide evidence for my decision to flunk them. For a moment I doubted myself: did I do the right thing, flunking these two desperate students? Gina, with tears tracking her cheeks, begged me to let her pass. Jimmy told me straight out he needed a C. (Jimmy is the student who threatened to bring a shotgun to Excel class.)

I totted up the evidence and sent it off to the program directors, who thanked me and said they needed the information to give to the students' Voc Rehab and SAIF counselors. The funding parties, in other words. I get it. I hope the students will be given another chance. And I hope it isn't me that teaches them. Jimmy's program director said Jimmy would have to come to Clackamas next term to take Excel again. I can pray he gets Sheryl (my colleague, not her real name) instead of me, but I know how wacky the Universe can be. I will accept what comes.

I don't fail students easily. I agonize over it, before I submit the final grades. But once it is done, I move on. I move on so completely, I have already forgotten the names of the students I had last term. I see them in the hall—it's only been a week since they were in my class!—and I can't remember their names until 30 seconds after they pass me by. Could be old age. Then again, could be I just don't care.

Most of our students struggle to survive. Very few come from money. Many live from loan check to loan check—some of them are in school only for the money. They are single mothers with one or three kids, living at home with a parent or other relative. Childcare is always an issue. Last term I met a four-year-old named Aiden, a charming child who did his best to quietly watch his Tin Tin videos while his mother endeavored to learn Excel. Children are not allowed on campus, but what can you do, when it's late at night, the student has maxed out her absences, and the usual childcare provider is not available? You welcome the child and hope no one in authority hears about it.

Yesterday the campus was invaded by photographers, taking photos for an online View Book. Apparently to be competitive we must have a View Book that prospective students can look at to see if they want to attend our college. (There's a joke there somewhere, but I just can't conjure it up right now.) A small swarm of strangers roamed the halls, grabbing and posing students and teachers in the typical places: a doorway, a classroom, a lab. I think I might have been unwittingly captured in a background shot. I'll sure they will crop me out. I look far too weird to be in any college's View Book. I dress in black every day and wear a hat and fingerless gloves (formerly known as socks), not your typical little old lady teacher.

Besides, I don't want my picture in their View Book. My intention, slowly taking shape and becoming clearer with each excruciatingly tedious hour I spend lurking over the shoulders of sweating keyboarders, is to leave this place behind. My brain is halfway out the door. It is just a matter of time before my body follows. Where we are going, I do not know. But away from teaching, if I have my way. I'm tired of evaluating students, judging their performance, flunking a few, praising a few, forgetting most of them in a matter of days. Being on stage is grueling. Teaching the same classes over and over is mind-numbing. It's time for a new adventure.

The end of the world is nigh. That means.... run!

It's so weird how you can be having a conversation with someone you think is completely “normal,” and then they say something like, “I'm think I need to spend my rent money on a bug-out bag, so I'll be ready for the impending bank crash.” Wha–? It's like the fabric of reality suddenly shifts and you see a whole new world: beef jerky, locals only, BYO guns and ammo. Really? Here I've been so focused on the possibility of rain, and I should have been worried about a financial crisis? Wow. Where have I been?

After I got off the phone, I googled impending bank crash and found lots of propaganda from wackjobs who are making a ton of money pandering to the fears of anxious middle-aged women. Articles written by faceless ne'er-do-wells with no last names (My name is Michael, and I am a strong Christian) exhorting us to head for the hills. Books about how to survive the coming apocalypse. Really? It's so Y2K. This poor woman on the other end of the phone was seriously considering spending her modest retirement fund on a used car, a tent, and a camping stove. She wondered if I thought she should put her money into CDs.  All I could think to say was, you expect a bank crash and you want to buy CDs from a bank? What am I missing here?

