We gotta have art

The reward for being willing to work for nothing (also known as service or volunteering) is the opportunity to do more work for nothing. Few are called to this level of self-flagellation. Most people volunteer once a year dishing up spuds at a soup kitchen. Maybe they sell wrapping paper for their daughter's scout troop. These smart givers have figured out how to maintain their sense of selves when giving by engaging in some carefully controlled giving. They manage the time, place, duration, and level of emotional involvement. They live to serve another day.

Me, when I jump off the cliff into the great pit of service, I don't hold back. I go all in. Whenever I see that finger of service pointing my way, I almost always say yes. Even when I don't want to show up, I do. Because that is what I have learned is required of me to survive in my own skin. I am no longer a quitter. Well, hardly ever. When I first got vertigo, I quit on a service commitment. I was capsized by the rocking water in my head, not much good for anything for a while.

The vertigo still bubbles up from time to time, but it no longer swamps me. Now, I show up for my service commitments. I show up for meetings, I show up for phone calls, I show up for my mother.

Now I'm showing up for a new volunteer commitment. I'm in the process of being inducted (onboarded, waterboarded, whatever they call it) into a service organization. A request went around by email for someone to co-chair the workshop committee. Prodded by the finger of service, I raised my hand. Most of the work for 2020 has been done, it appears, by the massively overachieving and micromanaging “acting” workshop chair. Probably they just need an ignorant snoid to show up, check names off the list, and make sure nobody inadvertently unplugs the projector when run they their chair over the extension cord. That snoid could be me.

The hardest part of the snoid job is getting to the location in downtown Portland. Parking is exorbitant and scarce. Public transit is slow and expensive. Volunteering means clients pay nothing for service; however, volunteering shouldn't require the volunteer to fork out great sums of time and money. Just saying. Not up to me.

Speaking of trying to help others, at the invitation of one of the artists who took my art and business class at the community college, yesterday I visited an artists' workshop in Northeast Portland. Well, it was really an old concrete brick garage with a massive wood stove flaming against the back wall, uncomfortably close to shelves of tarps and other possibly flammable materials. I tried not to notice.

Three artists from my class had kept in touch. Apparently, taking my class had inspired them to support each others' marketing efforts. I felt a little frisson of pride, completely unearned.

Just inside the big open garage door, I chatted with two artisans I had not met before. The first was a young woman who sat behind a display of hand-pinched clay pots adorned with grotesque cartoonish faces (not unlike some of my grotesque cartoonish faces). I admired them and asked what people typically used them for.

“Rubberbands,” she said. “Paper clips. My Mom has them all over her house.” Yay, moms. We gotta love moms.

“Where are you selling them?” I asked.

“Well, nowhere, yet.”

The second artist new to me was a long-haired scruffy man named Tim who sat at a power machine sewing leather tags on pieces of pillow ticking for a custom order of bags. I admired his hand-dyed, one-of-a-kind backpacks stacked on a big table behind him. Ever the marketing critic, I gave Tim my signature eye-roll when he was unable to produce a business card: In lieu of a card, he gave me one of the tags he sews into his packs. Today I visited his website: clean design, perhaps a little too clean. Lots of nice photos but no verbiage to romance me into paying $114 for a clay-colored book bag.

Next, I stopped to chat with Cherise, an artist who I vaguely remembered from my class earlier this year. She stood next to a colorful display of hand-made cards encased in clear plastic wrappers, arranged in a little twirly rack on a table. Next to the rack were a few small paintings set on easels. I liked her images.

“How are your marketing efforts going?” I asked.

“If you had a class to help people post their art on their website, I would totally take it,” she said, looking embarrassed. Hmmm, I thought. An unfilled need. Could I fill it?

Today, I looked up her website, a drag-and-drop Go-Daddy affair that looked good to me. She had a page of digital art that people could buy, download, and print. I don't know what she was complaining about. Looked like she had it handled. Maybe she was having tech-swamp brain, like I often do. It's the inability of my brain to recall technical skills I previously learned, even the day before. She may have forgotten she knew what she knew. Or maybe she enlisted a niece to create the shopping page. I need more information.

Next to Cherise, was a card table showing a sparse collection of handmade embroidered patches and ... well, bigger patches, or maybe they were wall hangings? Heidi, the artist who invited me to the show, huddled under a laprobe behind the table. Heidi is an embroidery artist, I guess you could say. She takes tiny pieces of denim, embellishes them with microscopic cross stitches, attaches a minuscule fabric tag with her name on it, and safety pins a dinky price tag to the corner: $85. Yipes. She also had a dish of about twenty denim embroidered buttons for $35 each. I mean, buttons that you pin on your lapel, not buttons that go through buttonholes.

My eyesight is pretty bad, especially for closeup work, so I had to lift up my glasses to appreciate the fine detail. Even up close, though, I don't think I fully grasped the appeal. Now, if she had turned one of those miniature denim masterpieces into a huge wall tapestry or a rug . . . well, I guess I like my art over-sized. And functional. The way I like my brain. But I digress.

The third artist from my class was Marge. Marge works with wood. She does custom decks and fences in her outdoor life. Indoors, she builds wooden boxes on legs or wheels to hold things of various sizes, including stringed instruments.

“Is this where the magic happens?” I asked, patting the beat-up workbench shoved against the wall under a window and thinking, wow, this is really primitive. The lack of space and paucity of tools possibly explained why her work could best be described as rustic. I was reminded of the day many years ago when I showed my attempt to sew a leather outfit (turquoise lamb suede) to a professional seamstress who used to sew couture for Galiano. I'll never forget the look of withering pity she bestowed upon me as I wrapped up my amateurish effort and slunk out the door. I took a vow not to do that to anyone. I admired Marge's photos and patted her boxes.

I don't know if any of the artists sold anything but they didn't get any money from me. I'm in downsize mode. Cognitive dissonance kicks in when I imagine the hordes of artists around the world cranking out art that few people will see or buy. How is all this production helping the planet? But we can't tell artists not to create. That would be saying, dancers, stop dancing; singers, stop singing. Fish gotta swim. Artists gotta create. And we need art, even if we are running out of places to put it.

