Saddle sore

My forward momentum plunged into a tailspin with the coming of fall and cool weather. Even though this afternoon the rain clouds scattered, gracing us with blue sky and balmy air, I can't not know what I know is coming: it's fall, and the gaping dark maw of winter will soon be sucking the life from my soul. This SAD time is normal for me. No need to send in the whitecoats.

Unfortunately, I did not expect that my usual SAD time would be made worse by my first foray into teaching since I left the career college (or since it abandoned me, I should say) in May of 2013. What am I talking about? This week I organized and taught a class on a marketing research topic to seven small business owners, as a beta-test with the intention of refining the class and offering it to a larger group sometime later this fall. I thought it would be fun. I expected to feel happy. I was looking forward to getting back in the saddle.

I prepared. Really. Given my resources, I did my best to get ready. I rented a small conference room in a charming, hip, easily accessible location. I bought a new laptop to show my cool PowerPoint. I wrote and designed and printed and bound 50-page workbooks for each attendee. I ordered box lunches from a reputable health food store, along with a box of coffee. I cut and colored my hair. I tapered my black pants. I wore deodorant. In short, I did everything I could think of to be ready for my first teaching gig in over a year.

I invited a hand-picked audience of small business owners, all women, most of whom I had met at various networking events over the past four months. They all seemed interesting and competent, and I thought they would be willing to give me good feedback on my class in exchange for free admission, a free workbook, and free food. And don't forget the box o' coffee. The women represented a range of industries: professional coaching, web design, interior design, marketing, fitness, and landscape design. They all considered themselves marketers.

The terms of the rental agreement gave me only 15 minutes to pack everything in and set it up. It took me ten of that to figure out how to hook my laptop to the projector. Hence, I was about ten minutes late getting started (and still one attendee strolled in well after I'd begun). I never did set up my video camera.

Within moments I was sweating; for two hours I never stopped sweating. The space was too small. The table was too low. The laptop keys were weirdly flat. Coffee and electronics didn't coexist well (luckily her little Apple device escaped the worst of the spill). The food boxes all had bottles of water in them (no wonder the boxes were so heavy; I should have read the fine print). There was no creamer with the coffee. The air conditioner outside was intermittently loud, but I was too claustrophobic to shut the door.

Yet, like the experienced teacher I am, I soldiered on, trying to give them good information and keep things interactive and engaging. I don't think they knew that I was a sweaty mess. They haven't known me long enough to know that a personal meltdown is imminent when I take off my hat. Yes, I know, hard to believe, but it's true: I spent the entire three hours sans hat.

The final hour began with the coffee spill and from my point of view deteriorated from there. I managed to end the class on time and distribute the food boxes while mopping up coffee. The table became even more crowded as the attendees opened up the boxes, unwrapped roast turkey and harvarti cheese sandwiches, and uncapped little plastic dishes of kale salad and fresh strawberries. There was even a cookie. I was too sweaty to do more than open my flimsy plastic bottle of bland water. Sipping convulsively, I asked them my first feedback question: what did you learn today that you can apply to your business?

After that all I had to do was listen. I did remember to turn on my audio recorder; no way my brain could remain present in my body for more than a few seconds at a time. People said kind things; they offered praise. They offered constructive suggestions. After that first feedback question, they were off and running, dragging me along with them in their wake. These women are smart marketers, my perfect target audience. They anticipated my other feedback questions, giving me gems and nuggets and pearls and I, still sweating, tried to nod and look like I was listening. The praise swept quickly over me. The suggestions (which could have felt like criticism) swept over me too, but not as quickly. Nothing stuck. I found myself thinking, how soon can I wrap this up?

Toward the final half hour, the conversation devolved into a networking session, in which people eagerly offered to help another attendee who earlier had described a frustrating a marketing challenge she was facing. I was happy to let others in the group assume control. They turned their suggestion-making machine on her. I stopped sweating. I slowly and quietly eased into clean up mode, and eventually the group got the message. The introverted landscape designer fled as soon as she could, and I wished I could flee with her.

Finally, the extraverts moved toward the door. As the room emptied out, I began to feel more calm. My breathing eased up. I packed my stuff out to the car with a few willing hands. We said our goodbyes, and I was alone. Finally. At last. Alone.

And now I know something about myself that I didn't know before this class ended. Teaching face-to-face at the career college was a good gig for me while it lasted. I did it well, and the job made it possible for me to earn my doctorate. But teaching face-to-face now might not be such a good fit anymore. Maybe a bigger room would help, and more time to set up, and more practice. But the moment I knew I was headed for yet another pivot in my self-employment adventure was when I sat in my car and felt not pumped up and joyful for having connected effectively with an appreciative group of my peers but relieved that the event was over so I could go home and be alone.

I'm trying to see the value in the learning experience, even as the metaphorical branches seem to be getting shorter and thinner. I want to cling to twigs and not look down: The abyss beneath me (unemployment freefall) seems terrifying. But what if I use what I learned about myself to design a new strategy, away from face-to-face teaching toward some kind of online teaching vehicle? Maybe I'll find my fit if I let go of the short branches. Deep breath, leap, cyberspace, here I come.

