Catching bullets in my teeth

Tomorrow I will interview my first participant for my doctoral study. I thought this day would never come. I also thought it would easier than it has been so far to recruit faculty to interview. I thought they would be clawing their way into my sample, desperate to tell me how they feel about academic quality in the for-profit vocational programs for which they teach. Clearly I need to get out more. They may have opinions, but they also have lives, apparently, and those lives take precedence over my study. I know. I can't believe it either.

Tonight I attended the last class of a 4-class How to Write Your Business Plan series. I walked down the hill to Portland Community College from the Love Shack, a good half hour walk down (40 minutes coming back, that last hill is a doozy). The first night I twisted my ankle not 20 yards from my back door. That was challenging. The second night, a week later, I had such a stomach ache, I walked bent over like an old woman. By the third week, I was feeling pretty good, although I knew I wasn't going to get a whole lot from the class. Never let it be said that I am a quitter. Of four students, I was the only one who actually produced a business plan.

The adviser never even asked to see my plan, which I thought was odd, until I realized that she doesn't expect us to complete a business plan in four weeks. She expects we will show up with a completed plan when we visit with her one-on-one next month. She made July appointments to meet with all of us individually. She is our official adviser. Apparently we are bonded for life. I presume she gets paid for her time. For us, her services are free. I can't help thinking, hey, I could do that. Why am I not doing that?

Tonight while I was walking home through the neighborhood, I fantasized about what I could do to earn money while I flog my marketing research business to life. The challenge of earning is one of my least favorite topics to fantasize about. Probably fantasize is the wrong word. Fantasize makes it sound like I'm thinking of signing on with a cruise ship or selling myself into a harem. Both fairly unlikely, although never say never. For now, I'm leaning more toward signing on with guru.com or someplace like that. Harem pants optional.

But I need to finish this pesky Ph.D.! It hangs around my neck like the legendary dead albatross, getting heavier and heavier and stinkier and stinkier. With every obstacle hurdled, another follows. Why can't it just fall easily and effortlessly into place? Why aren't faculty beating down my door to be interviewed? Why aren't my friends recruiting for me? I know why, it's because I don't know anyone. I am connectionless. Connectionless in this day and age is like being blind, deaf, and dumb. And stupid. I have, like 18 Facebook friends, and hardly more than that on LinkedIn. I'm not even on Twitter! The idea of Twitter makes me want to hurl. I'm an introvert! I can't help that people think I'm a snob. Nobody knows me, because I won't let them know me. And now when I actually need people to help me.... well, I guess you get what you give, Carol.

I will continue to beg my few friends to beat the bushes for a few more elusive faculty members, who will deign to shower me with their pearls of wisdom and then meander back to their important lives. Eventually this dissertation will get written. And approved. And defended. I will still be an introvert, though. That won't change. And I will resist social media until my last breath.

Worse than herding cats

Signing up faculty to interview for my doctoral study is worse than herding cats! Worse than wrangling medical students to do timings in keyboarding! Worse than listening to some idiot pound on a bongo drum in front of the yoga studio across the street! Argh. So far I have two legitimate subjects who have indicated interest in participating in my study by filling in my web screener. They gifted me with their contact information. I emailed them the instructions on how to make their rich picture. And now they are silent. Maybe they are immersed in drawing their masterpiece. Maybe they are out of town. Maybe I should just chill out and not make it all about me.

I did a dress rehearsal with my former colleague, Sheryl, who took time out from the grueling and mostly discouraging task of applying for administrative assistant jobs at age 66. We sat at her dining room table. I brought out all my gear: timer, audio-recorder, script, and when we were ready, I pressed REC and proceeded to interview her about her perceptions of academic quality in vocational programs at for-profit career colleges.

Considering we were both recently laid off from such an institution, it isn't surprising that she had a lot to say. She proudly displayed her neatly penciled rich picture, an orderly diagram of a system in which students enter, are transformed, and exit presumably better for the experience. The system breaks down, she said, when there are problems with management's lack of willingness to commit resources on behalf of students. Sheryl pointed out the dainty bomb image she used to indicate the presence of a problem. I had to look hard to see it, a neat and tidy explosion at the corner of the edifice of education. It warmed my heart to see she had taken the assignment seriously. There's nothing like seeing a 66-year-old ex-teacher drawing little pictures of bombs.