I like the term bug-out bag. She assumed I had one. “I have an earthquake kit,” I said. You could call it a stay-put bag. Well, it's really just a plastic tote bin stocked with bottled water and toilet paper, but I didn't tell her that. As she kept talking, I thought, maybe I need an escape plan. Hey, what do I know, maybe she's right, maybe there is a financial crash coming. If the U.S. banking system fails, if everything falls apart, I have no contingency plan. Not on my radar, what with the awesome weather, my crappy job, and my marathon dissertation saga. Maybe I've been too self-obsessed. Have I missed the warning signs?

What would follow a widespread bank crash? Martial law? Rationed gas? Grasshoppers and squirrels for dinner? I can't picture it. I'm such a city kid, the idea of roughing it is beyond my imagination. I can't even camp. I would be useless in any kind of crash, bank or otherwise.

It seems clear that the woman is troubled by her beliefs about the end of the world. Mine look different from hers, but are no less troubling to me. I don't belittle her beliefs: She could be right. I'm no financial expert. I'm not sure there is such a thing. While we were talking, I didn't question her beliefs or try to talk her out of them. She just wanted what we all want, to feel heard and understood. I get it. Nobody wants to feel alone when the world is coming to an end.

Let the season of complaining begin

As a chronic malcontent, my natural inclination is to focus on the dark side. You could say it's a habit. Some would say it is a failing. I claim it is an art. It takes talent to play devil's advocate 24/7. I'm not to that level yet: I still have moments where I smile, or break out in a whistle, or feel like skipping. Brief moments, to be sure, but I'm painstakingly working on eradicating them, so I can be the best chronic malcontent that I can be. Or the worst. Whatever.

The most obvious thing to complain about is the change of season. It's fall. I can tell because I feel like going back to bed, even after I've just got up. But what's with all this weird sunshine? Things are definitely not normal here in the rainy city. Rain... I remember what rain is, that wet stuff that falls from the sky? Haven't seen any to speak of for three months. My mother is trying to move a rose bush: She says the ground is rock-solid. I say wait till it rains. “That could be weeks!” she replied. What could I do but agree? When you are 84, it's better not to postpone things. You may not have the weeks that younger people take for granted.

And while I wouldn't say it is warm, exactly, it's not precisely cold either. But it is definitely fall. The east wind has been scouring our backside for a few days now, bringing smoke from Washington and cold air from Canada. Leaves are starting to pile up in odd corners. I find the wind unsettling. The air is on the move, and it's noisy. In the park, the tall forest roars. Oak branches whip above my head. I regress to my pre-primate ancestry, scurrying the trails, seeking a warm quiet burrow to hide in until spring. And this is just the beginning.

Complaining about the weather is a regional pastime in the Pacific Northwest. Everybody does it. Some people actually like the fall, though. I overheard a student saying how she looked forward to feeling the crisp, cold air. I shuddered. Even when it is 70° outside, it's 60° inside. Whether at home or at work, I can't get warm. My hands are stiff with cold. My feet ache. Every year I swear I will buy electric socks. Hmmmm. Maybe not this year. I just googled electric socks. The options don't look promising. Although I found an interesting website whose authors claimed that I can force my hands and feet to warm up in about three minutes by reducing the amount of oxygen I breathe in. Yeah, that oughta do it.

The temperature gadget on my computer desktop says it is 63° in the Rose City. (And 85° in Palm Springs, sigh.) Hell, I remember last spring when I rejoiced that the temperature finally cracked 60°. As I write this, I'm wearing fingerless gloves (formerly known as socks), a stocking cap, two t-shirts and a fleece vest, fleece pants, heavy socks, and fleece-lined slippers. I have the afghan my mother knitted draped over my knees and wrapped around my feet. This is just the beginning. It's fall. It all goes down from here—the mercury, the leaves, the rain, the mood.

