Summer's last kiss

I took a break from writing to go for a run in the park. Well, I wouldn't call it a run, exactly. More like a shambling trot. I used to be able to run. Then I jogged. Now I trot. As long as I'm not crawling, who cares. Getting outside is good for the brain. And it's the last kiss of summer.

This time of year is always bittersweet. I love the golden light, the warm air, the luscious green leaves. But too soon, it ends. I wax maudlin every year about this time. I got a little weepy in the park just now, as I stood next to a lamppost, creakily stretching my legs and staring into the setting sun. Swallows looped silently overhead, in and around, up and down, snatching at invisible insects. The sky was devoid of clouds, and the sun was huge and red with the ash of Washington wildfires. I soaked it up, wishing I could store that light for later. I'm going to need it in a few short months when I'm dragging with SAD.

It might have been the setting sun, or the fact that I was wearing sunglasses, or it might just have been me waxing weepy, but I kept seeing people in the park who resembled people I knew long ago. I knew it wasn't them, because they looked just like they did when we were teenagers. One was my first official boyfriend, I'll call him Steve. I was 16, he was 19 (can you say underage?). He was a runner, a gaunt young man with a long torso and short legs, and long wavy dark hair that fanned out behind him as he ran. Now Steve could run. No trotting for that boy.

Seeing this modern version of Steve glide by in the setting sun reminded me of how simple things seemed when I was young and stupid. I'm just as stupid as I was, in a lot of ways, and now I'm not young. Being young and stupid is sort of cool if you wear the right clothes, but not if you are old and stupid.

Talking about how stupid I am is stupid. I'm going to stop that now and reflect on other things. Like the homeless person's tent I saw off to the side of the trail, on the flank of the caldera. No wonder I always smell pot when I run past that place. Like the difficulty of dodging piles of dog poop and wandering slugs while one is wearing sunglasses in the twilight. Can't see with them, can't see without them: Be ready to scrape your shoes later. Like the sudden epiphany about how to organize Chapter 4 of my dissertation.

It's not all bad. Neither is it all good. And it's not both, as those who subscribe to yin and yang would have us believe. It's somewhere in between. Yes, today seems like the last kiss of summer, but there will be nice days in the fall, and yes, even in the winter. Life happens, that's all. Good, bad, it is difficult to tell. Today the VP of Whatever emailed me to say that next Friday I can come to campus and interview any faculty who are willing. I think that might be good. But it's hard to tell.

Don't count your chickens before they tear your lips off

This morning I was on hold with the Employment Department to get my PIN reset and thinking that if I had to listen to the same 45-second clip of Kenny G's insipid soprano sax one more time I was going to poke my ear drums out, when I had the inspiration to email program directors at the career college directly to ask them to ask instructors directly to participate in my study. I sent a few emails, and voila! I got two sign-ups today, and the possibility of one more. Very soon, if the data collection gods are kind, I will have seven, maybe even eight interviews. And that is within spitting distance of the goal. In fact, it might be good enough. Sometimes good is the enemy of the best, but sometimes good enough is good enough.

I hate to think I have Kenny G to thank for this. I'd be more inclined to attribute the sudden progress to the depth of my desperation. My new motto is Drill down, baby, drill down! As in, forget the president of the college, forget the VP of Whatever. Go down into the hole and grab those program directors by the scruff of their necks and shake 'em. Say firmly, Look here, Buster, I need to talk to some faculty. Pronto! And watch them scurry. It worked!

So next week I'll scurry to meet them whenever and wherever they decree, no matter if it happens to interfere with my best thinking time (AKA nap time). Things are looking up. And not a moment too soon. I have three months to put this baby to bed or throw myself on the mercy of the university for an extension. I'm sure they will give it to me, if I ask. I've been a good student. (Meaning I've done my work on time and kept my mouth shut.) But how nice it would be to have this done before the end of the year.

I'm already daydreaming about taking the longest nap, the longest bath, the longest geographical. I'm daydreaming about how I'll finally be able to visit my friends (the ones who still remember me).