The Chronic Malcontent attempts to teach artists not to hate business

As an artist and marketer, I have a foot in both art and business. Sometimes I feel like the anti-Christ of marketing, but still, with a Ph.D. in marketing, I have a lot of book knowledge, not to mention valuable personal experience making marketing mistakes and a sincere desire to be of service, all of which qualify me to act as an interpreter for struggling artists who want to bring their art into the world.

Yesterday I led six adult students through the horrific intersection of art and business, also known as the Art & Business class. Art and business is like oil and water to artists. (What is it about artists that makes us want to hurl at the thought of mixing art and money?)

Seven people were registered for the class. The table arrangement accommodated eight in a horseshoe shape. My homemade comb-bound workbooks were placed in front of each chair. Pens were scattered around. Table tents of white card stock were folded at each seat, waiting for students to print their names.

I never know who will sign up for six hours of this rare form of hell. As usual, the group of so-called artists was a mixed bag. The first to arrive was an older gentleman, maybe a few years older than me (I just turned 63), with wispy white hair and glasses. The next to arrive was a younger woman with olive skin and lovely black-framed glasses. I greeted them both.

In the ensuing silence, they perused their workbooks while I stared out the window, starting to sweat as the clock ticked toward the start time. At three minutes to ten, I poked my head out the door and saw two young women sitting on a bench across the hall. They ignored me. At ten o'clock exactly, they strolled into the classroom and sat next to one another at the table nearest the door, chattering in a foreign language.

A minute after ten, I moved to my first PowerPoint slide and began my introduction. About ten sentences later, the door opened and a handsome bearded man in a knit cap entered, followed by a blonde woman wearing some sort of poncho-like garment. They took seats opposite the two young ladies. The tables were almost full. I welcomed the newcomers and finished up my introduction.

“Now it's your turn to talk,” I said. “Please introduce yourself and tell us what kind of art you make. And then please tell me what you hope to learn in this class today, so I can write it on the board.” I parked myself at the whiteboard, blue pen poised.

The woman in the poncho introduced herself as Jackie. “I'm not an artist,” she said. She motioned with her head toward the young man next to her. “I'm here to learn how to support Miller.” She efficiently opened her laptop and got ready to take notes. “I want to learn more about marketing.” I wrote marketing on the whiteboard.

I looked at Miller, who sort of folded in on himself, covering his face with his hand. “I hate anything to do with business,” he groaned dramatically. “That's why I brought my partner.”

“What kind of art do you make?” I asked politely.

“I paint. With oils. On paper. It's archival paper from France. It comes in rolls. It's perfectly legit, you can look it up. You know what I mean?” He rubbed his face with his hand and squirmed in his chair. I thought, what is up with this guy.

“What do you hope to get from this class today?” I asked.

He groaned and bent over like he was going to be sick. “I don't know!” he moaned. “How to make people buy my stuff?” I wrote how to make people buy my stuff on the board. For veracity, I like to use the students' actual words whenever I do the needs assessment.

Next up was the older guy, Dan. He sat up straight and introduced himself. “I'm retired. I like to draw figures. I try to get the most emotion into the fewest lines.”

“What do you hope to get from today's class?”

“Some tips on marketing, I guess,” he replied. “I'm not sure.” I wrote tips on marketing on the whiteboard.

Next to him sat the woman with the black glasses. “My name is Betty. I have my own studio,” she said nervously. “I used to teach art to children but I stopped doing that a couple years ago. Now I want to make signs. I need to make some money. I'm hoping to . . . I don't know what to focus on. I've got so many ideas, I don't know what to do.”

“I can relate to that,” I reassured her. “What do you hope to learn today?”

“I'm not sure, I don't know what I need. Help with marketing, I guess. I don't know.” I wrote marketing on the board.

I looked at the young woman to Betty's right and smiled encouragingly, noting her curly brown hair, perfect eyebrows, and flawless makeup. She smiled back.

“My name is Tina,” she said with an accent I couldn't place. “I am a cosmetic tattoist.”

“Tattoo artist?” I said. I pictured body tattoos.

“Cosmetic tattoos?” Dan clarified. “Like when people need . . . ?”

“Eyebrows,” Tina said.

“What would you like to get from this class today, Tina?” I asked.

“I'm not sure, marketing, maybe?”

The last person in the class was a young woman with long brown hair and glasses.

“I'm not an artist,” she said. “My son is in high school. He likes to draw.”

“So, you are here to get some information for your son?”

She nodded. “He wants to go to an art school in California, I don't know the name, very expensive. I want to help him make a good choice.”

On the whiteboard I wrote help loved one make a good choice.

And away we went. When I've recuperated, I'll tell you more.

The chronic malcontent plays hooky to go to school

Last night I took a night off from daughter duty to attend an in-service (teacher training) at the local community college for which I occasionally teach business courses for artists. The in-service was conveniently located at the campus at which I'd taught, so I knew how to get there and where to park. The college's Community Education program has locations all over the city. I was grateful I did not have to find my way to the west side of town in the dark.

The invitation indicated the event started with networking at 5:30 pm. The presentation was scheduled to begin at 6:00 pm. As usual, I arrived early, as did many others. People were already gathering in the lobby when I arrived at 5:20. They sat on fluffy square chairs in a small area, ignoring each other, looking at their phones. Networking in the new age.

Like any practicing introvert, I found a corner and wandered to it. An older woman with wild dark hair joined me.

“Hi, what do you teach?” she asked.

“I teach a business course for artists,” I replied, stammering a little. “How about you?”

“I teach juggling.”

Intrigued, I asked her some questions. Soon we were discussing the amazing activity of juggling—how it's mostly men who want to learn to juggle but kids like it too, how women think they won't be any good at it so they don't try, how she does no promotion, how enthusiasts hold juggling festivals and associations all over the world, how tens of thousands of members juggle socially here in the local Portland juggling community, how Reed College has had a juggling class for thirty years... I was, like, how come I've never heard of this?

“Have you considered creating a juggling class just for women?” I asked.

“I don't do any marketing, I don't know how,” she said.

“Maybe you should take my class!” I laughed, dead serious.

“Maybe you should take mine!” Bam. She got me back.