Afterward, I went home and transcribed the file, which I have to say is the most tedious, time-consuming task I can ever remember voluntarily undertaking. I set the transcription software to play at half-speed, so we sounded like Cheech and Chong. Hey, man, getting students to do their homework is a drag, man. Yeah, man, I know what you mean, man. I had a hard time typing, I was laughing so hard. Sheryl at half-speed conveyed the impression of a thoughtful drunk after a couple glasses of wine. I at half-speed, on the other hand, sounded like I'd been drinking for days, and smoking anything that came my way. I haven't done either in a long time, so it was a little disconcerting to imagine that I used to really sound like that. Whhh.. uh.. whar..? Back when I was about 19 or 20. But I had nothing of interest to say back then, anyway, so I doubt anyone noticed or cared.

Now I'm a lot older and supposedly smarter. Look at me, working on a doctorate. I must be smart, right? Unemployed... maybe unemployable, but really, really smart.

I am impatient with my interview subjects. It would be nice if they would step up briskly and submit to my study willingly and with enthusiasm. Maybe that is too much to expect. At this point, I'd be satisfied if they would just respond to my emails.

Exit, stage right... ah, if only

I've heard people say, “Begin with the end in mind,” and I apply that philosophy to many projects I undertake. But until this evening, I hadn't thought of applying it to the business I am launching. I've been so focused on taking immediate actions, making sure I'm tracking my quarter hours of frenetic activity, fretting over my logo, worrying about the first job... I haven't taken time to wonder, what about the last job? What about that moment when I say, I've had enough?

Now that the idea has been planted in my brain, I just want to skip to the end. I want to leap over all this busy detail, all this day-to-day fear, and get to the part where I hand the passwords to someone else as I'm waltzing out the door. So long, thanks for all the figs. Fish. Whatever.

I suspect I was born to retire. I take after my father. He retired at the first opportunity and defied the averages by living 25 smugly happy years, sitting on the couch watching basketball and complaining about my mother's cooking. Sometimes I would drive up and find him sitting in a lawn chair in the front yard, spraying passersby with the garden hose. Ah, what a life.

None of that sounds all that appealing to me, except the part about retiring. What would I do if I could retire today? Thanks for asking. If I were really a chip off the old paternal block, I would lay around watching romcoms and eating bonbons, maybe occasionally spritzing the cat with a bottle of water. But that wouldn't be my idea of retirement heaven. I think I would spend a lot of time just thinking. And I would make up stories and write them down. Screenplays, novels, whatever. And I would start painting again.

Huh. I don't want to think about this anymore. The angry magic child in me will rise up and threaten to cut our throat if I don't dust off the paintbox in the next five minutes. It does no good to try to reason with her; once she wakes up, she's a pitbull with her teeth sunk in the neighbor kid's leg. I've tried to explain to her that in this time and place, making art—writing or painting—is not respected or revered. In fact, making art is ridiculed or ignored. Who buys art but rich people and artists? Do you have art hanging on your walls? I mean art you didn't buy at Wal-Mart or at some yard sale?

So it doesn't matter that I was born to retire. Retirement for me is called die. It's good I've found a business idea that I actually like and that might actually make some money, if I keep at it. If I don't jump off a bridge first in a fit of frustrated creative pique.

No longer looking in the rear view mirror

Technology separates the whiners from the winners. This past week I've been stumbling from one task to another, overwhelmed by a litany of log-in names (who am I, again?) and a plethora of passwords that must be at least 8 characters (but no more than 20), have at least one number, one symbol, and one uppercase letter, or... or what? Too weak! Inferior! Not strong enough! You know you have hit a bottom when you are getting smacked around by a horde of captchas.

At last I have a semblance of a website, after wrestling with WordPress... Why does everyone love it? I don't get it. TablePress? Really? Kind of a clunky way to add a table to a WordPress webpage, don't you think? Remind me to learn php. When I get some time. What is php? I don't know, some kind of drug that makes it so you don't care if your website looks like crap.

Finally, after desperately combing the online forums, I figured out why my Outlook account would send but not receive. (A metaphor for something, I'm sure.) After re-entering the settings a gajillion times, I discovered the Outlook feature called IMAP folders and clicked the folder named with my domain name (not my inbox! who knew!), and voila, suddenly there they were, all the test messages sent from Outlook to the web server, bam, one after the other, lining up like obedient little soldiers. Hah. I won that battle.