Oh, man. To top it all off, my neighbor Joy is stomping around on her wooden floors wearing what must be wooden clogs. Really? Why doesn't she just come over here and bludgeon me to death with them. It would be a mercy killing. What, is she dancing? Does the woman own no slippers? Is this hell on earth? Bright side, bright side: She is probably getting ready to go out. It's Friday night. Yes! I think I just heard her front door slam. There is a god. Oh, whoops, just had a slip there. Dark side, dark side. Well, she'll be back, along about last call, staggering across her wooden floor in her clogs. Whew, almost fell into optimism there. But no, the chronic malcontent wins again.

Miscellaneous musings from the chronic malcontent

I'm closing in fast on a birthday, who cares which one, and I was reminded of it today while standing in line at Good Will to purchase some paperbacks to immerse my brain in while my body is immersed in hot bath water. (Science fiction and vampire romances are my current favorites for reading-while-bathing.) A dark-skinned short guy who may or may not have been about my age was in line ahead of me. As he stepped up to the counter, the chubby young female cashier hesitated a slight moment, and then asked him, “Are you over 55?” He hesitated an even slighter second and nodded vigorously. Presumably he received an over-55 discount. Just then, another cashier opened up her register and beckoned me over. She rang me up quickly and politely, but didn't ask me the same question.

So what does that mean? Should I assume I look younger than my age? Or maybe that other cashier just likes older men? Or maybe nobody gives a you-know-what about middle-aged white women shopping at Good Will? Whatever, it doesn't matter. I didn't have to admit my age, I bought my books, they got my money, it's a win-win for humanity.

Today is a day to reflect before toddling off to work my five hour evening shift at the career college. The sun is shining yet again, although it's cooler today, and breezy. Leaves levitate in swirls and eddies. Maple seed helicopters whirl earthward, glowing in the sun, to lie scattered all over the ground. I'll see little maple tree sprouts in odd nooks and crannies next spring. If I had time I would head up for a trot in the park. We are having an amazing stretch of dry weather. In fact, we've had only a quarter inch of rain in the past three months, which apparently is a record since data has been kept at the Portland Airport. It's not summer anymore, for sure. It's now uber-summer, the strange season we sometimes get in early October. Days are warm, nights are frosty. The grass is brown, the ground is rock-hard. My black car is coated with a fine veneer of dust. The air is dry as a bone, a bane to firefighters struggling to contain wildfires raging in Washington and eastern Oregon. So far no one is using the d-word: drought.

To complement the new season, we have a new term at the career college. It's been a busy couple weeks, trying to end a term and prepare for a new one. New term, new schedule, new faces, new rooms... and same old problems. The parking lot is emptier than it should be, for both morning and evening classes. (Come on all you new marketing and admissions people, we are counting on you to save us!) Management is demonstrating its usual disregard for employee morale and empowerment. The tech department, intent on launching the latest gadgetry, is ignoring feedback from both faculty and students. I haven't seen the college president in weeks: he usually makes himself scarce around term ends and beginnings, as if he fears one of us might accost him for some help.

The latest debacle to rave about is the bungled implementation of Microsoft Outlook.Live. Outlook.Live, for some unknown reason, is now management's communication tool of choice. (Oh, could it be because it is .... free?) Faculty and students are required to sign-up and sign-in daily to check for messages—from whom we are not sure. The word “bullshit” has been bandied about by numerous frustrated parties, as log on IDs and passwords fail to work, and when they finally do, and we are finally granted access to the miracle known as Outlook.Live, there's nothing there to reward our suffering. No important messages from management, anyway, except to tell us to force students to sign up. It's a classic management blunder. If I were to write a book on customer service quality, this would have to be in it, as an example of what not to do.

Hey, I almost forgot, if anyone is reading this and keeping up on my endless dissertation saga: Good news, my chairperson reported via email that she sent my concept paper to the committee (whoever they are). I don't think that means she has approved the paper, I think she is just tired of reading it and would like to... share the love, as it were. I hope this is good news, but I'm afraid to get my hopes up. She said she is trying to streamline the process for me, which I appreciate.