The assembled group trooped into the auditorium. I lost track of the juggler. I found a seat in the back row behind a young woman with fluffy dark hair. What is it with all these frizzy coifs, I wondered. My hair is typically five-eighths of an inch long. Tall. Whatever. I of course kept my hat on the entire evening, decorated tastefully with my adhesive name tag.

“What do you teach?” The young woman turned around to address me. I told her and asked her the same question.

“I give chocolate tasting tours,” she replied.

The director began introducing the program directors and the chocolate expert turned around in her seat to face the front. I looked her up in the course catalog we'd been given with our in-service packet. Ah, there she was, with a photo and everything, a course about chocolate. Wow, who knew.

Soon we exited and joined a line of teachers leading up the stairs. I smelled food. I got in line behind the chocolate woman, who ignored me. Eventually, her conversation partner asked me what I taught. I told him and found out he taught ceramics.

“I sell tea services at the Saturday Market,” he said. “I'm building a place for groups to rent space to have traditional tea ceremonies.”

We got in the buffet line (catered by local eatery Laughing Planet). I grabbed a white china plate and eyeballed the white rice, black beans, and unidentifiable options in the big stainless steel serving dishes. I spread a small corn tortilla on my plate and heaped it with tofu and salad stuff, a few beans, a little bit of rice, a glob of bright green guacamole. I found some small round corn chippy things but ignored the various sauces and salsa.

The in-service agenda required us to take our plates of food to breakout rooms, where we would sit with the teachers from our department and hear the news from our program director. I parted company with the ceramicist and went downstairs to locate my tribe.

Several old (older than me) white men sat eating silently at long tables in a classroom. I sat in the front row near the wall so no one could sneak up on me. A couple guys nodded as I pulled up a chair to the end of the table. I noticed one woman, an older gal with flyaway gray hair.

“This is my first in-service,” I said into awkward silence, “so pardon me if I stare.”

The man sitting nearest me smiled so I asked him what he taught.

“Electrical certification,” he replied, wiping his mouth with a black paper napkin. Everyone else kept eating in silence.

Luckily the program director, Dawn, entered with a colleague, a youngish woman with a ponytail, a neck tattoo, and big teeth. Both women carried plates of food. They sat down in the front, facing the rows of tables.

Dawn asked us to introduce ourselves and say what we taught. She pointed at me. I said my name and stuttered a bit as I tried to explain what I taught: Business course for artists. I always feel like I'm spouting a pathetic fallacy when I put business and artist in the same sentence. Or is it an oxymoron? I don't know. A pathetic oxymoron. Is that a thing? Or is it a laundry detergent? I can never remember. Anyway, we went around the room. A gray-haired man taught a class on how to start a business. Competition, I thought. A bald man taught a class on maximizing social security benefits. A guy with dark skin and an accent taught computer programming classes. The woman and the gray-haired man sitting next to her taught courses based on neuro-linguistic programming.

Two people strolled in late. One was a tiny older woman with dark hair (a twenty-six year veteran teacher), the other a younger man with creamy skin who told a story of being a student and then becoming a teacher. Both taught Spanish. The last person, in the back corner, was an ancient man who taught computer classes, one of which was Excel. I had to be impressed. I used to teach Excel, back in the day. I wonder what version Microsoft is up to now. I'm stuck in amber when it comes to computer programs. I don't even have Windows 10 yet, that's how far behind I am.

Dawn pulled out a notebook, ignoring her plate of food. First, she reminded us that we aren't allowed to promote our own businesses when we are teaching classes for the college. I thought, have I promoted my business? Then I thought, no, artists are not dissertators. No fear. I don't have anything they could buy from me, even if they wanted to. Whew.

After the breakout session, we reconvened in the auditorium for the main event, the keynote speaker. The ceramicist appeared behind me.

“Why are you wearing blue glasses?” he asked. I laughed. As I walked ahead, I was reaching in my bag to switch my up-close glasses for the distance glasses I use for driving.

“What! Now they are green!” he said. I laughed and headed to the back row. He went off in another direction.

I'm familiar with in-services from my almost ten years as an instructor at a career college. The next hour was as dreary and useless as any in-service in which the speaker fails to take time to identify the needs of the audience. The topic was student engagement. I don't know why the directors chose that topic for a Community Education in-service—students who sign up for Community Education courses want to be there. They receive no credit, no grades. They really want to learn the material. Engagement is not a problem. Like a good student, however, I gleaned what I could from the talk.

The speaker was a solidly built white woman with long hair that might have been blonde, might have been gray, hard to tell under the lights. She wore a light-colored sack-like dress printed with dots or flowers. The overall impression was white, very white. She started talking about the human brain and what keeps us from engaging. She said “right?” after almost every sentence. And she laughed. A lot. I started tracking how many times she laughed at something she said. In the first fifteen minutes, I counted sixteen times she laughed for no obvious reason. I thought, wow, she sure knows how to keep herself entertained. I stopped tracking after that and started drawing in my notebook. I looked at my neighbor two seats to my right and noticed he was drawing, too. Better than me. Clearly, an artist.

I endured to the end, including the fifteen minute award ceremony given to recognize teachers with five, ten, fifteen, and more than fifteen years of service to the college. I thought, it's unlikely I will be receiving one of those awards.

As I drove home, hunched over the wheel, peering into the dark, I thought about some things. I realized I liked meeting new people. I enjoyed hearing their stories. I liked finding out that I'm part of a larger community. I liked seeing how many creative people are sharing their knowledge and expertise. Maybe I'm not the rabid introvert I thought I was.

Today, my world narrows back to normal. Blog, laundry, lunch. I had one night off from daughter duty. In about an hour, I'll be back on the job.

Those who can't . . . teach

I spent almost ten years teaching business and general education courses to reluctant, resistant, and recalcitrant adult learners, many of whom attended school only for the student loan money they lived on. I used my time as a teacher to learn the craft and earn the advanced degree I now regret pursuing. Teaching was fun. I relished the challenge of organizing my approach to communicate material that most students would briefly absorb then promptly forget. I strove to create handouts, worksheets, templates, rubrics, guidebooks, cartoons, board games, dice games, role-play games, whatever it took to jam information into their heads that would stick long enough for them to pass the finals and graduate. It wasn't easy. Students often slept in class. They texted and played Farmville. They cheated on tests. They ignored me. They didn't read the textbook or do the practice exams. Many of my blog posts from 2012 and 2013 are stories of my angst and frustration with students.