You know what they say. Don't count your chickens before they tear your lips off. I have a mountain of research to sift through, to make sense out of, to write about coherently enough to gain approval from the dissertation review gods. The culmination of eight years of work is now culminating! Culminating in progress, before your very eyes. It's not really a pretty sight. Actually, it's kind of stinky. I need a bath. The whole place reeks like a gym bag. But who cares. As my sister wisely says, just get it done.

How to blend in to your neighborhood

It's pandemonium at the Love Shack. My new neighbor has the bass cranked up on his stereo, same old story, just like the old neighbor. Sound travels through the old walls and floors like bladdity bla through yadada. I can't think of any metaphor that isn't a total cliche, because not only is the bass rattling my brain, but the neighbors in back are having an outdoor party, complete with music and applause. Closing the windows helps against the applause, but does nothing to block the bass coming through the walls from next door. And then we've got the music and laughter coming from the cafe across the street. There's no escaping it.

After a lovely evening at the Portland Art Museum with Bravadita and her friend Jeff, this is what I came home to. Cacophony. The first thing I did was close all my windows and pull my shades. I considered cranking up my stereo—a little New Order might help. What I really want is silence. There is nowhere to hide from this, except into my mp3 player, my refuge of last resort. If I can fill my head with my own music, I won't have to hear/feel the bass thrumming in my bones through the floorboards. It's a different kind of assault, one of choice.

It's hard to imagine writing anything coherent with all this noise going on. I was going to try. But it's after 10:00 p.m., and I just don't have the brain for it. I have a lot to write. And a serious deadline. I need a miracle. But I don't think it's going to happen tonight.

I collected my fifth interview yesterday. That is the good news. But it doesn't look as though any more will be forthcoming. By now, all my former colleagues at the career college have had time to make their decision: Will I help Carol or not? After two weeks, one person emailed me to express his willingness, and I met him yesterday morning on campus. Yes, on the campus where I used to work.

Driving there, parking, walking into the building... it felt surreal, like I was Rip Van Winkle, gone a hundred years, shuffling through the door with bad eyesight and a beard. Don't you know me? They knew me. They were just surprised to see me. And it wasn't the good kind of surprise, like, Wow, here's Carol! How are you? It was more like, Wow, here's Carol, what is she doing showing her face here? A few students recognized me, too, which was awkward. I couldn't remember their names.

The interview went well; I collected some good insights that will make my study stronger. When it was finished, he was clearly done with me: There was no loitering, hey, how's it going, no chit chat. I went out to the receptionist area and paused, thinking that maybe I could go over to the main building and find someone else to interview. Stupid me. I quickly realized everyone was in class. Everyone had a job. Everyone but me. I got in my car, drove home, and went back to bed.

Once it gets quiet, my plan is to begin writing up my findings, and continue data collection if possible. Qualitative research is iterative anyway. See? It's all good. Somewhere.

Give me your tired, your poor, your faculty sob story about for-profit vocational education

I guess after you work at a place for almost ten years, it's hard to let it go, even if it let go of you. I'm speaking, of course, about the career college that laid me off in May. Today Sheryl called me at 10:00 a.m., and I knew as soon as I saw her number in the caller ID window that something must have happened. She only calls me when something is going on at school.

“You won't believe what I just heard!”

“What?”

“Chandra Friggins just got fired!”

“What!”

I was dismayed, not because I care about Chandra all that much, but because she is my official contact person at the career college for my doctoral research study. What will this mean for me? (Everything always comes back to that important question when one is a crazy chronic malcontent.)

I was going to email Chandra tomorrow and ask her what I should do to motivate faculty to sign up for my study. So far only one person has signed up since the invitation went out to all the faculty last Monday, and she doesn't qualify. I'm panicking more day by day as I piddle around in my dissertation manuscript, making placeholders for data I haven't collected yet. Now I get why scientists make up data! I'm seeing failure looming on the horizon, only a few months away. Where, oh where, are all the faculty who care about academic quality? Am I the only one?

