I'm a stumpy-legged fish paddling in a dwindling pond

Summer is speeding by while I'm learning the nuances of networking. Another delicious 90° day in Portland. I went out in the mid-morning coolness to meet yet another prospective client, a “life transformation” coach who no doubt thought she was meeting a prospective client as well. (Har har, joke's on her.) By the time the mercury hit 90°, I was safely hunkered in my cave, windows closed, shades down, blinds drawn, with a wet rag draped around my neck and a pitcher of sweating ice tea close at hand. I like it. For me, it doesn't get much better than this. No complaints allowed if you are one of those pale-skinned Portlanders who don't like hot weather. It could be a lot worse; be grateful we don't live somewhere where missiles are falling. If you are one of those unlucky folk, I'm very sorry for you, and I hope you survive.

Here in Stumptown, in this funny little networking pool I seem to be floundering in, I'm afraid of what will happen if we are all each others' clients, and no one is making any money. I fear it might be like eating your own leg for dinner—fills the empty stomach but at the expense of your git-along; maybe that's why they call it Stumptown.

I've said before networking is a long-term strategy. I asked the “life transformation” coach I met with today if she was able to transform her own life through networking. She admitted networking is a long game. She sipped her orange smoothie. I slurped my iced chai. I can read the signs now. There's a certain set to the shoulders and neck, an unmistakable glint of desperation in the eyes.

“How long can you hold out?” I asked.

“Not much longer,” she confessed.

“Me too.”

“But it's not a totally useless strategy,” she said, and went on to assure me that now we were “referral partners.” That is my new favorite jargon, referral partners. I refer people to you, you refer people to me, the miracle of money floods our parched landscape, and all boats rise. Or something to that effect. The point, obviously, is that money must flow in from an outside source, because we referral partners are feeling a mighty thirst. Well, saw off my legs and call me Shorty!

Last week, a brief flare of something occurred (I won't call it hope, because it wasn't). A headhunter found me through the American Marketing Association. She invited me to submit a resume for a market research temp job for an insurance company. I'm like, ok, whatever, I could do it for two months... get up early, pack a lunch, take the bus, get home after dark... yeah, for two months, I could do it. So I trucked on down to the Pearl to meet her in an old funky office building just off Burnside, kitty-corner from the famous Powell's City of Books. While I waited for her to arrive (I was early, as usual), I took some photos through the third-story window. Which actually was openable, by the way. Not that I had any plans to open it, in case you were wondering.

She arrived. We sat across from each other at an old wooden round table in a dinky conference room, just a little too far apart for comfort, but taking up all the space.

“You have an unusual background,” she began. I laughed. Right then, I knew my chance of getting this temp job was next to nil. I've heard those words before. They always mean the same thing: You are odd. You are different. What have you been doing with your life? You don't fit in here. We can't hire you. But I am not a quitter: I soldiered gamely on, answering her questions, addressing her concerns.

“I'll submit you to the client,” she said finally, “Because you never know.”

And that's the thing. We never know. Total flukes can happen. That's how I got the nutty job at the crappy career college, which was pretty much a bend in the road that attracted all sorts of lunatics. I fit right in there with the other misfits.

Well, turns out I did not get the temp job, no big surprise. Not enough of the right kind of experience. I understand. Not every actor who auditions gets the part.

Meanwhile, back in the networking pool, I am endeavoring to scramble onto the sand, so I can perhaps slide over to a different, larger pool, where the fish are bigger and the designer duds they wear so boldly have deep, deep pockets. Enough of these wizened, parched, desperate referral partners! Get back, you wretches. And, oh, by the way, some of the other referral partners I met last week are starting a Meetup for Small Business Owners. They've asked me to be a presenter. I've got 20 minutes. Will you come to my presentation?

I am my brand; my brand is me

Solopreneurs work alone, by definition. That means we are the face of our business (...and the hands, feet, wide butt, and bulging belly). We not only represent our business, we are our business. There are no data entry snoids or social media geeks working in the back bedroom. There's nobody but us. Like it or not, we are our brand. As I sit here in my muggy cave of an apartment, looking across the gloom at my plywood shelves and dusty books, as I hike up my pajama pants to my knees and put another cool rag on the back of my neck, I think, wow, if this is my brand, then I am in deep doo-doo.