It's happened again. I am now officially a teacher. Recently I taught two sessions of a day-long class for artists who want to learn some business skills. This time the format was continuing education, which meant no tests, no lectures, no jamming and cramming, no grading. This time, my students were artists.

Artists are the greatest. I love artists, probably more than I love art. Art is great, but once it's on the wall, it is done, it's over. Artists carry an endearing combination of creative confidence and urgent desperation. They make art with faith and trust in their ability to enter the zone, the flow. They know exactly what that zone is and regally assume their right to enter it. However, when it comes to bringing their art into the world, to show it, to sell it, to price it, it's like half their brain has gone missing. They are lobotomized by the prospect of applying business tools to their creative lives. They can't find the balance between creating art and marketing art. It makes them insane, timid, angry, anxious, resentful, all in the course of one discussion about whether we should make the art we want and then find a market for it, or whether we should seek a market and then produce art for that market. Yowza!

The day was long, split in two by a leisurely lunch hour. The students were attentive and eager, until we reached the point in the discussion about including financial statements in the business plan. Then they all entered their own private hell. I know this from the student feedback forms I collected at the end of the class. What is it about artists and business? Oil and water is trite but apt.

At one point in the pricing discussion, after much debate about how to price a painting, one older woman said, “What about that thing that artists bring, our creativity, shouldn't that be added in, shouldn't we get something for that?”

“Because we're so special and unique, you mean?”

“Well, yes.”

“If you can convince your buyer of that, then yes,” I said. “If people want what you are selling and can afford it, they will pay for it. Your job is to persuade them that your painting is worth that extra premium.”

“Well, what if they don't want to pay for that special extra thing, the . . . muse?”

“Then you don't sell the painting.”

“But shouldn't they understand that artists are different from . . . I don't know, ditch diggers?”

“Do you mean, buyers should give you something extra just because you are an artist?”

I could see other people nodding. I could feel myself nodding. The story of my life.

“Boy, wouldn't that be great? To be recognized for our creativity and compensated for it?” I sighed. “Art buyers might buy your painting because they think you are special. But mainly they are concerned with their own needs and wants. How will that painting make them feel? How will having one of your paintings boost their self-esteem? You need to convince them that your work is worth whatever price you are charging.”

I could see they were still dissatisfied. Some part of their artistic souls still thought they should have what they want, when they want it. They didn't want to do any work to get it, beyond making the art. Making the art should be adequate. They thought recognition, wealth, and fame should be theirs by divine right, apparently, simply because they were the artist and the buyer was not.

Finding the balance between the practical brain and the creative brain is the quest of the serious artist. We know we have to play by certain rules to bring our art into the world—that is why these artists enrolled in my class. But they still couldn't help complaining about the unfairness of having to think about things like marketing and selling, financial statements and business licenses.

Oh poor us, poor artists, woe is us, alas, alackaday. For those of us who haven't figured it out, it's easy to retreat to the hothouse and wait for someone else to administer the fertilizer, preferably in the form of big checks with no restrictions. And for those of us who still haven't figured it and who have all but given up, there's always teaching.

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.

Back in the (teaching) saddle again: Yeehaw!

Last night I gave my first official presentation to a small crowd of Meetup junkies. We met in a back room at a Chinese restaurant, where in an earlier time I could picture stoic Chinese gangsters engaging in some serious cigar puffing, poker playing, and tea drinking, while tiny waitresses in traditional dresses scurried around refilling tea pots and serving egg noodle soup. The Chinese men were absent, but the tiny waitresses were a silent presence throughout the three-hour event. (Although they were dressed in plain white shirts and black pants.) At one point while I was speaking I noticed one waitress leaning against a wall near the entryway, arms folded, a skeptical look on her face.

The group was small, just seven people, plus the other presenter, the two organizers, and me. The space was cozy, maybe a little too cozy. We were packed in pretty tight around two tables, not much elbow room. A few of the attendees were close enough to touch. I didn't mind. After years of teaching, I don't mind standing close to my audience. When I'm that close, I can look my students in the eyes, alert for signs of discontent, boredom, or disagreement. There was a bit of an echo in the alcove, which added to the ambiance. As the evening progressed, the light from the overhead skylight glowed golden.

Some informal networking took place before the two 20-minute presentations began. I busied myself setting up my tiny Flip video camera (ancient technology) and my digital audio recorder (semi-ancient technology). I arranged my handouts, brochures, and a stack of business cards neatly on a table. This is a new Meetup group, so things were a little disorganized. Still, they remembered to bring name tags. Name tags are always a nice touch, especially when you forget to take it off after the event, and you wonder why people at the grocery store are suddenly calling you by name. I scribbled my name on a name tag and noticed that my hands were not shaking.

I wasn't nervous. (Well, maybe a little, since I discovered later I had failed to press the REC button on my audio recorder.) Maybe I should have been more nervous, I don't know. When I'm nervous, I try harder, I'm more animated, I tell more stupid jokes. Last night, I was feeling pretty mellow by the time the presentations actually started. I was up first. The organizer introduced me, stumbling over her words a bit as she tried to read my email on her little phone.

I stumbled over my own words, more than once, but I didn't care. I've fumbled and floundered in front of way larger audiences than this one. If you can survive forgetting your speech in front of 100 Toastmasters, you can survive anything. I wasn't afraid of looking foolish in front of seven Meetuppers! As the light grew dimmer, I had to lift my glasses a couple times to read my notes, but mostly I think I managed to stay on track, and was pleased to finish exactly on time. Always leave them wanting more. Or maybe it's more like, quit while you are ahead? I don't know.

Sometimes it is hard to tell what your audience is thinking. Have you noticed that? You babble on, you forge ahead, and you get increasingly uncomfortable as they stare at you intently. Are they understanding me, you wonder? Are they judging me? Do I sound like a ignoramus? Is there hair coming out of my nose?