Two theories walk into a bar

I'm back in editing hell, editing other people's crappy papers instead of my own. I should be grateful. I am getting paid for my efforts. However, I just finished editing a literature review on the topic of culturally relevant pedagogy, and if I do the math, I'm pretty sure I will discover I earned about $8.00 per hour.

Now, most of the papers I've edited since I started this bizarre gig pay much better, up to $40 per hour or even more. The reason the rate differs so much between papers is that I get paid by the word. The faster I edit, the more money I make per hour. Unfortunately for me, sometimes the writers... well, let's just say they lack skill. It's not like I'm such a great writer. I can't tell a present participle from a gerund. But I'm getting better at this editing thing. For example, I am now developing a knack for sniffing out anthropomorphisms.

Anthro what, you say? It's a mouthful, I know. Anthropomorphism, often used synonymously with personification, simply put, is when you attribute human characteristics to nonhuman elements (such as concepts or theories, for example). Hence, two theories walk into a bar. Hand in hand, of course, which is what the author of today's literature review wrote. (For more information, see the APA Manual, 6th ed., pp. 69-70.)

My former Chair explained it like this. “If a box can do it, you can use it. Otherwise, don't.” I was, like, what? A box? Yes. A box. To help me while I was working on my concept paper, lo, these three years ago, I drew a box on a sheet of paper, and under the box, I wrote a list of verbs that could be used to describe what a box can and cannot do. Two lists, one a whole lot longer than the other.

What can't a box do? A lot, if you think about it. A box can't argue, defend, claim, describe, or recognize. A box can't illuminate (no, wait, I take that back, it could illuminate if it's a light box!). Well, a box can't illustrate or demonstrate. And a box certainly doesn't suggest, point out, recommend, conclude, offer, or walk hand in hand with anything, theoretical or otherwise. A box can't compare or contrast (that's the writer's job). Boxes can't explore, examine, or find the meaning in a bunch of faculty members' lived experiences with culturally relevant pedagogy. No matter how much you pay them! The boxes, I mean; everyone knows you don't need to pay faculty, they'll work for nothing.

So when one of my hapless authors writes, “This study explores...” I haul out my boilerplate explanation of anthropomorphism and slap it merrily into my editor's notes, concluding by typing, “Don't do this! Studies can't explore, only you the researcher can explore. Be warned. Reviewers have been known to reject a submission simply because someone wrote 'my study examines the differences between pigs that fly and pigs that don't fly.'”

Some people think a box can reveal, but I'm not so sure. I haven't seen any boxes ripping their tops off lately. Celebrities on TMZ maybe, but not any boxes, corrugated or otherwise.

So what can a box do? Not a whole lot. Duh. It's a box, for cripes sake. About all a box can do is show, indicate, support, or include. Most boxes I know can also contain, encompass, comprise, and consist of. Some really cool boxes might be able to focus on, and if you don't blink, you may see a box that can center on something. But I think you are safer if you use the verb involve.

Can chapters do anything boxes can't do? Good question. Chapters can outline, if you give them a nice fountain pen. And the smarter ones can summarize. But they don't ever describe, not even in a really tiny voice. I guess you could use some fancy read-out-loud software to get a chapter to talk to you, but technically that would be a case of sound coming out of your computer speakers, not a case of your chapter actually talking to you. In case you were confused. And not your speakers, either, in case you were thinking your speakers were fond enough of you to start a conversation.

Findings, research, data, studies... none of those things can explore, examine, prove, or otherwise perform behaviors that only humans can perform. I recommend sticking to show or indicate. APA uses those two words, so you can't go wrong. If your Chair threatens you with abandonment because you anthropomorphized a verb or two, change all such verbs to show or indicate and tell her to refer to APA pages 69-70.

When all else fails, use the dreaded I-bomb. Take ownership! Stop the passive voice! Claim your power. What did I do in my study? I explored, I examined, I compared and contrasted the crap out of these feisty fickle data, and I found that it's true: as long as no one is watching (and they are loaded carefully onto a cargo plane), pigs can fly!

The chronic malcontent suffers from existential constipation

When I am sitting like a blob at networking functions, or ripping along the freeway cursing out slow drivers, or picking cat hair out of my eggs, I keep saying to myself, I gotta remember to blog about this. This is worth blogging about. Because the minutia of my life is so meaningful, right? To me, maybe not so much to you. I get it.

If I don't post anything for awhile, though, all these minor epiphanies and major revelations pile up until I am paralyzed by a serious case of existential constipation. Ahhh. Everything is meaningful! Everything is important! But where to start?

Should I write about being the only woman at a meetup about customer experience from a software designer's point of view? Rarely have I ever felt so old or out of place. They were kind to me, in that special way we often treat the elderly and infirm. I really need a new look.

Wait, I must write about the meetup where a so-called marketing guru (his nickname is Dream Killer, no lie) leaned into my space, red beard quivering with passion, to tell me, “You haven't figured out the what! Until you figure out the what you don't have a business!”