Now with this news, I suspect there's some serious sh-t going on at the career college—again—which explains why people may not be super eager to sign up. The news also makes me think interviewing any faculty who teach there is a really bad idea. What kind of responses will I get from people who are terrified of losing their jobs?

Sheryl just called again. Denny, our former boss, and my ace in the hole at the career college, called and told her that Chandra was fired as part of a “reorganization.” Now, anyone in business knows that reorganize is a euphemism for fire, suggesting more heads will soon be rolling down the hallowed halls.

I'm not sure what I'm feeling. Relief and gratitude that I'm not there, I guess. Imagine trying to teach under the karmic weight of all that negativity and fear. Maybe a little glee that the place is falling apart (See! I told you so!). But mostly I'm feeling extreme anxiety. Who will be my gatekeeper now? Should I contact her male counterpart (I think I've called him Fiend in the past. Maybe I need to come up with a new name!)? Should I contact the president of the college? What if he's being reorgged too? What if the whole place is closing? Can I find some of these faculty before they all drift into the obscurity of unemployment?

After almost eight years and $50,000, to have this doctorate unravel in the last four months seems unfathomable. Unbelievable. Unacceptable. After all the stress of toiling to get the concept approved, the proposal approved, the IRB application approved... Is it, maybe it is too soon to fret...wreckage of the future and all that...? No, you know what, no. It's not too soon to fret. I think it is past time to fret. I've been trying not to fret, but fretting is tearing me a new one much like wild fires ravage southern Oregon.

What I have is a classic marketing problem. I'm trying to sell something people don't want. If I were a celebrity... yeah, what if I were, uh, think of someone who is sexy and charming. Jeez, I don't know, I'm the last person to have a list of celebrities ready to mind. Back in a mo. Ok, got it. I had to Google it. Ok, imagine if I were...Oprah! Or... Clint! Or Cameron! Do you think for one minute that people would hesitate to participate in my study? No. They would be, like, I wanna do it, me, me, me!

Clearly I'm not cool enough, my study's not hip enough. I'm lacking the hipness factor. Oh, man. What about the sheer altruistic joy of helping a former fellow faculty member? What about the good feeling of sharing for a good cause? (What cause, you ask? The cause of saving or destroying for-profit vocational education, depending on what side of the fence you are on, I don't care which. Just tell me your story!)

Free iPod! Free iPad! Free coffee and donuts! The doctor is (almost) in! Tell me your story about for-profit vocational education. I promise not only to hang on your every word, but to lovingly type verbatim all your verbal tics and fillers, and then scrutinize them in detail to wring from your precious words every last drop of meaning, both mundane and profound. When will anyone ever again give you such devoted attention?

The chronic malcontent is a networking fool

I am all over this networking thing. I mean, really, I am over it. As in, done, stick a fork in me, no more, please. Last night I went to a fun hotel sort of place in NE Portland and rubbed shoulders in a too-small room with a bunch of organizational development professionals. Orga-what? you say. Right. Who knows what organizational development is, raise your hand? They have a perception problem.

Still, they are by and large a nice bunch of people who were willing to listen to me blather on about my doctoral study without displaying obvious boredom. How cool is that. I'm getting better at talking about it. I should be, considering I'm almost done with the dang thing. Or I should be almost done with it, but that's another blog post.

I collected five business cards of varying value, from a president of a leadership training corporation to a down-and-out therapist who just moved here from Northern California and wants to sell her services to people who can't afford to pay. What could possibly go wrong? I sent LinkedIn invitations to them and got a few bites, so I'm feeling pretty proud of myself. I'm up to 50 connections. Whoo-hoo, look at me go. Some of these folks have 500 connections... Well, I'm sure they never write, they never call... have I even known 500 people in my entire life? I doubt it.

Today I met a guy for coffee in my neighborhood. I'll call him Bill. I looked him up on the Web beforehand so I knew what I was getting into. Bill has a business selling a product, but his real goal is to sign up distributors. In other words, multi-level marketing. MLM gives me hives, but I went with a researcher's mind. That is, skeptical. As I shuffled blearily down the hill to the coffee joint, I thought the exercise I was getting would probably be the high point of the entire morning.