An older gentleman dressed in a gray cotton shirt that matched his hair seemed to be riveted, but I couldn't tell from his facial expression and posture if he was receptive to my message or resistant. He sat about three feet from me; I could have reached out and smacked him with my notes if I wanted to provoke a response. Of course, I didn't. But I kept coming back to him, drilling him eye-to-eye, trying to figure him out.

Later we endured about an hour of serious networking, which ended up to be the best part for me. I found out the man in gray is a former newspaper publisher, a soon-to-be author, and a funny, friendly, very receptive and appreciative guy. Just goes to show, I guess. That you can't tell from the outside, bla bla bla, and also, that I'm not a very good judge of people. Who knew he would turn out to be so charming?

Overall, I had a good time. I judged my performance all the way home, but mostly I was relieved that it was over with so little drama or pain. Today I downloaded the video, intending to split the two segments apart so I could send the other presenter her portion of the video. In the course of figuring out how to do that, I watched my portion. Despite poor video quality, I have to say, I didn't do too badly. I'd give myself a B+.

Now I can move on to the next exciting event on the immediate horizon: my high school reunion. Once that is over, I think I'll take a day off. Summer is tiring.

Your sweet hopeless dreams have finally come true

I often get spam email in my Outlook inbox. I've set up rules that filter out anything with the words pfizer, viagra, penis enlargement, breast enhancement, or send money now, I'm in jail. Today one email slipped through that made me laugh: “Your sweet hopeless dreams have finally come true.” Isn't that charming? The email read like a poem. Maybe it was a poem, who knows. A sweet hopeless poem surrounded by a bunch of nasty hungry links.

Speaking of sweet hopeless dreams, today I attended a networking-event-slash-sales-event-disguised-as-a-seminar at a venue on Alberta Street in North Portland. If you know Alberta Street, you know that I'm not cool enough to hang out there. But it was broad daylight, not the wildly hip street fair known as Last Thursday, so I felt like I might be allowed to pass unmolested. I hiked hesitantly up some wide metal stairs and entered into an open loft area with pale fake hardwood floors.

“Welcome to the studio!” a small thin dark-haired woman said enthusiastically. She wore a short beige dress made of heavy lace. She looked like a doll. It was hard to tell her age: I filed that information away for future contemplation... wear short lace dress, look ten. Got it.

I was early, as usual. A tall older woman approached me, and we talked for about ten minutes. It took maybe 30 seconds to explain what my business was about. The rest of the time she swamped me with a description of Scientific Hand Analysis. I'm not even sure those words should be capitalized. What is it, you ask? I think it's akin to phrenology, astrology, and idiotology. Not certain.

People drifted in. All women. Huh. We arranged ourselves around some tables, set up in a horseshoe, facing a large blank wall on which was projected a pale PowerPoint slide. The seminar began. The slides remained pale and colorless because there was so much light in the room. The topic of the day was something about delegating tasks and getting organized. I can't remember exactly what it was called—and it only happened this morning. What can I say. I remember certain things and not others. For example, I remember how I felt when the seminar was over and the sales pitch began. I learned a lot from that part, mainly that if I ever use that tactic to sell my services, I hope you will take me out back and shoot me.

The young woman was definitely a pro, no doubt, and it was clear that her main motivation is getting money, lots and lots of money, preferably as she is laying by the pool while her “team” of minions is running around executing the tasks she has blithely delegated to them. She confessed, she thinks she's hilarious. I confess, I was cross-eyed with irritation after the first fifteen minutes of her presentation. I did a little reminiscing about my days as an instructor: Was I ever so annoyingly self-centered?

After the presentation, we went around the table introducing ourselves and handing around our business cards. Out of eleven people, six were coaches of some sort. Two did web design, and one was a marketing consultant. There was also a mortgage broker and a juice enthusiast. I sent around a stack of eighteen cards and got back nine. (That means two people didn't want my card. What's up with that?) I connected with a spike-haired web designer, and we made a commitment to meet next week for coffee. That's what I'm talking about! Networking!

This afternoon, as I was editing yet another chapter of the dissertation that won't end, I reflected on the strange energy that occurs in a roomful of women. Many of the attendees knew each other and entered the room boisterously, greeting each other with hugs and squealed hellos. I watched and listened, playing my familiar observer role. I felt like an alien, but that's nothing new. That is my normal state, especially in a group of women. I always feel like I don't quite belong. Maybe it's my mustache, I don't know. Or that I obviously don't care how I look.

The proprietors of the venue hold these events monthly, and apparently there is a membership group you can join. For a moment I considered it—only $99 per year! That's no bargain when you are an anti-social misfit. I have an erratic history of joining groups, especially groups of women. I was trying to remember what groups I joined in high school. I know there were a couple. I also know I didn't last long. I tried to play the game, but each time I flunked out (by choice) of each group I joined. Someone would pull out a guitar and start singing Neil Diamond songs. Someone else would start discussing periods and makeup. That would be it for me. A few minutes ago, I looked through my senior yearbook to see if I could find myself in any clubs or groups. I guess I managed to avoid all the photo days, because I was nowhere to be found. Was I really there at all? Debatable. It's been forty years, you can't really expect me to remember.

The chronic malcontent goes undercover

Yesterday I left the Love Shack at 4:00 p.m., intending to catch a bus to downtown Portland. Of course, as usual, I failed to check the bus schedule, so I missed a bus and had to wait. The weather was gray, but mild, mid-60s. I sat on a wide green bus bench, watching cars go by, admiring my odd little village-like neighborhood, a crossroads throwback to an earlier time. (The neighborhood, I mean, not me.) My umbrella was stowed in my knapsack, for the rain that was on the way. And I carried my old but reliable digital camera, because, in this era of social media, what's the use of going on an adventure if you don't document the experience so you can share it with others? I mean, just experiencing something doesn't count anymore. Experience hasn't truly happened until you've shared it. You probably already knew that. All you social media experts, with your greedy little Facebooks.

I rode the bus downtown, holding my camera to the window, clicking the shutter every few seconds, documenting. Not surprisingly, a great many of them turned out to be blurry. Because that is what happens when you take pictures from a moving bus. Oh well. I experienced a bus ride, and I've got the pictures to prove it.

