Catching bullets in my teeth

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exposing my dirty red underbelly

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

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

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

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

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

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

Losing brain cells to the social media time suck

The word has come down from on high (Salem): I am now officially self-employed. How weird to go from unemployed to self-employed. I guess you can now call me a job creator. I made a job for myself. I think I should go on strike. This job doesn't pay sh--t. And I'm not sure I get along with the boss.

But here I am, a solopreneur, a little sooner than I expected, but excited nonetheless. However, if I want to receive assistance from the State of Oregon, I must “work” at this new job at least 40 hours a week. Forty hours! They obviously don't know I am also trying to finish my doctorate. Well, they do know, because I told them on the application form, but they obviously don't care. They apparently also don't know that I am trying to catch up on the sleep I lost over the past ten years of split shifts. They just want me off the dole ASAP. I want that, too, I really do. I want this little one-person business to put down some roots and grow.

What am I selling? Thanks for asking. I'm not sure yet. (That sounds promising, doesn't it?) Here's what I know: it's something to do with marketing research consulting. Soon I will send a message in a bottle out to the universe (also known as a survey) to ask small business owners what they know about marketing research, if they use it, if they would pay someone to do it for them, and how much would they pay. From the responses, I anticipate gleaning some insight into what to do next.

In the meantime, I'm.... I guess you could say I'm building infrastructure. I opened a post office box today, and a business checking account at the local credit union. I made business cards. I started my business plan. And I revived my old Facebook account and attached a Page for my new business. Then I got sucked down the invisible black hole of social media. When I clawed my way out, it was after 10:00 pm. Wha—? Who knew Facebook was such a delirious time suck? Why didn't anyone tell me! I'm like Rip Van Winkle, I'm ninety now, I've lost all my brain cells and my fingers are crumbling bony sticks. What in tarnation!? Why, it's the devil's invention, I tell you. Well, I don't believe in the devil, so how about it's a scrawny pimply-faced multi-gazillionaire pipsqueak's invention. Why, I oughta...

I am embarrassed to even mention this topic. I know I've cursed social media time and again in this blog, or if I didn't, I meant to. Curse you, Facebook! Curse you, LinkedIn! The last thing the maniacally introverted Chronic Malcontent wants to do is open her door to the entire world and say howdy, come on in. Oh Lord Kumbaya. Seriously? This is how people spend their time? Why don't they just shove a vacuum cleaner into their ear and let it rip?

My vehement reaction invites introspection. That sounds like something my friend Valentina would say. I think I know what's up. Facebook is my shadow. Facebook is forcing—no, let's say Facebook is encouraging me, inviting me, offering me the opportunity—to let the world know me, and that does not come easily to a rabid snarling introvert. Voluntarily opening my metaphorical door to strangers makes my skin crawl. For someone as self-obsessed as me, you would think I'd be thrilled to get some extra attention. Nope. No thanks. Introversion is one rabbit hole I can slide down forever if I'm not careful. I'd call it a progressive illness if I wouldn't immediately feel compelled to start a Twelve Step program about it. Introverts Anonymous.

Slowly my path comes clear. The only way through this mental minefield is to focus on service. Service. My north star. Service. To imagine my business providing value, to picture myself being of service to happy clients, to recognize I am bringing something good into the world. Ommmmm. That's better. The heavy knot of fear in my chest starts to release its stranglehold around my skittery heart. I can breathe again. That was close. Time to turn off the computer and retreat behind the flimsy sheltering walls of the Love Shack. Take that, Facebook.