On the dissertation data collection front, I'm pleased to say I had a response today from someone who actually qualifies for my study. I was starting to worry a little. All my friends fell over themselves to fill out my web screener survey, bless their tiny heads, and it's nice to know they are willing, just in case the whole thing tanks. But it would be better to interview people I don't know. Gee whiz, you guys. Clearly you didn't read the introductory material. I know it is gobbledegook. I am required to provide it, even though I know most people will skip straight over it. But I must make sure they hear it before I interview them—god forbid I should harm anyone in the interview process. Poke out their eye accidentally with a pen, maybe. Or inadvertently ask them a question that makes them cry. I used to believe teaching for a for-profit career college was a good thing, but I was ignorant and uninformed. What's your excuse?

And don't forget, I'm officially self-employed now. Today, before I got mired in the Outlook mess, I prepared a lovely proposal to conduct a small marketing research study for a friend's business... a sort of pilot test, a practice run to develop my systems. She owns an art school in the Los Angeles area. She teaches a love of creativity to children who are starved for art. What's not to love! We had a great conversation about the challenges she is encountering as she grows her art school. It was satisfying to hear her stories, not just because she is a dear friend, but because it was fascinating to hear about her business experiences. I can help! This is a good sign.

Better than teaching keyboarding, that's for sure.

Zip about php

The gods who lounge around at the Institutional Review Board deigned to smile upon me today by granting me approval to begin conducting the data collection phase of my doctoral study. For a few short moments, I was euphoric. Then I thought about what comes next, and my knees almost buckled. What comes next is the challenge of arranging and conducting ten interviews, transcribing the proceedings, and then analyzing the data to discern the story. And then writing it up in a way that meets the approval of another set of gods—my chairperson, my committee, and the Graduate School reviewers—all following APA format, of course.

Why, oh why, did I ever begin this farce?

Today, I played the role of the intrepid and determined soon-to-be self-employed person and spent much of the day coaxing WordPress to reveal its secrets. Thank the gods for online forums where people much braver than I throw their stupid questions to the experts like naive children throw bread to seagulls. Seagulls aren't especially forgiving if you don't let go of the bread. Similarly, the experts in the WordPress forum don't put up with the slow kids. How do I add Facebook buttons to my sidebar? How do I get the first page to be static? How do I tell this wretched template to behave? All worthy questions for a novice. You should see how some innocent fools got shredded when they didn't catch on fast enough... Make a child template? Wha—? I know this much about html and zip about php, so I won't dare ask anything, but I'm grateful others are not shy.

After some hours, I'm relieved to say I managed to create something that loosely resembles a website, so now I can say I have a presence on the Web. Whoopdedoo. Just add content. Stir. Drink, rinse, repeat.

Letting go of resentments, old and new

It's a gray day, inside and out. The rain came back. That's always a good excuse to feel sad. On top of the dismal weather, I've hit yet another road block on my dissertation journey.

I was having trouble getting permission to recruit faculty outside of an institutional network. I pitched the idea of using a LinkedIn group to reach faculty in Portland. The IRB rejected the idea, saying I can't use my own network. My Chair suggested I create a fresh identity, with no network. When I resubmitted the application, the IRB reviewer apologized, saying she hadn't realized I would be using a group. A group would be fine, she said, no need to create a new identity. Take that part out, but you still must get permission from the group owner to post your request.

I sent a request to the owner of the LinkedIn group (a higher education group with 30,000 members worldwide—surely some of them must live in Portland), asking to post a link to my doctoral survey Web screener. Today I received the rejection. Nope, sorry, if we let you post a request, then we'd have to let everyone do it, and that would change the tone of our group. I'm disappointed, but not surprised.

I emailed my Chair the sad news. She asked me if there any other groups I could try. Today I've been scoping out LinkedIn groups, trying to figure out where I might find a pool of shy faculty I can entice to the surface with promises of gift cards.

It's like I've been asked to the prom, but my date is sitting in the car, too scared to come to the door. I'm all dressed up, dang it! I struggled through the topic paper, concept paper, the proposal, and I'm quivering right on the edge of getting IRB approval, if only someone would let me post a link.

One thing I've learned on a gut level this week is that resentment hurts no one but me. Did you know that resentment affects the digestive system? Yes, you probably did. I'm probably the only person so out of touch with her body, she doesn't even know she's going to hurl until three seconds before it happens. Sorry, that's gross.

Metaphorically speaking, my focus this week has been to release old resentments. It's time to let it all go, and I mean all. I will spare you the details of how it came about, but I'm now something like that empty boat that the meditation teacher kept describing (as if floating rudderless out of control is a good thing). On the bright side, I feel a lot lighter. Maybe I can finally fit into my jeans.