Just past the Willamette River, the bus slowed for its first stop at Third Avenue. I got off and started walking north along Third toward Burnside, cutting over to Second, and then to First, and then to Naito Parkway. I felt pretty good, striding confidently along in my tight-but-not-quite-so-tight Levis 501 blue jeans, my beat up black suede Merrell clogs, and my well-worn olive green denim shirt (sans collar, cut off last summer when I decided to adopt a Nehru collar look). My destination? The Mercy Corps Northwest building on Naito Parkway (formerly Waterfront Drive), just south of the Burnside Bridge. I was scheduled to attend a small business workshop, one of a series presented by MercyCorpsNW for a nominal fee of $25.

I was early (compulsively early, remember?), so I walked around the blocks just to the south and west, looking at the architecture and the people. The world-famous Saturday Market takes place every weekend in this location. The Skidmore Fountain graces an open brick plaza, which was dotted here and there with shopping carts and sleeping bags. I started to feel hungry. Among the old-fashioned glass-paned doors was a modern swinging door leading to a charmingly dark coffee house called Floyd's, open until 7:00 pm. I rarely eat out, especially not on the spur of the moment, but I knew if I didn't eat something, I'd be starving by the end of the workshop. I ordered a small coffee and something cheap called a breakfast burrito, which came wrapped in red and white gingham paper. When I peeled the paper back from the contents, the paper stuck to the warm and gummy flour tortilla. That didn't stop me from enjoying my snack, even though sometimes I was pretty sure I was eating paper along with the food.

To celebrate my intrepidness, I connected my so-called smart phone to the cafe's wi-fi and proceeded to check my email for the first time ever on my phone. Yes, I know that look on your face. I don't need your pity. Honestly, if you read this blog, you know that I don't currently have a data plan, and besides, I prefer to be left alone. I just wanted to see if I could figure out how to do it. I figured it out. There was nothing interesting in my email that I hadn't seen before I left home, so I shut it off. Objective accomplished. The phone went back to being what it usually is: a very expensive and inconvenient time-keeping device.

I arrived ten minutes early to the workshop. The training room was carved of concrete, with a high-techy ceiling of pipes and struts way overhead and a big projector screen high up on the west wall. Big windows faced east toward the River and north toward the Burnside Bridge, letting in the last of the grimy daylight. The center of the room was occupied by several large white formica tables, all shoved together in an island, around which were placed about 30 chairs. A young woman wearing the shortest and tightest stretchy black mini-skirt I've seen since the 1970s asked me my name and checked me off a list. Was this our trainer? People were already there, staking out all the best seats. I chose one closer to the front than I would have liked and sat down. An uncomfortable silence ensued, during which I imagined myself saying something like, “Isn't it strange to be sitting here without saying anything? Does anyone want to talk? Let's say something.” Everyone (except me) was busy checking their phones, probably reading emails.

“Welcome, everyone,” said the mini-skirted girl at 6:00 p.m., “to the introduction to demographic and industry research tools seminar. I'm Alice. Please introduce yourselves and tell us what your business is.”

Luckily for me, she started to her left, so I had time to ponder how I would introduce myself. Should I say I'm a marketing researcher? Would she feel like I was competing? Would she feel threatened? Would I find out I know nothing and make a total fool of myself?

The second woman in the lineup said, “I used to be a professional market researcher.” She sounded confident and a little patronizing. “Now I'm a wedding planner.” As we went around the table, I drew a picture in my journal, one of my typical goofy characters, wearing a t-shirt saying Who am I Today? Off to the side I wrote, Who cares? 

Many of the attendees had established businesses. A few were in the startup phase. When my turn came, I took a breath and made my decision. I said, “I'm Carol, and I'm in the process of reinventing myself after a job layoff. Today I think I'm a dissertation coach, but that could change tomorrow.”

From that moment, I was undercover, posing as a dissertation coach to scope out MercyCorpsNW's market research tools class. My goal was to see if I could pick up some tips on how to do a class of my own, but better. Alice stood at the lectern and launched her PowerPoint, saying, “I really want this to be an interactive workshop.” She then proceeded to talk nonstop, taking questions only when the slide on the screen proffered Questions? She spent a long time talking about types of research. I could feel my eyes glazing over. I was so thankful I'd had that coffee. Then we learned about Oregon Prospector, SizeUp, and ReferenceUSA, all in the context of a case study she had designed herself to illustrate the use of these reference tools. I continued to draw in my journal, trying to stay alert to the small things that would make my market research class better than hers.

I wanted to look around to see if anyone else was nodding off. I leaned down occasionally to wake up my phone to check the time. At 8:00 p.m., the ostensible ending time, Alice was still going strong. Finally at 8:30 her voice dragged to a halt. “It's getting late, people,” she said, looking somewhat dazed. I packed up my stuff and hightailed it out into the rain, intent on catching a bus home. The bus stop was blocks away. I walked fast, waving my umbrella as a defensive weapon rather than a rain deterrent, just in case any of skateboarding, weed-smoking homeless kids tried to accost me. Of course, everyone ignored me. I'm invisible.

The bus took forever to arrive, standing room only. As I moved back with the crowd, a teenager with long braided blonde hair seated near the back door looked at me and said something I had never had anyone say to me on a bus before: “Would you like to sit?” She stood up, wrapped her arm around a pole, and read her Kindle. I sat, feeling old and confused. To my left was a perky young woman holding a paper-wrapped bouquet of pink-edged white roses. As the bus cleared out, the woman with the roses held out the bouquet to the teenager. “I work at a flower shop,” she said. “Would you like to have these roses?”

Now the seat to my right was open, so the teenager sat down and carried on a conversation with the flower shop lady, back and forth, as I sat bemusedly between them. They talked about flowers and the flower shop. Suddenly the flower shop woman looked at me and asked, “What is your favorite flower?”

Taken aback, I told the truth. “Yellow roses.” She beamed at me. People were getting off the bus at Cesar Chavez Boulevard (formerly known as 39th). She joined the line at the back door, waving back at the teenager. And at me, I suppose. The teenager got off soon thereafter. By now the bus was less than half full. I had another 20 blocks to go before I could slink into the Love Shack and try to make sense of my adventure. What did I learn? People who ride the bus at night are fascinating and wonderful. And I don't like market research as much as I like marketing research, if you know what I mean.