Bill was in the coffee shop already when I got there, typing on a laptop at a tiny round table. I recognized him right away, a burly bearded guy who looked smaller than I remembered. I got my iced coffee and sat down. The place was crowded and noisy. I settled in, ready to let him sell me.

He launched in on a well-rehearsed series of stories about his experience in the marketing world. I wish I had a good audio memory. Now it has all blended together into one long fairy tale, the essence of which is: I'm a great and powerful marketer, I teach other people how to market, I have a successful business, and you are a somewhat pathetic beginner/novice/loser who could learn from me. That's pretty much what I gleaned from the first hour. The whole time the custom-imprinted logo of his company faced me on the lid of his laptop, white text on shiny red. Upside down to him, right side up to me, like a mini-billboard. When, oh when is he going to get to the pitch, I wondered?

Finally I got tired of waiting and gave him the opening he needed.

“What does the product look like?”

Bill's eyes lit up. He reached down into his laptop bag and pulled out some samples and a price list. I won't tell you what it was he was selling, because I wouldn't want you to feel compelled to look him up and laugh at his tiny head or something. The price list was confusing, as I expected. You subscribe for a monthly fee, you get points, that then allow you to get certain discounts on product. Huh? Why don't you just spell out the price? What's all this nonsense about points? Sounds like a timeshare or something! It made no sense to me, but I just listened and let him get on with the pitch. I knew he wouldn't spend a lot of time selling me on the product, not if he was any good. And sure enough, here it came.

“Down here is the option for people who want to be their own boss,” Bill said, circling a big $395 with a black pen. “Or you can buy in for only $50! But you don't get the website.”

“How many distributors do you have?” I asked.

“I never disclose that information,” he said quickly. “That would be like opening up my bank statement to you. Let's put it this way, I'm making my mortgage—and then some.”

I stared at him, thinking, what? Dude, I guess if your mortgage is $10,000 a month, I might be impressed, but you live in Vancouver. I didn't say that, but that's what I was thinking. Like most people who get suckered into an MLM, he's not making much money. He's probably buying his own product, in typical MLM, eat your own leg fashion, while the few greedy bastards at the top rake in the dough. There's a cliche for you!

To his credit, he did ask me a few questions about myself, but like so many... salespeople/guys/self-centered blowhards... the few answers I gave launched him back into storytelling mode, which after an hour and a half was getting a little tedious. Luckily he had another coffee commitment to get to. Whew.

The value in the experience for me was to realize that, while networking has its place, I need to be judicious about who gets my time. Meeting someone to listen to an MLM sales pitch doesn't give me a lot of value. Meeting me was the best use of his time, because he's signing up people. But me, I'm a researcher. I need to do the work, and that must be done alone. Alone, alone, alone.

So, I'm done with networking for the time being. I'll go back to the OD people, because they are interesting folks who aren't interested in selling me anything. They are refined academics. They smell good. I'm the predator in that crowd. I just need to learn their preferences, figure out what bait to use, let them get close. The other kind of networking is like going swimming in a tank full of stinky hungry sharks. I was prepared to lose a little skin. Today was the first bite, not all that painful. I survived to tell the tale.

I sent Bill a short email, thanking him for taking time to meet with me. I checked my email just now and there was one from him (not a reply to mine), an obvious boilerplate marketing email, big bold Arial fonts, with his logo looming at the top, and lots of colorful links to his website. My name wasn't anywhere to be seen. Yep, that's Bill, building relationships, one skeptic at a time. Rock on, dude.