No, wait, maybe I should tell you about the local AMA luncheon, my third event since joining the AMA, where I ate wheat, dairy, and sugar while “networking” (talking) with two guys from a company that makes aviation headsets in Lake Oswego (I know, Lake Oswego! Who knew!) I'm chagrined to admit I was more interested in the ravioli and chocolate chip cookies than the headset guys or the presenter (whose topic I have already forgotten).

Or maybe I need to write about my second meeting with my SBDC counselor (what did I call him before? I can't remember. Fritz, maybe? He looks like a Fritz.) I swore to myself as I was driving to the cafe that I wouldn't treat him like a therapist. All I can say is, he asked for it.

So much has been happening! I've got too many papers to edit, on scintillating topics like prostate cancer imaging (eeewww), achievement gaps between white and minority kids (yawn, old old news, but so popular among educators), preteen sex (that was a good one, actually), and grief (complicated and uncomplicated). My hourly editing rate varies because I get paid by the word: sometimes the authors are good writers. Other times their writing skills suck. My reward for doing a good job, apparently, is the opportunity to edit more papers.

I'm reaching in all directions, grasping for something I can call success (income). On the teaching front, I'm planning on testing my first class in ten days on a small group of women—two hours on a market research topic. For the third hour I will get their feedback on the class (and feed them lunch). I haven't printed the workbook, or prepared my lesson plan, or finished my PowerPoint. Instead, I've been learning way more than I ever wanted to know about prostate cancer imaging techniques.

And, lo, the planets have aligned and the waters have parted, and now I have a little research project to work on over the next few weeks. I think it will be both challenging and fun. For a brief moment, my heart lifts. Then I think all the thoughts that come naturally to a chronic malcontent: two months till money appears, and half goes to taxes! What about the editing projects? What about my class? And knowing my luck, my car, my teeth, and my cat will all fall into disrepair at the same moment, and I'll have to move in with my mother. It's like winning the reverse lottery. Ahhh.

Once again, my brain is trying to kill me. I'm flailing in the wreckage of the future. And I'm constipated. I need to blog more often.

The season of stupid people

This is the time of year when everything goes sideways. A lifetime of Septembers has left me with a vague sense of dread. What will I wear for the first day of school? Will my classmates laugh at me when they see me with my new glasses? What if I don't like my teachers? What if they find out I'm smart? So much to worry about. New year, new classmates, new teachers, new clothes, same dread.

I don't care anymore about classmates and teachers, and I really don't care what I wear, much to my sister's consternation. But the season still deflates my will to live. I think it has to do with the angle of the sun. We've had a lot of sun this summer, and it's been great. Then Labor Day, and bam, the air chilled, just for a few days, but now the air knows it can grow colder, and so it will, without regard for hothouse flowers like me, plummeting to 50°F, and if it can fall to 50°, what's to stop it from plunging to 40°, or 30°? Or even lower? Labor Day is when the bottom falls out of summer, and I can feel the dark clouds piling up just beyond the western hills, raging in from the ocean to drench us in bone-chilling rain. Any minute now. Even though today the air is warm, it's a vile deception: There is something in the air that smells like death.

When I was struggling to finish my Ph.D., whining almost continuously about my woes via this blog, I always knew there would eventually be an end to the struggle. Either I would fail, or I would quit, or I would finish. Whatever happened, I always knew that it would end someday, and that helped fuel my persistence. Finally, I phinished, as they say.

I launched my business with hope and mild excitement. Now, nine months later, I am thrashing in the messy bog of my startup debacle, and I realize, there may be an end to this suffering as well, but unlike with the doctorate, it's not as easy to see the finish line. I mean, I know the ultimate finish line could look like me admitting defeat and joining the ranks of America's jobseekers. That is not the outcome I would prefer, but as every day passes, it's looking more and more likely.

To earn money, I've been editing academic papers. It's not fun, and the pay rate is erratic: How much I earn per hour depends on how fast I can edit. Sometimes the authors are good writers—not much for me to do, a few formatting suggestions, a word change here or there. I can easily earn $40 per hour. Other times, English is not the first language, which means I'm editing what pretty much amounts to poetry, not good when the topic is land use in China. The paper I edited yesterday was some poor schmuck's literature review. “My Chair has returned this seven times! I just don't know what else to do!” Sound familiar?

By the time I had compiled an extensive list of suggestions to expand and revise his/her literature review, I calculated I was earning $17 per hour. I guess in some (third world) countries, $17 would be a princely wage. Maybe I should move there. As long as I have internet access, I can edit academic monstrosities from anywhere.

I just finished editing a journal article for someone in Texas. I calculated I earned $25 per hour on the paper, mostly cleaning up Word tables. (How the hell do people manage to butcher Word tables so thoroughly? I don't get it.) I submitted the paper and prepared to start my real work for the day: writing the workbook for my first marketing research test class. Five minutes later I got an email from the editing agency: The client has a new version of the article. Can you compare the two versions for differences?

Really? I spent a couple minutes doing a document compare between my revised version and the author's new version and realized that was a waste of time. Then I compared the author's first and second manuscripts: Word found no differences between the two files. WTF? Is someone trying to gaslight me?

What did I tell you? Everything is harder is September. This seems like proof to me. Of course, I am biased toward chronic malcontentedness.