The chronic malcontent gets on with the business of living

I'm pleased with myself tonight. If I weren't so tired, I'd be typing this dancing. Well, maybe not dancing, but shuffling. Why am I pleased? I figured out how to give a special gift to the wonderful folks who register on my website. No, it's not a box of chocolate, sorry, in case you were thinking of signing up. It's just a boring white paper about a topic I fear only I am interested in. But whatever. I'm dipping my timid toe into the raging current known as content marketing. So, kudos to me.

That's my technological victory. Not terribly impressive, I know. In a few months when I want to offer a different gift, we'll see if I'm able to remember how I did it. That's the problem with technological victories. They don't come with handbooks my brain can retain. I have to start over from scratch. Thank god for the Internet.

Any other victories to report? No progress on the ant situation: I continue to battle for space in the kitchen, and I'm not above eating them (although fear of being dinner doesn't seem to faze their industrious foraging).

I can report a little forward motion on the networking front. I went to a marketing event on Wednesday evening. Once again I braved the rain to join the unwashed masses on mass transit. The vent was at an independent theater near the famous Powell's bookstore. The event was a lecture by a marketing research guy. The topic: writing effective survey questions. I went to find out what I don't know. You know, the holes in my knowledge. As it turns out, I know a lot, which is nice, and (almost) worth the $40 it cost me to attend.

There weren't many people there, maybe 30 at the most. Not surprisingly, almost all of them were much younger than me. They're so attractive. And they talk so fast, these young marketers. So energetic. Where do they get their energy? Oh, I know, don't tell me. Red Bull. Mountain Dew. Well, I wasn't born yesterday. Obviously: I remember when Mountain Dew was a hillbilly beverage. Now Mountain Dew's former tagline is the name of my email provider. What the f—?

I managed to participate in and even instigate a few conversations, but failed the next day to convert anyone into a LinkedIn connection. I've lost steam on my quest to gain connections. I haven't even hit 100 yet; I'm bogged down in why bother? I get the idea in principle, but in practice, it seems like a futile bit of ego-stroking. Look how many connections I have! Nobody cares.

I wish life were only full of victories. But I guess I have a defeat to report. Victory... defeat... who is to say? It feels like a defeat to me. My mother thinks it is a victory. What am I talking about? This week I agreed to teach one two-hour marketing class per week for the next 11 weeks at a for-profit university in the Tigard triangle. That is the area of the city that has become a hub, a mecca, a swamp of higher education. I won't name the place I signed on with. Who cares. The gig starts Tuesday.

The good news is their rate is more than twice what I was paid at the career college that laid me off last year. The bad news is the class is only two hours a week. The good news is I'll be teaching marketing! (Instead of keyboarding, or Word, or Excel...) The bad news is that it could take me almost an hour to get there if there is traffic. The good news is my car gets pretty good gas mileage. The bad news is... there are only four students in the class. Argh. But the good news... and why my mother is pleased: it's money. It's postponing the moment when she feels compelled to swoop in and rescue me. And more good news: it's blog fodder.

So... victory or defeat? Who knows. It's like any situation: It has pluses and minuses. After a while, when your head stops spinning, you slow down and realize it really doesn't matter. In the end all we have is right now, this moment. Tomorrow is out of our control. Time to stop judging and get on with the business of living.

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.

Worse than herding cats

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

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

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

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

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

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

If nothing else, I can serve as a bad example

My hero of the week is the guy who expressed his irritation with four of his neighbors by driving a bulldozer through their houses. Rock on, dude! Sure, you are in jail now and probably will be for a while, but how did it feel, crunching their houses to smithereens? I'm sure before the remorse set in you had a moment of euphoria.

My two neighbors and I live in a triplex. A bulldozer crashing through Joy's apartment would definitely affect me, since I am in the middle. I would expect the whole building to fall into the basement. So no, I won't be driving a bulldozer through here anytime soon. But I think a couple times I have approached that tense moment when whaling on the wall with a hammer seems like the appropriate thing to do.

I look at it this way. I'm all about service quality. I live to serve. If nothing else, I can serve as a bad example.

Speaking of bad examples, this week I received my second and final rejection from the VP of Media Relations who represented the institution I approached for permission to interview ten of its faculty. Apparently, they have a policy of not accepting research proposals from doctoral students! Stupid me. I guess I naively assumed that because they are operating institutions of higher learning around the country, that they would... I don't know, be supportive of higher learning. I am chagrined to say I should have known better. These institutions are corporations, not colleges. They don't care about higher learning, or any kind of learning that doesn't line their pockets. They care about one thing only: profit. Duh. I'm an idiot.

So, on to Plan B. No, I'm not pregnant. Plan B consists of approaching the career college I used to work for. Two weeks ago I was laid off with many of my compadres when the campus was closed. Now that I'm no longer an employee, no more conflict of interest! I sent a groveling email to the president of the college yesterday, trying to get a sense of how much he dislikes me. I did, after all, briefly gain some notoriety among my co-workers with my somewhat sarcastic photo blog of the campuses last days. I don't know if the president of the college ever saw the blog, wrapped up as he was in his own overwhelming problems: (How could I have been stupid enough to invest my retirement money in this floundering sham of a school!? Kick me!)

I doubt I'll hear from him, as absorbed as he is in his own crumbling world, so I'm already moving ahead with Plan C. Plan C is the guerilla tactic of recruiting faculty through other faculty. It has a couple names. Sometimes it is called chain sampling. My favorite term is snowball sampling. You use one participant to recruit the next. It's subversive. What's not to like.

One way or another, this study is going to happen. Yes, I need to finish this doctorate, but more than that, the world needs to hear what faculty think about the academic quality of for-profit vocational programs. People (the Department of Education) seem to think that as long as students graduate and get jobs that allow them to pay off off their student loans, then the students received a quality education. I think faculty might have a different view. I want to find out. Just because for-profit institutions are behaving like cults, circling the wagons around their faculty and trying to keep them from talking to researchers doesn't mean we shouldn't try to reach them.

Join the underground! For-profit faculty unite! Speak your truth! (Just do it under the radar, so you don't jeopardize your job.)

Save our jobs! ...Uh, on second thought...