Thunderstorms rolled through today and left some fresher air. I was going to go out in it, but I was felled by the dregs of a migraine brought on by some food substance as yet unidentified. After I woke up from a nap (during which I met god, believe it or not—whoa, what was that substance!?), I made the mistake of looking at a job search site. As sometimes happens, I found a listing for a job that I could see myself in, and then I felt compelled to take some action and got hopelessly bogged down in customizing my resume, writing a cover letter, and crafting an essay about why I'm the best person for the job. I never think I'm the best person for any job, so right away my effort was doomed. My enthusiasm melted away, and I ended up on Facebook promoting my 40th high school reunion.

Whenever I feel like this, I find myself singing There's a place for us... in an off-key quavery voice fueled by a forlorn hope that there might actually one day be a place for me. It's futile. Both the singing and the dreaming. I'm getting a little long in the tooth to be fretting over finding the perfect job. I know enough now to know that any job is better than no job.

Meanwhile, I've been editing a series of chapters for some music educator who is blazing through his dissertation on the history of choral music in America, a topic I know nothing about, in Turabian format, which is a style I know nothing about. Luckily for me, this author is a very good writer, so I'm mostly fixing his tables and footnotes and curly quotation marks. That means I'm making good money per hour. No complaints. Except I still complain, because that is what I do.

I don't really need a brand. I just need some clients. Once they know me, they will trust me. When they trust me, they will recommend me to others. That is how it works in this business. They won't care that I have a fancy logo or a slick website. They won't even care if I have a business card. They won't care that I work in my pajamas and have hair sticking out of my nose while I'm Skyping. Am I right? Think about it. You grant a lot of slack to people you like and trust. In fact, if they are slightly eccentric, you will justify your opinion about them by embracing their eccentricities and defending their quirks to others. In time, a benevolent mystique will develop around their name. Their logo, no matter how awful, will become precious, like Pez. At that point, they could Skype naked and no one would care.

That's the kind of brand I want. I guess I could save a lot of time and just take my clothes off now.

I may be down but I'm not out

Wouldn't it be nice if after you earned a Ph.D., the world stepped up to hand you a perfect job? On a silver platter would be nice, thank you. Can't they see how special I am? Sadly, as you may have guessed, this is not the case. Which explains why today I got up earlier than normal, put on slacks and a jacket, and trundled downtown on the bus to the temp agency. After I filled out a quarter-inch stack of forms and aced a safety test (talk about leading questions! for shame), I met with a blonde woman named Norma, who was very enthused about the upcoming three-day weekend.

“I'm marching in a parade tomorrow,” she said.

 “Oh, really? How nice.”

“With my llamas!”

“Wow, llamas,” I echoed uncertainly.

“Yes, I dress them up in ribbons and I put bells on their feet. My boy llama hates that.”

I don't think I would want to piss off a llama, boy or girl, but whatever. I was more concerned that I had forgotten to take off my little black cap when I went in to the interview. Although clearly wackjobs are allowed at this agency. Maybe that's a good sign? As long as I don't have to feed a llama, I'm cool.

Finally, the dreaded question: “So! What are you looking for?”

Uhhhhh... world peace? Thin thighs? A rich uncle? How about a job that doesn't suck? I'd settle for that. I didn't say any of those things. I don't remember what I said, but it must have been acceptable, because she moved on to her next question, busily scribbling my answers on the sheet in front of her.

“Do you know Visio? Do you know SharePoint? How about Lotus Notes?”

“Lotus Notes!” was my intelligent response. I knew bell-bottoms had returned, but...

The interview questions were a strange melange of queries, reassurances, and semi-vicious probes. I wasn't exactly eviscerated, but I got the feeling she was impatient with me. I suspect I was the third or fourth hothouse flower she'd seen today, the day before her precious three-day weekend, and she was just about at her limit. I took pains to assuage her snippiness by assuring her I just wanted to make a contribution somewhere, whatever the hell that means. She seemed to accept my peace offering. Later I began to think maybe she was just slightly jealous of me. Maybe she would like to be an unemployed teacher, or an unsuccessful solopreneur. Hey, it's not too late! As I handed over my passport and social security card to be photocopied, I found myself hoping that someone would suddenly dash through the lobby and steal my documents. Take my identity—please!