Exposing my dirty red underbelly

I'm still wallowing in the messy bog of social media. A muscle in my left cheek twitches whenever I open Facebook. I've stayed away for several days. Facebook is like a creepy stalker boyfriend, lurking under my window, trying to see inside my pantie drawer. My friends are laughing at me. My Facebook friends, that is. Gives a whole new meaning to the word friend. And the word like. Like, will you like what I just said on Facebook? Can this be happening?

To make my brain more insane, I just created another online persona. After several hours farting around with formats, I realized the best way to invite faculty to participate in my dissertation project is to post the invitation on a blog. So I created a new blog. With a new identity. And a photo of the real me, so people can see my snarky grin and judge me trustworthy. Or not.

I have new respect for authors who write under different pseudonyms. And actors who play multiple roles in one production. And don't forget spies, who (I presume) change identities like the rest of us change underwear. How do they keep track of who they are on any given day? My brain is whirling.

Who am I? Who am I now? Am I anonymous, or am I now displaying my dirty red underbelly for the entire world to see and comment on? What if I make a mistake and reveal my identity? Once something is posted online, there's no getting it back. All the stupid cartoons I posted on Facebook to launch my fledgling company page will haunt me forever, even if I delete them in a frenzy of misgivings. Just like all the emails I sent to and from co-workers at my former job will no doubt remain on a server somewhere for all eternity. What a waste of space.

Speaking of former jobs, my indefatigable naturopath, Dr. Tony, decreed that I was hanging on to old resentments, and recommended I submit to a colonic. I had to look up the word. I knew it had something to do with colons, but omigod. How mortifying. Is he serious? How disgusting. Has he ever had one himself? I bet not! How embarrassing. Certainly I can't tell anyone about this! Wait, what? Whoops, did I just tell the world I'm considering sending my lower intestine to the digestive equivalent of a car wash?

See, that is what I'm talking about. I don't know what I'm talking about! Or who I am when I'm saying it! There's a name for this, probably, beyond just insane, nuts, or crazy. Self-obsessed, maybe?

Doing the time warp... again

My life sure looks different these days. Instead of worrying about grading keyboarding papers and listening to students complain, I am immersed in the hectic puzzling world of self-employment. Every now and then I come to and pinch myself. Is this really happening? Am I caught in a time warp? I may be caught in something. I got busy compiling the results of a survey tonight; when I looked up, three hours had passed. It's time for the news, and I forgot to blog!

I've been sitting on my fancy drafting chair far too long. I'm bound to have clogged a minor artery or two, simply because I haven't moved much today. That is not good, for my veins or my ass. My cat isn't thrilled either.

Everything takes time! Don't get me started on Facebook! I can already tell I hate it. I hated it when it began, and I hate it now. Hmmmm. Hate is such a strong word for a social media tool. Let me rephrase: I would prefer to avoid it, how about that? I got a friend request today from someone I used to work with at the career college. I declined. Should I have done that? I've been told I need more friends. I need more likes. Huh?

Let me get up off my chair for a moment. Hey, what's that sound? Sounds like....

It's just a jump to the left. And then a step to the right. You know what comes next, right? Put your hands on your hips. And bring your knees in tight! 

Come on, you know you want to sing this next part out loud. But it's the pelvic thrust that really drives you in-sa-a-aa-a-ane. Let's do the...

Ok, sorry. I got carried away.

Warm weather is coming. Sunny skies are forecast for Rose Festival weekend. I have no intention of attending the parade or watching the fireworks, but I will bask in the light and the warmth of the season. From the safety of my cave.

Tomorrow I have a call scheduled with my doctoral chairperson. We are trying to figure out how to write my IRB application so it gets approved. I think that is what we are doing. I'm not sure what she will have to say. I've spoken to her only a few times over the past couple years since she became my chairperson. The conversation always begins in a way that makes me think she doesn't remember who I am. Like, uh, what were we talking about? Not promising, but I'm hopeful we will brainstorm a solution. She's got a little more skin in the game now, since she approved my first IRB application. She has to sign off on it before she sends it on to the Graduate School. I hope she sides with me and not against me.

Oh, well. Anything can happen when one is in a time warp. It can be exciting to live at the speed of light, as it were, but I have no control over how it warps me as I dash from one project to another. Today I lost three hours; tomorrow it could be three weeks, or three months.

Oh, here's the cat. Gotta go.