Yesterday I arrived at work at the career college and found the faculty office in an uproar. Apparently some students, upset about the termination of their favorite teacher Mella, designed a flyer, printed multiple copies, and posted it around the hallways. According to my sources, the HR person who lurks on the third floor somehow saw a flyer and called Freep the Education Director. I believe Freep called our resident Fairy Godmother of Fun (and Academic Coordinator, also soon to be unemployed, we'll call her Jiminy today) and asked her to find all the flyers and take them down.

I managed to procure a sample of the flyer, thanks to some dumpster-diving on the part of our fearless leader Denny, and documented it photographically, like I have documented last moments since I found out our campus is closing on May 2.

The flyer exhorts “Save Mella!” (This is a fictitious name, of course, so don't bother Googling it.) The writer goes on to claim that Mella doesn't deserve to be terminated and should be allowed to keep her job. I yucked it up with Denny—how sweet, the students think they have some power!— and thought it was over, just another bizarre blip in the ongoing implosion of one dinky career college.

Last night, however, my three Word students were talking in those hushed tones that indicate something is up.

“I know who did it,” said Minnie, a round-faced girl who used to be a Medical Assisting student and now is... I have no idea what she is. I just know she's been around for what seems like forever.

I said nothing, not knowing at first what she was talking about and not wanting to get involved, like a true introvert. Minnie's friend (I'll call her Axella) took out her earplugs to ask who.

“The two people who did it are denying it, and two other people have been accused of doing it, and now have a write-up in their permanent record from Mr. Freeper,” said Minnie, milking her moment.

I did my best to ignore her, although I was starting to suspect this had something to do with that flyer.

The third student (I'll call her Lela) waited until Minnie and Axella left for their next class, and then she said to me, “I saw Mella making those copies last night.”

“No way,” I said skeptically.

“I saw her.”

I let it drop and went to my next class. But I thought, wow, Mella, right on, sister. I didn't think you wanted this job anymore, but I support you, whatever radical subversive action you might take. Bring on the spray paint! I'm right behind you!

Later I saw Mella in the office.

“I heard...” I began and told her the whole story. Mella listened. After a few moments, I trailed off when I noticed she was looking at me like I'd grown a second head. She seemed to be trying to generate interest in responding to my unspoken accusation. I thought to myself, She doesn't care. She's already gone.

She didn't say it, but I don't think she would want her job back, even if management came to her on their hypocritical knees and begged her to stay. She's seen the dirty red underbelly of the place. Of all the layoffs, I would say hers is the most cruel. She re-arranged her life for this school. She donated tons of extra time, not to mention her heart, to the students and to the faculty. You couldn't have asked for a more committed and loyal employee. Management took what she gave them and when they were done with her, they discarded her like an used tissue.

“I was making copies last night,” Mella finally said. “But it wasn't those flyers. I saw a copy of one, though, and thought, ok, so what.”

I don't know if this incident is evidence of the greedy nature of for-profit career education or if it is simply evidence of a failing institution run by self-centered, short-sighted, abusive individuals. Maybe the two are related. Maybe you can't have one without the other, I don't know. I just know it's sad that a good employee has been callously discarded. It's sad that the only way students can grieve the loss of their campus and their favorite teacher is by posting flyers exhorting the school's invisible and uncaring management to save Mella's job, as if their futile expression represented anything than more than an embarrassing annoyance. Instead of giving students a place and time to grieve, our management did what management does when backed into a corner: threaten, punish, and terminate.

We are so out of here.

Unemployment, public speaking, and coffee

In two weeks I will be unemployed. I have mixed feelings about it. When I imagine not having to use obsolete technology to teach keyboarding to bored students, I feel ecstatic. When I think about not having to work a split shift, working in the morning and then again until 10:20 p.m.—and then being back first thing the following morning, as if I could actually function and do a good job with only five or six hours of sleep... when I think of not having to do that, I feel profound relief. But when I think of not seeing my colleagues Sheryl, Mella, and Denny, our little cabal in the Business/General Education department, then I feel really sad. And when I imagine the final paycheck I will receive on May 2, I feel sick.

Mixed feelings. Happy and sad. Excited and terrified. I'm so disconnected from my body I have no idea what stress might be doing to me. Something is going on, I'm sure, but my brain hasn't caught up yet. I'll probably realize the toll stress has taken when I wake up on May 3 with no hair. Or covered in hives. One doesn't skate blithely unscathed through life-changing events. Death, divorce, and loss of a job rank high on the trauma scale. And public speaking, don't forget public speaking.

Did I ever tell you about my public speaking debacle? It happened in 1991, I think. Here's my suggestion for overcoming one's fear of speaking in public. Join Toastmasters, sign up for a speech contest, and then stand up unprepared in front of 100 people and forget your speech halfway through. To really get the full effect, slink off stage in abject shame. If the ground doesn't open up and swallow you whole at that point, if the hand of god doesn't smite you for being an idiot at that moment, then you realize you can live through anything. You've pretty much survived the worst social humiliation you will ever experience. If I were completely honest, which I sometimes am, I'd say that forgetting that speech partway through was worse than living through the two and a half weeks of my dad dying. Proving again that for the chronic malcontent, self-obsession is the word of the day. Every day.

I've started drinking coffee again. That is one sign that I'm going crazy. Just one cup per day, so far... one very strong cup of French Roast with nothing in it, no milk, no sugar, nothing. There's a joke here, which I will attribute to the great poet and performance artist Linda Albertano: She said she likes her men the way she likes her coffee: cold and bitter. I always chuckle when I think of that joke, which is pretty much every time I drink coffee. It's only funny because I have no interest in being in a relationship with anyone, bitter or otherwise.

Back to the unemployment tornado looming on my horizon. I signed up for unemployment online, although there were some questions in their online tool that didn't quite fit my situation, so I expect I will get a phone call or email from some irate underpaid Oregon Employment Department representative, who will rip me a new one in the process of signing me up. Oh well. I'll bend over and take it. Desperation makes people put up with a lot. Poor people don't argue: they know not to bite the hand, etc. I will be one of them soon, so I'm practicing now. Yes sir, no ma'am. Sorry, sorry. My error, my mistake.