The adventures just keep on coming

This morning I rose before the sun for another adventure in downtown Portland. I still can't believe I did it. I don't mean attending the event, which was a digital marketing “breakfast” at Portland State's Urban Center, no, that was easy. All I had to do was sit there, swill coffee, stare out the window, and draw pictures in my notebook. No, the hard part was getting up at 5:15 a.m. when it is dark as sin outside, preparing a hasty meal, and rushing to the MAX station to park my car and shuffle onto the Green Line... a replay of last Friday's events, except without my trusty companion Sheryl. I always have an out-of-body experience when I get up before it's light out: Is that me getting out of bed? Is that me fixing food at this ungodly hour? Am I really leaving the snug and cozy Love Shack to brave the MAX line journey downtown? Again!?

The show wasn't all that inspiring, and the food was the usual coffee, pastries, and watermelon chunks, but what do I expect for nothing except time and lost sleep? There was no fee to attend. The bus tickets were a gift from Bravadita. It was an experiment. An experiment in adventuring, urban style.

The meeting room was small, but I had a great seat by the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. The mini-blind was rolled up far above my head, so there was nothing but glass and the view of the plaza outside the Urban Center. Water in the lovely Joyce N. Furman Memorial Fountain rippled ceaselessly down a cascade of steps. I could only find one photo of the fountain, and the site was a bit funky loading. You can look it up if you want. It is an interesting feature of the all brick plaza.

If you look at this photo, you'll see a little bit of the plaza. Look in the upper right corner, see those big windows? I was sitting the fourth window from the left, just out of camera shot. See that streetcar below? I saw several of those chug along while I was trying to learn about digital marketing. The streetcar was way more interesting to me for some reason. I had no idea there was so much machinery on top of those things. Every time you see cops and villains duking out on top of a train, it's always a smooth surface, good for fighting. Not so with these streetcars. Just in case you were thinking of engaging in a little fisticuffs on a moving train.

My brain has been mush all day, thanks to the early start. There's so much to talk about—the dearth of faculty for my study, the likely ending of unemployment benefits, the looming monster of my dissertation. So much to complain about, worry over, mangle between clenched teeth. But I'm too tired to work up a really frothy sweat. Lucky you! Maybe tomorrow. I've got another networking event planned for tomorrow night—I'm going after the organizational development crowd. They won't know what hit them. And then Thursday morning, I have a coffee date with a guy I met at the networking event I dragged Sheryl to on Friday. He's going to try to sign me up for his multi-level marketing company. I can hardly wait.

A little networking in the morning is good for the chronic malcontent

Early this morning I dragged myself out of bed, fixed some food and shoveled it into my mouth, and dashed out the door to pick up my friend Sheryl at 7:00 a.m. for our great adventure. The weather was perfect, high clouds, blue sky, a cool breeze. No reason to back out and go home.

I parked my car at the MAX station and showed Sheryl how to validate the ticket I gave her.

“That's it?” she said skeptically. She lives in deathly fear of mass transit.

The train came along in a few minutes, the Green line to Portland State. The train was packed with riders. We had to stand up all the way to downtown Portland, hanging on to bars and straps while the train swayed and clattered along the Gulch. We chatted nervously, thinking of what was to come.

We got off at Mill and walked a few short blocks to 200 SW Market. Hey, I know that black cube, the square squat building covered in black glass... I used to work in that building, about twelve years ago, when things weren't going so well. I was a part-time admin for a software start-up company. The job sucked, and to save money, I walked to work from my place in SE Portland, hiking across the Ross Island Bridge, an hour each way. Now there's a commute that will put hair on your chest. Hey, I got laid off from that job, too. Unlike the career college, though, the start-up (should I say, the close-down) actually gave me a little severance.

Sheryl and I went up the escalator. I was worried I wouldn't find the place, but it was just inside the front door, a largish meeting room set up with a huge square made of tables and chairs, with a large projector screen pulled down at the far end and a small coffee service set up to the left of the door. There wasn't a lot of room, except in the center of the table area. That area was big as a prom dance floor and just as empty. About 15 people were milling around along the walls, talking with each other in small groups. They were getting down to the serious business of networking.

“This is it,” I said to Sheryl. To myself, I added, Do or die. I led the way through the door.

A large bearded man wearing a name tag (Jim so-and-so) planted himself in my path. He held out his hand. I automatically put mine in his.