On the way downtown, I sat in the back of the bus in the seat that overlooks the front part of the bus. There wasn't much to survey in the bus domain in front of me, but I thought about many things as we bounced and jiggled toward the Willamette River. For instance, I wondered how far I would fly if the bus driver had to suddenly slam on the brakes. Then I thought about how my wide derriere would probably anchor me in the seat and felt better enough to move on to my next thought, which was a conscious awareness that I might feel worse after going to this interview. I told myself if nothing else, the whole adventure would provide material for my blog. So far, both predictions have come true. I did not feel better after signing up with the temp agency, and I now have something to blog about.

When I finally dragged up to my back door, feeling like a poorly dressed loser, I found two little cartons of raspberries on my back porch, wrapped in Winco produce bags, which means my mother visited while I was out. She no doubt saw my car but couldn't get me to come to the door when she knocked. When I got inside, I dutifully called her on the phone.

“Hello, Mudder,” I said when I heard her voice.

“Whaaaat!?” she replied, which is not the usual way she answers the phone when I call, so I knew she was perturbed at getting what she perceived as a brush off. I expect it from your brothers girlfriend, but not from you! She asked if I had got the berries. I said, yes, thanks. She wanted to know where I was, and I told her I went downtown to sign up at a temp agency. She was rabidly interested, no big surprise. I managed to deflect most of the interrogation into a discussion about her ill-fitting dentures. We made plans to go for a drive to Silverton tomorrow to see the Oregon Gardens (open year round, so they say). If nothing else, the weather will be good, and it will give me something to blog about.

Exhaling at the speed of life

I'm a living example of efficiently working at being ineffective. I stay busy. I'm proud to say I'm not quivering in a closet, waiting to be hauled away to the poorhouse. For one thing, I only have one closet in the Love Shack, and it has no place to sit except in the laundry basket. I'm not that far gone. And secondly, what used to be the county poorhouse is now a swanky hip hotel, with a movie theatre, a brewery, a concert venue, a 9-hole golf course, several restaurants, and a multitude of bars. I went to a marketing conference there a few months back. I definitely can't afford it. I don't think there are poor farms anymore, are there? Well, there's always the Burnside Bridge. Under it, I mean: I'm not planning on jumping, in case you were worried.

I'm not lazy. I do a lot of stuff. I make long lists of to-do tasks and knock them off, one by one. That's good, right? No skulking in my one and only closet. Something is not quite right, though. I feel like a cartoon character, with spinning circles for legs, tearing up the air four inches above the pavement, going nowhere, fast. My logical left brain says I just need to work smarter, find the right strategy, I need to figure it out. My right brain is twirling in confusion, alternately euphoric at being saturated with freedom and morose at the prospect of losing it.

I feel like I've stopped breathing. For the past few months, with no income, my sense of accomplishment at finally finishing the Ph.D. is slowly seeping away. I'm deflating, a belch here, a hiss there. Nothing is coming in to replace what is trickling away. I say to myself, I'm living on air, and it feels true. Stored up air. Air from last year, when I still had a job. Musty stale air, sluggishly metallic as it seeps out of my checking account lungs.

Over the weekend I applied to three jobs: instructional designer, student adviser, and online professor at an unreasonably snobby for-profit university. In a few weeks I'll receive three politely terse emails (if I'm lucky) stating that my qualifications were not a match for the position.

I also recently published the Hellish Handbasket ebook, Welcome to Dissertation Hell. So far there have been 27 sample downloads. That's cool. But no sales. That's not so cool. That indicates to me that people are reviewing it and not finding a compelling reason to buy. Why does that sound familiar? Everything I've done: close, but no cigar. A-minus: Magna not summa. Vinyl, not leather. Just a few pounds away from thin. Just a little too angry, a tad too bitter.

I know if I just hold out and keep taking action, sooner or later, I'll begin to inhale again, and my blues will brighten. In the meantime, I hoard my stale dirty air.