“Are you here for the networking meeting?”

I introduced myself and Sheryl.

“Do you have a business card?” he demanded.

I had some cheesy cards I made myself, the latest in a long line of tentative designs. I whipped one out and handed it to him. Sheryl looked chagrined; she didn't have a business card.

Jim put my card in a fishbowl and explained that there would be a drawing later. The winner would get five minutes to make his or her pitch to the crowd. I think Big Jim was expecting us to look excited and hopeful. Huh. Not a chance. More people were crowding in behind us. Sheryl and I looked at each other and edged past the crowd into an open space along the wall.

My first instinct was to look nowhere but at Sheryl. I quickly squelched it. Eye contact, that was my goal, even if I... I almost wrote barfed, but that is really too extreme a word. I would be more likely to leave than to barf. I do have some sense of social propriety.

I looked around. Bam. Eye contact! A small man wearing big dark-rimmed glasses took the hint and gamely approached us and introduced himself. Steven, an industrial engineer, looking for employment. I got his card and stared at it blankly. Then I gave him one of mine.

Some seats had been staked out with purses and briefcases. Sheryl and I moved along toward the front of the room. We sat down in a row, the engineer, me, and then Sheryl. We found out that seating is everything. The guy at the head of the room welcomed us and then pointed our way. Time to talk! Poor old Sheryl was called upon to introduce herself and explain what she was all about—in no more than 30 seconds. She valiantly stood up and told the room her tale of woe: 20 years in education, laid off, looking for work.

Then it was my turn. I spewed something about my new businesses, making it up as I went, stammered a little, but apparently managed to sound more or less coherent. I know this because Sheryl told me so later. I was having an out of body experience, so I wasn't actually there during those 30 seconds.

But once it was over we got to watch the networking pros do their thing, and some of them were very good. There's a formula to it, we discovered: state your name and business, speak your tagline (enthusiastically), explain what you do and who you do it for, list the benefits, state what you want, and close by repeating your name and company name. Bam! And be ready with a stack of business cards when everyone rushes over to talk to you after the introductions are done.

And that was the gist of the event. A large table of 30 people introducing themselves, one after the other (somewhat tediously at times), followed by a little frenetic speed networking, and then the event was over. Some of us lingered. The employed people went to work. I felt a little like a trick-or-treater with a bag full of candy. My haul was business cards: I got seven, plus one for the East Portland Chamber of Commerce, who apparently have twice-monthly networking events at the crack of dawn, and they are open to the public (thanks, Big Jim).

We found our way back to the train station, waited for the next Green Line, and retraced our route back to the parking lot where my car awaited. I tool Sheryl home. I thanked her profusely for being my companion. She went off to take a walk. I went home to bed.

And that is the story of my networking adventure.

I had a victory moment, one shining glory moment, when it all came together, when I really understood the power of connection. A woman who owns a coaching business came over to me after the introductions and asked me about my business. We started talking about marketing research, and it became clear to me that she thought it was too hard and horrible to do herself. I explained what I could teach her in a one-hour webinar. She started to light up as I described the problems I could solve for her, how it's not that hard, and she said.... where can I sign up for your webinar?

I had to tell her the webinars were still in development. She turned away, clearly disappointed. But I was triumphant. I had one on the hook! I had her hooked, just for a moment. Then I had to let her go, but how cool is that? I almost sold her. And all it took was telling her how my product will help her solve a problem. After I woke up from my nap I sent her a LinkedIn invitation. Maybe I'll get her signed up yet.

Why it's good sometimes to walk toward the thing that scares you

I found out from my academic adviser that I have until the end of November to complete my doctorate. Here's me, eyes rolling back in my head, hands beseeching the universe, in the moment before I open my little pursed lips to scream.

Let me digress for one moment and complain about the spellchecker in Google blogger. The word adviser...I'm used to spelling it with an o, as in advisor. But Google is flagging it as an error. Apparently both spellings are correct, but adviser is more common. Huh. My university spells it advisor. What do they know.

Well, I hope they know that they are most likely going to have to grant me an extension come November, because four months to write a qualitative study seems close to impossible, considering I haven't even collected half my data yet. If I were feeling really perky and optimistic (which I'm not), I would make some inane comment about how great it is to be unemployed exactly when I need every minute to write this paper. Wow, talk about serendipitous timing, right? You'd think I'd be grateful that the career college laid me off when it did. Am I grateful? Well, maybe a little. I feel grateful not to be teaching keyboarding anymore. I feel grateful every morning at 8:30 a.m. when I leisurely claw my way out of bed. I feel grateful that I can stay up as late as I want. Usually.

I say usually because I did something I'm sure I will regret: I agreed to attend a Portland Connect networking event at 2nd and Market downtown with my friend and former colleague Sheryl... at 8:00 tomorrow morning! Argh. I must be nuts. To make things more exciting, I refuse to try to park my car downtown, so I am going to pick her up, drive to the closest MAX station, park, and drag her onto the train. (Sheryl is not an avid fan of public transportation.) This should be an adventure. I wouldn't be half-surprised if Sheryl cancels on me. I wouldn't be all that shocked if I overslept.

A friend of mine makes a practice of doing the thing she's afraid of. That is what I am doing. Networking at any time of day is not a thrilling prospect. Networking at 8:00 a.m. sounds like complete and utter torture. Sheryl will be my security blanket, my teddy bear. When I get anxious I can always talk to Sheryl. And if I'm really brave, I can introduce Sheryl to all the strangers we meet. I can do that for her when I can't do it for myself.

We'll see how it goes. If it goes. I wouldn't bet on it. Stay tuned.

What I have learned about the dissertation journey

Earlier today I logged into the online course room and clicked the Accept button to give permission to the university to suck $794 out of my bank account. This gives me the privilege of earning one more credit and the delight of toiling another 12 weeks toward the goal of earning this wretched Ph.D., which lies somewhere off in the hazy distance where it's been for the past seven years like a ship that never comes to port. Ho hum. After seven years, I'm tired of waiting. The glow has faded. It's just a job, and not one that pays well. Actually, it's sort of like being a slave. A slave to a scholarly pursuit.

This evening I logged into the university course room again, after a technological meltdown resulting from a fight between Wordpress and Mailchimp, during which I inadvertently closed all the windows. Bam. Problem solved! Should have thought of that sooner.

On the university website, there are a handful of discussion folders in which students post questions, concerns, complaints, kudos. The only folder I visit is the one marked Dissertations. There are roughly 300 new posts a month in that folder, mostly along the lines of Oh, no! I'm starting Comps in a week! What can you tell me about Doctor So-and-So? Help! As if Doctor So-and-So is going to help them at all with Comps. Come on, people! It's a test!

I've lurked in this discussion folder for seven years, reading posts from all kinds of people on all kinds of topics. When someone successfully passes Comps, forty people shout out, Way to go! Congratulations! When someone's cat died, a crowd of students rushed to offer condolences. When someone is put on academic probation (which happens regularly), the students rally around with email addresses for the ombudsman, the dean, and the accreditation agency, urging unflagging persistence, don't back down!

I've seen people come and go. Some of them graduate and, before their email is disconnected, they come back to wave good-bye, to collect their litany of congratulations, and to exhort the rest of us to keep moving forward, never give up, we can do it, rah rah rah. Some of those left behind mention these winners in later posts, usually in response to a post in which a lost soul is bleating for help with their wretched concept paper or their confounded dissertation proposal. Call Dr. Nina! Call Doc Crock!

We've had our share of wackjobs. The discussions are like any other comment thread, where people say what they mean without really thinking about it, and other people take offense and retaliate, which provokes another attack... it can be just slightly less vitriolic than the comments I enjoy reading at the end of a Yahoo! article about the latest doings of the White House (but not nearly as entertaining. Just sayin.')