Driving in circles

Yesterday I had a job interview in Tigard, which is a... I guess you would call it a suburb of Portland, although you can't tell where one city ends and the other begins. Tigard isn't as far as Wilsonville, which is where the career college I used to work for is located, but I can't get to Tigard by sneaking down the scenic route, I-205 (trees, dead deer, open fields). I had to muscle my way through the meat of the city. First I went west on I-84 (formerly known as Sullivan's Gulch, a tree-filled canyon that was carved up for Oregon's first freeway, AKA The Banfield). I-84 splits when you get to the Willamette River. You can go north. You can go south. I went south and crossed the river on the Marquam Bridge, a tall imposing double-decker that will plunge into the drink when the earthquake decimates the Rose City.

Time out while I bask in the glow of one of the greatest driving songs of all time: The soundtrack to Route-66 is playing through my speakers. Okay, I'm back. I wish that song were longer. So, where was I? Oh yeah, driving across the bridge, headed for Tigard. It's really not that far, if there's no traffic. I knew where I was going, more or less, and eventually I arrived at a multi-story office building housing a number of businesses, including some well-known brand names I wouldn't mind working for.

My destination was in the basement of that building, where a proprietary college from the Midwest has planted its flag, staking out territory for its first foray into the west coast market. At first glance, it appears to be just like the career college I left last year, perhaps with slightly deeper pockets and a longer reach. Why the Portland market, I wondered? Who cares. I looked at their reviews online, both students and employees, and they weren't any different from any other career college's reviews, that is to say, unimpressive.

Still, I was there to interview to teach one marketing class, their first ever on-ground class in that location, so I put my best malcontented foot forward and stumbled through the rain from the parking lot to the basement door. The place was empty. No students yet, just two administrators and some hardworking salespeople, I mean, admissions counselors, working the phones in little cubicles in a long narrow room with no windows. The administrator took me on a tour—see the lovely break room, the medical lab?—but we didn't go in the boiler room.

I had prepared a short first-day icebreaker lesson as a demonstration of my teaching skills, which I presented to the two administrators in a computer lab with one window high up on the wall. Through the window I could barely make out the grills and undercarriages of parked cars and pickups. As I talked, I had the eerie feeling I'd been there before. The computers looked a little different, but the beige walls and bland gray carpet looked the same. With fewer fingerprints and coffee stains, maybe, but give them time. I should have felt enthusiastic: Yay, I (might) get to teach marketing. But all I felt was a neutral resignation. Yay, a job, maybe. $500 for a couple months of wrestling with traffic and unmotivated students.

Haven't I been down this tired path? Why am I chasing one lousy marketing class at yet another despised for-profit college? I'm a dream come true for this outfit. I know their market as well as anyone they'll ever hire to teach there, considering proprietary vocational education was the topic of my doctoral research. They don't deserve me. They can't afford me. And if they offer me the class, I'll probably say yes. Because some money is better than no money.

Another way for employers to say, "No thanks (loser), we don't want you"

I'm discontented. I just found out about the Bright Score. Do you know about this? You probably do. As usual, I'm the last to catch on. On the Consumer Adoption Curve, I'm slower than the slowest laggard. I mean, I don't even have a data plan! Whatever. Anyway, the Bright Score (for those of you who may not have recently considered giving up all hope of self-employment success and applying for any job within 50 miles of your home) is a score calculated by a computer algorithm that lets employers know if you are a good fit for their job opening.

As you may remember, until six months ago, I taught business courses at a for-profit career college. I held that job for almost 10 years. And you may also recall that I recently earned a doctorate in Business Administration. I say this not to brag, but to remind you of my qualifications. I get job alerts from Indeed for faculty openings around town. It would be great to teach a couple classes while I'm developing my research business, right? Makes sense to me. So, I ask you, what better job to apply for than one like the one I had: teaching business courses at a career college. Seems like a classic no-brainer to me.

Notification of an opening appeared in my email inbox. I applied. One click took me to a web interface I had not seen before, presented by a company called Bright Score. I registered, a quick, painless process, and uploaded my resume. I deleted a few skills, added a few skills... and then I searched for the faculty opening I'd seen in the alert. A message came up: Calculating your Bright Score. (Cue Jeopardy music.) Bam. Say, what? My Bright Score for the faculty job was a paltry, measly, wholly inadequate 62! Epic fail!

As a consolation prize, Bright Score kindly suggested a couple jobs where I had a fighting chance (in the low 70s): a senior graphic designer for an unnamed company and a project supply assistant at Xerox. Okaaaay. I went back to my profile and tweaked my skills some more. I took out anything to do with art and graphic design and added skills related to teaching and education. Wham! Take that, Bright Score! Click calculate.... What! 63? No way!

In disgust, I searched for any job in the metro area for which I might actually qualify. You'll never guess what Bright Score suggested for me: Admissions Rep at the same darn for-profit college. How nutty is that? And my Bright Score was 83... Not Great, but slightly better than Good. Essentially a B+. Which means I probably could get an interview, were I inclined to try.

One thing Bright Score does not tell you is how to improve your score. They do tell you it is a combination of factors. It's not about just choosing the keywords that employers want to see. In fact, Bright Score analyzes the frequency and usage of key words, along with your experience and timelines. It also takes into consideration the structure of your resume itself, for example, length, grammar and spelling, and whether or not there is an objective. But they don't offer any tangible hints, like two-page resumes are a no-no. The secret sauce is hidden, and you only get five tries per month to improve your score. Sigh. I already used up one.

I think I will create a bogus resume, full of buzz words and upload that. I can test out the parameters. What happens if I go over one page? What happens if I add more jargon? What happens if I repeat many words and phrases from the job description? Ha! I'll get you, Bright Score! Hey, wait, what am I doing? I don't want to be an Admissions Rep or a supply assistant. I just wanted to teach a couple classes, for crying out loud. Curses, blocked again! I am being funneled into a tighter and tighter path, it feels like. Self-employment seems to be the only hope for me, but I am afraid success may be a long time coming. It will come, eventually, I have no doubt. But if I'm living under a bridge—or hiding out in my mother's spare bedroom, which may possibly be worse than the bridge—I may not be around to enjoy it.

Isn't it nice, though, to know now that I'm wasting my time applying for jobs like the one I had? What a gift from the universe. I don't really want a job like the one I had. And now it looks like I won't get one. Maybe there is a god.

What do I do? Uh...

I'm so proud of myself. I networked today! Me, the rabid introvert, the chronic malcontent with nothing good to say, I actually managed to show up to a group event and interact with a table full of strangers without spitting up or hiding out in a corner. I wore appropriate clothing, I sat up straight, and I didn't roll a toothpick around in my mouth. (My sister will be pleased.) All in all, I think I did pretty well.

Also, to my credit, I didn't try to be something I wasn't. I didn't wear clothes that weren't my style (like, you know, a crop-top, hot pink skinny pants, and platforms). I wore a tasteful monochromatic palette of black, gray, and white. I wasn't embarrassed to put on my black knit cap and fingerless gloves (former socks) when the air conditioning kicked in. I wasn't too shy to draw pictures in my notebook as I was taking notes during the presentation. The one thing I almost did, but didn't, was pull out my bright blue stainless steel water bottle, the one that says, Holy Water: Tap into it. Redeems parched sinners on the front. You never know who might not think it was funny. I wouldn't want to irritate any of the people in this group, because I hope among them will be my future clients.

I was early, as usual. The registration person was stuck in traffic, so I sat at a table and got a preview of the slide show as the presenter struggled with her technology. A tall man in long shorts and a gorgeous shirt in a splashy green and orange plaid sat down next to me.

“Hi, I'm Dan.”

“Hi, Dan. I'm Carol.”

And then the dreaded question. “What do you do, Carol?”

My shoulders spasmed up to my earlobes with nervous tension. What do I do, what do I do? As my brain spun in circles, I realized, omigod, it's another version of the most dreaded interview question on earth: Tell me about yourself. Well, I flunked the answer to the question, What do I do, I'm sorry to say. With my eyes darting around the room, I stammered some disconnected sentences and chanced a glance at his face to see if I was sunk. He looked a little nonplussed. I took a breath. I'm sure I looked manic at that point.

Eventually I clawed my way to the metaphorical third floor, but not after I crashed the elevator into the basement. You get what I'm saying? The elevator pitch? I'm sure you have one, a lovely 30-second speech about what you do. Right? A little blurb that rolls trippingly off your tongue when someone asks you, What do you do? I actually have an elevator pitch, believe it or not, but it needs some work, especially after today. This morning I met with my business advisor from the SBDC. She did a little niche reconstruction on me (it's not as painful—or humiliating—as it sounds), and now my elevator pitch needs revision.