So immersed was I in the discussion folder, I almost failed to notice that my Chair had updated my first assignment. I haven't even posted an assignment, so I opened up the Activities tab to read her comment. The IRB has approved my revised recruiting methodology! Congrats!

Well, isn't that nice. I can now ask the administrator at the career college to forward my email invitation to the cowering, resentful, bitter, fearful faculty that remain after the closure of one campus. If I'm lucky some of them will express their willingness to participate in my study. They ought to have some interesting things to say.

Oh, what have I learned about this dissertation journey?

• You are on your own. No one cares.
• It always takes three times as long as you think it will.
• You can't force anyone to participate.
• Just do what your Chair tells you, don't whine and don't argue.
• If you feel compelled to argue, be ready to cite APA page numbers.
• Don't use their templates, because they don't know squat about styles in Word.
• Don't waste time in the dissertation folder reading the complaints of your classmates. Get busy.
• Don't think about how great it will be to finish. It will just depress you, because you aren't there yet. You still have to write the manuscript and defend it.
• If you have a cat, put your nose in its fur and be here now.
• If you don't have a cat, borrow one. Seriously. It may be the thing that gets you through.

Who is responsible for this crazy life? Uh.. not me.

There is a fly in the Love Shack. Security! The cat in charge of security sleeps with his nose on his paws. Slacker. I can't bring myself to smack the fly. If I wait long enough it will circle lower and lower and eventually die on a windowsill somewhere. A metaphor for life, I guess.

Speaking of life, I had a fun slice of it today. I met Bravadita for coffee in Northwest Portland. Now that she lives downtown in a 3rd floor walk-up, she's taken on an aura of cosmopolitan glamour. She is utterly 100% cool. I mean, she was 95% cool when she lived on the East side, since she was only nine blocks from the River (I'm sixty-nine blocks from the River. At 82nd you are officially in the armpit of Portland. That is coolness of zero percent.) Now Bravidita is 100% cool as she walks everywhere with a stylish bag slung rakishly over her shoulder. So cool she wears a beret!

Time out. The security cat heard me tapping on the keyboard and came over to check it out, spotting the fly on his way to sit on my keyboard. A half-hearted swipe, wait, is that all? Come on! Security!

Well, anyway. Sitting at a wobbly metal table outside along 21st Avenue, Bravadita and I bemoaned the plight of artists and creatives who don't get things their way (us). There was plenty of commiseration to go around. The coffee amped me into high gear. I had an idea every ten seconds, followed by a plunge into darkest depression. Of course, all my ideas were for Bravadita's career, not my own. (Why is it so much easier to fix someone else's life?)

The security cat has failed to capture the fly, which continues to infuriate me by meandering in front of the computer monitor; the cat, however, has slyly captured my chair, so now I must stand while I type. Sigh.

I've conveniently chosen to prune the artistic part of my life so that it fits into a tiny box: this blog. I draw while I sit in meetings. If anything funny comes out of it, I scan the images and upload them here for your amusement. That is the extent of my art life. There was a time when I was positive, beyond any doubt, sure as only a ten-year-old child can be, that I would spend my life writing, drawing, and painting. And to a large extent, that has been my reality. What I didn't foresee, though, was that I would have a great deal of difficulty getting paid to do those things.

Hence... the jobs. Long jobs, short jobs, fun jobs, depressing jobs, I've had many jobs. I can say truthfully that there is not one job I would willingly go back to if I had a choice. Not one that I can say, wow, that was a really great job. The fault, I admit, lies more with me than with any of the jobs. A few were bad because of a particular person or a few people, but mostly they weren't bad at all. It was me. I didn't fit. I wouldn't let myself fit. Because there was somewhere else I wanted to be. Always somewhere else.

I feel lucky now that I've chosen to pursue a self-employment field that interests me. No, it's not art, but it's still interesting. I'm not a victim. I'm choosing it. I don't know if that will make it any more successful than any of the other jobs I've had, but if it fails, I'll know who to blame.

There goes that pesky fly again. Should I let him live? Or is it curtains for the fly? Text your vote to 3330 within the next seven minutes to determine his fate.