He could have got up and joined people at another table at that point, but Dan stuck it out the entire evening. Maybe he was taking pity on me, trying to be nice, trying not to be rude. It's possible, I suppose. It's more likely he forgot my disjointed introduction immediately and got busy with his own thoughts. Like a normal person.

The blonde woman who sat down on my left smiled and introduced herself.

“Hi, I'm Kim.”

I introduced myself, relieved to have someone else to be the focus of Dan's attention. But, no, what she said was, “So, Carol, what do you do?”

What is with these people? Don't they care about who I am? Or how I feel? All they want to know is what I do! Like what I do will explain everything. Like what I do is the clue to understanding me. Clearly they don't realize that what I do changes every week! Ten weeks ago, I was a college instructor. Then I was an unemployed loser. Followed the next week by a frustrated doctoral candidate. Then suddenly I was a small business owner! And then I was a website designer, that was a laugh a minute. Now I guess I'm a researcher, although the niche reconstruction is still going on, so I'm not sure if I'm a marketing researcher or what kind of researcher I am, exactly. And I think I have more roles planned for next week.

So what do I say when they ask what I do? It sounds like a metaphysical question, one of those questions whose answer is in the question, or whose answer is a journey not a destination, or whose answer is inside me, like god. (You know what they say about god dwelling inside us, right? That he'd better like enchiladas, because that is what he's getting. Har har har.) Anyway, I'm going to revise my elevator pitch. And I'll tidy up my mission statement and my personal life philosophy, too, as long as I've got the rock overturned. And maybe I'll do some laundry and clean the cat box. At least I'll have something to say the next time someone asks me, What do you do?

Do I look like a risk taker to you?

I'm relieved to say I hit the ground running on my first day of freedom. I could have slept in. I considered it, actually. But I had a dental appointment to keep at noon, made six months ago when I was still employed, before I had a hint I would be laid off. If I had known I might have spent less on vampire romances and put more in the bank. But I digress. I got up, I went to the appointment (covered by insurance until the end of the month, thanks former employer!), and then I efficiently blazed a furrow through my errands, one after another: gas, post office, bank, thrift store (I was only going to drop off a box but I was compelled to go inside and look for said vampire romances. Sigh. Found a few. Yay.), and finished up at the grocery store, where they were out of carts, so I was forced to only purchase what I could carry. Darn. Still I managed to spend a few hundred dollars today, if you count the dentist.

I have many fears about this new regimen. One is that I will spend my days efficiently running errands, briskly knocking items off my mundane to-do list.... toothpaste: check!... while completely avoiding the activities that could generate income. (Like, for instance, job hunting.) I have a to-do list a mile long of projects half-finished: scan family photos, recycle old paper, donate old binders and books, dust my shelves (I have ten million shelves, no lie!), sweep, mop, vacuum... ahhhhhh! Now my true colors shine. I have the time to do these things, and yet I resist. I guess I prefer to live in squalor. I feel like I'm missing an important food group if I don't have cat hair with every meal.

Speaking of hair balls, my next dissertation course started today. I uploaded my first draft of the Institutional Review Board application, which will result in receiving approval to interview human subjects. They can't be too careful with a researcher like me—I might be tempted to brainwash my participants into thinking that for-profit higher education is a scourge that should be banned from the land. Bwahahahaha. My chairperson will probably mosey into the course room in a few days and spy my submittal parked in the corner. Oh, look, she did something. After some back and forth, eventually she will allow it to be sent to the faceless nameless IRB reviewers, who will eventually allow it to pass, after ripping me a new one and sewing it closed with some warnings masquerading as compliments. Then, finally at long last, I'll be cleared to collect data. What does that mean, you ask? That means I will be approved to arrange interviews with ten faculty to discuss their definitions and perceptions of academic quality in for-profit Gainful Employment programs in vocational colleges like the one that just laid me off.

It would be the height of irony, the epitome of poetic justice, the ultimate toothpick in the eye, if I can't find ten teachers who would be willing to talk to me. That won't happen, I'm pretty sure. But it would sure be the height of something, after these eight years of persistent struggle, to have my efforts fall flat in a big ho-hum who cares.

I started out on this academic journey with a pie-in-the-sky, ice cream-colored dream—oh, la la la, I'll just teach marketing and management courses online to students who won't even know I'm wearing my pajamas! I'll make tons of money, write books on the side, and life will be grand! What a dream, eh? More like a delusion. In eight years, I've changed (I don't eat ice cream anymore), but more importantly, the world of online teaching has changed. Something like 70% of all college faculty are adjuncts, working long hours teaching one or two classes for very low pay and zero benefits. Plus the institutions now want their instructors to have current “real world” experience—i.e., a job. Well, of course you'd better have a job, because you won't be able to live on what you make as an adjunct.

Teaching is looking less and less appealing. I doubt I will be hunting for a teaching gig in the near future, even if they wanted a Ph.D. from a for-profit institution (scourge upon the land, etc.). The pajama thing still seems good, though.

The slippery slope to slovenly behavior

Tonight I'm breathing a sigh of relief after a day of good news. My car doesn't need front end work. My chairperson sent my dissertation proposal on to the Graduate School for review. The Boston police caught the bombing suspect. I got the upper hand with the ants in my kitchen. All around, things are looking up. I hope we won't have to go through another week like this one any time soon. It's been rough.

Last week at the career college, I noticed I was engaging in many last times—activities I will do at work for the last time and never do again. Like discussing chapters from the Business Management textbook with the two Human Resources Management classes. Never have to do that again. (Maybe there is a god!) Printing reviews and finals for all the computer applications classes. One last time, never again. Writing a final for a new class I'd never taught before and never have to teach again. (I found myself thinking as I wrote and formatted the test, Why bother doing a good job? Who will know? Who will care?)

Ah, the slippery slope to slovenly behavior.

Speaking of slovenly behavior, I skyped my sister tonight. We both agreed, it's time I got a new look. I've been doing a pathetic Johnny Cash (circa 1980) impersonation for almost ten years—black pants, black jacket, black hat. It's almost time to clear out the closet and start over. Top to bottom. I do have hair, believe it or not. We both spend a small fortune on coloring our hair. My sister wants me to start wearing dresses. She tried to persuade me by telling me that a dress can hide a multitude of figure flaws. I have no doubt she is right. The problem isn't finding the right clothes. The problem is the whole idea of figure flaws. We don't chastise men for their figure flaws.

Besides, it won't matter what I look like, because in two weeks I intend to retire to my cave and never see anyone in person again. I call it self-employment. If I do it right, I can work in my pajamas for the next fifteen years. I'll have my groceries delivered. I'll put aluminum foil on my windows and an antenna on the roof. I'll sneak out in the dark of night to empty my trash and recycling. I'll contribute to blogs about conspiracy theories.

Speaking of conspiracy theories, (kiddding!) last night I went to a Portland State University alumni/student event at Bridgeport Brewery. It was a presentation by a local recruiter on how to stop sucking at your job search. Her name was Jenny Foss. Job Jenny. She's an attractive, petite woman with an annoying habit of speaking too close to the microphone. She talked for an hour to a packed room about using Linked In to network. Puh, puh... I wanted to rush over and smack her with the mic. Her PowerPoint slides were sparse: black text on a white background, no animation, nothing to keep my attention. I got bored watching her mundane slide show, so I wrote a lot in my journal. I didn't learn anything new, although I came away with copious notes and a few drawings. (One little moment of self-satisfaction: Everything I have told my Professional Development classes over the years aligned very well with Job Jenny's advice.)

Finally she opened up the show to Q&As, and things got more interesting (to me). The second question was from a man who said he was 56 and having a hard time getting a job. I sat up in my chair, trying to get a look at him across the dimly lit room. Did he look old? Do I look as old as he does? Job Jenny said something I didn't want to hear. She said, “You might consider cutting your hair and investing in a new pair of glasses. And dressing younger.” Ahhhhhhhhh!

Hey, Job Jenny gets $1,000 to write a resume, according to one of my tablemates. She must be doing something right.

Well, at least that guy doesn't have to worry about concealing his figure flaws.

I remember reading an article about an older guy's job hunt. He was having no luck, getting interviews but no offers, until finally in desperation he went to an interview wearing red Converse sneakers and a baseball cap. He got the job. Hmmm. Maybe I should try that. Or maybe I should try charging $1,000 for writing resumes. I could live on that.